BEFORE THE HEIST.

                 It was strange to admit, but Milan felt like the people surrounding her at the table weren't mere strangers. Not anymore. In fact, they were the closest thing to friends for the girl. The girl that had kept every single personal relation at a distance ever since her fusion with criminality. But now, the range of thieves were her own kind of deranged family. One that huddled together after a day of studying to relax.

She sipped onto her chilled beer, licking her lips. Denver had his arm hung onto her chair as he laughed, and Milan felt herself lean slightly into his touch. As she did, his fingers fiddled with the strands of her hair, playing softly with them.

"What if things go wrong? What if the plan fails?" Rio quizzed. In the times where the group was actually united, they usually poured out their doubts and questions about the upcoming heist.

"Well, it will be the same as always. Back to prison, cigarettes in the courtyard, four pieces of shrimp for Christmas. Conjugal visits, if you're lucky." Nairobi listed, recalling her times in jail.

"At least you'll have a better cellmate." Milan replied, pointing her finger toward her own chest.

"We'll rule the damn place if we're in there together!" Nairobi exclaimed, grinning as she clinked her glass bottle against Milan's.

Milan recalled her only time trapped behind metal bars as the conversation continued. Following one of her heists, Milan had been caught red-handed and was thrown into a narrow cell. Thankfully, her crime was minor, only involving a cash register in a crappy restaurant. Her brother swooped in with her bail, and she was freed fairly quickly.

"If it all goes well, what are you going to do with all the money?" Tokyo asked, switching the subject.

"I'm going to buy a Maserati." Denver claimed, a proud smile tugging at the corners of his lips as laughs followed his statement. "The colour is going to by sky blue. And a martial arts studio. And a night club. But with three stories, you know? Huge speakers that make your ears bleed." He began to mirror his future club's beats as he placed both hands on Milan's shoulders, moving her along with the rhythm. The girl threw her head back in laughter, playing along as she swayed to the crappy beats he made with his mouth.

"Three million sounds like enough then."

"And new lungs for you, because they got fucked up it in the mine," Denver added, pointing to his father.

"You're going to spend all your money on some new lungs?" Moscow echoed, raising his eyebrows at the idea.

"For you, Papa," Denver nodded. Milan smiled softly at the relationship the two held.

"Where are you going to find those lungs then?" Milan asked as she furrowed in the depths of her pockets for a cigarette.

"People sell their kidneys, you know? There's bound to be people who sell lungs," he replied, matching the grins forming on the others' faces.

"Well, I want a winery in Provence," Berlin spoke up, walking towards the table and leaning forward to pour more wine into his glass. "With a two hundred-acre yard to cultivate my own wine. With some oak barrels." He swayed the liquid lightly in his cup.

"Okay, but at the supermarket, you can buy any bottle you want," Rio cut in, eyebrows knitting at the man's idea. "Why do you want a winery?"

"For the art," Berlin replied. Chuckles rippled through the air at the answer.

"I'll buy an island." Tokyo said, peering down as she rolled the cigarette paper between her fingers.

"And another one."

"Why not three?"

"Three's a crowd." Tokyo frowned.

"Why not an archipelago?" Nairobi added.

"I want a tiny island, with a house that's enormous and a balcony over-looking the sea. I'll just get out of bed and dive in the water," Rio pitched in, mimicking the dive by smacking his lips.

"Finally someone that's intelligent," Moscow agreed as he slumped in the seat next to Milan.

"I'm all in with the island idea. I'll have my own beach far away from this place, drinking from my cracked coconut," Amsterdam chimed in, mouth twisting into a smile.

"I give you two days," Milan teased, tilting her head to the side. "Two days before boredom completely submerges you and you'll be cursing the sand you're walking on," she said, raising her eyebrows. She knew her brother, and he wasn't one for the quiet an island reserved for you. Excluding her safety, action seemed to be one of his upmost priorities.

"Girl's got a point," Nairobi lifted her beer in her direction.

"What's your brilliant idea, then?" Rio questioned, switching his gaze to Milan.

"I'd run off and live in the greatest places on earth. Create my own chain of hotels in cities like New York ⎯⎯ or in paradises like the Maldives and browse through them by the month. I'd go from partying in the Upper East Side to skinny dipping in the Pacific." Milan was practically foaming at the mouth as ideas surged in her head at once. The rest broke out in a fit of chuckles, watching as her eyes glistened with hope.

She hadn't actually taken the time to dream about what the money meant. What came after the height's success. Now that she did picture a life that failed to involve dodgy situations and questionable style, she could have burst of excitement. Traveling around the world's treasure without worries inking her mind or the criminal label etched on her forehead.

"Well, some of us need to pay off some debts that are owed, you know what I mean?" Nairobi chimed in, breathing out the smoke. "I do, at least. And then, with what's left, I'll get a plane and fly it."

"Why don't you find a pilot that's hot?" Tokyo asked.

"I want to be able to mess with whoever's in the control tower, and be like I'm making a pit stop, clear the runaway for a Spanish Beyoncé," Nairobi chuckled, triggering amusement around the table.

"Even if you bought everything that you're dreaming of for, let's say, a price that is very high. Even then, we would have a lot of money left over. If we're going to steal big⎯⎯then dream big," the Professor shared.

"I would record an album of corridos. And I would put my face on the cover." Moscow cocked an eyebrow, twisting his face into a ridiculous expression that nearly made Milan spit out her drink.

"He'd be like Bertín Osborne but sixty pounds heavier," Denver said, nudging the girl aside of him as she threw her head back in laughter.

"No, no. Bertín sings rancheras. I'd sing corridos. They're very different," Moscow shook his head.

"Go on, show them what a corrido is, Papa," Denver goaded his father.

"No way."

"Come on," Milan amongst others encouraged him, filling the room with a horde of prompting. They chanted all together, clapping their hands together as they urged him to put on a show. Moscow heaved himself up, feigning embarrassment before he turned around and began to sing.

Denver joined in, and the two held each other as they sang the corrido. "Maria, mi vida, mi amor. No dejaré de quererte." The two chanted. They were the spotlight of the dimly lit room. Eventually, the entirety of the table joined and danced through the space around them. Milan swayed in Amsterdam's arms before being whisked away by Denver as he twirled her around. She laughed. Her eyes crinkled under the weight of bliss. She didn't know it, but she was happy.

                     "Stand up," Berlin ordered, and the crown of terrified hostages rounded up their courage and let their legs straighten up. Milan's eyes switched to their hands ⎯⎯ clutched desperately together or damping the fabric of their clothes. Their absolute fear was transparent through their mannerisms, or their trembling lips. "Take those masks off."

The hostages still had until this moment a night mask shielding their sight, a trick that'd make them believe the kidnappers' identities were supposed to stay concealed. A beat of silence followed Berlin's previous words, not of one of them daring to uncover their gaze. "I said to take your masks off," Berlin pressured under their lack of action.

They followed the instructions, trembling fingers delicately lifting up the mask. Eyes roamed around the room, searching for familiar faces, a glint of confusion glinting in the depth of their irises. "Something unexpected has come up. Despite those helicopters above us, they're giving us a few hours of quiet. You can rest now. In a few minutes, we'll pass out some sleeping bags, water, and a sandwich. Oh, and I want to ask you a favour. Take your clothes off."

At the last words that rung through the room, a sense of uneasiness suddenly crowded the hostages as a nervous chatter rose amongst them. They exchanged looks of desperation, apprehending the worst from the statement. Milan rolled her eyes, knowing Berlin had to find a way to make this all more dramatic for them. "I'm giving your overalls, the same one I'm wearing," he clarified as he turned around.

Milan, Denver and Amsterdam began to hand out the suits. Milan kept her eyes trained on the clothes, ignoring the pleading that inked each one of the hostages' stare. Though, her ear picked up on a male voice ⎯⎯ something about letting the vulnerable go. She tried her best to keep her eyes from rolling to the back of her head ⎯⎯ she found the people that covered their cowardice by putting up the front of the " heroic saviour " extremely frustrating, to say the least. Over her past experiences, she found they were usually men  ⎯⎯ and usually the first to pounce at an opportunity to escape. Even if it meant leaving the rest behind.

Clearly, she was not the only one who felt that way. Denver strode towards the man in question, jaw clenched as he heard the words spoken. "Who do you think you are? Fucking Gandhi?" He questioned, nostrils flaring.

"Denver, relax," Berlin smiled as he intervened. "He's a friend. We share a fondness for movies, don't we?" He teased.

Amsterdam, on the other hand, stayed beside his sister, cocking an eyebrow at the scene unfolding. He kept his eyes trained on the hostages, and they flickered every once in a while to make sure that his sister wasn't inserting herself into unwanted trouble. Which was usually the case. What neither of them expected was for Denver to suddenly lift his gun, pressing it against the man's forehead. Gasps echoed through the room as the fear escalated amongst the captured.

"Denver!" Milan leapt forward, unaware of the boy's intentions ⎯⎯ and all too familiar with his impulsivity. Though, the speed of her heart dialled down as her gaze landed on the gun. She inspected the weapon for an instant, gaped at the hilt of the gun and the obsidian shine that winked over it to realise it was not real. Milan was perceptive, and that skill had come to help the girl's crimes over the years. She was able to seek details practically invisible to the human eye.

Denver was taunting the man, playing with his terror as he wielded a weapon that could do no harm. "Take the gun," he said, toying it between his fingers. At the man's resistance, he insisted. "I'm not asking you to take the gun, I'm ordering you to take the gun." With weakness draping over his movements, Arturó managed to take a weak hold of the gun. He held a shaking hand over his mouth, covering up the sobs that threatened to pour out. "Now, point it at me."

Arturó Roman's previous " bravery " had vanished. He faltered under the weight of the gun, and Milan could tell he was instants away from breaking down. Panic overwhelmed each and everyone of the hostages as the man plead for mercy. "Please, no," he wept.

As Milan believed the terror that hung over the room couldn't possibly reach bigger heights, Denver took out a second gun from his pocket, placing it an inch from Arturó's dismayed gaze. "You either do it or I'm going to do it. You got ten seconds." He pressured. A countdown began. Lost in a haze of desperation, the hostage pressed his finger against the gun's trigger. A click rang through the hall. Screams ensued. No bullet pierced the air, though, and Denver's mouth twisted into a grin. "They're fake, Arturito." He cupped his cheeks, mocking the man. "But you did good. It's a gift, take it."

"All right, we're going to hand out some fake weapons." Berlin stated, shifting the focus back to him. "In a few hours, we'll need your corporation. As you've just witnessed, all you have to do is obey us. Just trust what we say and obey us." The crowd seemed to comply as they accepted the suits and slowly slipped off their clothes, fright flickering over their scurrying eyes.

                        Milan strutted through the ample corridor on the first floor, gaze darting between the lined-up hostages below her, attempting to gulp down their cold, stale sandwiches. Nairobi and Tokyo walked back-and-forth, keeping an attentive eye on their detainees. Her attention flitted, though, as her ears pricked up on the sound of near steps. "Stalking me, now?" She quizzed playfully, recognising the pattern as Denver.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" He smiled, his fingers squeezing the weapon tied to his body as he caught up to the brunette, paralleling her movements.

"Hey, you put on quite the show downstairs," Milan switched the subject of conversation, referring to the earlier scare he triggered.

Denver's mouth rose, allowing laughs to spill out and causing for Milan to cover her ears teasingly. "Arturitó looked like he was about to piss his pants," he sneered.

"You better be careful ⎯⎯ who knows what he'll do if he gets his hands on a real gun now," the girl commented, cocking her eyebrows. Even though she failed to believe any of the hostages capable of materialising any threats ⎯⎯ she knew better than to underestimate what fear could motivate.

Denver scoffed, nudging the girl's sides. Before any of them could mouth another word, Berlin's voice resonated through the building. "Everyone! Now is the time. Time to follow instructions." He called, and Denver and Milan pounced, rushing downstairs.

 It was time to perform the Professor's plan.

Milan was behind Berlin, adjusting the mask on her face as her eyes roamed around, in search for her brother. A sigh of relief slithered out of her lips as her gaze landed on him. The thieves made their way to the loading dock, recalling on the Professor's instructions. They stood behind the large sacks of sand, Berlin holding a Browning machine gun. Milan stood behind him, gun pointing at the entrance.

They all witnessed a camera peek into the room, and they could imagine the confusion that'd settle in the police department at the sight they'd land on. Especially with Alison Parker orchestrating the false call for help and hostages lined behind them. There was no way of telling whose appearance was concealed under the jumpsuit.

As the camera slid back outside and vanished, the pang of victory it conveyed practically seemed underwhelming. Just like that, the Professor had called every move the police would execute ⎯⎯ and just like that, the group of criminals had fooled them.

They had out-smarted the upper-forces. They had won their first battle. Now, all they had to do was win the war.