kiptyn {d6/fin; cb}

No honor among thieves was bullshit in its finest form.

At least, that’s what Robin filled my ear with every time we’d be standing around the back door of some well-off place, with his mind concentrated on the lock at the edge of his fingertips and mine on the premise of guilt, but with the click of a picked lock to break the silence all thoughts of anything prior pass over the threshold of the home with our heavy steps.

Robin was the sharpest tool in the shed, able to recite off addresses and phone books and connections like there were set regulations for the entirety of it all, while I was left to stand in the corner with an empty sack and half a heart still focused.

I was a tag along in a way that worked, able to reach things on the higher shelves for hidden value and able to kneel low enough to find demise under every floorboard. We were no balance to each other, truly, for we were both explosive in the idea of release, yet still conforming to the traditional idea of what it meant to engage in thievery.

Neither of us to fit the bill in an appearance of our own, we etched the word necessity across our skin and rolled down our sleeves, hidden from even an eye of scrutiny in the dark of night. Key to a lock always broken we crossed back to open air and concealed truths, making away with what I considered trivial and Robin something of a greater price.

But then again, I suppose in place of it all Robin found honor in eradication of class case.

Always dependent upon his word and palm placed upon a swear, it was a shame I found nothing of the sort.