"Am I a criminal? I don't think so, everyone needs a job, right? We all need a payday."

-Houston

The embers from the cigarette glowed brightly as I raised its filter to my lips and took a long hit. Inhaling deeply, as if to savor the moment, I let the cancerous contents fill my lungs to capacity before exhaling slowly. The smoke billowed and lingered in the air around me, and I felt the effects almost instantaneously. Gone went my headache and with it, came a calm lightheadedness as the nicotine high swelled within my chest and a pleasuring chill crawled down my spine. My rattled nerves have been wound tight for the last hour or so, and they eased themselves into a false state of security. And although I knew all too well that the buzz wouldn't last, I still relished in what calm I could.

My eyes glanced up and I watched as people went about their normal every day routine. Children walking home from school, couples holding hands, families shopping at the various stores on the street corner. One of the shop keeps, a cheery old man at the nearby Dust store, even had the decency to wave as I caught his eye. I returned the wave only halfheartedly, mostly due to the fact that my hand is still shaking a bit from nervousness. I dropped the appendage along with my eyes and twiddled my fingers anxiously.

I really don't want to go to jail today.

My name is…well actually, you don't really need to know that much about me. For now, just know me as Kid. That should suffice.

The bus stop I'm sitting at is all bare and empty save for me and my bag of utilities. Good. People make me jumpy. The metro has been through his route twice now. Each time the bus screeches to an uncomfortable halt in front of me. Each time, the hydraulic doors open up as if to welcome me in, each time me and the bus driver lock eyes and each time I wave him off, as if to wait for the next.

I check my watch and I see it's nearly the top of the hour. The bus will be making its third rotation through here. I really hope it's not the same guy. He might start getting suspicious. The thought rattles my nerves once again and I take another drag from my cigarette in order to calm myself down.

I start rummaging through my duffle bag to take my mind off it. My hands shift through the contents of the bag and I take a mental checklist of the items I brought with me. A pair of spotless latex gloves, a few zip tie handcuffs, formfitting yet light body armor, a cut down assault rifle with a couple magazines of ammunition, a few fragmentation hand grenades (definitely gonna have some fun with those), and my own personally designed sawed-off shotgun, loaded with some specialty dust shells.

I pause when I reach the last item in the bag and slowly lift it from its containment. It's a mask. Like something you would buy from a costume shop, but of a higher quality than plastic. Fiberglass, if I were to take a guess. Designed to take a punch or two. The design on the front is what catches most of my curiosity. Some sort of fucked up clown face, with its makeup chipping at the corners. The makeup stops about halfway down the face, after its ridiculous red nose. The paint is ripped away, revealing a rotting skeleton jawline, a creepy full smile carved in from cheekbone to cheekbone. Revolting, jagged teeth fill its mouth, like fangs of an animal. The words freaky, demented and intimidating come to mind.

The mask was a gift, along with the weapons (save for the shotgun), utilities, and nice designer silk suit and tie I'm currently wearing at the moment. Everything was packed away nice and neatly in this duffle bag I found one day outside my dumpy little apartment. The suit was even freshly dry cleaned. It all came with a little note attached to the back of the mask; chicken scratched into it was the pickup location of where my happy ass needed to be as of today.

Friday the 5th

Bus stop at 1st and 2nd

11:30 AM

Don't be late

-Bain

I frowned as I pull my suit's sleeve back to check my watch again. It's almost 2 PM. These fuckers really need to work on their punctuality. Lateness tends to say a lot about someone and their work ethics, about their professionalism. And I desperately need these guys to be professionals.

I really don't want to go to jail today.

A pair of old ladies carrying some groceries walk by and they take a seat at the other end of the bench. One of them scrunches her nose and shakes her head in disgust and disapproval of my casual smoking, before she's sucked up into conversation with her companion. I subconsciously shift my duffel bag over to the other side of me, further away from any peering eyes. Only after do I finish that do I mentally kick myself for it. Was that suspicious? It probably looked suspicious. It probably looked like I had something to hide. Damnit, why did you do that stupid-ass? Stupid stupid stupid…

I quickly take one final drag of my smoke before crushing the butt between my fingers and discarding it onto the ground beneath me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Grandma #1 say something in a hushed tone to Grandma #2 before they both silently glare in my direction.

Trust me Grandma. If you had any idea of the crimes I was going to commit today…well let's just say that littering should be the least of your concerns.

Ignoring the two grannies to my left, I reach into my suit's pocket and fetched for my lighter and my pack. I lit up another cigarette and indulged myself with another nicotine buzz before going back to analyzing the world around me. People watching was always a hobby of mine. You could always tell a lot about a person from the way they walked. Whether or not they slouched said plenty about their self-esteem or confidence. If they moved at a brisk pace hinted at if they were late to be somewhere or just an impatient person. And those with slightly sagging pants or heavy purses usually always had quite a bit of lien or goods with them. Ripe for the picking.

It's just something you tend to pick up on when you spend a good couple of years living on the streets, pickpocketing complete strangers just to help get by. It's an easy concept. All you need to learn is your who's and what's and whethers.

First: you've got your Who's

Who's a rich looking target? Or: Who's not paying attention? Or: Who's a spoiled-rich-looking-bitch-who-leeches-off-daddy's-money-and-would-make-me-feel-good-if-I-stole-from-them?

That last one is my favorite.

Next: you've got your What's

What's a good spot to hit them at? The alley? The crosswalk? Or: What's a good time to strike? Or: What's a good side to hit them on? The left? Right? Or maybe I should just bump into them head on.

And lastly, you've got your Whethers.

Whether or not the rich-bitch will give me a bigger payoff than the dude in the three piece suit. Or: Whether or not the dude in the suit has his wallet in his left or right back pocket. Or, most importantly: Whether or not the sagging going on in that dude's suit pants is a heavy wallet…or a loaded pistol ready to blast your sorry-ass away on a one way trip to the morgue.

Like I said, it's just something you pick up on. It's the deciding factor on whether or not your ass is free, dead, or locked up in a prison jail cell.

And I really don't want to go to jail. Today or any other day.

The screech of brakes on a bus catches my attention and I glance up to see the bus has arrived. Again. The hydraulic doors open up with a loud hiss and I lock eyes, once again, with the same god damn bus driver from earlier. He seems annoyed by my continued presence and glares at me, daring me to just wave him off like before. There's really little I can do other than give him a pathetically weak apologetic smile and shrug my shoulders. He scoffs and looked back towards the road.

Sorry dude. But you're just not the ride I was waiting on.

Grandma #1 and #2 both get up and board the bus, leaving me alone to smoke in peace once again. Or at least that would have been the case, had not a pair of rather…eccentrically dressed girls who were around my age, hopped off the bus and jumped straight into a heated debate right next to me.

"Are you sure I just can't go kick his ass?" The taller of the two, who was much more fashionably dressed, spoke to her companion. This chick was, not gonna lie, pretty damn hot; with fair skin, short brown curled hair, black beret and some killer looking sunglasses. That and the fact that her sweater and corset really hugged her curves made her quite nice to look at.

Her friend wasn't bad on the eyes either. Surprising enough she was a faunus, a pair of fluffy bunny ears atop her head made that rather obvious. She was decked out in this rather odd looking jacket with golden armored spaulders and vambraces. Her shorts with the leggings were a nice touch though. Cute but not hot like the Babe-with-Shades, but cute nonetheless.

There's really only one group of people out there that would dress in such ridiculous clothing in public. No doubt about it, these two ladies were Huntresses. Or at least Huntresses in training, if their age was anything to go by.

"No! Don't do that!" Bunny Cutie cried out, "The absolute last thing I need is for this to get physical!"

"Velvet," Babe-with-Shades replied in a critical tone. "He is not going to just magically leave you alone. He's a bully. You need to stand up for yourself."

"I understand that, I just…" Bunny Cutie mumbled as she grasped her other arm in a comforting motion and looked away from Babe-with-Shades. She sighed as she put her hand on Bunny Cutie's shoulder, giving her a comforting squeeze.

"I know, I know. You don't want to make a scene."

"You don't understand. Because I'm," Bunny Cutie gestured towards her ears, alluding to the fact that she was indeed a Faunus. "I don't want every single student at school paying attention to me." She dropped her tone, speaking in quiet whispers that I barely caught.

"I get judged enough already Coco. I don't need another dozen kids to stare and talk…"

"I get it, I'm sorry. I'll drop it." Babe-with-Shades apologized with a sigh as she gave Bunny Cutie another reassuring squeeze. "Just remember you're never alone. I'm here if you need me." She smiled as her words comforted her friend, but her face hardened once again. "But if Cardin ever lays a hand on you again…"

Bunny Cutie hugged Babe-with-Shades, whatever threat she had ready died on her tongue as she was interrupted. "Thanks Coco. Please don't. But thank you."

Babe-with-Shades face softened and she returned the hug.

"Anytime. Now, let's get moving. There's this new outlet center they opened up in town, and I have to check out their new selection."

The two started walking down the sidewalk, towards my direction. I watched them as they went and caught Babe-with-Shades' eye as they passed by me and I gave her a little wink and a grin.

"Ladies." I said, all suave and sophisticated like a true ladykiller.

Babe-with-Shades didn't even give me the time of the day.

"Oh please." She huffed as the two of them walked away, a bit faster than before and I frowned as my self-esteem fell. Ouch, my wounded pride.

Yeah, so much for being a ladykiller.

I went back to smoking my cigarettes after that, risking only a glance or two at Babe-with-Shades and Bunny Cutie's retreating forms as they went because, well hey let's be honest here. I'm a guy, and there are two fine looking girls walking away from me. Of course I'm going to look. How's the saying go? Hate to have you go, but love to see you leave?

Truer words have never been spoken.

My mind drifted as their retreating forms disappeared around a street corner. Those two were most definitely up and coming Huntresses. I could tell from the way they walked. Proud, alert, and powerful. They walked with distinction and aura running through their veins. Eyes sharp, eyes keen. Huntsmen and Huntresses are among the very last group of people I would ever want to choose for a target. I highly doubt they would ever fall victim to a pickpocket and I've seen them fight and it's usually not a pretty sight for whoever is in the way. Going after a Hunter is a one way ticket to jail.

And I really don't want to go to jail.

How or why do I know so much about Hunters? Well that's an easy one. You see, I used to be one.

Not a legit Huntsman, mind you. I never made it that far. No, I just trained as one for a few years. Back when life was better and my family had the money to support my schooling. I spent a good couple of semesters at Signal Academy, out in the east, on this cozy little island called Patch. Things used to be good there, really good actually. I learned the basics of how to fight, had plenty of friends and even unlocked my aura. Life was nice, life was easy.

Which it only made perfect fucking sense that everything would go to shit. And in such a quick manner too.

See, Mama and Pa back home, they were so proud of me. They supported me every step of the way. But they couldn't support me all the way. Schooling is expensive, and they had to take a few loans out from the bank in order to help fund my continued education. No biggie right? I'll just pay them back when I graduate as a hotshot Huntsman and start raking in the dough.

Unfortunately, life doesn't play like a fantasy. No, life is a cruel unforgiving bitch. Pa ended up getting hurt and couldn't continue with his job at the factory. Mama tried to pick up the slack but there was only so much a middle aged woman could do before the stress from holding three separate jobs demands too much from you. The tipping point finally came when First World Bank, where my parents had pulled the loan from, started demanding payments and skyrocketed their interest. My folks were hard worker for sure, but even they couldn't keep up with the unsympathetic bank, especially not one owned and operated by the Schnee-fucking-Dust Company.

My folks played it off like they could handle it, but when eviction notices started getting sent to the house. Well that's when I took matters into my own hands.

I was still lost in thought and about three quarters down with my next cigarette when this white van rolled up to the bus stop. And when I say roll, I really mean crashes onto the goddamn sidewalk and nearly runs my ass over.

That sure as hell didn't help my nerves at all.

Before I could even yell out a, "Holy Fuck. What the fuck? How about you fucking watch where you're fucking going you fucking fuck!" The side door to the van slammed open and my storm of swears died on my tongue as I saw a group of men in suits identical to the one I was wearing lying in wait in the van. There was a brief moment of calm as I stared at them and they stared at me, before a cockney accent from a scarred individual within the van broke the silence.

"The fuck is this?" The guy, let's call him Scarface for now, cried out. His accent thick as he glared. "Dallas didn't say shit about no babysitting on this job."

"I uhhh," I stuttered lamely, still a little thrown off by the situation and the fact that the pickup actually came. Two hours late, but still came nonetheless.

"Are you Kid?" A deeper voice, coming from this huge ass dark skinned dude in the back asked, impatiently.

"Y-yeah. Yeah I'm Kid," I replied, still trying to regain my wits. "You Dallas' crew?"

"The fuck does it look like genius?" Scarface hollered, "Never mind that. Get the fuck in, we're late as is."

Biting back a retort, I quickly grabbed my duffle bag and had one last drag of my cigarette before I jumped in the van and slammed the door behind me. Less than a second later and we were off racing down the street. I took a seat in the back and tried to get comfortable. But a couple sets of eyes that bore into me drew my attention. I looked up and saw that every occupant of the vehicle save the driver were staring at me. There was the dark skinned dude, the scarred up face bastard with the fucking accent, a bald dude with a beard, and a younger looking guy. There was no Dallas though. Odd.

Everybody in the van was keeping their hands busy with something. Either they were loading ammo, loading med-bags, readying their weapons or testing out their equipment. I sat in the corner, twiddling my thumbs and trying to look inconspicuous. Didn't work.

"Exactly how old are you?" The dark skinned dude from earlier questioned as he loaded some rounds into an empty pistol magazine. He loaded the pistol and pulled the slide back. The pistol clicking with a loud satisfying clunk, before he set it aside and started loading up a big and rather nasty looking rifle.

"17." I answered truthfully. Young, I know. But I have skills, skills that Dallas said his crew needed. Skills that would make me a very valuable asset. Skills that just might save the day, if shit hits the fan.

Too bad these guys didn't know that.

"Oh for fuck's sake! He's a fucking baby Chains." Scarface said as he too was loading up a pair of pistols. "Probably never even held up a liquor store before. And he's supposed to back us up? On a fucking bank heist?!"

"I'm not babysitting him." The younger guy to my right muttered, more to himself than anything.

"Hox, relax." The dark dude, Chains, said to the scarred asshole. "Dallas said he was good to go." He then turned to me, as if to reassure himself. "You are good to go, right?"

"Don't worry, I know my part." I replied to him. "You won't have to worry about me."

Scarface snorted. "Yeah, we'll see about that Kid." I met his eyes and glared. It did nothing more than make him smirk. I wanted to say something else to him, to prove that I'm not some stupid punk, but I was interrupted by the driver.

"Ten minutes, get ready guys!" He called out to us from the front. Everyone in the van started moving twice as fast as before and I came to a realization. Oh shit. I still have to get my gear ready.

"Shit." I said as I scrambled through my bag and started loading up. Scarface, who was pretty much done with his preparations peered over to me and sneered at my assembled equipment.

"Least they bothered to get you a mask." He scoffed and pulled out his own mask and pulled the thing over his face. It was another clown mask; white with splotches of purple thrown and in adorned with a malicious grin and burn marks on the left side. "I sure hope you know how to use that thing." He pointed toward the rifle resting at my feet. His voice was muffled, but understandable.

I finished strapping the armor vest around my chest and then picked up the rifle. Returning his sneer with one of my own, I inserted a magazine into the rifle and pulled the charging handle back, loading a round in the chamber. I set the rifle down and started loading my pockets with extra ammo mags, stopping only to flip the jackass off as I did. Scarface just snickered to himself.

"Fuckin' twat." And I grit my teeth.

So these were the professionals I was promised I would be working with? God damnit.

I am so going to jail today.