Lucas was very sure of a few things in his life:
People were generally fucking imbeciles. It was in their nature to act as if there was something, at all times, worth being dramatic over. A city-wide blackout was one of them, apparently.
He was not fond of people raising their voices at him. His own never got higher than needed. Then again he knew how to use proper diction, how to ensure that his words were read properly despite the volume. See number one — people never learned.
He did not like having a gun in his face.
When the power went out his time at the bank was drawing to a close. The bank. Who wouldn’t attempt to rob it? The high-tech safe was free to roam, useless without power circulating to ensure that every little knick knack remained in place. He wasn’t too fond of being manhandled, either but that took a close second to the gun-meet-face and happened in some beautiful synchronization that he would never be able to properly describe if asked.
He had refused to bend onto his knees. So the opportunistic robbers slammed the butt of their gun into his mouth and he tasted blood for it, but even so he refused to allow the expensive material of his suit to gather dust and grime … or really whatever else was on the ground from the bankgoers shoes. He looks smart, have him lead us around the bank. Bloody great idea. He didn’t deny them this chance, instead he pressed his hands into his pockets (and they threw a cow about that) and lead them on a small tour. Sarcasm dripping from his lips, many threats of shooting him but they didn’t.
It was in the mouth of the vault he stood while they marauded the spoils, one man lazily “keeping an eye” on him. His own eyes wandered around carelessly and he did not answer the “Don’t you give a shite that we’re taking all of this?” He didn’t. Why would he? How could he? This far into the bank there was nobody else around — just three would-be robbers and a banker who couldn’t give less of a care. The decision was easy, a snap, one that had filled his mind the moment they slammed their gun into his mouth. Two steps forward he took, tongue pressing against the split in his lip.
"Don’t fucking move," the one closest to him commanded. Lucas did not stop the lazy stroll. The man moved for his pistol. "Funny thing, this," Lucas sighed, finally turning voided hues to the man’s visage. "So far into the vault, nobody’s going to know you’re here."
"Sounds like he’s threatening you. Shoot him."
"I am," Lucas smirked, a small chuckle leaving his mouth. "But what can I do? I’m unarmed, a wee little banker versus three men who clearly have no regard for my life.”
"Just fucking shoot him."
"Shoot me. Go on." He stopped before the robber, the other two desisting in their actions. "Tch. Oh, well."
He was fast. Hands reached for the throat of the man, grasping at the windpipe and crushing, turning his body to the others, digits of the free hand grasping at the wrist attached to the pistol. Enough sudden force and quickness allowed him to use the man as a shield — his mate firing at Lucas and instead piercing into the torso of the robber. With a sputter he eked away, and instantly the banker snatched the pistol and opened fire on the other two.
The brevity of the firefight was nominal. Loud shots ringing in the vault for all of twenty seconds before only Lucas stood — bloodied, bullet lodged in his right shoulder, but otherwise unscathed. Three sagged corpses slowly leaking life fluid into the open vault, staining currency and valuables. Glaring down at the hole in his shoulder, Lucas pressed at the suit and hissed for the pain of it.
He did not like being shot. Funny, how he hated things revolving around guns so well this evening. Dropping the weapon onto the floor he shifted from the vault, back out to the main foyer, to the main door. “Mother fucker,” trailed from his lips along the way, hand pressing to the open wound, attempting to contain the blood, “Bloody London.”
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