OUTSIDERS

The wailing sirens reverberated through the streets like a death knell, deafening the citizens, nearby.

An army of tanks engulfed the crime scene with rapid succession.

The archosaurian morphed into a frail young man, his bones contorting eerily, reminiscent of snapping twigs.

The culprit was identified as Ola Oyamenda, a non-academic staff, employed by Welkin College.

Coincidentally, the janitor was on duty at the night of the explosion.

He was cuffed, abruptly, laying in a humongous crater forged from his nasty thud.

Simultaneously, a convoy of gargantuan cyber trucks drifted off the street, their screeches, echoing through the alley like a primordial scream.

Etched across their glossy jet black paint was an emblazonment of the atom symbol.

Hitherto, a troop of federal agents emerged from the cyber trucks, adorned in neatly tailored suits, shot through with shimmering threads, dark as night.

Their piercing gazes, obscured by sunglasses.

"We'll take it from here, fellas," the chevalier shepherding the secret agents proclaimed, legitimacy evident in his undertone.

"You've got no jurisdiction over these borders, 'Oyibo,'" the D.P.O. of the Nigerian Police Department confronted the federal agents, fearlessly.

He was a stocky man, who viewed the world from a perspective of suspicion.

"Leave this to the O.G.s."

A smirk flashed across the lips of the American secret agents in unison.

Withdrawing their leather law enforcement badge holders in perfect sync, they brandished the evidence of their international sovereignty.

The D.P.O.'s facial expression betrayed a certain torment, devouring him from within.

"I see F.O.R.N.A.X. can't help sticking their nose overseas," he taunted at the Federal agents.

"Unfortunately, Officer, your concrete prisons can't withstand a threat this.. cataclysmic," the chevalier retorted.

Agent Brad Smith, a figure of charisma and wittiness, charming as gutsy with wavy hair, fairer than bronze and eyes that glimmered like a tranquil sea.

A paragon of mind games, the mastermind behind the quartet was a calm and calculated specialist in his early thirties.

An artful crime fighter, highly decorated and celebrated, Brad had recorded a staggeringly innumerable amount of solved cases that bore remarkable resemblance in bizarreness to this one.

Run along, now. I'm certain they're tons of 'Gee Boys' by the next turn," he added, striking a resonant chord along with a nerve, simultaneously.

The D.P.O. growled at the words of Bradley Smith and his mockingly toothy grin infuriating him, even more.

The police officer glared at Brad, his fingers, fiddling with the pistol nestled in his holster, suspended beneath his waistline.

Agent Smith's squint screamed, "Do your worst," his daunting smirk, unwavering as the hem of his overcoat fluttered mildly in the gentle breeze.

With a vacillating sigh, the D.P.O. surrendered to Brad's perpetual mind games, his fingers, slipping away from his firearm, very slowly.

"Come on, Boys.

Let's get outta here," he retreated from the scene with his men.

Abruptly, Brad's men fastened hyper enhanced handcuffs and shackles on the janitor's wrists and ankles.

The high pitched hums, crescendoed meticulously in perfect sync with the pulsing green lights.

Soon, his phone beeped symphonically.

"We got em, General!

Terminate all arrangements for a crane. Most certainly won't be needing that to pickup the.. cargo."

.....

"How dare you?"

In the interim, the furious voice of Benga Folarin saturated the warehouse, situated in the heart of the mainland.

Viper's head was bowed low, his neon visor, wedged between his elbow and ribs.

The brilliant cerulean specters of the Billionaire's humongous hologram illuminated V.A.P.O.R.'s Research Base.

Barrels of radioactive chemicals littered the warehouse, stacked against one another, exceeding the thousands.

"You infiltrate dense securities, bypass biometric scanners, effortlessly and yet, you cannot sneak into a school, unnoticed and get the job done?

Sometimes, I ponder if truly you're a master of stealth," Folarin scrutinized his most loyal and prudent pawn.

"I am, Sir!" Viper tilted his head in a desperate attempt at redemption, stimulated by the words of his superior, his voice, barely above a whisper.

"Are you?" Folarin's rhetorical question reverberated through his cerebrum.

"A second chance.. and I shall prove my loyalty to you," the eyes of the Enforcer gave away an urgency to seek approval from his contractor.

"The molecular star may be destroyed but the mind of its inventor is still intact.

Now.. find the creator of this astral sphere.. bring him to me," the Billionaire's words echoed through the warehouse like a death knell.