The thing was, Dylan knew what he was doing was a crime. Vigilantism, classified legally as enforcing law and order without the legal authority to do so, was a serious crime that would get him jail time and much more than a slap on the wrist. Given the fact that he had, on several occasions, broken into a criminals home to give a well deserved beat down, he would probably have at least four breaking and entering charges and several assault and battery charges, on top of that. Breaking into what looked to be a corporate building would only cause him more issues, make him more likely to get caught.
He also didn't really give a shit.
He shifts from foot to foot as he watches the entrance to the building, crouched and eager. The purple mask covers the lower half of his face, and the heavy makeup served as even further disguise. His hair was pulled back, out of the way, and he considered whether or not he should pin it up further, to avoid the long ponytail from being grabbed. He decides not to, if only because he had no plans on getting close enough that anyone could.
He carefully begins climbing down, using the fire escape as quietly as he can, and drops into the alleyway, eyes fixed on his target. The guard wasn't very attentive, and Dylan waits patiently for the guard to lose focus again so he can get closer. Sure enough, he does, and Dylan moves, sliding a knife out of its holster as he does so.
The guy doesn't even have time to yell before the hilt of the knife is slamming into the side of his jaw, knocking him clean out. Dylan pants, surprised, staring down at the man's limp form. That move had worked a lot better than he'd expected, honestly, the last four times he'd tried it every single time the opponent had been dazed but not unconscious.
"I'm probably getting stronger. Or this guy is just really weak." He reasons aloud, dragging the man into the little side building that was supposed to be his post. "Oh, maybe if I'm lucky they'll all go down in one hit."
He snickers at just how ridiculous he sounds, because he could never be that lucky, and starts rifling through the guys pockets, grinning when he finds an identification badge and two sets of keys.
"Which one... I'll say the one with a five year olds art project on it." The tiny keychain was cute, but really poorly made, so it had to be sentimental. At least, Dylan was pretty sure.
Now came the actual hard part, getting inside. There was a huge gap between the space between the guard post and the actual door, and while there wasn't a lot of people moving about, the massive open space provided no cover if he was spotted. Which was, of course, the point.
He glances down at the guard. Glances back up. Does a mental calculation. Glances at the posted guard not to far away, on his phone.
And then bursts into an all out sprint across the twenty meter distance between him and the door.
"Hey! Stop right there!" The other guard spots him halfway through, breaking into a run to intercept him, and Dylan pushes his body further, hands grasping the handle and pulling, thanking god when the door opens.
Two very startled, very confused men in security uniforms stumble to a stop in front of him. Dylan can sympathize. They probably never met anyone who can rock a dress and outrun a fully grown man. Unfortunately for them, he doesn't have time to let them process their shock, and he breaks into a run down one of the adjoining halls.
"Man, I am bad at math." He gasped out, gripping the wall and swinging around to take a turn as sharply as he can without slowing down. He was never trusting any of his 'mental calculations' again. "I am so bad at math, oh my god."
There's a restroom door, wide open, and he ducks inside, glancing at the open stalls. He ducks behind the door, making sure the puffy frills of his dress weren't peeking out.
"Where the hell did the kid go?" Rude. Dylan was 15, not 12.
"Check the bathrooms." Haha! Success! Or epic failure, depending on whether or not his improvised plan actually worked.
Heavy footsteps pass through the room, carefully nudging open each and every stall. Dylan tightens his grip on his knife, resisting the urge to shift from foot to foot and alert the man to his location. Movement only attracted attention, and sound was even worse.
Eventually, the guard moves on, and Dylan breathes out, waiting. A quick peek out of the door shows that the hall way is empty.
Now to find a stairwell, and get to the fifth floor. And somehow break into Dexter Simmons office and go through his files while the entire building was on high alert. And get away before the police were called.
Easy peasy.
Dylan lopes into a trot, grinning when he realizes that the the guards had moved on fully, slipping into the stairwell. Simmons office was one of many, but Dylan had memorized the floorplan to the fifth and fourth floors. He hadn't really had time to memorize the other floors, figuring he could just play it by ear.
"Floor 5. Here we go, baby..." He carefully eases the door open, peeking out carefully. No movement. A little suspicious, but Dylan wasn't really one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
He fumbles with the keys, unlocking the office door. Simmons office is uncluttered, almost Spartan in its lack of personality, and Dylan closes the door behind him with a click. He doesn't bother turning on the light, clicking on his flashlight as he opens the file cabinet.
Nothing sticks out, and he sighs. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, really, the rumors of Dexter Simmons having under the table dealings with gangsters and criminals were most likely that, rumors. Or Simmons kept all the files at his home and not his office.
"Financial records. I'm a fucking idiot." If there was any money being moved or disappearing, that would confirm that Simmons was up to something, even prompting an investigation.
A shadow flits past the outside window, and Dylan is flicking off the flashlight out of instinct, shutting the cabinet. There's a small, adjoining room, and he ducks inside, keeping low and silent.
Moments later, the light to the main office flicks on.
Dylan carefully peeks through the blinds of the glass, and he has to clap a hand over his mouth to avoid audibly gasping in shock.
There were ninjas. Honest to god, actual fucking ninjas. They move silently through the room, entirely in black and red, armed to the teeth. One has swords, and there's staffs, and one of them has what look like really fucking big knives strapped to his thighs.
One of the ninjas is so close Dylan can see his eye color, a dark brown that was entirely focused on rifling through files and finding papers. He doesn't see Dylan, but there's a single, terrifying moment when he thinks he does, dark brown eyes narrowing.
Then the ninja pulls out a file, murmuring something to his buddies in what Dylan can only assume is Japanese. Actually, no, it was definitely Japanese, he recognized the way the syllables flow off the tongue, the way the words sharpen and soften.
Something else is said, and Dylan fishes out his phone, pressing the record button and breathing in, listening to soft chatter of laughter that follows. He could translate all of this later, probably, or go find someone who could.
Dylan waits twenty seven minutes, and forty two seconds for the ninjas to leave. He knows because eventually he has to watch the ticking seconds to resist the urge to sneak out the window, not wanting the ninjas to hear or see him making his escape.
When they're finally done, he waits five more minutes.
And then he goes home, confusion and the feeling of failure warring in his chest.
He could probably bust up a mugger on the way home. That would help.
(Authors Note: Chapters will be posted as often as possible, and feel free to like and comment! I love getting feedback.)
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