Ch6. Fake ID's
In a split second moment decision, Gilbert decided to leave his flute.
After that had been decided, the albino teen started moving in a flurry. It took Gilbert less than thirty seconds to grab his satchel, shove his beloved laptop in it, get on his knees, take out a box, open said box, find the right (fat, lumpy) folder, force said folder to fit into the satchel, force said satchel shut, and open up his rickety window without giving himself away to the still conversing adults. It took another seven to stick one leg out, sit, shuffle his other leg through, let his feet dangle, duck his head and the rest of his body out from the inside, and place the palms of his hands down beside his thighs.
He put all of his weight on his hands, lifted himself up, brought his legs up to his chest, tucked his feet under his body, and positioned himself at an angle—dangerously over the edge. He braced himself, hands clutching the edge, biceps straining from his own weight.
The tree trunk was a little way ahead—he aimed at it, a bit above the roots of a sturdy tree branch.
Gilbert kicked off, using his legs as springs—a moment of weightlessness, of his stomach doing a weird flippy thing—and a blink later his arms hugged the trunk, his chest hitting it with force—friction met the heels and toes of his sneakers, and Gilbert's body weighted down due to gravity. His right armpit encountered the nook where the tree branch extended from, successfully stopping him from plunging straight to the ground and possibly his death.
Well, not death, but maybe a few broken bones, which didn't sound appealing at all. At least in death there wouldn't be any pain.
Gilbert brought himself up and on the branch, still close to the trunk. He brought one leg up, grabbed a branch overhead, and pulled, bringing himself up and in a standing position, bringing his remaining limb with him. He shuffled to the side, stepped off to another branch, and climbed another branch up, using his arms to fling himself over it, onto a sitting position, legs on either side much like horse. From a man-made hiding place, he procured out a rope and a pair of black fingerless gloves. He put the gloves on and then tied the rope to the branch. He made sure that the knot would hold, and once he deemed it sturdy enough, he pushed the rest over the edge. It limply dangled from the tree branch, swaying.
Gilbert simply slid down, feet on the trunk, jumping and sliding, jumping and sliding, hands protected from rope-burn thanks to his gloves. Close to the end, he let go of the rope and hopped. And with the style of an action ninja-turned-spy, his feet hit the mushy ground, sneakers sinking lightly in the mud.
He readjusted the satchel over his shoulder, and simply set off as quietly as possible. The neighbor's dog was at the vet, so at least Gilbert needn't worry getting his limbs mawed off by fiendish fangs. Gilbert loved dogs, but the relationship between he and the ball of barking evil was one of ultimate hate. The fat chihuahua may be cute and all, but the albino was certain that the rat-sized thing was the devil reincarnated.
He was not a fan of Mr. Muffin.
Gilbert prowled the streets aimlessly, thoughts floating about in his head. People milled here and there, some pausing to stare at his uncanny looks and others barely sparing him a glance, finding their cell phones much more interesting than their surroundings. It wasn't cold yet, but the incoming chill was made known by touching every bit of bare skin. There was at most half an hour left of sunlight, the sun low enough to give the surrounding lighting that subtle pre-dusk tinge of dull brightness.
Gilbert readjusted the satchel over his shoulder again, quickening his pace. His hand tightened over the strap. His mind wandered over to the bright yellow folder that sat reclining against his laptop, not heavy enough to make it a burden but not light enough to not notice. Ah yes. That was important. He should probably deliver it ASAP. Gilbert slid his phone out from his pants' pocket and scrolled down his contacts, all of which were under coded names: "The Hungarian Horntail," "Giant Stick-in-the-Mud," and "Cute Stiffy Bro" being some of them. He stopped at '#344600-STU/U' and touched it with his thumb. He brought the phone up to his ear. It dialed. Gilbert lightly tapped the surface of his pone with his fingers, waiting.
"'ello?" answered a male with a thick Irish accent.
Gilbert cleared his throat importantly.
"Number 344600 . . . ?"
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
"Aye. Yer 'av dem?"
"Yessir~" Gilbert responded chirpily. "Is now a good time?" It was near sunset, of course it was a good time. No classes (for the most part) and all party.
"Aye. An' jist in time, too! Brin' dem as soon as possable, sprog."
Aaaaaaand he hung up. Gilbert raised an eyebrow at that. He wasn't told where exactly to go. Gilbert pocketed the phone and gave a mental shrug. With a humm, he made a beeline towards the park, which he so happened to be near of. He strolled in through the rusting gates, spotted a nice-looking bench, and went for it. He sat down and took out his laptop—aka The Device. The Device was . . . well, it was awesome in its purest form. It was black, and had a sticker of a cute chick stuck on the cover. Gilbert was a sucker for cute things, and he especially had a weakness for cute little fluffy chicks with little beaks and happy chirps. He opened the screen, and was met with the Login. He typed in his username (TheAwesomeKnight) and his twenty-three lettered password, which was composed of nonsensical babble, substituted symbols, and a heckload of numbers. His fingers fluttered across the keyboard at the speed of light, gaze lazily intent on the screen—he trained himself to be speedy and efficient.
He was asked one question. He answered it. His screen saver came up. It was the Slytherin and Hufflepuff crests from Harry Potter.
Yeah, yeah—he was one big dork, he would admit to that. Whatever.
He took out a cable and plugged his phone into the laptop. He dug into his phone's hardrive and found the call that he just made. His fingers dashed all over the keyboard and much clicking could be heard as Gilbert quickly finished that one program that he started in Geometry because he didn't feel like listening to Mr. Edelstein's prissy prattling. Its original intent was to hack the Pentagon, but he figured that he could modify it a little. He changed one or two lines of code and now instead of bypassing whatever firewalls and the gazillion security systems that the U.S. government had in place, he now could trace any call ever made or received on AT&T's cell server.
Gilbert had quite the history with hacking. It just . . . came naturally to him. By age six he had already found out that the Illuminati existed by accidentally overhearing a phone call between two members, one of which may or may not have been the leader of said group. He had originally wanted to spy on his father and his first grade teacher during a conference regarding his 'unruly behavior,' but instead his amateur skills directed him to the opposite end of the globe. Gilbert was still disappointed at that. To think that at one point in time he couldn't even do something as simple as overhearing a recorded parent-teacher meeting . . . it was disgraceful. And he still got his gameboy taken away from him! The nerve.
Ah, there it was. A number was imputed, and the 'enter' key was pressed.
Loading . . .
Pa-PLING!
Awesome.
Click-plock-click-click-clack clack click-click-plock-click-clack-tap-tack
He opened another window and imputed another code here and a code there, closed it, and opened a window that showed planet Earth. Tacka-tack-click-clack tap tap click-click-clack.
He hit 'enter' and the rest was history.
One bus ride to the city and one subway trip later, Gilbert finally arrived at the correct coordinates.
A group of guys passed by, horsing around. Two girls giggled, talking about something. A girl was walking and applying makeup at the same time. A guy in a hoodie lingered around. People milled out and about, mostly entering a red-bricked building from which loud music emanated from. Bright lamp light poured into the dark street through the glass windows and semi-transparent doors.
Ah, college. Pity Gilbert would never get to attend one.
Surprisingly enough, that thought actually bothered him . . . a lot. More than it should've. He felt a sense of loss, of budding grief.
With a sigh, he entered the forbidden place, pushing through one of the double doors. The albino teen winced at the sudden change in lighting—he blinked owlishly.
The scene morphed into a stereotypical college setting. A group of college students playing pool, two others deeply immersed in a game of ping pong, a mishmash of bodies dancing to loud music—there was even a group sitting on these round-like booths with a round table in the middle, playing some sort of card game. Others were just talking, hanging out.
It was an on-campus lounge area.
Gilbert craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse—ah, there we go. There were some people out back, playing darts. Still, that didn't tell him anything. He looked around, opening his ears in hopes of hearing a familiar Irish accent. Nope. Gilbert cursed in German under his breath. He didn't know what he looked like.
Well, there was only one thing he could do.
Gilbert strutted up to where the loud music was coming from—he turned it off.
Everyone instantly froze, confused faces looking up to stare at him. Gilbert smirked; he knew what a sight he was, what with he being way younger than them all. And, if you included the albino factor . . .
"Greetings, everyone! I was just looking for someone—he won a prize, you see! Would the person with the ticket number 344600 please come see me? Thanks. Number 344600, come up here! 344600, I repeat. Number 344600. I know you're Irish or something. Number 344600!"
A somewhat short, stocky young man with freckled cheeks and wild ginger hair stumbled out of the crowd, looking what the Brits would describe as being 'gobsmacked.' He looked both surprised and confused, large eyebrows drawn over grassy green eyes.
"Waaat de 'eck?"
Bingo.
Gilbert smiled. "What's three times three?" He commented casually.
The man blinked. Apprehension dawned on his face. "An apple tree."
"Aaaaaand we have a winner!" he exclaimed in a commentator's voice, approaching the island dweller. He draped an arm around the man's shoulders, acting as if they were good friends. "How about we discuss your prize in, hmm, how about that empty room?"
So shocked was the man, he let Gilbert stir him away from the crowd and into this other room—it looked like a kitchen.
Thank Gott.
As is suddenly burned, Gilbert retracted his and quickly dug through his satchel. He pulled out the folder, shoving it onto the man.
"This is my last 'job.' So, whatever you do, don't go around telling people that I do these sort of things!" Because that's how it happened—this guy suddenly contacted Gilbert out of the blue, demanding him to 'do him a favor,' just like his friend. This thug practically forced Gilbert to forge him a fake ID, and then his friends got him to do it, and these people's friends found out which ended up all the way to this guy.
Gilbert was sick of it. He wanted it to end.
The ginger opened the folder, and took out one of the fake ID's. There were a total of five. He and his friends were probably going to use them to buy alcohol, like the rest of the underaged folks that 'asked' him for 'favors.'
Che.
The Irish man nodded, still looking somewhat aghast.
"Yer sure 'av balls, paddy. Canny believe yer did dat."
Gilbert simply shrugged. Out in the lounge, the music was back on full blast.
A wave of depression encompassed his very being, and, abruptly, Gilbert felt as if he was too tired to combat it with his usual forced optimism.
"You got beer?" Gilbert suddenly piped up. The man blinked.
"Aye, we do."
"Awesome. I'll take that as payment, then."
The man stared at him. A grin made its way across his lips, green eyes filling up with glee, probably because he was getting the deal of the century. Fake ID's weren't exactly cheap.
"In de fridge, paddy!"
Gilbert cocked an eyebrow; keeping beer on campus-owned, private land? Not very smart. But, hey, who was he to judge? He had nothing to lose.
Gilbert bounded over to the fridge, opened it—the light blinded him for a second—and lookit here, a nice little six-pack, cans shining and glinting.
He took the whole thing.
"A bit much, don't yer tink?"
Gilbert glared at him.
"Ok, ok," the Irish man retracted, putting his hands up as a sign of peace.
Gilbert strutted out of the building, six-pack under his arm.
A/N: Next chapter, shit REALLY goes down.
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