Nico hated going to the bank.
Unfortunately, it was a necessary monster to slay every once in a while. Sometimes he had to cash a cheque, or pay a bill, and it was always the same. The teller would be bored, tapping away on their keyboard as they entered Nico's name and bank details, and then there'd be a pause where their eyes would widen and they'd look from him to the screen and back again several times.
Yes, that was his bank account. Yes, that was his current account balance. There'd be a particularly big shock in store if it was near the beginning of the month and his father had decided to deposit an allowance into his account.
Yup, he was twenty-five years old and still getting an allowance from his father. He knew how pathetic that made him sound, but his father had serious cash to burn – practically all the wealth in the world. It was the least he could do to shove some of it Nico's way, especially given their relationship was cold and frosty at best in most other ways that didn't involve a direct transaction. They might as well try to kindle some kind of spark in their father/son relationship.
So now here he was, in the line at the bank, with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his aviator jacket. He still had his sunglasses on from outside – he was hungover, okay, so sue him – and so not in the mood for being out of bed and in the world.
The bank was busy, which was weird because he thought everyone did their banking online these days. Who actually came into a bank anymore? Surely only dinosaurs like his father, who was practically millennia old, actually used stuff like cheques in this day and age? His dad probably just liked the idea of signing something and having that mean it pushed vast sums of money around just by invoking his name. That was the kind of guy he was.
Customers filled the teller windows and the line stretched both before and behind him. A TV on the wall behind the tellers played CNN. To his right, high windows set in the top of the wall allowed the midday sunlight to slant into the room, illuminating dust drifting high up near the ceiling.
Dark wood dominated the room, with polished teak everywhere. It made up the counters, the stands where you could fill out deposit slips, the desks and chairs where you could discuss your finances with the staff. A worn green paisley carpet covered the floor. Above him, stained glass panels hid the soft lighting bathing the room. Next to the entrance doors stood a uniformed security guard.
Nico's eyes finished roving over the bank and turned back to the front of the room as the tellers gradually dealt with the customers. He tapped his booted foot on the carpet and huffed a sigh. How long was this going to take? Maybe this was what the afterlife was like for people who deserved punishment. Just a constant line at the bank that never got smaller. Or maybe even the DMV. Except there'd probably be less screaming in hell.
The double doors burst open, banging off the walls. Nico turned to give one of his patented death stares. He had a killer hangover headache and the noise went straight through him, but what he saw chilled him to the bone. The glare died in his eyes; his breath hitched in his throat.
The security guard turned, hand on his gun, but before he could unholster his weapon he was beaten to the floor with an extendable riot baton. He crumpled, blood oozing from a gash on his forehead.
Four masked, armed men stormed into the bank, stepping over the guard. One sprayed automatic gunfire at the ceiling, shattering the stained glass into multicoloured raining shards. Nico threw his arm over his face; glass shrapnel snagged at the material of his jacket as it fell. Bulletholes riveted into the wooden panels of the walls, spitting splinters into the air. The TV took a direct hit, fizzled sparks and died.
Pandemonium. Suddenly it was all screaming, ducking, running.
Someone threw themselves at the emergency exit. The doors slammed outwards, setting off an alarm. A stampede surged towards the open escape route. People tripped over themselves and the furniture, tumbling to the floor.
Nico's legs finally stopped betraying him. He stumbled towards the fire exit, heart thudding, gunshots ringing in his ears. His whole body flooded with ice and fire at the same time, half paralysing him. His legs felt like lead, his extremities tingled.
"Get down! Everyone on the floor!"
More gunfire. The fire exit sign above the emergency door exploded into a spray of glass and sparks. Nico threw himself backwards, tripping over an overturned chair and slamming onto the floor. The blow forced the breath from his body. Someone stood on his leg, his outstretched hand.
"I SAID GET DOWN!"
Footsteps marched towards him. Someone grabbed him by the collar and dragged him backwards. Two of the gunmen yanked people away from the exit, while a third wrapped chains around the bars and padlocked the door closed.
Nico's sunglasses dangled from one ear. His mouth was dry. His elbow throbbed where it had smacked into the chair. He scrambled back towards the wall, still trying to catch his breath, pressing himself into the shadows and wishing they could swallow him whole. He swallowed hard, tracing every movement of the guns with wide eyes.
Next to him a woman with a lot of frizzy red hair ducked almost double, her mouth open and her face an ashen, aghast mask. Her hands were up as half-fists, shielding her head. The muzzle of one of the guns turned on her and she slumped back against the wall and slid to the floor, her breathing coming in fast gasps.
About half the bank had emptied out through the fire exit, but there were still plenty of people now locked in. The tellers ducked behind their desks. Customers cowered behind the dark wooden furniture, which had been knocked askance in the melee. The air was filled with a panicked hubbub; someone sobbed.
Well. At least the lines would be shorter now.