With Every Passing Second; Chapter 1

    The subject is immobile. This was clear to both the first and second figures, which were just silhouettes in the dark December setting. The subject is immobile, and so now what? Do they need to turn back? It wasn’t any fun if the subject was immobile.

         The first turned to the second, murmuring under its breath, and as the two of them walked forward, the silhouettes solidified. They were teenagers. The first was probably the older of the two, a sturdily built and good-looking seventeen year old. The second was younger (maybe sixteen), a little lanky, with a mop of red hair and a couple of green orbs thrown roughly into the general area of where eyes are supposed to go on the human face. Even more obvious than their age and gender was that the first was the leader; he kept murmuring to the second and the second nodded a little too eagerly for a simple casual agreement.

         “A’right, Royce. So we crack ’er open. Grab the pieces. You sell ’em, you get paid. And what am I gettin’ out ovvit?” The second raised a reddish eyebrow to the first, who appeared to be Royce.

         “Shh, not so loud. A’right, look, I already toldja… Martin, you help me here, I’m givin’ ya Sophie.” Royce shoved his hands into his pockets.

         “Just Sophie? Yo man, you dumped her like, a year ago! That ain’t worth…” ‘Martin’ spread out his hands to emphasis his next statement, “All this!”

         “Sophie ain’t good enough for ya?”

         Martin shook his head stubbornly, obviously not going to give in without a huge portion of the debt, whether it matter or not, or even be fair.

         Royce realized this, and sighed, running his fingers through his hair. Then the two of them stopped. Royce cracked a grin, rolling his neck, and said, “A’ight. A’ight, I gotcha here. You feel pretty stubborn, ain’tcha?”

         Martin nodded a little hesitantly.

         “A’ight. Then how ‘bout this…” Royce leaned close to Martin. “How about all of the girls in the junior year?”

         Martin sucked in a breath. “Man, really?”

         “Nope.” Royce rolled his eyes at the ‘man’ at the beginning. He apparently didn’t like Martin.

         “So… I help you, it goes good, and I get the chicks in the junior year… and if not?” Martin blinked.

         Royce gritted his teeth. “For your sake, hope that that doesn’t happen.”

         The two of them, from there, walked to the museum in silence. There was no one on the streets; on a December Thursday night, everyone was asleep, safe in their beds.

         Fools.

         At least, that’s what Royce told himself, again and again.

         Martin walked up to the museum and yanked on the door. “It’s locked.”

         “Duh, Sherlock. E’ryones home. ’S midnight. And remember: we got all the time in the world. Subject ain’t going anywhere.”

         “Right. Sorry. So, how do we get in?” Martin asked the obvious, only annoying Royce further.

         “Shut up and let me figure it out.” Royce sighed. “Let’s see. There’s a lock on it, right?”

         “Yeah.”

         “And it’s one of those combo locks, like bike locks, right?”

         “Yes, only this one has ten digits and there’s a regular key hole under it.”

         “Oh.” Royce mumbled. “Uh, try breaking the lock.”

         Martin whacked at it for an hour or so, mumbling things about how this had better be worth it, but finally it fell off.

         “Excellent.” Royce clapped his hands together.

         “So. The key lock?”

         “Piece o’ cake.” Royce grabbed his dad’s credit card that he had ‘borrowed’ and quickly opened the museum doors.

         There it was. Right inside the door. The night guard, asleep. The subject.

         “Alright, get the gun.” Royce said.

         “We’re gonna kill him?! You said we were here to steal something! You didn’t say anything about killing!”

         “We are stealing, idiot. We’re stealing lives.” Royce laughed, evilly somehow. “But we are going to take home a souvenir or two, see what we can get off of eBay.”

         “We can’t kill him!” Martin shouted.

         Royce took Martin’s gun out of Martin’s coat. “Oh, but we can.”

         Martin grabbed the gun and whirled around- only to have the alarms go off in response to the firearms. Martin had stuck his gun straight into the metal detector.

         The night guard woke up. “Hey! Hey, kid!”

         Royce wasn’t there. He was a few feet past, hiding behind a giant plastic hydrangea. His efforts to hide were fruitless and futile; the same legs that made him one of the most attractive boys in high school (according to seventy-five percent of the girls at the high school) also made him one of the worst hiders in the world. They stuck out obviously, so as soon as the night guard had called nine-one-one and a huge ruckus started outside, Royce sprinted and ran out of the museum.

         Instantly, a little man yanked him over to the side, yelling “Whoddaya think you are, kid? I swear, too many of them are just like you, thinkin’ it’s just great and good luck going out to the museum and stealing stuff for yer girrrrlfrieeeend.” The policeman sneered, aggravated at the earliness of the hour.

         “My friend is the thief. The night guy has him in there- I think. I tried to tell him…” Royce shook his head. “But he wouldn’t listen to me.”

         The policeman grabbed his handcuffs and burst into the museum, cuffs ablaze and sirens at it. Feeling a little tang of regret, almost guilt, Royce turned his head away from his abandoned friend and sprinted back to whence he came.

         Martin. Well, it wasn’t Royce’s fault. If Martin was stupid enough to get caught, he could take the consequence. Besides, this wasn’t the first time that this would happen- Martin would be back eventually. Royce silently snuck up to his bedroom upon reaching his house.

         They all came back eventually.