A Free Radical

Levi paused, tilting his head as raised voices echoed from the alley's mouth—the impromptu PSA on impending gang activity practically begging to be overheard. The words "warehouse," "The Cat," and "tomorrow night" made his ears perk up. His greed came alive, skittering through his mind and chittering like a loot goblin hopped up on a bottle of Adderall and 12 lines of Pixy Stix.

Ohohoho, do mine ears deceive me, or is this a casting call for Robin Hood?

[OBSERVATION]

> Host's metaphor is misplaced.

> Robin Hood strove to redistribute wealth from the rich to poor.

> System's personality matrix model suggests this unlikely to be host's intention.

But Al, am I not just a poor young lad?

[CORRECTION]

> Host is three years shy of the statistically defined threshold for middle age.

> Age-identity dissonance detected.

Ah, but you do admit I am among 'the poor?

Levi peered around the corner. The two men in the alley were textbook examples of low-level henchmen—one short and wiry in a heavy wool jacket, the other tall and gangly, wearing his corduroy proudly. Probably from the same Salvation Army as my new duds. They shifted nervously under a flickering streetlight—glancing indiscreetly over their shoulders with suspicious regularity.

"Boss is pissed," Shorty hissed, jabbing a finger at his taller counterpart. "Said this Cat chick's gone too far this time. That necklace she snagged? It wasn't just some sparkly crap, it was his lady's anniversary present. Some Frenchy frufru necklace."

Tall Guy scratched the back of his neck, his face scrunched in confusion. "What, like… a showpiece? Why's she even want that for? Ain't like you can fence somethin' that fancy."

"'Cause she don't care about cash, ya moron!" Shorty snapped. "It's all about her 'style,' or whatever. Fancy art, priceless jewels—that's her thing. It's a calling card.""Pfft," Tall Guy scoffed. "Sounds like a waste. Gimme a fat stack of bills over some shiny junk any day. Besides, that's not a calling card. Leaving the taps running after robbing a joint, now that's a calling card."

"Why the hell would you do that?" Shorty asked, shaking his head in disgust. "You're sick, you know that? Really sick."

Levi clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh, his eyes watering as the realization hit him. Bless Chris Columbus' sentimental soul, are these the Wet Bandits?

[OBSERVATION]

> Host has eavesdropped upon critical information.

> Probability of detection: negligible.

I ain't been dropping no eaves, Al. These guys are broadcasting a True-Crime podcast for the neighborhood

"Boss wants her caught tomorrow night, no excuses," Shorty continued, his voice rising with frustration. "We're set up near the alley by 43rd, got the van, and he's pulling guys off the warehouse just to make sure we nail her this time."

Tall Guy nodded sagely, as if any of this was his idea. "Yeah, yeah. Spread thin, though. Heard Tony and Mike complaining about watchin' the docks solo. Place'll be sittin' wide open all night."

Leaving your piggy bank all alone? It'd be a shame if something happened to it

Shorty groaned. "Great. Just announce it to the whole world, why don't ya? What's next, you wanna shout the code out too?"

"Nah," Tall Guy said, grinning. "That'd be dumb. Anyway, it's still 1-2-3-4. Ain't like anyone's dumb enough to try anything."

Levi bit down on his knuckle, his shoulders shaking. This was too much. If I stick around, one of them's going to airdrop me the warehouse blueprints and a full schedule of patrol routes.

Shorty threw his hands up, clearly fed up, red-faced and shouting, "1-2-3-4? Why didn't you change it? I told you to change it! You should have changed it!" He took a deep breath to calm down. "Whatever. Let's just get this done so I can get home before sunrise. You take the south corner, I'll—"

The pair's voices faded as they moved deeper into the alley, their footsteps echoing off the brick walls. Levi stayed put, waiting until the sound disappeared entirely before stepping out of his hiding spot.

Well, that's a job well done. Felicia Hardy, huh? Filching fancy art and jewels while fat stacks of cash sit there like lonely, orphaned puppies, begging for a loving home. And I have so much love to give.

[ANALYSIS]

> Tactical opportunity identified

> Ambush site offers potential for disruption.

> Warehouse security appears undermanned.

Yeah, no kidding. Levi adjusted his jacket, glancing down the alley where the gangsters had disappeared.

Step one: make sure these clowns don't bag Felicia.

Step two: help myself to whatever's gathering dust at the docks.

Levi chuckled softly as he started walking. Honestly, these guys could be outsmarted by an 8-year-old.

[CONFIRMATION]

> 8 years is likely to exceed the minimum mental age necessary to outmaneuver these criminals.

He turned toward the street, jauntily bouncing back to "Tony's Pizza" as he whistled a cheery tune with all the urgency of a man who was not planning on 'reallocating unclaimed resources' from a gang tomorrow night.

---

Levi crouched in the shadow of a crumbling warehouse wall, the faint tang of salt and burned rubber irritating his nose. Across the lot, the hulking structure loomed, its sparse security detail lazily patrolling the perimeter.

He took a long look at the chain-link fence, noting a section near the southeast corner sagged just enough for someone nimble—or resourceful—to squeeze through.

Bingo. He scanned the area for anything else of interest. Two guards stood by the main door, engrossed in a conversation about pineapple on pizza. Another paced by a side entrance, his flashlight beam swinging halfheartedly over the pavement.

[ANALYSIS]

> Pineapple acts as a serviceable but suboptimal topping.

> Patrol patterns inconsistent.

> Host's entry point at southeast corner remains optimal.

You're finally making sense, Al. Levi grinned as he stashed a military style canvas bag beneath a stack of crates near the fence. It was large enough to hold a decent haul, but inconspicuous enough not to draw attention if someone stumbled across it.

Nearby, he left a folded jacket—plain, dark, and devoid of identifying features—tucked behind an overturned barrel. A quick change could make all the difference if things went sideways.

On his way out, Levi's gaze caught a stack of tar buckets, their faded labels warning to handle with care. Don't mind if I do. He grinned, scooping two up, and kept walking.

---

The alley was quiet, but Levi could feel the tension in the air. The gangsters were already moving into position, muttering instructions and jostling each other like kids on a field trip to the zoo. He hung back, observing their setup, while Al provided a running commentary.

[OBSERVATION]

> Gangster coordination remains below standard.

> Probability of ambush success without interference: Low to moderate.

Levi smirked, crouching by a stack of crates as he rummaged through his backpack. Too damn high, too damn high. Any probability of success is too damn high

The marbles and trip wires were quick to set up, but the tar required a little elbow grease. Levi slathered it thick across a chokepoint with an old paintbrush he'd grabbed earlier, whistling as he worked. You darlings were meant for more than holding down shingles. The next person through here would get an unpleasant surprise—courtesy of an oldie, but a goodie.

We'll see if this works better than that ACME shit Wile E uses.

"And for my grand finale…" he whispered, tucking a lighter into his pocket.

From his backpack, he pulled a roll of duct tape and a small bundle of fireworks, grinning as he taped them securely to the edge of the barrel stack. The fuse dangled just enough to light easily when the time came.

Finally, he turned his attention to the far end of the alley, where a tower of old barrels and crates waited for a gentle nudge. One well-placed kick, and the whole thing would collapse, sealing the gangsters in while the cops arrived.

[COMMENTARY]

> Host's erratic behaviour may finally prove advantageous.

How rare for a genius to be recognized in their own time.

Levi stepped back to admire his handiwork–a shadow flitted across a rooftop above the alley. Levi's grin widened. Ah, the guest of honor. Fashionably punctual.

He pulled out a burner and phoned in a tip. "There's a gang fight happening by 43rd. Oh, and some Black kid in a hoodie looked at me funny—yeah, don't worry, I already crossed the street. Thanks for the concern. But still, you'd better hurry, wouldn't want the suspect to get away!"

[META]

> Commentary on systemic bias detected.

> Recommendation: employ subtlety to sustain reader engagement.

---

Felicia Hardy felt at home in the New York skyline. In most parts of the city, the rooftops were a playground: open, endless, and hers alone. In Hell's Kitchen? The playground was in a combat zone. Too many players, too many dangers, and a palpable gravity that made her tense. She avoided this part of town when she could, but tonight, the call of gleaming gems was too tempting for this cat to resist.

Her boots were silent as she leapt from roof to roof, her platinum hair luminescent, an ethereal glow bestowed by the moonlight. She adjusted the slim toolkit slung across her back—a custom design for jobs like this. Tonight's hunt wasn't for wealth, but beauty. Fine silver, art deco, with just a few Asscher cut emeralds. Understated elegance. It had crossed her path during a fencing deal a week ago, and its allure had beckoned her ever since with bewitching whispers of opulence.

The only problem was who had it.

The Hell's Kitchen Maggia. Or rather, Sally Magliano's crew, if you could call this mess of halfwits a crew. Sally ran the local branch like a bad improv act. But the moron was related to half the capos in the city, and that was enough to keep the group afloat. They weren't smart or subtle, but they had numbers. And guns. Enough to warrant a bit of caution.

Felicia slowed, crouching at the roof's edge to scope out the target building below. Two men were visible, as obvious as a neon sign stating "Open for Business" to someone like her. One was wiry and jittery, the other tall and distracted.

How adorable. They've rolled out the red carpet for little old me. Her lips unfurled into a wide Cheshire grin.

Still, she hesitated. Something felt off. Too obvious, too easy. But the piece was inside, somewhere on the second floor, and she couldn't shake off its siren song. One graceful leap, and she landed on the fire escape without a sound, a silent shadow.

She paused, her sharp eyes sweeping the alley and piercing its gloom. Nothing moved. No shouts, no sudden flashes of light. She exhaled slowly and began her graceful ascent.

Felicia reached the second-story landing, her fingers brushing the edge of a window. It was dark inside, the faint outline of antique furniture hazy through the dirty glass. She pressed a hand against the frame, testing it.

Locked. Naturally, not even Sally's men are that incompetent.

The window eased open with only the faintest creak. Felicia leaned forward, her body coiled, ready to slip inside. Too late, she realized why the scene had felt wrong: they'd been waiting for her.

The alley erupted.

Doors slammed open, dumpsters rattled, and men poured out of every corner. They came from doorways, vans, and even an open second-story window farther down. Guns glinted in the faint light, their barrels sweeping the alley like searchlights. Felicia stepped back, melting into the shadows, biting back a curse.

Two dozen. Armed. And I'm trapped on their boss's balcony. Brilliant, Felicia. Fall right into the imbecile's trap.

Her muscles coiled, ready to take her chances and bolt, but then a voice rang out: "Hey! She's getting away! I saw her duck down this alley!"

Felicia's head snapped towards the sound, her brow furrowing. The mobsters froze, their heads swiveling toward the shout. For a moment, no one moved.

Then chaos.

The men turned as one, their weapons pivoting in the direction of the voice. The wiry one shouted something incoherent, and the tall man tripped over his own feet as they scrambled to reposition. Felicia ducked lower, her heart pounding as she watched the ambush collapse in real time.

What on Earth? Her pulse ticked up. Someone else was here.

The first thug discovered the marbles. Felicia almost didn't see them at first—small, dark, scattered across the alley like forgotten debris. The man's legs flew out from under him, his arms pinwheeling wildly before he crashed to the ground. The second thug tripped over him, and the third stepped into something dark and sticky.

"What the?!" the man shouted, his boots glued to the pavement as he struggled to move. The more he pulled, the deeper his shoes sank into what Felicia now realized was tar.

Her lips twitched despite herself. Whoever set this up wasn't just clever—they had a sense of style. This was like a production of The Three Stooges. Soon, more than half of the grunts were victims of the booby trapped alley.

Then the barrels fell.

It started with a faint creak, barely audible over the mobsters' shouts. Then, with a groan and a crash, a tower of barrels and crates toppled over, blocking the alley's entrance and cutting off any chance of escape. The mobsters stumbled back, their curses echoing off the narrow walls.

Felicia's gaze shifted, catching movement at the alley's edge. A figure leaned casually against the wall, his posture relaxed, a wild grin flashing in the dim light. Her sharp eyes followed his hand as he flicked a lighter, the flame illuminating his face for a brief moment. He crouched slightly, shouted "I cast fireball!" and lobbed the lit firework toward the barrels.

The explosion of color and sound that followed was pure chaos. Sparks rained down in bright, violent bursts, spotlighting the panicked mobsters in a surreal display of light and shadow. The man at the edge of the alley gave a cheeky wave and wink, his grin widening as he faded back into the darkness. Felicia tilted her head, arms crossed, as she watched the chaos unfold.

Who the hell is this guy?

The sound of sirens cut through the night, growing louder with every passing second. The mobsters froze, their movements jerky as they realized what was coming.

Wow, he really had them dancing to his tune.

Felicia didn't wait around. She slipped into the shadows, her steps silent and deliberate, already calculating her next move. The chaos below was deafening—curses, fireworks, sirens, all blending into a symphony of disaster. As she disappeared into the night, one thought lingered:

Whoever he is, I owe him one.

---

Levi crouched by the warehouse fence, retrieving the canvas bag he'd stashed earlier. The guards were still in place, their patrols as sloppy as he'd hoped.

Perfect.

He slipped on a pair of gloves, his movements deliberate as he eyed the sagging section of chain-link. Quiet and clean, that's the plan. Get in, fill my loot bag, and get out before anyone's the wiser.

With one last glance at the guards, he ducked through the gap, his grin faint but steady.

Time to crack this Piggy Bank wide open.