Money. It was going to be a necessity for plans to come. The plot to purchase enough items, mirrors and glass, to make this all work out the way he held the vision in his head. Scoping out a specific bank, he was careful. It had to hold all the necessary requirements. Time was of the essence and he did not need to get caught. With Floyd arguing in his head, this had to be done right. No one was going to be locked up in prison, let alone without his equipment.

Help would be taken from shady suspects. People that wouldn't matter in the long run. Paid off with easy access. All they had to do was be visible and watch for any sign of a problem. Getting in and out on his own, with his gun would allow him all the access he needed. It was getting into the vault that would be the most difficult. But there, the mirrors. It wouldn't be as difficult as he expected. Getting out was harder. Catching sight of the cameras before they did him, that was more trouble.

The money would also have to be put away safely. Numbers could be targeted. This wasn't his first try here. Once he was well on his way home, things felt off. Of all the times for that to happen, he had to shake it off. Everything about everything here was off. Why would this be any different?

He could slip between places, make it back. All of the cash safely tucked away before he went and found himself attacked. Men coming at him from all sides. Each of them in blue with an expression that he could have sworn was once his own. There was that feeling again, in the pit of his stomach. The feeling in his chest that he wasn't caring for. Why was he suddenly being attacked? He wasn't one of them. There was no reason for this. They were closing in on him and he wasn't much of a fighter. Scrapper, as the case was needed. Better with words and trade offs than anything else. What was he supposed to do here? Wait, or was that Floyd? What a time to get confused.

What did you do to these people?

Me? What about you? What the hell is this?

Didn't I read about this? I haven't seen this happen. I don't know.

Try talking to them?

Yeah, because they all look like they are going to want to talk. You try that. I want to run.

The feel against his own side, of course he left his items back at the apartment. They held no use for him only wanting to get something to eat. Why do this now? They were closing in and he had no option to run. There wasn't even a gap in their formation. Why hadn't he been paying more attention to this?

The fight was short lived, but he did attempt it. One fist connecting with a jaw, before another came crashing into his own gut. The wind and spit flying out of him at a higher velocity than he expected a bug hitting a windshield. Smaller, weaker, but still tryiing to fight it. Another came crashing against his temple, as he turned to look up at the bunch of men around him. Each with that same face that was being burned into his memory. All different, but all the same. Something was too wrong. He didn't have anything, and they were not cops. This was not some old mafia movie. He did not steal from the wrong people. Darkness would come, only to be brought back as he was on the boat.

The scent of sea and salt in the air. The way his body cried against any type of movement. They must have kicked him when he was down. Ha. He probably would have too. What was to argue against this over? Coughing, he questioned if they hadn't broken a tooth, or was that how his mouth had swelled up now? Was there drugs involved? What was this? Cottonmouth? He was drooling like a dog after a bone.

"I don't think I have a ticket for this trip."

He knew better than this, to keep his mouth shut, but did it ever turn out that way? Not for Floyd. Sometimes, if you were going to go out, you had to go out your own way. This was where he stood out the most, what he was willing to do. Slipping of one into the other, without merit or care. Given what he knew, what was to come for his own personal life, if he was able to pull out of this? He didn't hold hope of anything. Life was about to change that much more. It was enough. A fight would be sought, but not won as he was again quickly put down, sent into the dark, and dragged into an unknown place. A building, a prison that shouldn't have been here.

The moment he would come to, realize that this was a prison, the panic that would wash over him. Not over his captors, how he would be beaten and treated over information he did not hold. There was nothing to give from this wrongful attempt. Panic over prison. He couldn't get out, to get away. It was what he did. Why wouldn't they listen? Why wouldn't they leave him be? When were they going to end up being those worse people and kill him? End his life of this miserable suffering because all he could do was sit here and wait on heroes. He hated that word, how was that even real here?

His hands reached for the bars, left to his own devices. No one feared him, he was nothing. No suit, no gear. He had no special powers outside of all of these. Jaw clenched, his body aching, wounds cut and drying. Fingers wrapping around those bars, pulling his body closer and up. Dealing with his own demons, this was all he could do as he called out to whatever unseen person or force.

"Go away. Go away and leave me alone!"