The M rating is for the following: explicit and suggested violence, sexual themes, references to sexual violence, non-consensual and dubious-consent situations, language, and general themes that are better suited for a 16+ audience. Be aware, but I will post TW on any chapter that deals with sexualized violence.

It's irritating how difficult it is to resist the itch to tap my sneakers against the tile as the line ekes along at a snail's pace. Sneaking a quick glance at my phone, a frustrated huff escapes me.

2:45. Thirty minutes to get to class.

Counting the number of people ahead of me, a stray hair tickles my nose. When blowing it away does nothing, I shove it behind my ears.

Only three more. You can still make it.

A harried-looking businessman standing two people away appears to be having a harder time hiding his irritation than I am. His face is beet red, and he alternates his gaze from staring at his watch to glaring at the tellers.

Standing on my tip-toes and staring over the heads of the people in line, I peer at the two behind the counter. A blonde woman in a gray dress deals with an elderly man, a kind smile on her face and hair pulled back in an elegant twist. The other teller, an older man, pulls pamphlets for a woman in front of him and makes large, wide gestures with his hands as she nods emphatically. Gotham First National Bank's cheesy late-night commercial plays in my head: 'quick service every time, and always with a smile!'

Well, they got the smile part right at least.

Looking around the rest of the large bank to see if any other employees will come to my rescue, I notice an exasperated-looking man in a gray suit sitting in the large glass office in the middle of the foyer. The outline of his face is stone-like and abrasive, a balding spot shines on the crown of his head. Judging by the expensive gleaming silver watch on his arm, it's safe to assume he's the manager. He doesn't look like he's too concerned to help out his employees. He just stares at the papers in front of him, ignoring the line of people. The other offices lining the walls of the bank are empty, no other source of reprieve in sight.

An internal debate rages in my brain as I decide whether it will be wiser to come back tomorrow.

If I'm late to class again, Professor Peterson will have my hide.

The time, blinking up at me from my phone screen, seems to be taunting me.

3:02. Better to come back tomorrow after advanced data mining, that should get me ahead of the afternoon rush...

Regretting the time wasted, I stuff my wallet in my bag, muttering quiet apologies to the people behind me in line, and weave my way through the red stanchions.

There are less than fifteen feet between me and the exit when a burst of rapid popping fills the room. Jumping back and twisting towards the sound, screams erupt from the group of people behind me. They dive for cover, but my own legs freeze.

"Get on the ground! Hands up and heads down!"

There are three of them, all wearing suits and clown masks. Swallowing the scream threatening to burst out of my mouth and raising my hands, I sink to the ground. My eyes stay trained on the automatic rifles in their hands as they wave them in wide arcs. A loud crack fills the room as one of the clowns brings the butt of his rifle down on the neck of an overweight security guard, dropping him to the ground with a loud thump.

"I said hands up and heads down!" one of the clowns shouts as he shoots at the ceiling. The other people who were standing in line with me only seconds before rush to comply with the man's orders and my mind strains to process what's happening.

The clown furthest away from me, wearing a mask with a wide frown and furrowed brows, throws the large duffel bag onto a nearby counter and unloads its contents. An urgent and inappropriate thought grows in my mind: he looks like Grumpy from Snow White. My body shakes when he pulls out what appear to be hand grenades. The morbid thoughts solidify as panic overrides my brain. Mouth twitching, I struggle to suppress the irrational impulse to laugh at the new, unsuitable nicknames of the thugs in front of me.

"No, please!" The blonde woman is hauled over the teller counter by one of the shouting men. He throws her to the ground and continues yelling at us to stay down.

Grumpy picks up the duffel bag filled with grenades and starts heading toward the nearest hostage, placing one in their hands before pulling the pin. Bile climbs up my throat and I can't tear my eyes away.

The clown who hit the security guard, Happy, keeps his gun trained on us. The third clown, Sleepy, jumps behind the teller counter and begins typing on a keyboard.

"Obviously, we don't want you doing anything with your hands other than holding on for dear life," Happy announces as he stands over the unconscious guard.

Shit, shit, shit—

Scanning the room, I find an alcove by the door. Sleepy is behind the counter and staring at the screen in front of him. The other two have their backs to me as they force primed grenades into the other hostages shaking hands. Inching backward, aiming for the alcove, I stick my hand in my bag to search for my phone. Averting my eyes from the men's backs, and trying to ignore the whimpering coming from the others, my fingers tremble as I type a text to Alfred.

C'mon, c'mon…

My muscles freeze as a burning sensation creeps up the back of my neck. Looking up only to find Grumpy with the bag of grenades looking my way, his head cocked to the side, a cold sweat covers my spine. My hands ball into fists to keep them from shaking. His eyes are obscured by the mask, but that doesn't dissuade the knowledge that they are boring into me. Overwhelming dread floods me and I struggle to stave off an oncoming panic attack as he walks my way.

Abandoning my plight with the phone, I struggle to resist the primal urge to crawl backward as he closes in. He stoops over me and reaches out for my arm. A small sob escapes at the feeling of his hand on my body, and he drags me back towards the group, his fingers biting into my bicep.

Letting out a yelp as he wrenches my shoulder and tosses me against the counter, I hesitate to look at the mask and instead stare at his patterned shirt and gloved hands. The man doesn't move away, and after a minute I gather the nerve to look up at him. He's looming over me, his head tilting from side to side, examining me like I'm some kind of junior high bio lab specimen.

Nausea twists my stomach and I whimper as he reaches his hand out again. A quick flash of movement turns my attention past Grumpy and finds the bank manager holding a gun and aiming it our way. A loud blast and shattering glass sends the clown scrambling behind a nearby desk. Crunching glass is replaced by another blast and the sound of Happy being blown off his feet. His back hits the side of a nearby table before he crumbles to the floor—a pool of blood blooms beneath him, his grinning mask still in place as his prone body faces me.

The gun's cocked again and another shot goes flying over my head. Throwing myself flat on the ground, I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for it all to be over.

One way or another.

The two remaining clowns dive away as the man from the glass office aims a shotgun at the robbers and fires.

"Do you have any idea who you're stealing from? You and your friends are dead! You hear me?!" the bank manager screams at the two men.

Seriously, that's what you're worried about?!

The bank manager approaches the small desk the two clowns are hiding behind and fires again. The clowns continue to scramble away, attempting to find whatever cover they can.

Head tucked under my arms, I make myself as small as possible while the bank manager and the two clowns exchange fire. An unfamiliar scream tears out of my throat when a shattered curtain of glass sprays across my jacket.

You're going to die here.

There's a loud shout and the sound of a body hitting the floor before a short burst of shots. Someone lets out a weak grunt before something heavy smacks against the tiles.

After a moment of silence, my eyes force open and see the bank manager on his back, bleeding. Sleepy gets up from the floor and clutches his shoulder.

"Where the hell did you learn to count?!" he shouts at Grumpy. The accused clown simply shrugs and moves towards the fallen bank manager, taking the shotgun out of his hand.

These people are insane.

Sleepy approaches us and hops back over the teller counter to continue his assault on the keyboard. Pulling myself into a sitting position, I bring my knees to my chest. The smell of gunpowder is overwhelming and turns my stomach. My head whips around at the sound of a loud clang and glass crunching. Grumpy is by my bag, crushing my phone under his foot. His mask is still in place, but I feel his stare again. My skin burns. Unable to ignore the fear filling my body, I avert my gaze to the floor in front of my feet and pray he leaves me alone.

"Fuck sakes. He killed the tech guy. We need to by-pass the biometric scanner, or our guy isn't going to get that door open," Sleepy states.

The other hostages and I give a quick glance around the room.

There's more of them?

Grumpy checks his watch and then looks from Sleepy to the group of us cowering together against the counter. "Well, he isn't going to be much help," he begins, walking towards the group, "I guess you're going to, uh, give us a hand, blondie."

The clown reaches the bank teller in the gray dress and pulls her to her feet by the hair. Taking the grenade from her hands, he puts the pin back in before pocketing it, shoving her towards the entrance leading to the teller counter. She's sobbing; her chest heaves as she begs. My heart contracts at the sight of her face and the gun at her back.

"Please, I-I don't know—know anything. I swear I—"

She's silenced with a brutal hit to her back with the butt of his handgun. Crumbling to her knees before being dragged by her hair to the computer terminal, Grumpy lifts her up to her feet and shoves her towards the computer, sticking his gun to the back of her head. She cries out and shakes so hard she can't even raise her hands.

"If you're going to play around, then there's going to be a problem," Sleepy says as he raises his hand back to strike her.

Acting without thought, I pick myself up and stare down the clowns.

"Stop!" I yell, raising my arms in the air as the two clowns point their guns at me. My sneakers squeak against the floor and I swallow hard. Forcing the image of the two dead men lying behind me out of my mind, my throat constricts.

"I can help with the scanners, alright? I know how to bypass them. Just leave her alone."

I'm glad I at least sound braver than I feel. Sleepy lowers his hand down to his side. The woman looks visibly relieved and she lets out a loud, shaky breath.

The clowns turn to one another for a moment, mulling over my offer. Grumpy throws his arms up in a shrug, tilting his head in acquiescence.

"How the hell would you know anything?" Sleepy demands, still uncertain.

"I'm good with computers. I know what I'm doing." I say it with conviction, hoping they believe me and they never know the damage I'm capable of. The other hostages stare at me slack-jawed.

"You'd better, for your sake," Sleepy states.

Sleepy keeps his gun trained on the back of the teller's neck as Grumpy moves from behind the counter and comes towards me with his gun pointed at my chest. The bravado I felt just a moment before begins to fade as Grumpy walks behind me. He's too close. Close enough for me to the heat coming off his body as he leans his chest into my back, pressing the barrel of his gun to my head. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear that he's sniffing my hair. Suppressing a shudder, it takes everything I have not to drop back to the floor. He pushes me forward as we walk toward where Sleepy and the teller stand. Approaching the computer with caution, and minding the agitated clown with his finger on the trigger, I glance at the operating system set up and let out a small sigh of relief.

You can do this. They probably haven't updated this since 2005. You've worked on harder OS in the seventh grade than this.

Turning to the woman next to me, I glance at the plated name tag on her chest. Sarah.

"Listen, Sarah, right?" The woman looks at me with wide, tear-filled eyes and nods her head. "You need to enter your username and password. Can you do that for me, Sarah?"

I attempt to ignore the close proximity of the armed clowns behind me and maintain eye contact with her. She nods again and begins typing. Within seconds the main system dialogue screen opens.

Shooting her a small smile and a quiet 'thank you,' I ignore the bead of sweat trickling down my temple. I work through the security firewalls of the dated system. Despite the gun at my back and the terrified woman next to me, a small part of me can't help but reminisce about the last time I did something like this.

Focus, Miriam. If you get out of this alive you can think about that later.

My fingers fly as I bypass the scanners completely and engage emergency override protocols to open the vault. The muzzle of the gun pushes against my hair and my fingers freeze on the keyboard.

"Hurry up. You'd better be doing exactly what you said," Sleepy says as he pushes the gun harder against my head. The threat is punctuated by the sound of the hammer being pulled back. It's a struggle not to move.

"I—I just need a minute. I promise—it's almost done."

The gun moves away from my head and I resume typing, trying to go as fast as my fingers will allow. Entering in the executing command, large spools of code begin to filter through the open dialogue screen and a pent-up breath escapes. More irrational, and impertinent, thoughts float through my mind again.

Lucius is going to be pissed. Like, super pissed.

Thinking about what he'll have to say about all this won't help me. Or the lecture he'll give.

Focus.

"The vault should be opening now," I say, twisting to face the two men and wedging myself between them and Sarah.

Sleepy shrugs and takes off for the back of the bank while Grumpy motions for us to move with the barrel of his gun. Wrapping an arm around Sarah, we walk back out to the group who look at us with a collective sense of shock.

Grumpy follows close behind and shoves us both back down to the ground. He doesn't move away and I'm afraid to look back at him. The burning sensation returns to my face and neck. No longer able to tell where my shaking ends and where Sarah's begins, I flinch when Sleepy comes running back to the lobby, straining under a load of large duffel bags.

"C'mon. There's a lot of bags to move," Sleepy says as he heads back to the vault. Grumpy's feet shift before he moves to join his partner.

"Th-Thank you. I don't know what I would have done if you—" Sarah begins in a whisper.

"There's no need for that, alright? Thank me when we're all out of this mess," I say under my breath. Despite the strangling panic, I let a genuine smile come through and Sarah relaxes a little. The short moment of calm between us shatters when the two men come back from the vault and dump another large heap of bags in the middle of the lobby.

"If this guy was so smart, he would have had us bring a bigger car," Sleepy says. Grumpy turns again to look at us huddled together and freezes when Sleepy cocks his gun. "I'm betting that the Joker told you to kill me once we loaded the cash," he continues.

They're killing each other now?

Sarah tenses up next to me again as we look on. Strain electrifies the lobby.

Grumpy shakes his head and glances at the watch on his wrist. "No, no, no. I kill the bus driver." He side-steps the large hill of cash-filled duffel bags. Sleepy circles around, keeping Grumpy in his sights.

"Bus driver? What bus driv—"

Grumpy backs up quickly as the rear end of a yellow school bus tears through the entrance of the bank and sends the other man flying. He drops five feet away with a sickening crack as his head smacks against the tile. Everyone screams and the other hostages clutch their grenades tighter as the bus stops short a few feet away.

A small fat man in another clown mask opens the back of the bus. He belts out a loud peal of laughter at the looks of terror on our faces and the destruction of the lobby. Grumpy picks up the automatic weapon from the now-dead-Sleepy and turns back to the pile of bags. I jump at the sudden contact of Sarah squeezing my hand tight. A small whimper escapes her throat and I squeeze her hand back. Visions of further violence overrun my mind as Grumpy works to load the bus.

We aren't making it out of this.

"Those guys aren't getting up, are they?" The new clown lets out a loud chuckle. Grumpy begins tossing bags of money from the floor to the man, loading them inside. "Ooh, that's a lot of money. Hey, what happened to the rest of the guys?" he asks in an afterthought as he throws the last bag into the bus.

Grumpy turns away from him, pointing his gun over his shoulder, and, true to his word, he shoots the bus driver. We all scream again at the gunshots and the sight of blood flowing out of the man's body as he drops—just like the others had.

My throat is swelling shut. Breathing becomes a struggle as overwhelming despair pushes down on me.

This is it.

Grumpy strolls towards us, humming a low tune, and crouches over me and Sarah. She shuts her eyes and buries her face behind my shoulder, but I force myself to sit a little straighter and stare up at the man in the mask; I want my stubbornness and defiance to rule my last moments, not my fear. In a distant part of my brain, the faint sound of approaching sirens registers.

The man reaches up to the mask and slides it off his face, revealing a head of poorly-dyed green waves and a ghoulish painted face. Paling and hold Sarah's hand tighter, I can't pull my eyes from his scarred mouth, the jagged lines that curve upwards in a sick smile. I force myself to remember to breathe.

"Oh, don't look so glum," he laughs, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "Y'know, they say that whatever doesn't kill you…" His dark gaze drops to meet my frozen stare, and, despite the curvature of his scars, he isn't smiling. "Simply makes you... stranger," he says with a forcefulness that makes me flinch.

As quickly as he was there, the man waltzes away from us, laughing to himself as he jumps into the back of the bus and slams the door shut. He jumps over the bus seats like a hyperactive schoolboy before the bus rips itself out of the entrance and speeds away. We're all left staring at the gaping wound left behind by the bus as the sound of sirens becomes a deafening cacophony.