1They called him the Invisible Man.
Truth was, they called him a lot of things, half of which made him laugh out loud when he truly thought about the absurdity of it all but there were the others that were meant to sting; the insults and barbs. Names like 'Bastard' and 'No-good' that were usually coupled with words often left reserved for more dire occasions – car crashes, delayed flights, botched jobs (even though those never happened anymore), and running out of liquor – well, he laughed even harder at those. Words couldn't hurt somebody that didn't exist.
When he thought about it, which was rare and only in the depths of some drunken reverie or drug induced slumber, there had always been something about him that was invisible. People never looked at him and, he swore to god, when he spoke people tended to get this look in their eyes that said they weren't paying attention. Then there was the hiding. Even as a child he was able to cram himself into unholy small and dark places that he should never have been able to fit in and it had always been a passion. And when he jumped out – cor blimey, his mother screeched like a banshee! – there was always this thudding in his heart that made him feel truly and surely alive.
It had started when he fell on bad times. London always held plenty of bad times, and once he was away from family there was no turning 'round and asking for handouts. It would have been humiliating. Degrading. Unmanning. In the beginning it didn't take much to start out; jab a man in the kidney with the barrel of a gun, even if it never worked then and would never work again, and he's usually quite accommodating. But things change and as he got older, he found sneaking about from mugging to mugging began to pale when there was something to be won.
But the simple fact was, he didn't exist and that became a boon. It was easy enough, never get caught and they'll never have your fingerprints. Never set a solid address and they'll never know your name. Never use the same name. Never look the same. Never walk the same. Never act the same. And after several years of doing all of this right, they forget he existed. Forgot that Rodney Skinner had ever existed and it made life wonderfully, astoundingly simple.
And he discovered the tricks of the trade through trial and error and became rich when all he was looking at were ways to improve. Better, quicker, easier ways to be invisible. But in the meantime he never wanted for anything. Everything was provided and he kept his wealth and winnings circulating – Never use the same name and same account for too long, that's too close to existing in the first place – so they could never find out who, where, why, when.. they were painfully oblivious to everything he'd ever done and having that ability made him giddy. It was better than booze, better than drugs, better than – no. Sex was still better..
But not by much.
Early on, he learned that the trick wasn't to go unobserved. It was to let them see you, if for a moment. And never – this was the rule. Not a rule. The rule. – look like you don't know what you were about. Even if you haven't got a clue; smile, nod and ask how their uncle is. "Dead? A real shame that, when did he pass?"
And then there were the uniforms. It was fun being invisible, but there was certain fun in being somebody else as well. The best jobs mixed it all together; be one person, then another. Then be invisible and get what you want. If you feel up to it, and many times he did, stick around and make simple chitchat while the constables try to figure out which department you're from and not embarrass themselves by asking names they feel they should know. Then just saunter on out for coffee and laugh about it later when you think about how shocked they'll be to find you never existed and the loot is gone. Or laugh about it as you leave and really enjoy yourself when they join in, puzzled and curious as to what the jokes about.
Golden moments like that were worth a lifetime. And they'd come and gone but there was always a new challenge around the next corner. It had started out money – but didn't it always? – and had eventually progressed to things worth more value than simple bills. Gems. Antiques. Collectibles. But then again, he tired of the old things easily and it wasn't long before he wanted something fast paced and heavily guarded to test his mettle and ability against. There was no point to owning all the high-end, high-tech toys when you never had a chance to use them.
That was always where the really fun part came in. It was in the full suits laden with sensors. The goggles that perched over his eyes and illuminating everything into warm, glowing green – particularly the pesky red lines that crisscrossed unsafe spaces. It was like childhood games turned real, hopping from table to couch to rug and suddenly the floor really was made out of lava. It was in the hand-held lasers and canisters filled with gases of all kinds. A veritable toy box of accessories that would let them know in the end that the Invisible Man had come and gone right under their noses.
Technology was all the rage these days, they used technology to guard newer technology but none of it could stop him and once the prize it was his.. well, it depended on what he'd managed to net. Sometimes not knowing was part of the game. Getting the prize at the end of the maze was only that. The prize. Not the reason. The reason was in the pace-quickening thrill, always the thrill! Sometimes the prize was useless, sold to the highest bidder and quickly forgotten. Sometimes it went to his own private stash and added to his image. Or lack thereof.
Get in, have your fun. Take the prize they failed to guard and walk out with it tucked beneath your arm. Whistle a chipper tune if you feel like it – and often times he did – or shoot them a wink as you walk under the cameras in a face that was never yours and clothing that never will be beyond the simple one-time purpose they served.
It was all about being invisible. And he was champ at the game.
That was why they called him the Invisible Man of course.