Supercon

The main branch of the First National Bank was situated at the bottom of a skyscraper in the heart of New York.  The thirty-six floors of the building above contained the offices of the bank's employees, while below them sat the largest bank in the city.
  It was into this bank that two men walked, very casually.  They ignored the young security guard completely, wandering in amiable silence over to the line for bank tellers.  There were six people ahead of them, so they waited for their turn with apparent patience.  The taller one had sandy hair and a charismatic smile.  The other was thickset and had dark hair and a forehead like a Neanderthal.  Both wore long, comfortable coats over their shirts and trousers.
  Finally there was only one person left in front of them, a young woman.   The light went on over one of the tellers.
  "Next customer, please."
  "Time to jump the queue, I think," commented the sandy-haired man pleasantly.
  The other man grabbed the young woman from behind with one hand, while pulling a sawn-off shotgun from under his coat with the other.  She screamed and struggled, which had no effect on her captor, but did have the desired effect of getting everyone's attention.
  The sandy-haired man smiled at the security guard, who was fumbling belatedly to free his gun from its holster.
  "I wouldn't do that, if I were you," he said kindly.  "Gunshots tend to be catching.  As in, if you tried to shoot me, my friend here might get excited and shoot this nice young lady here."
  The guard froze, horrified.  He looked no older than twenty-five at the most.
  Turning to present his smile to the whole bank, the man continued.  "Now, let's see what we can do about completing this transaction with the minimum of fuss and hopefully without much bloodshed.  First of all, nobody move.  OK?  Good.  I think you can guess what will happen if any of you decide to be heroic."
  He walked over to the available teller and leaned towards the middle-aged woman who sat rooted to her seat.  She stared up at him, wide-eyed.
  "Don't worry, Madam, I assure you, you will come to no harm.  Well, as long as you comply with my simple requests.  I would like any money you happen to have back there, please.  I say any, but bear in mind that the more you find, the less inclined I will be to do something... messy."  All of this was said in the same casually friendly tone of voice, as if he were discussing the weather with an acquaintance.
  The man reached under his coat and pulled out a fold-away bag, which he placed on the counter, then stood by as it was filled.  He hummed a pleasant tune.  The other man, who had yet to say a word, simply stood with his hand over his victim's mouth, randomly leering or glaring at anyone he caught looking in his direction.  All the bank's customers and staff were staying very still; those who had attempted to move or talk had drawn the attention of the Neanderthal, attention which they were very eager to avoid.  The unfortunate security guard had slid down the wall and was looking rather ill.  This was his first job in the security business, and he was beginning seriously to consider another line of work.
  When the carpet bag was filled, the man closed it and smiled at the bank teller.  "Commendably done, Madam!  Now-"
  He was interrupted by the double doors of the bank being flung open.  Through them strode an incredible figure.  He was tall and well-proportioned, with bleached-blond hair and the sort of bulging muscles that, on anyone else, would be suspected of coming from an injection rather than a workout.  He wore a skintight bodysuit of blue lycra with a red cape that billowed dramatically behind him.  Emblazoned on his chest in red and yellow was a letter M.
  From around the room came gasps and exclamations of, "It's Mighty Man!"  The sandy-haired man slid behind his partner, and both thieves began moving backwards.
  "Unhand that woman!" ordered Mighty Man in a voice like thunder.


  "I'm sorry, but that doesn't sound like a very profitable arrangement to me at this moment," replied the sandy-haired man.  The little group of criminals and hostage had now reached the other end of the room, where the staff elevators were situated.  The man pressed the button, and immediately the doors of one of the elevators hummed open.  He stepped inside, followed by his accomplice, still dragging the young woman after him.  The doors closed.
  Mighty Man and the rest of the assembled people watched, entranced, as the numbers above the doors began their slow ascent.  Someone wondered quietly whether the superhero should be giving chase, but he replied wisely that he needed to see where the lift stopped first.  The crowd continued to watch the rising numbers.  Thirty, thirty-one...
  "They're going to the rooftop!" announced Mighty Man decisively.  Before anyone could say anything, he bounded to the stairwell and began leaping up the stairs five at a time.
  He reached the roof of the building seconds after the elevator.  He found the two men standing at the very edge, their hostage held between them.  She still had Neanderthal's hand over her mouth, but her wide, melting-chocolate eyes stared at Mighty Man with combined fear and hope.  He puffed up his chest and strode forward.
  "You're trapped now," he told the sandy-haired man.  "Hand the woman over and I'm taking you down to the police station.  I'm sure there are some people there who would be very pleased to meet you."
  "I see a better alternative," said the man mildly.  "Catch."
  The young woman heard her captor snigger, and then she was released with a shove.  She stumbled backwards, found nothing but air under her foot, and tipped over the edge of the roof.  For the first fifteen floors of her descent, she screamed.  Then she stopped, since it seemed rather pointless.  After all, who was going to hear her up here?
  Twenty floors down, her mind noted idly.   Surely by now she should be seeing her life flash before her eyes.  Personally she would prefer an episode of Oprah.
  Twenty-five floors.  And she had just managed to get that cute boy at the fish and chip place down the road to go on a date with her.  Dammit.
  Thirty floors.  Oh well.  He was probably a jerk anyway.  Oh shit, I'm too young and pretty to die!
  Thirty-f-
  Metres above the pavement, a pair of thick, strong arms grabbed her gently around the waist and she was pulled upwards.  In the nick of time, Mighty Man had caught up with her.
  He hovered, set her carefully down on the pavement and shot up the side of the building again.  He reached the top in five seconds flat, but it was too late.  The thieves were gone, and so was the money.

It was evening.  A shadowy figure walked though the growing darkness.  He wore dark glasses with fashionable frames and a charcoal-coloured Panama hat that almost hid his blond hair.  His suit was charcoal as well, and pinstriped.  Something about him made people cross the road to avoid passing him, but he didn't seem to mind.
  He stepped off the street into the Hound Dog.  This was a seedy bar, and apparently the owner was proud of its seediness, since he had spared every expense to make sure it looked like a classical seedy bar.  Along one wall was a row of booths, each containing a table and two benches.  In the very last one, three men sat under the guttering orange light.  The middle one was the sandy-haired man from the bank, now wearing a tailor-made black suit.  The men on either side looked like thugs, and probably were.  The glared from under thick eyebrows as the man in the pinstripe suit walked up and sat down opposite them.
  "Well, Conrad, I thought today went rather well," said the sandy-haired man with a broad smile.
  The man in the pinstripe suit frowned slightly.  "Mmm.  Could have been worse.  I'm starting to see problems with this whole idea, though."
  "Surely not!  We worked like a charm!  As we do every time, of course."
  "I don't know.  There are things which are gonna make people suspicious, if it goes on this way."
  "Such as?"
  Conrad shook his head, irritated.  "Such as the fact that I never catch anybody, Sam!" he growled.
  Sam smiled at him the way a parent might at a reluctant child.  "Don't you worry, I've been thinking about that.  There are certain... friends of mine, who I wouldn't object to parting with.  People who don't fully approve of our little scheme.  Maybe next time I'll bring one of them along."
  "I still don't like it.  It's dangerous."
  The other man's eyes glinted.  "It is also profitable, my dear Conrad.  I doubt your line of work is usually very well paid.  Practically peanuts, I would imagine.  Besides, you were the one who wanted it.  Without me, how would you ever know when and where a crime is going to be committed?  Or have you suddenly developed precognition along with your other special... skills?"
  "Precog..?"
  He sighed.  "Seeing into the future, my dear barbarian.  What I'm saying is, you need me just as much as I need you.  More, even."
  Conrad grunted.  It was true, although he hated to admit it.  After a moment of reflective silence, he changed the subject.  "So where's my share?"
  "Ah, that's more like it!"  Sam picked up a cloth bag from under the table and put it down in front of Conrad.  It rustled in a familiar way.  Conrad grabbed it and inspected the contents briefly, then thrust it inside his jacket, satisfied.
  "Anyway," Sam returned to their previous topic of conversation, "I don't see why anyone should complain, as long as you keep rescuing the damsels in distress from the brink of disaster."
  "Damsels in distress?  Don't be so damned melodramatic."
  Sam looked amused.  "Me?  I wasn't the one swirling my cape and shouting 'unhand that woman'."
  Conrad snorted and stood up.  As he went to leave the booth, a thought struck him and he turned back.
  "These friends you want me to turn over to the police...  How do we know they won't talk?"
  Sam chuckled, delighted.  "That, my friend, is the beauty of the whole plan.  Even if someone did start telling people that Mighty Man was in league with the greatest master criminals in New York, who would believe it?"

(c) Copyright Hespa.
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