The hardest part is the choice. For me, at least. Choosing the right moment, the right instant of one second to the next, choosing which one to be in and dwell on for as long as I see fit, the perfect little speck of time, so miniscule, to cherish as my own. There's always that little voice in the back of my mind, when I do finally pick, that it was the wrong one. The one just before was a little better. There might be something more beautiful if I just waited a heartbeat more. But that's part of the struggle. That voice must die so that I may go forward and enjoy what is and not worry about the should haves, what ifs and if onlys.
And that doesn't even touch on the moments that I can't linger on because of the pragmatics of a particular sequence. For example, I wish to stop the moment so that I can further dwell on the dawning realization of the woman in front of me. But I can't because then I could not settle into a moment I know is coming down the line. And that is a moment I cannot ignore, even if I actually wanted to. Alas, the fear spreads far too quickly for my taste, the confusion so quickly replaced with terrible understanding. So many little things simply gone from the moment as I trudge forward. The only thing I really pick out is that she has three piercings on her left ear and four on her right, and what might be a hole for something on her nose. Progressive, really. Someone ought to be applauded. She sits there for the briefest of moments, waiting for me, behind the counter, register by her side, eyeing the baseball bat clutched in my hands.
"This is the moment where you do as I say, and nobody gets hurt," I say with a beaming smile. It's important to be expressive when the eyes are covered. So many people miss the cues when the whole of the face is simply gone. Her hands go underneath the counter for that handy little button that will make the problems go away.
I am now next to her, tapping her on the shoulder, still smiling and once again, I am forced to watch as the emotions cross her face, never staying still for too long.
"I understand that you're trained to do that," I say, "And I don't blame you. But please refrain from making this any more of an irritation than it already is. I'm already ruining so many people's days with this. Let's just try to make this little trip to the bank as pleasant as we can, shall we?"
She nods and I finally burn her nametag into my brain. Lola, her name is Lola and now she is my new best friend. Probably should have done it when I hopped the counter, but I have to conserve. The people in line have just noticed what is going on, and I feel the twinge in my stomach at so many missed opportunities. So many faces all morphing from one moment to the next and I miss all of them. A man with dark hair and a beard that needs a trim reaches for something in his pocket, but before he can do anything a gunshot pierces the stunned silence. I adjust my jacket and move to stand on the counter.
"Hello and good afternoon everyone," I say, still beaming, "Most of you have figured out what exactly is going on and I applaud you. So sharp. And for those of you that haven't, these fine gentlemen from the employ of Mr. Bloody Sunday are here to help you along. Now everyone, please follow the directions to the best of your ability, and this whole thing will be over before you know it."
Men in black and red with large rifles tend to have an impact and inspire docile compliance in most and defiant compliance in others. Mr. Hero over there still went against the wall with the others when everything was said and done, but he wasn't happy about. Well, he would just have to wait for everything to lock into place so that we may continue. The duffels from each of the new entrants into the bank, harsh heavy things that echo against the high marble when dropped, find their way onto the counter and Lola does her part admirably. She puts the money in the bag and keeps on going down the line, making sure no one has an empty belly. The gentlemen in the red and black take over my position as Lola's handler and I am free to peruse the rest of the captive audience at my leisure.
Still can't sit down and focus on any particular one of them, but that's the job, really. Mr. Bloody Sunday is a particular employer, and his Troubles do a wonderful job at the nitty gritty with the rifles and the mean looks. I'm just along for a little bit of pomp and circumstance and for the inevitable show that would come crashing down around in a moment's time. Give or take.
I don't particularly care for Deadman. Not fun to play against really. I can work with a lot, but I can't work with moans and grunts. Shame too because I hear he has a lovely singing voice. Master Windstep is fun, mainly because of his speeches, and how absolutely gratifying it is to end them with a bat to the temple. Serpentor would also be welcome to come slithering in. I haven't seen her around for a while, and I hope that the rumors of her moving are false, although understandable. Some troubles with her man and those always have a nasty habit of going bad places quickly. If Captain Solar shows up, then this entire day is a wash. Really though, I want my favorite to come crashing through the doors.
Mr. Hero tries to stay down. He really does. This is just a fight he can't win. Take me out of the equation, and he still loses. One guy with a pistol loses against five with rifles. I may not be a particularly gifted man in the fields of mathematics, but I can do that at least. He stands and opens his mouth. I feel the words start to form at the back of his throat, some grand condemnation that I am a terrible person, that I cannot escape justice, that I am some spawn of the worst of mankind and he will be thanked and rewarded for all he has done by removing me from the face of the earth. I don't get to hear it. I am there, right beside him as he reaches down to his hip and I drive the baseball bat right into his stomach.
He goes down, sputtering and a round of fear passes from his body, gasping and writhing on the floor. The gun goes clattering across the floor. It's always the ones with revolvers that try something.
"Everyone," I say, "Please applaud this man for his selfless act of bravery. If we were all a little more like him, I believe that the world would be a much brighter place. While he did fall this time, I would like to remind you all that is no good reason to give up the fight. You simply have to get back up again after you fall."
I smile and they don't know what to feel. The man on the ground curses me through half stolen breathes that don't quite reach the whole of his chest. That's fine. He won't die. The Troubles and Lola are still working on filling the bags with delicious cash. Any minute, any moment, and second and I get to earn my cut. I'm getting impatient really. She should be here by now.
The window explodes into a tantalizing starry smear against the ceiling and I move to cover my ears. The shockwave still hurts, still shatters my mind, and tries to collapse my ribs. And there she is, always so loud and cacophonic and I can't stop smiling. I step over the man and pick up his gun, only to toss it away as far as I can. He would still try something once his strength came back, no doubt. He probably had another piece on him, but it would be too late. The star had arrived. Nothing he could do now.
She came to a stop in the middle of the floor, shards of glass no larger than a snowflake still swirling around her, dancing in her sunlight hair, the wind whipping the cape and the skirt into a frenzy of action. She skids a little more but does not stumble. A hundred, a thousand, a million and maybe more. She's done this again and again and again and still another time and it always takes my breath away.
This is the moment I take, I steal, I mug the heavens for. The starlight shimmering woman cloaked in concussive waves shattering the world with her presence, standing before me on marble halls polished to a mirror sheen. Unfortunate that there is no color. By my will, time simply stops. All the color fades and I am left in a gray world, my gray world. Sauntering, cantering, slowly meandering my way through the flakes of broken glass.
She wears orange and black, gray and black from my perspective. The shockwave from her entrance is frozen around her, a slight shimmer in the air, separating her from the rest of the world. I can't stay here too long, take in the frame and the form and the shape of her body. I have a job to do and I have to do it well. I smack the baseball bat into my palm, once, twice, and I ram it into her stomach and hope that some kid in the stands has his glove up.
I will it and the color pops back in. She was going to say something, but the wind isn't there. I am, standing over her, hating myself for not having it within me to go again so soon, hating myself for giving the moment away.
"Hello there, Blast Hole," I say as I lean on the bat and run a hand through my hair, loving the spring back against the force. She coughs hard but manages to stagger up and try to get a shot off. I sway back, but the shockwave still rips through me and sends my own clothes fluttering.
"Hey, Beat Down," she wheezes, "Glad to see your hair still looks terrible."
