Snippet #2002952

Come to Atlas City, she said. Spend more time with your father, she said. It will be good for you, she said.

Nowhere in that whole spiel did she mention a bank robbery the day of his first paycheck.

It wasn't like he could blame Mrs. Reed for this, though. There was no way she could have foretold this. And he had been having fun with the philharmonic.

But still.

At the first boom, Tristan had immediately ducked to the floor. By the time the armed men started marching into the bank, he was already in the process of making himself as small as possible. Not an easy feat for someone with long legs and over 6 feet. Had this been any other situation, he probably would have laughed at his lack of grace, but he was hardly in the mood at the moment to entertain that thought for long.

One of the men shot a teller, and shortly afterwards dragged another girl to her feet, only to slice her throat open. Screams filled the room, and Tristan flinched at the sight. His earphones were still in, giving the scene an extremely asympathetic soundtrack: Ponchielli's Dance of the Hours. Images of hippos and alligators in tutus and pointe shoes danced around in his head, and his internal smile at the recollection passed the physical border and spread on his face.

A gruff voice and a barrel to his face quickly slammed him back to the gravity of his current situation. "What's so funny, huh, punk?" the gunman demanded, the metal hole leering just two inches from the tip of Tristan's nose. It slowly moved up to between his wide blue eyes, and Tristan swallowed dryly, too terrified to answer lest the man reply with a gun shot. At that instant he suddenly wondered why he hadn't just turned invisible and escaped to begin with. It would have been so simple too! The commotion would have provided a suitable cover, and before the teller had died he'd be out the door and headed to the nearest bus stop. He almost wished the man would shoot him for his stupidity...almost. Ugh, it was too late now to be worrying about what he could have done. He was much too involved now. People had seen him. In particular, this man with the gun had seen him.

Speaking of, the aggressor was apparently not used to silent answers. That, or he really wanted to hear Tristan's voice. Not that I can blame him, Tristan thought.

"I said what's so funny?" the gunman repeated, louder. "Fuckin' white-headed freak. You think this is funny??"

The barrel moved swiftly away from Tristan's face, but his relief was cut short when he saw it pointing at the forehead of a small boy, alone, his mother across the room from him. She screamed desperately at the gunman, but his finger moved to pull the trigger.

A click. Frustrated, the man tried to shoot again. Another click. Click, click, click. With a growl, he turned away from the boy. "Stupid gun's jammed," he complained to another of the armed men. The mother was crying silently, tears of relief.

Tristan's pulse beat loudly in his head, and he felt sweat roll down his face as he stared intently at the malfunctioning gun. Slowly, he started to reel himself back in, leaving just enough of himself out to keep that gun from firing.