"21..22..23..24..25"

Cyrus counted the seconds down, his cold, anticipating eyes burning holes in his target's back. Though he stood perched on the nearby building, Cyrus could still hear the unforgettable crunch of plastic coming from below. Clenched in his tight grip, the unsuspecting baker carried six loaves of bread, wrapped tightly in plastic, the Queen's emblem emblazoned on the wrapping.

"26..27..28..29"

With a long leap, Cyrus' feet slammed onto the top of the nearest street light, the aged metal indenting from the impact. His eyes narrowed as the baker turned to talk to some folks from across the street.

His grip was loose.

The boy traveled down the street light and past the crowds, his red tuft of hair illuminated under those yellowed lights.

"Oh come on," Cyrus joked, snatching two loaves of bread from the baker's arms, "You can do better than that."

Cyrus backed away from the baker slowly, savoring the change in his face—confusion, recognition, and then fury. With a small smirk and salute, the boy sharply turned and broke into a sprint.

"YOU LITTLE SHIT, GET YER ASS BACK HERE"

People made way for the golden-eyed boy and the human bowling ball following hot on his tail. A cat and mouse chase through the busy street, adrenaline pumping through the boy's veins as he pushed past the crowds. With a quick look behind his back, Cyrus nearly jumped when he realized the baker was keeping up with him, breathing down his neck. The quickening pace burned in Cyrus' ears, as he pushed his thin legs to the max.

"I'm calling bullshit-the pig can run," Cyrus thought, sweat beating down his tanned face. The boy did his best to lose the baker amid the crowds of people, switching paces and directions, nearly slamming into a poor woman in the process. No matter what he did, the baker only seemed to get closer, the smug smirk on his fat face etched in Cyrus' mind.

"Damn, there's gotta be something," he panted, his muscles straining as he leaped onto an old man's food wagon, the squelch of tomatoes amplified in the boy's ears.

"Literally, why did I think that going to help?"

Cringing at the gushing fluid flowing between his toes, Cyrus quickly jumped off the wagon, his body flipping in the air, a hint of his stomach peaking through his ragged shirt. At the same time, he felt his broken shoes slip off his feet, stuck in the mess of rotten tomatoes.

"Ah damn, I just looted those!"

The boy glanced at the loaves in his arms, thankful they were not crushed from the impact. He breathed a sigh of relief, noticing that the baker's squeals were much more distant. "The random wagon hopping probably threw him off guard, cause hell, I don't even know what the point of that was." Hushed whispers spread through the street, as people pointed towards the red-haired boy's form.

"Hey, who's the kid?"

"I feel like I've seen him somewhere."

"Brotha', I just wanted some canned goods."

"Oh SHIT, there's no mistaking it that's definitely-"

"-Lenlyo's Little Thief."

Cyrus sighed as he strolled through the human traffic. The baker's incomprehensible screams grew closer, and Cyrus, growing tired of the charade, turned to face the bovine. His disgusting mug squeezed through the crowds, pasty skin contrasting against the soot-filled rags of the passersby. His form bulged between the oncoming traffic, and Cyrus prepared for the worst, readying his stance and fists.

"THERE YOU ARE, YOU RUNT. I AM GOING TO MAKE YOUR LIFE MISERABLE, YOU HEAR? JUST WAIT TILL I GET THE CHRO-"

Cyrus watched in bewilderment as the man choked on his words and slightly stumbled, falling to his knees. His fiery eyes faded, haze engulfing them. Through the slightly illuminated crowds and shadows, Cyrus nearly missed the small spurt of blood seeping from the rolls of fat lining the man's neck, an arrowhead embedded in his larynx. As expected, the moving mass of people made its way around the blood-oozing body, averting their eyes from the gruesome display.

"Shit, I need to get out of here,"

Cyrus thought, slowly backing away from the scene and weaving through the shaken crowds with practiced ease. He knew not to let the distant hiss of moving gears get to him, and he'd be damned if a misstep was what killed him.

And so he slipped through the crowds and into a nearby alley, his hands gripping the two loaves of bread tightly. He rushed past the decayed buildings, his dirtied feet slamming the pavement with his every stride. Even as he ran in the opposite direction of the crime scene, as the familiar mechanical whirring grew more distant, as the light from the bread district died,

he could barely breathe.

He's evaded the Chrome Militia countless times, played them at their own game, but the worry always ate him from the inside out. It only took one slip up, one slight reason for them to suspect him, and they would drag him to the palace to rot. No matter how hard he tried to laugh off their existence and ignore them, the impending doom loomed over his head.

I̸̢̩̝̣̰̬̺͉̖͖̞̳̳̬̽́̅̃̌̆̕̕'̸͈̦̟̜͚̭̩̺̬̱̟̤̘̀̑̀̓͆̎̄͝l̵̻̗̿̍̀͂̾̃͗̊̾͗̎̐̚͝l̸̪͌̋̇̎́̿͗͒̓͐͝͝ ̴̧̡̧͖͎̝͖̝̼̱̅͋͗̿͆̑͒̉̈̂̚͝n̵̰̘͍̭͔̬͑e̶̡̨̺͚͙̻̥̫̻̦͋̾̌̏́̄̍̅̎̔͜v̴̡̖̥̯̋̍͑́͐̌͜͝e̴͚̓̄̔̾̍̋̑̋ŕ̶̢̨̛͓̮̘̣̱͓͓̥͔̭̩̫͕̾͒̉͂͠ ̵̢̛̞̥͋́̐͛̈̏̇͘̚̚b̷̛̰̠͉̽̎̅̈́̄̓͋̚͝ę̶̨̡̳͖̠̮͔͇͓̯̲̺͙̅͂́̀̔̒͆͝͝ ̸̡̧̞̪͖̱͔̾̊̉͆f̸̨̺͎̏̀ŗ̸̥̙̯̪͎͓̟̻͎̫̱̭̻͊͘ͅe̶̥̠̟̺͖͙̻͒͗̂̈́͊͛̾̕͝͝e̸̡̮̍̊̔̽̅̑̕ ̷̠̗̯̞͆̾̋̕̚f̶̧̺̘̤̳͈̏͌̚̕͜͠ṛ̷̨̱̙̟̦̝̪̲͓͈͓̹̟̰̾̊̈́̆̓͛̍̅̒̐̕͘͝ǒ̸̬͕̩͓̀͂̏̓̔̈́͐̔̈͐͆̏͝ͅm̵̡̼̰̝̥̞̀̈́̊͑͂̓ ̷̮̥̫̟͆t̸̨̛̥͂h̸̛̛̖̖̹̠̤̠̃͐̌͠e̶̪̪̰͈͉̪̞͉̻̙̐̅͋ȋ̸̧͙͚̥̘̪͙̯̦͙̤̩̖̞̱͊͂̇r̷̛̙̰̳̦͖̿̚ ̸̬̪͚̱̬̬͈̳̗͓͇̟̅̿̈̅̋̓͝g̶̛̻͍̬̗͛͋̂͝r̴̨̢̨̨̛̛͇͕̯͎̳̀͂͐̍͒̎͗̑͑̾̕a̴̢̛̞̼̦̥͐̐̾̀s̷̨̛̮̣͈̱̦̬̤͍͎͂̂̈́̔̈̎͂͗̅p̵̨͚̟̯̲͖̝̥̓̌̊̒̈́̐͐͜͝s̶̩̪̒́̈́̉̀̀̀͛͗͗̏̍͠.̴̡̱̦̗̜͕͇̋̇͗̐̌̈̏̀̆̌̑̃͆͘͜͠

"Ugh, not right now," Cyrus groaned, taking a moment to massage his temples, dropping his prized bread to the floor. He had suffered through more than a normal amount of migraines in a single week, and the constant near-death experiences weren't helping. Though he thrived off his thievery, it might not do him any harm if he decided to take a break.

"I'll have to ask Myra for some of those pain-killers," Cyrus gagged, grimacing at the prospect of having to shove one of those disgusting pills down his throat. He reached down for the previously dropped bread and continued down the alley, taking a couple of lefts and rights to reach his destination.

The Queen did not fund street lights in smaller alleys, as she considered them "unnecessary." To some degree, she was right, as nobody lives in these parts of the city, but the data begs to differ. The Chrome Militia has no jurisdiction over these areas, leaving it completely open to all sorts of chaos. There were more cases of murder, treachery, and assault in the past few weeks in these alleys than there were for months in the main streets.

A real dream for the city's criminals and an absolute pain in the ass for anybody else.

After years of navigating the inner workings of Lenlyo, Cyrus learned about the streets, crime patterns, and hidden passageways, memorizing them like the back of his hand. At first, he needed to travel along the walls, jamming different markers into the cracks, and committing them to memory. With time, he got better at familiarizing himself with how to get to certain places from the main streets, a full map laid out in his mind. He was practically untouchable.

"Where the hell you been?" A high-pitched voice called from a little ways ahead. Cyrus smirked, strolling into the open street with the two loaves of bread in his hands.

"I see that you still haven't hit puberty, ey?" Cyrus laughed.

The boy rolled his eyes, smirking as he walked over to where Cyrus was and slapped the back of his back, sending the red-haired boy into a coughing fit.

"You the same weak ass kid, so I wouldn't be talking," he retorted, looking up to the taller boy, his hands on his hips.

Logan O'Donnell was a pint-sized, blue-eyed motherfucker. He was a head shorter than Cyrus, but he somehow has never lost a fight in his life.

"Aight, don't get your panties in a twist, Lo," Cyrus grumbled, as he steadied his breath.

"Don't push it then, bastard," Logan said, his eyes narrowing on the two loaves of bread in the red-haired boy's grasp.

'Again?' Logan thought, his eyebrows furrowing.

Cyrus walked ahead of Logan, following the burnt aroma that wafted through the air, wisps of black charcoal floating around them as they ventured deeper down the streets. The loud screeches of metal against metal harmonized in their ears, as they finally stood in front of the most iconic building on the street.

"She's goin' be pissed when she finds out you went thievin' again, Cy."

"Eh, she won't kill me."

"Sure..."

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Name: [REDACTED]

Time: 13th hour

Condition: Mostly stable

No. 256

A young woman hurried down the streets, tugging along [REDACTED] with her. His little feet struggled to keep up, scraping against the grime infused pavement.

"[REDACTED], baby, you have to hurry up. We don't want [REDACTED], alright?"

The woman cooed, looking down in her little one's bright orbs. He looked down at his dirtied feet, scratching the back of his neck.

His way of saying he didn't want to walk.

She rolled her eyes [REDACTED]

"You want uppsies?" She laughed, pulling [REDACTED] into the safety of her arms, his round face buried in the crook of her neck.

The woman walked down to the creaky stall at the end of the long line of vendors, slipping behind [REDACTED]

[REDACTED] woke up a good thirty minutes later to the loud commotion in the street. He yawned against his mother's neck, rubbing his tiny fists against his eyes.

His bleary vision could barely make out the figure in front of him, a mess of bronze and gray.

[REDACTED] behind them was wearing green.

The boy's eyes shot open, bulging out of their sockets, a silent scream erupting from the confines of his stomach.

A creature crawled along the pavement, its eight arms (appendages?) shifting with its every movement as it moved closer to [REDACTED] mother. A mess of thick wires weaved through its body and up its supposed neck, connecting behind a stark white, plaster mask.

Round cheeks, doe eyes, parted lips.

D̶̨̘̻̬̪͖̻̐͊̿͆̈́̒͛̈́̀̑̓̋̈́͘̕͝͠ơ̷̡͔̼̰͙̟̖̳͈̥̥̳̺͓̼̘̯̼͇̦͔̲̓̓̎̐͊̎̃͆̈́̑̂͗͆̏̇͐́̿͌̒̄̃̓͊͑̈́̑̄͂͛͐͋̈́͐̽͗̓́͜͠͠ ̸̡̛̱͉̗̤̯̰͉̪̼̗̩̤͕̼̜̰͙̼̀̂̕ͅY̶̨̡̢̙̞̱͉̭̪̲̞̰̣̻̤̘̫̻̙͚͋̀̅̈́͋͠ͅǒ̷̡̢̢̭̲̯̼̙̫͇̱̘̙͚̘̞̘͇̣̼͇͍̮̞̺͓͙̤̥̭̥͎̗͔̫̠̘̳̓͋̉͒͛̆͌͐̽͐͆̇͆̌̈́̊͋̐̌̂̈́̓̀̎̑̃͊͠ͅǔ̴̟͎̦̱̦͍͎̫̾̐̂̓̈̿̅̍̓̀͊̋͗̔̎͊͝ ̴̨̡̢̨̘͚͉͕͎̦̰̩̣̩͙͓̫̪̟̻̮͙͕͔̰̝̭̱͓̬̯̯̍̌͌͐͗͌̉̊̈́̊̈́̌̀͋̎͊̈́́̅̇̃͘̚͜͜͜͝ͅŖ̷̨̟͙̼̗͖̘̣̥̻̩̜̠̣͎̘̙͖̼͎͕̹͉̻̹̖̠̩̳̲̰̣̬͉͓̤̺̘̺͈̌̌̀̈́̇̂͆̎̊̍̚ͅę̸͇̝͚̲͖̳̫͚̤̖̗̭̤̭̲̟̟̦̣̞̰͎̜̰̣̦̬̲̖͓̺͎̥̠̞̙̘̰͂̈́͛͂̅̾̎̇̃̈́̑͗͆͊̿̀̐̄̂̾̀̍̾͑̚͘̚͜͠ͅm̵͍̲̻̓͌̐̉̋̓̇̑̀̇́̓͆̀̀̿̏̍̊̎̃́͌̎̈́̿̽̈́́̚͘͝è̸̡̢̨̨̨̛̜̘̮̮̗̫̺͚̦̗̠̞͍̰̮̝͉͉͎̟̭̦̫̲̭͇͖̭̗̰̩̦͙̎͛̓̊̽̌̈́̌̏̈́͒̂̈̈́̈̎̋̎̐͊̋͊͛͗̉̚̕͘͘͜͜m̷̨̨̨͓͖͈̝̙̬̯͚̭̰̜̦͓͍͇̞̯͇̪̗̩̻̖̝̭̟̪̻̪̊̒͝ͅͅͅͅb̴̛̗̫͚͈̹̟͇̩̓͋̋̊̀͛̉̆̀́͒́̋̿͋̓̏͋̋̕̕ē̸̱̺̭̖͍̘͔̭͌̀͗́́̓̈̏̉̑͋͑̒͂̅̅͛̈́̍̾͐̃͛͗͐̓͑͗̉́͒͐̎͘͘̚͝ͅr̷̡̧̧̧̢̧̡̢̧̛̠͇̮͇͇̭̳͙̺̞̻̳͉̦̖͙̦̦͎̦͔̣̩̞͂̌̓͊͂̽̅̃̇̊́̓̉̈̍̄̒̉̄͛̌͊̀͊̚͜͜͜͜͠ ̷̡̡̡̧̫̬͈̤̯̫͇̣̯͖̹͚̝̺͕̲̝̩̣̳̭̮̝͔̭͚̟̦̊͒̇̃́̍̋̏́́͊̆̋̔̍̈́̈́͛̑͂̆̀͑̌̒͗͆̓̎̇͆͘̚̕͘͘͝͝͝ͅͅͅM̴̧̨̟̳͖̹̺̻̠͓̟͓̣̝̻͇͍̗̜͕̳̗̓͊̾̓̿̄͑̀̈́͐̄̀͘̕͠e̸̢̢͓̤̗̩͙̠̹͈̱̲͔͚͎̬͓̞̳̗͌̄͋̀͛ͅ?