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[center][b]Location: David's primary apartment. New York.
Time: Late Summer. Wee hours of the morning.[/b][/center]

For hours now, lightning had been flashing and crackling intermittently across the night's sky, thunder crashing and roaring indiscriminately across the streets of New York.

With every bolt, David's eerily pale blues lit up like a cold flame, only to leave him back in almost utter darkness, the burning tip of his cigarette fighting an unfair battle against the shadows, fated to eventually die from consumption.

Despite being alone in his apartment, the thief still dressed somewhat smartly, an impeccable white shirt tucked into black suit pants, along with a trusty pair of oxfords. As he leant against the massive glass walls that looked out to his terrace, he could not quite remember the last time he'd seen a lightning storm of such magnitude, and even left a nearby window cracked open along its vertical axis to listen to it without having his apartment flooded.

There was a massive ripple in the sky, the young man hearing, [b]feeling[/b] every stroke of light as it zapped and cracked, almost blinding him before crashing down on the building opposite with an almost immediate, deafening boom. Dozens of buildings and streets lost their light simultaneously as the very floor seemed to quake.

For a moment, it was like when he was a young boy, sneaking away in the night to his secret tree house at his grandfather's estate. He could barely see in front of him, but that made him that much more aware of his surroundings, as if life briefly became louder... before being rendered mute again by the storm.

He lost track of time as the storm raged on for what seemed like hours before its eventual departure, washing the streets of New York with a sense of relief. He barely even realized the lights had returned to the block before his phone rang, the man taking his time before activating the speaker.

“Mr. Raffles?” came a distorted voice, in classic deepthroat style.

“[colour=lightslategray]Hello, Mr. Manders.[/colour]” David replied with a half-amused smile. His voice had returned to his original British accent, a smooth and proper, almost posh manner of speaking, to which he affectionately,- or rather, narcissistically,- referred to as 'the Queen's English.'

“I know it's late, and that there was a massive storm falling down on your head, but the protocols state. . .”

“[colour=lightslategray]It's fine, Mr. Manders. And I appreciate your concern. You're a good friend,[/colour]” David told the man on the other side, a rare, genuine statement, “[colour=lightslategray]Is the line secure?[/colour]”

“. . . Please.” Mr. Manders replied, as if offended by the question.

This earned another half-smile from the thief, who lit another cigarette in the process, “[colour=lightslategray]Don't get defensive, mate, it's only wise to double-check. Anyway, how are things?[/colour]”

“. . .They're okay.” Mr. Manders replied concisely.

“[colour=lightslategray]Have you been getting out of the house at all?[/colour]” David pushed.

“. . .I haven't missed a therapist's appointment in two months.” Mr. Manders replied, almost hopefully.

David pinched the bridge of his nose, “[colour=lightslategray]And I suppose she's thrilled that she is the only human contact you've had all this time. Physically speaking.[/colour]” He pointed out, before Mr. Manders could protest.

“I'm not agoraphobic by choice, D... Mr. Raffles,” the man on the other side protested, regardless, “Maybe if I told her about my [i]real life[/i] we could make more progress. . .”

“[colour=lightslategray]That is not a choice, Mr. Manders. You know it as well as I do.[/colour]” David cut him off, making an effort to control his tone.

“I don't know, Mr. Raffles. She has assured me that doctor-patient confidentiality would protect me from-”

“[colour=lightslategray]Don't give me that,[/colour]” David insisted, “[colour=lightslategray]Confidentiality is an ethics principle: it's not the same as privilege. And even if it were, there are [i]always[/i] exceptions to the rule. What are you going to tell her, anyway? That you can plug your brain to the internet? Even if you weren't behind some of the biggest thefts in the last century, your abilities alone make you an international menace,[/colour]” he lectured him, “[colour=lightslategray]Only God knows what the government, -nay, the governments - of the world might do if they found out someone like you exists.[/colour]”

“I-I understand.” Mr. Manders replied. Even through the voice modifier, David could hear a hint of disappointment.

“[colour=lightslategray]I'm sorry, mate. I know it's a piss-poor situation to be in, but I'd rather give you the hard facts than lie to you. . .I'll always have your back, you know this, right?[/colour]” he added in a reassuring, almost paternal tone.

“I do.” Mr. Manders replied simply, but it was about as confident a reply as anything he'd said all month.

“[colour=lightslategray]Good. Good,[/colour]” David replied with a small sense of relief, “[colour=lightslategray]Remember, if she gets too pesky with her questions, or you think she's starting to suspect. . .[/colour]”

“I will find a new therapist. Yes. I know,” the man replied, muffling a sigh, “How do you do it?”

“[colour=lightslategray]Do what, mate?[/colour]” David asked in turn, flicking the cigarette against an ashtray.

“How do you keep up with all the lies?”

“[colour=lightslategray]Hah![/colour]” David couldn't help himself, “[colour=lightslategray]That's like asking how do I keep myself alive. Although I do suppose that technically, I'm a dead man. A ghost, if you will,[/colour]” he mused, “[colour=lightslategray]You should know: you're the man who killed me, after all.[/colour]”

“That isn't funny.” The modified voice reproached him.

“[colour=lightslategray]Oh, lighten up a little,[/colour]” David smirked, “[colour=lightslategray]How long have we been working together, Mr. Manders?[/colour]”

“. . .It's been one thousand, nine hundred and ninety three days since our first job.”

“[colour=lightslategray]And how many times have we discussed your retirement?[/colour]” he pushed, seemingly unsurprised with the precise count Mr. Manders seemed to keep.

“. . . A few.” The man conceded, albeit less precisely.

“[colour=lightslategray]Have I ever discouraged you, or attempted to stop you from doing so?[/colour]” David took a long drag from his cigarette, before putting it out on the ashtray.

“. . . No. You haven't.” He replied.

“[colour=lightslategray]There's your answer, then,[/colour]” David replied, his smile practically triumphant, “[colour=lightslategray]Let's be honest: you love what we do as much as I do. This whole honesty poppycock is just bothering you because of what you've [i]seen[/i] others do, not what you've done. There's a whole lot of bad people out there, but trust me when I say this: you're a decent man.[/colour]”

“Th-thank you, Mr. Raffles. That [b]does[/b] make me feel a little better.” Mr. Manders replied.

“[colour=lightslategray]Excellent! I am beyond glad to hear that, mate. In fact, I think what we both need right now is a rousing new challenge![/colour]” he noted, clasping his hands together

“Now? But that would be in violation of protocol. We're still thirty-five days away from our next scheduled-”

“[colour=lightslategray]I was there when we wrote the rules, Mr. Manders. And they're there for a reason.[/colour]” David conceded after a rather abrupt interruption, “[colour=lightslategray]But what makes us [i]really good[/i] at our jobs is that we can tell what rules we can break apart from those which are sacred: even those we made up ourselves,[/colour]” he continued to explain, confident in his tone, “[colour=lightslategray]It's been long enough, trust me. Plus, this gives us an excuse to be in touch more often.[/colour]” He added.

“. . .You're the boss.” The modified voice came through after an uncomfortable silence.

David kept his agreement to himself.

A segment of the penthouse's roof dislodged itself from the structure, revealing a projector, that focused a beam of light on the wall, whilst blinds automatically lowered themselves, filling the apartment with shadows once more. Images and data for a dozen jobs showed up on display, the hidden offers that Mr. Manders had handpicked out of the internet's murky bowels.

With a knuckle pressing against his lips, David read the information on display whilst Mr. Manders provided some commentary, the thief listening to it half-heartedly as he drew his own conclusions.

“[colour=lightslategray]What about number twelve?[/colour]” he asked, ignoring the rest of Deep's speech.

“Um, number twelve, yeah... I don't know about that one,” Deep replied, clearly uncomfortable with David's interest, “I didn't find this offer,  it was mailed to our, uh, [b]'business mail'[/b]. But I can't seem to track whoever posted it back to their source, and it doesn't even specify what they...-”

“[colour=lightslategray]They're offering ten million dollars,[/colour]” David interrupted him, “[colour=lightslategray]The rest of these jobs are small-time by comparison. Set up a meeting: under our terms. Use location Eye as a meeting point. Dress code must be casual. I'll be wearing. . .[/colour]”

“Listen to me,” the deepthroat voice modifier made Mr. Manders sound suddenly imposing, “I just told you  I can't track whoever this is. Whoever they are, these people are most certainly dangerous.”

“[colour=lightslategray]Do you think they can find you?[/colour]” David asked, succinctly.

“. . .No. That should not be possible.” His associate replied after a moment's hesitation.

“[colour=lightslategray]Good. Then do not concern yourself with me. Like I was saying, I'll be wearing. . .[/colour]”