RIPLEY

Chapter 2 (Before Collisions)

DOON

He turned to face the i***t who just pushed him forward, like some asshole he is.

He angled his head slightly to get a glimpse of his, as he decided his enemy. He grits his teeth, wanting no more but to disfigure Officer Smith's face. He balled his hands, chains clink in respond. He kept his face grim, bowing to face the floor. He can see, even from the blurry state, Officer Smith's eyes have no longer been looking at him, distraction looming, like he had just seen a dot over an entirely white sheet; completely forgetting about his responsibility.

Doon felt a surge of energy electrifying through his entire body. He's ready.

He made an unexpected turn, facing Smith. He brought his cuffed hands forward, hard enough to knock the officer's body down, but due to his lack of exertion, was not enough to cut Smith's consciousness in momentum.

The old officer managed to roll his body sideways, avoiding the incoming kick Doon was supposed to release. Then he searched his waist line for his gun.

And he couldn't believe it.

He surveyed for his gun with his palms once again.

He felt nothing.

Doon smirked in satisfaction. In his hand was the ungrateful gun of the goody Officer Smith, He mumbled his apology with a mocking grin, "I thought you remembered that I was the most wanted thief?"

Smith almost wished he hadn't removed his body from their house off to work, not when he thought something out of ordinary would befall into his peaceful life. Just one look of the boy seems completely harmless, unlike him, completely armed with his reliance to a personal gun. But it wasn't the case. This boy - the boy in front of him has to come from somewhere to own skills like this. To hone physical gracefulness with an abundant sense of danger.

Doon points the gun directly to him.

Smith found himself gaping in astonishment, kneeling on his knees, begging furiously with his tone cracking like an old and tired voice, deepened from the length of one's age. Finally realizing that he'll have to deal this thing without the accompaniment of luck, "Please... I-I have a family. They need me... please... I need to live...I-I h-have fo-four children. My wife T-Tes- Tessie is w-with my baby g-girl right now, her name's T-Tessa... na-named after my wi-wife's g-grandmother... please." Smith looked up to Doon, trembling. "I can't leave a baby with my wife's grandmother's name!"

Doon felt a slight wave of sympathy on his chest. He never encountered such pitiful man in his life as this man who brags about his perfect family during this awful near-to-death-situation.

He wanted nothing more but to laugh boisterously at the man who minutes ago had remain doubtless with Doon's talent. Who even bullied him carelessly because apparently he never thought the eligible thief who always managed to slip off from half of the troop's fingers is a kid.

Too bad Smith pushed the wrong guy.

Doon teasingly tap his forefinger to the trigger, Officer Smith wavered, trembling with so much effort. Doon studied the gun on his hand and manages to recognize its origin. Military? 201 Military PSS Silent Pistol. A work from George Keaton, once was a part from the troop in 2017 at the age of 26.

There's no stopping him, he let his thoughts spill, his education bumping to recollections like notes through his mind eagerly. Suddenly he could hear his father, reading him trivia like the ones of his childhood.

In 2035 in George Keaton's mid-forties he expanded his knowledge in electronic engineering from committing his devotion to innovating guns and flash metal bullets. He is known as Pioneer of Deadly Silence, with his late inventions of soundproof weapons. His work was guaranteed legal for Police and Military associations. Doon haven't seen any of these weapons from the Police quarters, only on the Military bases- the one that he knew from his dad's troop caverns.

He also knew that every soundproof bullets inside cost a handful of bucks. Hell, it costs more than his step father's cheap paycheck per month. It could mean three hologram computers and a whole lot of decent meal for his mom. The thought made his drive quench with need and avidness.

Then he found himself staring right through Smith. From the looks of the man, he could be easily interpreted as a family man, with decent life and a loving wife. He would be that type of man that will be gifted with healthy grandkids that may or may not share lack of gratitude towards criminals.

And he thought again. Who would be?

He prepared himself to kill the man, but hesitated. He seems to not bring himself to do it, and in his defense he had not killed any person at all. He just thought if he did, would it feel like finally becoming like his father? What would it feel like to have your hands filled with spilled blood? Would it complete him nonetheless? Would he then be capable enough to outrage his crazy stepfather? What would his mother feel?

What would his mother feel?

In a flash, Smith swore that he saw the thief with his face showing a hint of pity. It must have been a trick of the light for he can now clearly see him grinning, leaning towards him.

Smith mumbled more for his mercy.

He must be that bad-ass looking? He thought gravely running his thumb from the grip to the magazine of the pistol.

Then he grins in satisfaction. That would be enough for now. For now.

"I'm a thief, not a murderer." It felt like a lie than truth as it passes his tongue. Then he points the gun upward, pulling the trigger, releasing the bullet. He let it fly out of his grasp towards the kneeling Officer Smith.

Even with the hole on the roof as evidence, Doon knows the cops won't be here for the next minutes.

Thank gods for Keaton!

Then he fled, his feet touching the ground roughly. Doon can feel the sense of rush pulsing under his veins, his breathing growing rapid, his heart beating fast.

He ran taking his step out from the deserted station.

Smith took his gun quietly, holding it ahead, pointing directly towards Doon.

Then he pulled the trigger.

Nothing came out.

The damn kid had taken the damn bullets!

Doon on the other hand stuffed the bullets on his pockets. There he knows he's finally free. For now.

...

CALLAHAN

Callahan could only speak with his thoughts after meeting the son of the guy he once worked with. He could remember the aggravating aura of loss surrounding the kid. So powerful that it rushes back memories to the back of his head like tiny ripples, changing, widening to the change of motion from a solid rock. He could suddenly remember all of it. The military bases, the gods, the mission. A mission.

He huffed for air, trying to regain his posture. No matter how unbecoming it is he would always remember him that way. Dead as dead could be.

As you can guess, it wasn't the most memorable work experience, even for Callahan.

Faintly, he can hear the small rubble of footsteps lurking back and forth; he wondered why New York Police Station has become so busy all of the sudden. Well, after the incident of course. It hasn't been looked upon for years, as he remembered it. It feels so different moving on the first steps of the station, he finds it too silent...too unlikely. In England it was always loud, everyone has something to do, everyone has always the reason to save the day, and everyone has always the reason to work. When he first step foot in New York he's surprised how everyone fully depended on the solid welfare from Superheroes, how distant the police have become. Their labor remained un-rewarded, un-recognized by the people. New York treats Callahan like an outcast, banned from a feeling of carelessness and belonging, it made him feel like a fish on the moon.

He noticed someone moving its way rapidly towards him, looking perhaps unintentionally too careful...too rapid with his steps. He studied the guy's feature as it came near. Suddenly a rush of recognition made its way to his head.

He felt like he knew the guy, but he couldn't recall how.

Then he saw the glasses, glinting from the sudden flash of weak sunlight peeking from the other side of a window.

Now he remembered. He knew there was something off with the guy, even for the first time. He knew not one, sealed by an oculist's care who exchange's money over a size of glasses not compatible with the size of their heads.

But there's something thrumming on his entire body, a brief prickle of hesitation trying to cut its way free.

There are plenty of reasons why he couldn't suddenly draw his suspicions into action. First, if he was into something, he could've headed through the god's filing office. All of New York's demanded information, the bank accounts, the government's personal records and scandals, all the deaths caused by their own men along with the state and number of their cells. If theoretically, he were to be a murderer, a part of a mob, a terrorist, or more likely a thief given a permission to pass through the god's gates, he'll be there.

Secondly, not one even with the most un-flawed hacking skills could pass through the encrypted metallic door, not without someone noticing. He wouldn't last in there for a minute, ever since the gods had claimed the place needs alarms to lit up the alert system like Christmas tree whenever an unidentifiable body reached its way to the first steps of the storage.

But what if there is really one person. Could it be this guy? Then what of the oversized glasses?

Curiosity filled his entire body. He watched the guy slowing down, his head moving in different places, as if seeking for something.

Something. Would it be possible that he hasn't gone through the god's storage? If he did, what would he be looking for now?

The guy, accidentally stepped into something below, forcibly bringing him forward across the face of the floor, resulting his glasses to freely tumble hard, that normally would shatter its lenses, mostly if it's medically approved.

But the lenses, it wouldn't bust out. It just hopped; its glasses seemed to avoid any incoming conciliation with any of the obvious obstacles that existed on a supposedly swept floor. Even though it reaches its encounter to the said obstacle, it just infiltrate through it. Like it was made of nothing at all.

Like the lenses never even existed.

He's supposed to see traces of gashes on it by now. But as the guy reached in to recover the glasses, even topped with slight peeks of sunlight, it just came out.... clean.

Callahan's eyebrows furrowed with the sudden realization.

Unless...

Then as if in a blink, the guy stopped short. Noticing the blurry figure of Callahan.

Either way, he's sure it is Callahan. With the English old-fashioned choice of clothes. Not one he knew dresses up as terrible as him.

He knows this as an installed fact, or at least, it made Callahan appear brighter than full-clothed civilians anywhere.

He hurried past Callahan, attempting in-successfully.

When Callahan's hand flew towards the guy's uniform straight off from the back, the guy could only hear a small frantic voice on his head: This is it. This is it.

"You thought I wouldn't notice you surveying around the halls- guilty?" Callahan spoke with controlled venom on his voice, pulling the guy close "What did you do? Did you steal something from the gods? Answer me!"

The guy trembled slightly, but fast-recovering. He faces Callahan, his expression - unafraid.

"I didn't steal anything." The guy was aware of his voice and its urgency of rising, but he didn't care nor did he try to hold his voice off "Don't you think it's a bit too much, hypocritically, calling this kid a thief? Tell me officer, how many people have you heard who begged for your mercy but shot their heads anyway. If hundreds of your men could save their asses even unwarranted by the law, how much to a kid who you hypothetically call a thief is capable of becoming a doer of a damned unseen thievery? Unbelievable!"

The guy is now breathing hard, his face tough, "Now, let's be clear detective. I was not the thief here. You are!"

It made no effect to Callahan, evident to his face showing no hint of shame. It astounds the guy, the composure Callahan is still holding, the way Callahan held himself. It is astounding.

"I don't care on any of the excuses you're spewing out from that rubbish mouth of yours right now thief. I only asked you two things lad. I'm gonna ask you again. What did you do? Did you or didn't you steal something from the gods?" Callahan pressed the guy's forehead hard to the wall. The guy winces in pain, unable to rub his own head.

"I didn't do anything! I only do what's right. You assholes should try it sometimes."

He went to the guy's eyes, checking for any indention that might point out that he's lying.

None. Not that it surprised Callahan so much. Thieves could be a good actor.

And this lad is a damn great actor too. It explains how easily stupendous he concealed his lies.

"Do you honestly think I actually believe that?" Callahan glared at the guy. The guy grits his teeth in return.

Callahan used his free hand to press open his old fashioned Regie's wrist watch attached on his other hand, a 2050 edition that still surprisingly worked well. A military gadget just for the sake of communication, invented by black American Regie Orington. The only tragic thing about Regie's watch is: You can only use it with direct contact of light. Though flawed, it transmits signal straight to any military and police stations. Practically to any armed stations. If the owner desires to.

It saved him multiple times. He didn't care how old it is.

He leaned his lips closer towards Regie's watch, whispering "Caught the thief. Make sure to bring handcuffs."

...

RILEY

She tried to stay composed while she watched every kid in the hallway pass by doing the best they could to stay teenagers. On her right a couple stupidly confined themselves on the long haul of crowds as they're pressed against the lockers, making out. Romance and all its complications. Riley rolled her eyes. Then on her left were the funny looking queen bees trying to stereotype themselves, adding too much cosmetics on their disgusting faces. And finally ahead of her was the poorly-trying to look like a gangster guy, wasting his time by flirting to one of those clichéd make-up full girls on her right.

And she? She tried to wait for her best friend's phone call, keeping her face neutral and normal. Nothing in this world is normal. She thought, pulling away the brunette locks of her wavy hair. The gangster guy transferred his attention to her, grinning, showing off his perfect teeth.

What's special with his teeth anyways? Riley gave the guy a knowing look, her finger touching her throat, slicing rightward, pulling off an "I will kill you" sign.

The guy awkwardly responded by transferring his gaze to his left, probably a reaction after Riley's murderous demeanor. The guy's lips parted slightly, his eyes widening.

She stared, disgusted. New victim? Seriously? Riley rolled her eyes, wondering what the heck happened to her damn best friend. Her eyes focused on the masses. But then a kick of uneasiness crammed her guts. She noticed something peculiar happening to the crowd, she couldn't process what. As if all the irritating beats stopped.

She followed where the guy was gaping at.

All she could make out is the small image of what looked like a shirt flashing over the confining bodies. The black color moved, revealing a slight prominent glimpse of a silvery badge.

Riley's heart thumped. Then the badge moved nearer, confirming her suspicions. She could now make out the face of the cop. She could recognize the guy; she knew she had seen his face somewhere.

Then in a blink the guy caught her staring.

Crap! She pulled her hood up, disheveling her brunette hair and green-gray locks into curtains, hiding her identity.

They knew!

Slowly she examined the hallways.

She could tell that it's almost impossible to disappear now with all the students accompanied with their nosy faces frozen like a stupid statue.

She tried to consider any probable options that might make her invisible even for a second.

But no option proved itself worthy. Not anything that suits the situation fine.

Run, somewhere deep on the pits of her head, a tiny voice said. Run, and never look back.

And the only best way to escape is to run.

Run!

And so she did.

...

CALLAHAN

The crowd of youngsters started to appear behind the walls, ditching their classes for answers to feed their wondrous eyes. Greenhill University is a labyrinth with its walls stopping to the highest peak, its edges stained with decay even though opposed with daily aid. Its long planes zigzagging from place to place, metallic locker on each sides of the maroon painted walls. On the very corner, one step after the school's entrance, Callahan caught the girl's flashing image of dark hair, constricting against crowd's curious glances.

He thought he recognized the girl's face somewhere even the unusual locks.

Then he remembered what happened an hour ago, the thief, and the interrogation that lasted too early as swallowing a whole Felix Felicis in his wake.

He was situated on the right corner, staring at the thief ahead, glaring at Callahan tremendously like he was some kind of poison he couldn't wait to get rid of. He could remember the urge to grin to the guy's weakness. But he knew he was forbidden to show, so he flared back, just staring blankly.

The guy leaned closer. His eyes full of venom. An odd gesture. He had thought. In fact no one who was accused guilty looked this... tough? A look with a mixture of hatred. He can see it now. Burning on the deep hues of his eyes.

"So what now huh? Are you gonna put me into the jail? Or are you gonna plant me with those soundless bullet of yours, just like every other person you caught?" Callahan can hear the eager clicks of the metal handcuffs, holding him in place. He wished there's nothing beyond that. But he could also see the veins ferociously pulsing on his skin.

He pulled his eyes away, back to the guy's lying face. Or at least he suspected it as a lie.

"You're tough. I admire that," Callahan said, ignoring the guy whose name is Caleb, his finger's coolly tapping to the edges of the table, "Since I let you whine away, and forgive your denials about your sinister invention-"

"I told you it's not mine!"

"-which is really quite something since our best hackers couldn't even unlock your codes. Might as well do me a favor and tell me who the hell is the person behind this action your involved with."

Caleb looked pained, defeated as he shook his head, unable to hold his tone stable, "I don't know. Okay. So just let me out cause you're getting noting from me." Then he added, "You'll only waste your time officer."

"I know you're hiding it thief. It's alright. I haven't any slightest need to feed you with bloody insults. Nor am I interested on your gibberish. This I ask for your cooperation. I need you to spell the name of that person!"

"I don't know!"

Callahan clenched his hands into fist, ready to burst his anger in exposition if needed, "I know you know Caleb. Your friends with that person and you couldn't bring yourself to speak his or her name because that person trusted you. Am I right? I know of your involvement officer. So admit your mistakes and don't be a coward to refuse his or her crime in front of my bloody face!"

The thief lowered his gaze to the floor. No longer sending war by his eyes.

Callahan couldn't help but smirk mentally.

Caught you.

"Listen lad, all I need is a titbit of information regarding the threats headed to the Police, your intentions. Your friend's intentions. Tell me the name of the inventor or hacker if you preferred. Tell me who did it and I'll let you go, free along with the suspension of all the infos of your past crimes. Just the name boy. Only the name."

Caleb stayed silent. Callahan was losing his patience.

"Just tell me its motives. And admit what it had done and all of this will be finished and you don't have to show your face to this bloody station again!"

Surprisingly the guy slammed its chained fist on the table. With the resistance caused from the handcuffs that held his hand, the impact was brief and inaudible, but enough to shook the wooden surface, "She's innocent you bastard! She just did it because of y'all stupid nosy little-" realizing what he had just said, he cowered down, silencing himself briefly.

Ah. That's good. Keep him pissed.

"So she's a girl huh? So, how long has she been breaking in through our system?"

Caleb didn't answer, counting down time just to keep himself cool down, restraining him from revealing more data about Riley.

Callahan released his hunched shoulders, leaning his back to his seat, crossing his arms together "It's impressive. The glasses? Though I do believe she'd made it, I still couldn't understand how she managed to let you be caught. Perhaps, she doesn't feel the same way eh? Maybe she's just using you to get what she-"

"Liar! She'll never do that! I know Riley. She's a great friend and a-"

He cursed himself silently, trying his best to not meet Callahan's eyes.

Callahan was back to his earlier position, his hands closing together, placed directly on the table, his body leaning forward, completed with his expression- blank and taunting as he stared straight on his hostage.

Irony.

"Ah, Riley."

Caleb stiffened, and then buried his forehead on the table's surface, "s**t!", then added more colorful statements, as if he could wash off the betrayal that passed his tongue.

Satisfied Callahan ushered his men, mumbling silently to get information about a girl named Riley on Caleb's personal files. Percy nodded, and shifted from his sitting to get a good view to the hologram screen, waiting beside his desk, luring him in. As he'd drawn himself to collect information about Caleb, he fancies himself with his tea, his eyes still on hundreds of faces from the screen, each with different individual histories. Scrolling down, the name Caleb Nathaniel Horton matched the thief's description.

Beside his family status, information about Reileen Hemmingway was exhibited on the screen, along with her phone address, car license and her personal bank accounts, that's been stumped "mortgaged" due to the absence of payments.

Way too much information for a girl who refuses to scoot away from invisibility.

"Sir, I got a hit. I'm now tracking her phone number, to locate her identity."

Callahan could only look as Caleb clenched his fist stonily. But Callahan couldn't hold back his grin, already spreading on his face.

Well, that was easy.

Then Percy added, "She's in Greenhill University. I'm printing her features, if that's okay detective?"

"Go on kid." The detective was staring at the thief, trying to show mockery for underestimating him of his ability, "This Riley kid would have to wait in Greenhill for a bit." Callahan said, memorizing the angles of her face and her peculiar choice of hair color through Percy's monitor.

Callahan shook off his reminisce, realizing that the girl had took off, completely disappearing from the sea of people.

"Bollocks!"

Another officer must've heard for he cleared his throat and turned to Callahan, calling for his attention "Umm...sir?"

Callahan fumed turning to the side officer with a look that can kill, the crowd surrounding him stayed un-moving and practically eavesdropping "Call Black, tell him I'm heading forward."

...

ANONYMOUS

"Thank gods! Dude I thought you'll ditch out this time." Cisco hands him a daily tabloid, almost to harshly for his liking.

Anonymous, suspicion hinting his face, reads the headlines:

Iceman, Saves The Day and Retired Superheroes: Where Are They Now?

So he's been explicitly called to read newspapers?

What is this? Another plot to send him back? Another crazy idea for the CGI to seduce him in?

He looks at Cisco with disbelief, "Are you kidding? What is this? A sick threat?"

Cisco rolled his mud-colored eyes, seemingly used to his friend and his constant freak out "Chill man." Then he hands him another tabloid. A different one this time.

It caught Callahan, sipping him in from the smallest of the headlines to the largest print.

He refuses to believe it, but even so he's unable to entangle his eyes from what is written on each section of the long transparent glass, thinner than actual paper as he can remember when he was just a kid.

20 Students: Dead and Inspector, Unsaved.

The largest of all and the words that most intrigued him were typed in bold ink: Our Heroes, Gone?

How the heck did this happen?

"The first tabloid was from yesterday, the second one come out just... well... recently." From the sound of Cisco's voice Anonymous can suspect that there's something that he still wasn't saying.

"20 dead students, a dead inspector, and a whole lot more victims unforeseen before. I know what you're thinking mate. Where the heck did the bloody heroes go? We don't know."

Anonymous found himself reading and processing the flow of the words of the newspaper in times he couldn't care to count. Woman, r***d, Plane Crash From LA, Lost Arrival Of Supers To Ohio Hero Fest.

He hitched in breath then turned to Cisco, his eyes burning with questions, burning with great regret "The r***d woman was just two blocks away from where I just killed Dark Lord Cisco." He didn't even stutter, but distaste and malice in his voice are now crystal clear.

Cisco shook his head, sighing. He never understood why his friend keeps blaming himself with every little s**t the world contained. Anonymous was indeed far from hero-type. But it doesn't mean he's a villain. For Cisco, Anonymous is a one hell lot of a hero than people expected him to be.

Anonymous' face is covered in his Supers' mask, still it doesn't hide Anonymous' eyes. Cisco can see him diverting his gaze from whatever it is written on the tabloid. Cisco can tell that he's- again- pointing at himself for the sudden appearance of the aforementioned crisis, with his irises sinking from the concealment like second skin.

He doesn't even want to call Anonymous after CGI first told him to speak to his friend. But after hearing the reasons of their insistence and after reading the tabloid - he knew he should.

It wasn't because of his job, it's because it is needed to be done. The world needed him. Cisco knows CGI can guide him to that.

CGI are often full of shits. But with a problem like this one, Cisco wouldn't even try to hesitate. Even if it means offering his friend to his old enemies.

Damn, he never envisioned of the day where people will actually rely their lives to idiots.

With his thoughts, absentmindedly he heard himself speaking, his voice cracked and unsettling, and its tone more worrisome, more showing than careful. Seems like the core of his voice felt the defeat his friend is enduring, "The CGIs wanted you to talk to Black."

Anonymous held back his response, silently followed Cisco with a gutted conscience, hanging on his soul like mildew.

Oh it's been a long f*****g time.