The Circuit Breaker depot sat in the industrial district near the train tracks. The walls of the dark second floor office were hit by softly sparking light, showing three computer terminals and desks, dirty ashtrays, and a motivational poster with a green frog.
Sparks flared from the squared server strapped to the back of a man with many roles. He was an Urban Archivist; a Street Scribe.
His black gloves flew over the custom electronic tablet with the sturdy metal frame he’d placed on one of the desks. The underside of his backpack had a spray can Velcro’d at the center and an elastic data cable on the right. The jumper was stretched out, its connector tapped into the first of the three terminals that stored the warehouse’s reports.
He had black athletic pants that fastened around the ankle and black high-tops. He had a black soccer jersey with white shoulders and black knee and elbow pads. Slim wrist guards protected his forearms.
As far as anyone could possibly know him, he was a hooligan.
The Hooligan’s gloves continued over the tablet, a progress bar filling until a large ‘SUBMIT’ button popped on the screen and lasted only until his thumb gave it a tender smack.
The square backpack started to whir and was soon shooting sparks out the vents on the side. When it generated enough power, the terminal he was tethered to popped smoke. The Hooligan unplugged the jumper from the port and let it zip back into place under his pack.
Now that the data retrieval was underway, the Hooligan went about collecting photographic documentation of the location, and though the small office was excruciatingly ordinary, he diligently documented the general layout. Aiming his camera shots, he snapped three pics and moved on. No sooner had he stepped away from the window than a hooded young woman darted over the gate in its view and booked it to the wall below.