Shouldering the weapon upon her back the Bandit jogs through the lobby with a heightened pace. Two hands pointed towards each of her subordinates she orders them to motion. “Issac and Rin you're with me on the vault. Jacob and Adami get these people ready! We got about an hour before this entire thing goes bad!”
“Yes Boss!” Rin and Issac grunt as they leap into action, the pair separating in objectives as two teams form together from a singular unit.
Hostages watch the form of the young woman, the black bandana no longer disguising a recognized face.
“The Million Dollar Woman.” The Bank Manager grumbles sternly as Jacob grabs him by the arm, pulling him to his feet at the passing of the Bandit. “Justice is coming for you.”
“I like to think I’m pretty good at keeping one step ahead of him.” Maddie smiles brightly as she begins running after her team. “I’ll see y’all in a few minutes, so please be patient!”
A room coated in a light layer of endemic southland dust, blasted concrete bitter tasting as particles settle slowly onto the broken tile floor. A vault door crafted by divinity and humanity fallen against concentrated force, tonnage ruined beyond repair by the minds of nefarious execution.
Subtle emergency lighting illuminates the interior of the vault, a pale gold coloring reflected off unearned bounty.
“Nice work.” Maddie chuckles as she steps forward towards the prize.
Issac dismisses the statement with a laugh. “At this point you’re patronizing me. Next time pick a bank with an actual challenge.”
Tearing open folded duffle bags the Bandit is the first to enter into the presence of the secure site, the overwhelming visual suppressed from a dozen previous experiences.
Power on the frontier; a currency usable by all against the rages of a dying world. To go beyond the avenues of culture and nations, the universality of humanity expressed in violence and gunfire.
Exposed brass bullets line themselves within massive crates, small nine millimeter handgun cartridges stacked alongside massive seventy five millimeter anti-armor shells up to the ceiling. The riches of a marred city stored for both application of power and wealth, hundreds of thousands of rounds awaiting a final purpose in either transaction or transgression.
“Destri’s gone insane…” The Locksmith blinks as he calls the divine’s name. “That’s at least a million equivalent here.”
“Don’t forget the paper cash in the drawers.” The Bandit reminds as she steps into the place. “Come on, let's get packing!”
Hostages moved, a line of citizens watching as bags of material are carried out from within the bowels of March Central Bank. The clattering of brass, an incongruent mess of stolen goods wrapped loosely within synthetic fiber bags dumped upon the dusty floor. Hunger of riches, jealousy of wealth held within hearts as they sit upon cold flooring.
“Madeleine McCormik doesn’t kill, that’s her one rule.” One of the hostages points out suddenly, the male half of a unified couple speaking with learned knowledge towards the remaining pair of bandit guards. “And her gang doesn’t either. Nobody’s stopping us from getting outta here.”
The Lookout scans the scene with her long-barreled battle rifle, speaking forth to the unknown quantity. “That’s what Jacob Marser’s here for. You’re right that we don’t kill, but this man’s willing to hurt you real bad.”
“Thanks Auntie.” The Enforcer notes with sarcasm. “But remember Mr. Security here got a taste of what you’re bringing to the table too.”
The middle aged woman locks eyes with the bandaged security guard, a tight lipped frown preluding the words from criminal minds. “Sorry, but well you shouldn’t have drawn that weapon so fast.”
Jacob rolls his eyes. “Next time just control the acting hand please, or better yet stick to the plan and let me go in first.”
“Gods alright.” Adami smiles as she knocks the man in the shoulder.
The crowd outside pushes against the perimeter, a situation deteriorating against the favor of a loose band of officers. A conglomeration of boredom, excitement, and stardom brings together a near riotous group, a fire inflamed by the teams of media personnel at the edge of the crowd.
Excited tones break in screams, a chant arising as a mob’s eyes scan for vulnerability within the police line.
Judge Hoppe pulls a hand towards the arcane radio mounted on her shoulder, a circular blue glow upon the small, rectangular box converting to yellow as her smooth voice is subtly broadcast across the airwaves. Upper command, a channel dedicated to the highest levels of authority within the City of March. “This is Judge Hoppe to all points, we have a ten-thirty-five developing on Central March Bank, five hundred souls estimated. Need backup.”
The static persists, an answer held as another conflict reaches its final point.
The Judge turns to her subordinates, pointing out an error with experience and authority. “Watch that spacing Officers, keep steady!”
Adjusting her arcane speaker she turns the item to the highest setting, a voice shaking dust from the world with insane volume. “THIS IS JUDGE HOPPE, UNDER PENAL CODE 183 AND THE AUTHORITY OF THE DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE THIS DEMONSTRATION IS UNLAWFUL: DISPERSE IMMEDIATELY.”
A wave of air distorting power staggers the crowd, soul crushing sound sending the first line back slightly at the threat. A human instinct reformed by the energy of collected souls, the returning of the line staring down the source of the broadcast.
“Not enough…” The Judge comments to herself, depressing the button again as she takes a tenuous step back towards the stairs. “DISPERSE NOW OR YOU WILL FACE CRIMINAL PUNISHMENT.”
The first stone is thrown, an inaccurate attempt at rebellion clattering to the carved stairs. A response held as debris is taken from dirt roads by hundreds of hands; empty cans, loose rocks, and piles of rubbish tossed without purpose towards the police line.
The Judge’s radio on her shoulder jumps at the recipient of a signal, the respondent's voice barely audible through layers of concrete and raw distance. “Judge Hoppe this is Judge Murphy responding to a ten-sixty five at March Central Bank. ETA is fifteen minutes.”
Through gritted teeth the woman draws her weapon, the crowd pushing on the vehicle perimeter. “Advised we don’t got time: we’re losing this place to a ten-thirty five. I need riot control on March Central Bank ASAP!”
In the distance curious citizens stream from byroads and buildings, moths to a lethal flame engorging themselves in the contained energy of a growing crowd.
Trained eyes note the sharp forms of firearms both concealed within clothing and held in holsters; Judge Hoppe turning to the rest of her officers as she orders them sharply. “By the Five, whatever you do don’t fire!”
“Ma’am?!”
“I’m not presiding over another massacre!”
