Your Problem

Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my room? -Red X

-t-h-i-e-f-

There are rules of status. Very distinct rules of status that you must follow to success in your chosen field of expertise. Those multibillion dollar business owners stand as perfect examples of the members of society who figure this out and act to play the rules to their strengths. These people benefit from the system which works for them: they go on and use their skills and talents in their chosen field and get mucho-grande mullah for it. Good deal for them. All the other shumcks out there who lacked the IQ (or the always possible financial stability) to do something great with their lives ended up on the middle-class end of the spectrum. Then you have the lower society of homeless, poor and unfortunate who steal to live or depend wholly on others to survive.

However, it's the middle-class who, by falling into the average and unnoticed working-Joe millpond, buys immunity to the dangerous members of the fourth (unmentioned) class in society; the class that earns its due by exploiting the success of others for no other reason than they feel like it.

This class is the little, special slice of the social order pie reserved for people like Red X.

Yes, people like X existed for the sole purpose of royally screwing you over for the simple, undeniable, thrill of it. They weren't excusable like the members of the third class who had nothing, therefore had to gain without cost. Steal in lame-mans' terms. That didn't technically make it 'okay' according to law, but at least they could own up to a real and justifiable excuse like starving vs. stealing a three dollar doughnut. Hmm…no brainer and even for the flat-foots.

X, however, stole his way to the top of the police's Hate List and danced there to further taunt the long-but-not-long-enough arm of the law. Identity unknown, not even a clue to hint his characteristics other than the witness accounts of those who'd actually seen him and those were very few indeed, about five or six total. The key five by name being: Robin, Raven, Starfire, Cyborg and Beast Boy. Not that those witnesses counted. After all, what would they say? They set themselves up as the second line of defense, they did what the police could not, therefore, it seemed doubtful they'd go whining to the authorities about a master-mind who'd penetrated their home base and taken the suit and identity of Red X.

Even if they did what would they say?

'Officer! A guy busted into our high-security tower and stole a dangerous and perhaps unstable battle suit from our safe while we were all sleeping one room over. He's wearing all black, a skull mask with a red x across the face and a butt-load of zynovium around his waist.'

Smooth, and ignore the fact that admitting to that would confess their idolized team leader in fact, created and became Red X in the first place. No, the Titans would keep it on the down-low and wait to take X down on their own. Wait until authorities couldn't touch the thief and the delicate complications around him and his high-jacked suit. Stack up those circumstances with the misinterpretation that during their last encounter Robin out-witted him and taken the only functioning zynovium core and X could pull off any crime he wanted and glide right under Teen Titans' radar.

No one suspected X broke into SOTO Labs monthly to take capsule after capsule of the precious and volatile red chemical. No one suspected that his wonderful and oh so thrilling suit still functioned perfectly as it ever had. And certainly no one suspected that he'd been stealing enough money in jewels and fine art to make himself a kind of royalty among thieves. Most of the owners still hadn't figured out that the priceless treasures they so drooled over were in fact counterfeits X had painted up himself and phony jewels made to sparkle pretty. Either that or they were too embarrassed to publicly announce it. They just collected an inflated damage amount from the insurance company and everyone (but the insurance company anyway) got off scotch free.

Yes, the suit changed X's life for the better. He no longer worried needlessly about physical danger, focusing all his mental energy on the strategy, instead of the hazard. Now, if something did go wrong he could defend himself and get out if need be.

However, he worked with the same goal in mind, that goal never changed, else-wise he'd become one of those irritated blow-hards you always read about. The over-glorified pompous criminals who stole billions in front of the world, just for the publicity. No. The goal remained: break in, steal it, get out and no one should be the wiser. The mark of a real thief in X's book always would stay the art of stealth and mystery. He left no MO, no trace; no clue and watching the police scratch their heads about it served as plenty motivational reward as X would ever need.

The identity of Red X. The criminal no one knows about, yet the mask carried enough responsibility and meaning to send chills marching up and down his spine. Nothing could quite describe the sensation of it, the high he reached when on the job. He got shivers even the freezing December air felt shamed to match. In accordance to the merry holiday spirit hanging about the occupancy of Jump City, X too anticipated the Christmas season. It meant more to steal, more cover, more reaping of rewards and with only weeks before Christmas, X already plotted the biggest and most outrageous heist he'd yet to pull with his new suit.

Sure, with the suit came the constant need for zynovium, an irritating and tedious monthly chore, but the perks…man, the perks were fabulous.

So now we return to those aforementioned rules of status: playing to your strengths to make it work. A thief has to possess the four key traits that make a hard-core criminal: smarts, patience, speed, invisibility/undetectability. That last on is one and the same, take it as you see it, point is you need them and you need to use them. X used them, all the time he used them, that's why the Titans thought he'd retreated while, in fact, he crept unseen through their city in the form of a silent crime-wave. X considered himself the perfect thief, unknown, uncatchable, invisible.

As such a pinnacle example of light-fingered dealings, the last thing a thief – him specifically – expected to say when he slipped through the skylight of his apartment that evening was:

"Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my room?"

-t-h-i-e-f-

Author's Note: I planned a short Christmas special just cuz. It's a tad serious because of Slade and all, but with Red X to lighten the mood I think we can all have some fun. I love Red X and figured it would be cool to dedicate a fic to the awesome-est outlaw of all time.Enjoy!