#coolteachxr

Contrary to popular belief – the city of Arts and Business thrives when the sun begins to set. The seedy underbelly of Castelia awakens in the night, its agents free to operate under the cover of darkness. Crime, as Riley had understood it in his debriefing, was organized here. There were systems in place, gangs who ruled ‘factions’ of the city much like territory to lords. (And an apparent mafia, but that wasn’t his business). Interpol had always turned a blind eye to these sorts of things. Never to interfere, until the mass populous was in danger.

And that’s why Riley’s here now.

He taps a single finger to his earpiece.

“… This is Agent 928. Nothing to report on Yule Avenue.”

Static. And another male’s voice, monotone. “Keep searching. Our analysts predict that the next heist WILL happen here. Are you sure you haven’t seen anything?”

Riley’s face hardens. “Trust me… I’m sensing nothing. It’s quiet ––“ And he lowers his voice on the off chance he’s speaking too loudly, “— there’s nothing here.”

“Too quiet,” his commanding officer remarks coolly.

Riley rolls his eyes.

And then color overtakes his vision.

Blue – the color of wisdom and deep thought. However, the aura is not heavily saturated. The blue is muddled with flecks of gray, which lighten it to a steel-like hue. Someone detached from human emotion, Riley thinks, or someone experiencing a very calm adrenaline rush.

Seconds later, the alarm pierces his ears.

“Agent! What’s going on out there?” Riley doesn’t answer.

A one-story, bricked facility sits on the corner of the street. The building is flanked by a large barbwire fence on all sides, reaching higher than any one human. A hole has been crudely cut on the most visible side of the fence. And from out of the hole and into the open darts a figure, hood drawn over their head. On their hip, they heft a large cylinder type mechanism. Obviously too heavy to carry with one hand.

Their head snaps over in Riley’s direction. And then they dart down the adjacent alley.

The shout leaves Riley before he can think.

Fingers outstretched, his eyes narrow. Blue rings around both of his hands and irises. Warmth flows across his open palm before it fires. The bolt grazes the thief’s body and the item spills from their grasp as they tumble to the pavement. As Riley lunges forward to grab a fistful of hoodie, the thief lugs the cylinder in both hands and continues down the alley.

Riley books it, coming to a stop only when he sees the wall. The backside of another building (four-story) has effectively blocked off the other end of the alley. He silently thanks Castelia architects for their sloppy designs, but the emotion fades as he watches the thief run towards a spiraling structure on their left. In the dim light, Riley can just make out the skeleton of a metal ladder. It winds to the top of the adjacent building, granting roof access.

He swears lowly.

Mechanically, his hand moves in the direction of staircase. Blue gathers in his palm. The warmth fires as the thief has just grasped the sixth rung. The aura bolt bursts upon impact, and Riley watches his suspect fly. The body strikes the ground at an odd angle and from the way their aura dims, he knows that he’s stunned them.

But as their aura dims, a chill runs up his spine.

Their face has been exposed, the hood torn from the force of the Aura Sphere. Splayed out among the pothole riddled asphalt is Harley Jackson. Ally, friend, confidant. Pale-faced in the light of Riley’s aura.

He kneels, pressing a finger to Harley’s wrist. A cold sensation takes Riley’s stomach and bleeds into his chest and limbs.

The earpiece clicks to life once again. “Agent – report. I heard signs of a scuffle; did you catch a suspicious party, or not?”

In the distance, sirens join in the alarm wails. Red and blue lights dance on the alley walls, the surrounding puddles. And a moment later, police officers are by his side.

He should move, but Riley doesn’t. Law enforcement cuffs the body, and he does nothing. They shout, yell, and curse – as to them, this thief is nothing but more lowly street scum to arrest – and Riley just watches.

He can’t believe this.

“Agent.”

Riley’s fingers tap the earpiece. His lips twitch into a scowl.