Strolling through the front lobby the sound of the portable radio echoes the voice of Radio Tomorrow’s live host, the breaking story based upon a singular reporter on the ground. Entertainment wrought by boredom, a meal’s consumption complimented by the reality of the world.
“What’s the verdict?” Maddie asks as she rejoins her Gang alongside Issac.
“Judges are cleaning house.” Jacob crosses his arms. “Hear that?”
A silence within the bank, the barely audible cracks of high caliber gunfire echoing through the City of March.
Interrupted by the pounding of artillery fire.
A distant battle commenced, the awaiting of conflict held in patient souls.
“Sounds bad.” Maddie comments.
“We are next.” Rin notions.
“M.C.N. says there’s at least four judges involved while Radio Tomorrow says there’s like three breaching maybe?” The Enforcer continues.
“Well we got one at the front door.” The Bandit observes. “Three in the Mansion, one here.”
Jacob coughs. “And Judge John Murphy.”
A stop in the conversation.
“He’s not here is he?”
The man scoffs. “M.C.N. and Radio Tomorrow both say so. Even the Federated Times mentioned it.”
“Well that’s not good.” The locksmith thinks, scratching his brow with the detonator. “They’re just buying time for him to finish up there before cleaning us up here.”
“That they are.” Maddie rises up, pulling her bandana over her face again as she turns to the hostages. “Alright listen up! We’re releasing four of you right now!”
Heads turn at the voice, the force moving from the lobby towards the corner. An order given in a low growl, uncharacteristically harsh in execution. “ADAM, GET UP!”
A teenager and parent pair, a promise nearly fulfilled as the young woman grabs the arm with a free hand.
“NO STOP!” The mother yells.
“You’re coming with him.” The Bandit orders as the other hand wrangles them both up. “Adam; you win you and your mother’s freedom by virtue of being the only contestant.”
Dragging them across the lobby the multi-barreled shotgun of the Enforcer remains unwavering upon the rest of the hostages. Desperate eyes meet with those of cold execution, the Gang’s Leader pausing midway as she scans the rest over.
Pointing out the old man at the forefront of the lobby she motions for movement. “Grandpa, you're getting released. And I need one more volunteer!”
Not a single tone raised, an unknowable threat unanswered by the remainders.
“You.” The Bandit points out one of the young factory workers. “You’re up!”
As ordered the individuals are led into the antechamber, the Lookout turning at the arrival as she stands ready at the door. “Ready?”
“Not yet.” The young woman motions for all of them to stop, their forms highlighted against an evening’s light streaming through the windows of March Central Bank.
Glances unmet, an unknowable future for four lives against the brutality of a dying world.
Voice a whisper, the Bandit is barely heard over distant gunfire outside and a chattering radio within. Intense hazel eyes scan over each individual, a lineup of March against her. “I want y’all to listen to me very closely. Every word I say will be critical, do you understand?”
Defiance, unanswered question pulling against the Bandit.
She continues as she grabs the teen’s vest, pulling from it the wrapped explosive and electrical wiring. “This is five thousand dollars taken from the Federated Bank branch in the city of December.”
Rough fingers unravel the heavy gauge paper, the tearing open of dry packaging preluding to an audible gasp.
Layers of plastic laminated paper, each carefully bound together by colored sleeves. A sigil of seven bars printed with gunmetal chrome upon a light blue background, the flanking of fourty, five-pointed stars for each principality placed upon the waving flag of the Federated Cities.
A humble denomination of ten bolstered by the raw quantity within the packaging, enough weight to pass as lethal ordinance.
A betrayal at the most fundamental moments of mankind, banditry hiding the truth of justice.
“Each of your vests contains the package, so take them off and hide ‘em in your pockets.” The Bandit continues. “Once you’re secured and identified by the authorities, leave and go home immediately. I’d suggest laying low for a few weeks before trying to spend the money.”
The four individuals stare at one another, the old man stepping out. “What is the meaning of this?!”
The Bandit chuckles as she hears the words, pulling the bandana off her face. “In this world, money is power. But in the end, those who want power don’t deserve it. Time for a little redistribution.
“Get ready.”
Flashing lights from parked police vehicles, a dying illumination provided by the five suns above as an evening begins to crawl forth into the present.
From the apex of the stairs the Bandit spots the highlighted forms, officers situated behind blinding headlights. Out of the line of fire and beyond a situated perimeter the handful of civilian onlookers watch an unfolding event in the ignorance or ignoring of specified orders.
Several journalist teams, pulled from the endless halls of interns and juniors, stand among them. Bulky cameras pointed outward towards the bank, backpack radio transceivers strapped to bodies. A breaking story sidelined to the action packed set piece of violent justice across the city, a hostage exchange and bank robbery normalized in a scarred world.
Beyond the tips of squat concrete buildings and at the forefront of a massive half-mile tall glowing leyline tower node, a column of smoke rises from the Central district of March; the source of warfare a backdrop to an already tense circumstance.
Four hostages stepping outward into the evening air, all eyes upon the singular Bandit behind them.
A low whisper, the ranking Judge turns to the Officers to her flank. “Whatever you do, don't shoot her.”
“Judge?”
“We need to buy enough time for the rest of the Judges to reinforce us.” She answers, stepping forth out of cover. “These bastards are holding the cards, we ain’t got anything on the table.”
A readied stance, preparation for conflict hidden as she keeps a hand free for the drawing of ordinance. Deep breath, voice stopped as the Bandit speaks up.
“Hey listen up!” The young woman announces to the world with insane charisma. “Thank you for the meal, we all appreciated your hospitality!”
The Judge blinks as she reports to the Officers behind her, a slow raising of the weapon. “No vests on the hostages, get ready for anything.”
“I’m releasing these four!” The Bandit continues as she slowly maneuvers behind the wall of flesh. “Just remember we have more inside so don’t try anything stupid!”
Judge Hoppe remains unmoving at the notice.
“And we’re also gonna blow up the vault! So don’t panic please!” She continues, pulling down her bandana as she snaps her fingers.
On cue the Locksmith within the Bank activates the charges, mechanisms sending electrical impulses through unspooled wires.
The thump of an explosion contained behind rock and concrete disturbs the collected dust on the stairs, an immediate gasp of shock exhaled by the small crowd of onlookers.
Weapons raised, the entire police line charging rounds into chambers in the prelude to a vicious firefight.
“HOLD FIRE HOLD FIRE.” The Judge orders from her arcane loudspeaker as she lowers her carbine.
A light push to the back of the hostages guides them down the staircase, the Bandit herself standing stalwart in the open lines of fire as she watches their descent.
The barrels of a dozen lethal weapons aimed directly at her, a hair’s away from annihilation in the face of blind justice. “You media jockeys want some news?! Well I got some news right here!”
A sudden recognition, Judge Hoppe’s eyes widening at revelation of the unmasked Bandit. The name and a monetary offering towards the people of a dying world; a promise of payment for retrieval. A threat to the very fabric of a fragile society, a topped ranking of memorized faces in the conflict between the Lawful and the Lawless.
“It’s her…”
Voice in excitement, the announcement of name and intent by the Bandit is heard by all. “My name is Madeleine McCormick, and tonight I’m robbing MARCH!”
A sudden stop, silence at the spoken name. Minds make connections, the memorized facial structure plastered alongside unimaginable wealth.
ONE MILLION DOLLARS.
ALIVE.
Chaos arrives like a sandstorm, a tide of sound and light consuming the entire city quarter. Aged cameras flash with explosive ignition in the evening suns as blurry photos are taken, inquisitive voices raised to the screams of barely understandable questions aimed at the revealed legend are lost in carnage.
Brown coats of media personnel attempt to push against the set perimeter, police officers turning in an attempt to beat back the tide of desperate jackals.
One line is spoken by the Judge, the definition of the situation distilled to a single, definitive point. Broadcast through to the world, awe and shock as the shadowed Bandit slips back into the open doors of March Central Bank. “Gods preserve us… ”
