18th December 1995
His assigned task was to be that of getaway driver. Doyle was supposed to find a car … and he understood that to mean 'steal' - and then be ready and waiting when the crew came out of the bank. He was glad he wasn't expected to go inside the bank - wasn't expected to point a gun at some innocent person or take any of the money himself … but stealing a car was still several steps beyond anything he had ever thought he would do. He tried not to imagine what Harri would say, if she knew about this, or what the look on her face would be. But he could still see it, whenever he closed his eyes, the disappointment, the shame - for him. The only way he could shake that off was to drink. Which he did - copiously.
There wasn't much time until the job was happening, and he had to prepare. First, he had to find out how to hotwire a car - something he had never considered doing in a lifetime of lifetimes. He had to make sure he would have the right tools to do it, and he would have to choose a car to steal. He scoured the suburbs of the city, looking for one that was always parked in the same place, one he could rely to be there when he came for it - one that would blend in with all the other cars on the road, wouldn't scream 'stolen' when he took it. Again, he ignored the voice screaming inside his head - sometimes Harri, sometimes Francis - telling him he shouldn't be doing this, this was not who he was, this was not what he was supposed to be.
On the day of the robbery, Doyle went to a quiet street in Westlake, early in the morning - just as the sun was beginning to rise. No one was around. He checked. He checked again. Then he smashed the window of the 1974 Dodge Charger that he had selected. He unlocked the driver's door and got inside, checking again that no one had come to investigate the sound of the smashing glass.
Having read manuals and used the internet in the public library to find out what to do, he pulled the plastic off the drivers column, and then pulled out the bundle of wires. He stared at them in his hand, like plastic, colourful worms. For just a moment, Doyle heard Francis, inside his head, asking him what the hell he thought he was doing - where exactly he thought this path would lead him? But, once again, he shook the thoughts away.
He went demon face to strip back the ignition and battery wires. His demon form could handle volts of electricity far better, if something went wrong. He sparked them together and heard the engine begin to roar, he revved it to keep the momentum going, and then he drove off.
His heart thumped the whole time, his breathing was fast and ragged and his palms were slippery with sweat on the steering wheel.. Adrenaline coursed through him, making him feel as supercharged as if the wires had been sparked right through him. But he had managed it. His first car theft.
As he drove through the streets, and his heart rate began to go back to normal, he felt his demon features fade from his face. He still had no control over losing the spikes, even if he could call them at will by now. But as the blood pounded less loudly in his ears and his pulse slowed back down, the spikes melted away.
He pulled up outside the bank on seventh and waited. The crew would not be inside yet, and he was just sitting there in a stolen car - which could be reported missing at any moment. That was a very dangerous position for him to find himself in - and Doyle suddenly found that he wanted to be far away. He stalled the engine, letting it die, and then got out of the Dodge. He went to get himself a cup of coffee whilst he waited for the heist to begin. He took it outside and stood in the sunshine, lighting a cigarette, and then coughing as the acrid smoke hit the back of his throat. He still wasn't really used to it, still didn't really like it, but it felt right. It was the kind of thing a man like him, a monster like him, should do. Francis didn't smoke. Doyle did.
He heard the alarms in the bank go off. His heart rate picked up again, thumping against his rib cage - time to go. He dropped the cigarette to the floor and ground it out under his heel. Then he dumped his coffee in the nearest trash can and made his way back to the car. This was the beginning of a new chapter in his life - his life of crime.