Rin and Jacob exchange tired glances at the exposition. The enforcer yawns, speaking in a whisper as he scans the room with his shotgun. “Which one you think she’s going to do this time?”
“Destiny.” The muscle of the group crosses her arms. “We are in March.”
“Bet a rifle round?” Jacob offers the gamble, a confident smile on his concealed face.
Rin takes a moment to think, a subtle nod as probability plays to her favor. “It is on.”
With a deep breath the Bandit begins. “The Federation believes that there shall be no Kings or Queens, no Dukes or Lords to rule over us. That there is no higher authority than our own right to rule. They tell us to ballotize our lives to some greater power in the midlands, to elect servants to rule over us. And we expect those individuals to be kind to us, the very same people who buy their way to power. Those who would sell us like ration cards; the populace responsible for their ascension tossed aside like garbage. There is no perfect leader, merely flawed human beings who disguise themselves as perfect gods. Are we happy being slaves to false divines? Is that our destiny, to be chained by the false gods and Lords of a new age?! Look: we stand in the archive of that sin right here, and behind that vault is my evidence!”
The half-ignored speech is processed, her comrades idling at the final words.
Rin scoffs. “I was right.”
“Damn I thought Boss was going for the economics one.” Jacob sighs, handing the gambled currency to its rightful owner; a single elongated brass bullet of nine millimeter bore exchanged as agreed.
Down the halls the low whirring of drill bits turns towards the roar of steel on steel, a precision tip replaced with the thin edge of a plasma cutter. Arcane force annihilates layers of metal in a shower of white hot sparks, the scent of oxidized iron fuming into the isolated vault room.
A wiping of sweat off the brow, Issac taking the blade away for a moment as he investigates the implemented security measures. Smooth, mirror-like polished steel scarred from concentrated force, the primary locking mechanism completely breached by raw ingenuity; seven securing rods sliced open to reveal a solid core of burnt alloy.
Beyond it the man spots the real challenge; a relatively thin layer of cosmic black metalloids consumes the projected light of the vault room. Reality distorts as souls are pulled towards the sheet of arcane armor, a material bonded in the forges of dead gods revealed to the world around it.
From within his pocket the locksmith pulls forth a small coin; a singular brass quarter of the Federated Dollar. Seven bars for seven cities, a four sided square opposite in the denomination of a currency’s value; now placed on the exposed material with immense care.
Gravity sucks the thing towards the scar, catching the innocuous item with demonic force. A lethal interaction of opposed origins; the coin cratering itself in the hyper dense alloy with a flash of explosive light, the sound blasting through concrete halls.
“And so the gods fell to our world, their heaven torn asunder by the simple gift of humanity.” Issac quotes from scripture as he continues. “Let's see how tough you are now.”
An ancient, refurbished design; molecular forms corrupted by the introduction of a foreign contaminant. A perfect order shattered by imperfection, trained eyes finding the created sliver of vulnerability within arcane construction.
The power-saw roars to life, a careful intersection divided as the first sheet of divine alloy is carved away. A critical locking mechanism discovered, red hot slag seeping out onto the marble floor as the next bolt is slowly sliced through.
Across the main lobby Adami’s voice is raised as she spots the anomaly from a newly arrived vehicle at the front of the bank, the deep abyssal blue uniform and wide-brimmed hat catching eyes as the figure steps from the black shape. “Maddie we got a problem!”
“I’m coming!” The Bandit answers as she glances at the hostages, leaving them with a small wink. “Just some food for thought.”
Across broken glass the Leader arrives, the lookout immediately turning around with a hushed tone. “By the Five keep your head down.”
Following the hurried advice, Maddie ducks behind the double doors’ cracked windows. “What’s up?”
“They sent a Judge here.” Adami answers sternly. “Couldn’t get a good look at her though.”
“Gods above.” Maddie breathes as she peaks her head over slowly.
A vehicle parked at the far edge of the semi-circle, the four doored shape armored to the core standing out between the neglected hulls currently present.
Kneeling behind it and speaking to the handful of Policing Officers, the singular form of a legendary individual. A tightly bound black shirt layered with a tactical holster of filled revolver speed loaders filled with .44 magnum rounds, items of magical implication upon utility belts, and plates of bone white ceramic armor sit at the forefront of a soul of justice. A golden badge upon the right breastplate catches the five suns above, seven gold bars of the Federated Cities crossed by a single unfired shell.
Justice by the roar of gunfire, to bring order from a chaotic world by any means necessary.
Brown eyes hidden beneath a black, wide brimmed hat, an instinct sending the visual range of the Judge towards the doors of March Central Bank.
With trained swiftness the weapon is drawn; a revolver action carbine brought from its holster upon her back. Gunmetal gray, the six loaded chambers of the receiver betray the lethality of the .44 magnum bore. A barrel cut short in its creation, a rubberized buttstock notched for ease of access from its held position.
“At least it's not Judge Murphy.” The Bandit sighs with relief, pulling herself back behind the door.
“That old bastard’s not gonna give this up though.” Adami notes. “After the February job, he’s gonna be on our asses.”
“Ture, but we might as well make the most of it now.” Maddie smiles, a new plan coming to fruition. “Craving for anything?”
“What?”
Maddie stretches, a yawn perpetuated in calm motions. “Supper time’s coming, can’t hurt to have it on the Federation’s tab.”
“You’re kidding.” Adami scrunches her face in confusion.. “You wanna try and get food delivered here?”
“They’re probably buying time, at this point they’ll do anything to keep us happy.” The young woman notes.
The watchout works through a lifetime of experience before answering, a cultural foreignness to the southlandic space obvious through a wantant craving. “You know I’ve been eating nothing but fried mass since we’ve got here. Would be nice to have something fresh for once.”
“You’re asking for the world ma’am. Ain’t gonna spare the hydroponic gardens for us.” The Bandit shakes her head at the words. “But you know what, we'll need some leverage anyway so might as well do some community service.”
A group of four hostages situated behind a turned over tellers station, forms huddled together in boredom. A young couple, their well tailored clothing of mercantilist origins situated against the dirty blue overalls of a similarly aged factory worker next to them; her long hair tied to a bun on her head and a worn pair of glasses held in hands. An older man sits closest to the door, a plastic walking cane held tight as he spots the Bandit approaching them.
A divine weapon holstered, an intent processed as barely hostile behind the facial covering of the Bandit. Preparation for violence, bodies tensing up as she approaches them. Words leaving her mouth unexpected and gentle in a near-ridiculous request. “I need from each of you: your favorite foods.”
