Disclaimer: I don't own anything that isn't originally mine.
Rated M for violence, swearing, and suggestive content
Enjoy the show, please R&R
I hadn't known exactly when it had started; it is a subtle thing, really. And half the time I'm not even sure it's happening until I've already reacted, my body needing to move. I do know, however, that when walking into the bank that night, the man in the navy hoodie had a gun hidden and he'd be pulling it in approximately twenty seconds.
Maybe it's in the imperceptible tightening of his shoulders or the stiffness in his gait. Perhaps it's just the sketchiness of his clothing—not that I really believe in stereotyping, but who honestly wears their hoodie up in a bank. Really, I never have the time to ponder what triggers it. And, if I'm honest with myself, it comes from something else altogether. Significantly more than a gut instinct, but less than prophecy—believe me, I'd tested those waters years ago to horrifying results.
Still, I knew it was going to happen and maybe… I could stop it.
Which was why I never have the chance to deliberate the feeling because, as always, I find myself acting on it before it can be analyzed. Hence, me tackling the hooded man to the ground, knee between his shoulder blades, and subsequently the cold nozzle of a gun pressing to my temple.
I squint my eyes minutely as it all catches up with me, face quickly draining of blood. The first words through my mind? Oh shit. The next thought?
I promised myself this would never happen again, and here I am.
"Well, well, girlie. Look at who's trying to be a hero," a scratchy voice comes close to my ear, close enough to be heard over the screams of the patrons and workers. I bite back a snarky retort with the same gusto I hold back my frustratingly fearful tears. Not daring a glance towards the gun or its user, I instead glare down at the struggling man beneath me.
Yes, I think sardonically, you just had to be a damned hero, didn't you?
"What an idiot," the gunner rattles on, causing me to flinch when a dab of spit lands on my cheek. My knee digs that much more into the guy underneath me and I let the barest twitch of a thin smile at the man's grunt of discomfort; after all, he deserves so much more than just this and he isn't even on the worse side of the deal anyway.
"Now move," the man growls, recklessly jabbing the gun against my head and forcing me off his partner.
I stumble to the side, knees jarring against the tiled floor in my clumsy attempt to move. Darting my eyes, I see the hooded man I'd tackled climb to his feet and take out the gun I knew he had, clicking off the safety.
My teeth clench down hard on my bottom lip to staunch the whimper, even as the pain jolts through my skull. The taste of iron swam in my mouth, mixing wonderfully with the death glare that the rising man gives. I spit the glob of blood on the ground, but otherwise remain silent and staring at the floor.
The man mutters something about me being lucky I hadn't been shot already, and it takes all I have not to laugh hoarsely at the words.
Lucky would have been not being in this situation in the first place.
I promise, here and now, that when this is all over I am never setting another foot inside a bank. Ever. ATMs all the way baby, and online payments. That, and every single navy hoodie I own will soon be flirting with yesterday's old food trash bin.
"On the ground," the hoodie guy growls ominously, a lot more intimidating now that his hidden weapon is out for viewer's pleasure.
A single angry tear escapes my eye. Why hadn't I looked to see if the dude had a partner? Why hadn't I just alerted security? It's what any smart person would have done, at least. But no, I just have to act like the stupidly egotistical girl I am, thinking I could take care of it like always.
Oh no, I am in no way lucky. And now I'm left with a gun staring me in the face in the middle of a robbery as my trophy.
"Alright everybody, this is a hold up!"
A really, really cliché robbery I might add. If not for the blood in my mouth, the pain in my skull, and the gun at my head, I'd definitely be laughing hysterically at his no doubt "witty" threat. I mean, what is this? The Wild, Wild West?
The remark must have escaped my traitorous mouth because suddenly there is a nice hard kick to my ribs, forcing me to roll several times.
"Fuck!" I hiss in pain, attempting to curl into a ball. I rock on my side, helplessly trying to ignore the biting sting. Analyzing the degree of pain and radiation, I wouldn't be surprised if I'd cracked rib or two. Each breath in feels like a knife to my side and each movement as if the blade is twisted deeper. "Fuckfuckfuck," I continue to jeer under my breath, the tears unstoppable now.
I moan, clutching a hand to my side angrily. Worthless. I'm completely worthless for instigating the robbery and even worse I'm a total fool for just rushing in like an idiot. Dad had always said I'm a reckless one, but never worthless or foolish. I don't even know which of the two frustrates me more at the moment, since the agony in my side takes some precedence over self-loathing.
I know I can't scream out, in frustration or pain, but lord do I want to. Is anyone else screaming or crying? Am I missing their whimpers due to the superseding pounding in my head? I want to open my eyes and look, but it honestly hurt so much, much more than I remember cracked ribs ever feeling like. Still, with some inner cajoling I push through the pain and pry my eyes open anyway.
Blurry at first, with concentration everything around me snaps into obscene clarity just in time for the lights to snap off. There's a hesitation to the robber's steps as they fiddle with something in their hands I can't discern with their back to me. Eventually, small beams of light shoot out in front of them and I realize they must be flashlights. The two robbers take the time to pass the light over everyone on the ground, and I manage to catch a glimpse of one man's face, etched with worry. It's in the creases of his eyes and brows, the severe downturn of his lips. There's a wildness settled there, a burst of adrenaline, as he darts his frantic gaze between the two gunman.
And then the flash lighting his face continues to pan away and his visage is draped in darkness.
I lay still and attempt to breathe evenly as my eyes adjust to the lighting. There are maybe a dozen people in the bank besides me, stuck plastered to the ground in fear of being shot, and if I'm to fix anything, I'll need my sight and I'll need to be as collected as possible. Basically, I need a plan, something not very forthcoming at the moment.
In the movies they always show that button, under the counter, to alert the police. Had that been pressed yet? Could I even get over to the counter without being seen or shot? I estimate the distance hastily, assessing my chances. They aren't good, really, but perhaps if I wait until the two of them walk just a little but further…
My neck snaps to the left and I fight back the vertigo of the action. Rather, I focus and completely abandon the steps of the robbers in favor of something else: a shadow moving. Somehow, silently, a tall and lithe body uncurls from the ceiling and drops to the ground. Any footfalls from the maneuver must have been eaten by the gunmen's murmurs, because even while focusing on the figure as he lands in a crouch in front of me, I can't hear a thing.
Blinking, my brows furrow as I take in the person as best I can with the lighting available and my mouth gapes at what I find.
Is that… spandex?
Again, my mouth must have adulterously spoken out of turn because the black-clad ninja—for lack of a better term—whips his head towards me. I can feel his gaze burning into me, despite being unable to see his eyes past the mask he's wearing. And suddenly, it's all so clear.
"You've never been this far south, right? You're in superhero country now!"
Lauren's words reverberate inside my head harmoniously in sync with the pounding.
It definitely explains the skintight black suit and the bird symbol emblazoned on his chest.
We silently appraise each other for a moment before the hero in front of me smirks crookedly, charmingly even, as he puts a finger to his lips and winks. Not a second later he zips off, unsheathing two poles belted to his back as he stalks the criminals without a sound.
I can feel the heat of a blush shimmying down my cheeks to my chest, mortified that he'd actually winked at me in this situation, but the blood quickly drains instead when I see it.
In the flash of light from the robber, the horrified victim from before is in the spotlight for a brief minute, eyes focusing on the hero, before his face is lost to darkness again. But the moment was all I needed to see it and know.
Before he even moves, I know what he's going to do, how he's first going to use his left hand to scramble to his feet, his right hand reaching into the waistband of his jeans to what I can only presume to be a gun. And then he'd be pointing it at the hero's chest.
It really doesn't take a genius to figure out what he plans to do after that.
Heart pumping wildly in my chest, I clamp a hand to my side in preparation. My body had already made its decision on what to do, and as always my mind just lets it run before my common sense rears its ugly head.
And here I promised myself I'd ignore the impulses, stop being so reckless.
I feel it in my bones as my left arm slams against the masked vigilante's back as if I'm running shoulder first into a brick wall. The boom of a gunshot, crisply cutting through the bank's momentary silence, echoes before all hell breaks loose and screams start up from the other victims. My own scream adds to fray as I twist with the bullet's momentum, flying to the ground and taking the hero with me.
As we land, my head cracking harshly against the floor, his body topples on top of mine protectively for barely a second before its up and moving, flipping to his feet to take out the criminals.
Not that I really notice as the continuous ringing in my mind blurs everything around me. I groan in pain, pain from every part of my body as it sears deep into me so I can't escape it. Fuzziness clings to my mind as the situation fades in and out, black to white, pain to numb.
I don't know what's happening as the agony and panic overtakes me, a nausea finding home happily in my gut. I try to focus, I try to come out of it, but honestly I can't really remember what I'm doing or where I am.
Oh crap, I think tiredly, I have a paper to write about vasopressin effects on prairie vole pair-bonding nature that's due tomorrow.
A stinging pain bleeds into my consciousness and I swat it away.
Wait, it is Tuesday right? I can't really remember…
I moan as I feel pressure on my arm, and I attempt to swat the painful away, too, but it doesn't work.
Uh… Professor O'Reilly is going to have my head if I didn't do it.
I hear a noise, a person yell, and I lick my lips as I attempt to open my eyes to just glare at the person annoying me. All I taste is blood, the metallic twang dominating my senses to where I even see red.
Red in my hair, dyeing it dark as is splayed around me. Red as it seeps into my Hudson University sweater and as the white transmutes to crimson, darker than the school's maroon. It's pretty I realize with a smile, but then there's that agonizing pressure on my shoulder again and that pounding throb in my head and I groan.
Grimacing, I moan out, "S'not pretty…"
"I've been told I'm very pretty, actually," comes a smooth quip. It travels sluggishly in my mind before being processed, and after seconds pass by I realize someone said something to me. I crack open my eyes, brightness blinding and I try to move my arm over my face in reprieve only to be rewarded with a terrible ache lancing through my chest.
"Hey hey hey," the voice continues, "I need you to not move, okay? Can you open your eyes and look at me?"
I snort at the words, though I can't say I knew what they were well enough to repeat them back if asked. But I make another attempt at sight in time to see, with vision blurrier than I've ever experienced in my life, the ninja-hero hybrid guy I had tackled earlier. I try to focus, rid my mind of the gossamer clouding my vision, but all I manage is to see how his stern lips endeavor towards a reassuring smile set in a strong jaw.
My woozy mind forces my eyes closed again. Things hurt less when my eyes are closed. Sluggishly, I mumble, "I guess you're pretty enough…"
Words soon resonate in my mind with seemingly no origin, a breathless panic in its tone: "Just keep your eyes open a bit longer and you can keep looking at this pretty face, then."
"Wise guy, eh?" I crack, though I don't know who I'm speaking to. Why am I speaking at all, actually? There's only this pain and the blackness encroaching on me, lulling me into its embrace before a flicker of remembrance finds its way to me.
A bank. A man with a gun. Superheroes, boom, blood, pain.
Explosion. Death. Mistakes.
The tears spring to my eyes and frustration finds home with them. I just want that blackness back, that numbness.
"I knew where it was gonna happ'n, I swear" I whisper weakly, "I knew what's gon' happen and it sucks!"
"Just keep your eyes open, ok? Ok? Stay with me!" the voice ricochets around me. It's frantic, cracking and crumbling to reveal an undertone of terror, but I've already settled myself back in the dark, soothing, nothingness.
There ya'll go. This story is more of an experiment and stress reliever, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as II enjoyed writing it