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With the last necklace secured—hammer dropped in the moment before, after the last case shattered—he zips the satchel and pivots towards the emergency exit at the back of the store.
The first few steps feel as though he’s in a slow-motion replay, like walking through syrup; the bleating alarm and panicked hoo-hooing from behind the counter distant and muffled.
But at the 4th step, a shout—a man’s voice, from upstairs—brings him firmly back into reality.
An involuntary sigh—equal parts crippling-anxiety and premature-relief—forces its way out, and he is off.
He barely remembers to slow down as he turns his left hip into the lever on the back door, momentum slamming it open far easier than anticipated, nearly sending himself head over feet into the pavement.
But a few desperate lunging stutters later—composure regained—he is sprinting east down the alley.
He glances back just once, about halfway down—no-one yet in pursuit and only 50 or so meters to go.
Option 1 it is then.
7 seconds later he reaches the end.
He takes the corner wide—last thing he needs is a head on collision with some college freshmen, handful of books, on her way to class.
He had places to be, there simply wasn’t time to stumble, to be slowed.
There wasn’t time to regather one’s strewn-about property, to cast furtive glances at some girl, pretty as she might be, while sheepishly exchanging items, and perhaps—after some mutual blushing and stutters—numbers as well.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Regardless of how perfectly cliched such a moment would be, the rom-com “how I met your mother” tropes would have to wait.
He’s already grabbed the drainage pipe and planted his right foot on the water meter before his thoughts catch up to him.
There’s a person in that truck, shit.
Option 2 it is then.
Throwing himself back from the wall he’s off again across the grassy median. With any luck that UPS driver would think he was just late for class, never mind the fact he’s running the wrong way.
How often do people practice parkour here?
5 seconds later he’s bolting through the parking lot across the street, b-lining it toward the wooden deck behind the hot dog shop. He is up the stairs and on the deck before his brain has even registered his foot hitting the first step.
He grabs the railing, throws his left leg over, right following in turn, spins his body, and makes the 4 foot leap.
It’s not difficult, the neighboring roof sits flat at the same height as the deck—more of a hop really—and the black shingles are coarse and grippy, sticking the landing is elementary.
He dekes immediately behind the 2 story brick wall—remnant from another time—separating the roof from its neighbor, and, as lightly as he can bring himself to tread, moves towards the middle.
As long as he travels along the centerline, low, in a crouch, no-one at ground-level will catch a glimpse of him, save for perhaps in the briefest of seconds when he hops the 3 foot alley to the cafe. Even then, they wouldn’t know what they’d seen until the police reports came out later.
The coffeehouse is bi-level, and after scuttling to the edge of the 2nd story and dropping to the 1st, where he is shielded by walls on 3 sides, he begins his metamorphosis.
It would be easier this way, he knew. Standing still, anything he dropped could be easily recovered.
Still, he goes through the sequence with the utmost focus, as though he were in motion and unable to spare the precious seconds necessary to recover any fumbles. That is, after all, how he’d spent his countless hours preparing.
Satchel teeth. Jacket teeth—
He takes off the satchel and holds the strap in his teeth, then he removes his jacket, pulling it inside out—black to red—biting down on the collar
—backpack off. Stuff satchel—
Next, the yellow backpack—the one he’d been wearing flattened underneath—comes off.
He holds it in hand with his jacket, and stuffs the satchel inside.
—backpack teeth. Jacket on—
Holding the backpack in his teeth, he throws the jacket over his shoulders.
—shoes, pants, wig, mustache. Backpack on.
Mouth still clenched, he tears the Nike logos off his shoes and in one swift motion breaks away the snap pants, revealing denim beneath.
After wig and skullcap, he tears the mask and mustache off—rubbing his philtrum vigorously to remove any residual spirit gum—cramming it all to the bottom of the pack with the rest of his alter ego.
From black-clad brunette-mulletted Tom Selleck-lite, to clean-shaven bleach-blonde fauxhawk trendsetter in sub-20 seconds.
He is beacon now, he knows that much, but that’s always been the plan.
Anyone in pursuit of that shady character who robbed the jewelry store 2 minutes ago wouldn’t look twice at this new brightly garbed hipster.
They might if they saw him on the roof of the coffee shop though.
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