From his concealed vantage point, he had a clear view of the women being held hostage. They were being held in the middle of the lobby, their hands raised in the air.
"Stay back!" Two cops bellowed together, their voices sharp with urgency. "You're going to get yourself killed!"
Killed? He mused, unfazed. If I die, I'll just spawn somewhere else—maybe even a cooler place. No big deal.
He kept walking closer to the building, driven by curiosity about what they were doing to the girls in their little gimp costumes. Then he realised they weren't gimp masks at all—they were ski masks. Do they have ski slopes in there or something? he wondered. How do they keep the snow and ice cold? Their outfits don't seem thick enough to keep them warm.
He spotted the group of people in ski masks and a cluster of hostages held against their will, weeping and crying. About a dozen women, bank tellers, and a few customers were clustered tightly in the centre of the lobby, forced to kneel on the cold floor. Their wrists were bound behind them with zip ties, and a few had streaks of mascara running down their faces from silent tears. One woman, in a navy blazer, bit her lip to stifle a sob, while another whispered reassurances to the trembling younger girl beside her.
Wait, this isn't some celebrity photo shoot with sexy outfits and all that, Chad thought. No way they'd dress them so unsexily, with teary eyes and mascara streaks. A chill ran through him as the reality sank in. Heart pounding, he started to back away, fear overtaking his curiosity as he grasped the true danger he'd stumbled into.
The first cop lunged, his breath quickening, "Sir! What the hell? Stop... don't you see the tape?" His shrill voice broke as he jabbed a shaky finger at the flapping yellow line. "Get back... NOW!" he yelled, wild-eyed.
Chad gaped at the yellow police tape, its bold text screaming: "DANGER: Keep Out! No Crossing. And absolutely do NOT swipe this tape for your edgy avant-garde fashion show outfit… Seriously."
The sergeant said, "THE BFG IS LOADED! WE'RE gonna blow this place to smithereens—obliterate every damn inch of it! I'm talking nothing left. We'll reduce it to dust, a crater where this building used to be! It's gonna be chaos, destruction—total annihilation!"
The second cop blinked. "The BFG… as in Big Friendly Giant? Oh—wait—Big Fucking "Gun…?" He squinted up at the sky, genuinely uncertain. "Unless… you did mean the giant…" Glancing around warily, he made sure there wasn't some towering colossus looming nearby.
The crowd—paparazzi, locals, teens—clustered behind the police tape, their whispers a taut thread of fear.
A lens dangled, forgotten, as a rasp broke through the murmurs: "Hostages are in there… real people. Not CGI or NPCs."
"They're daughters... sisters... "choked voice "How... how can they gamble with their lives like this?"
"These crazies... they're... they're gonna blow up this whole building... and... and they're gonna kill everyone inside... sob. Those people... they won't make it out... sob. Not a single one of them... sniffle. They're trapped... they're trapped with no chance…"
The voice, rough and strained, came from a figure with wild eyes and clenched fists. "It's annihilation! They don't give a damn who dies!"
Oblivious to the anguished cries piercing the air, the sergeant and his squad of cops remained locked in tunnel-vision focus, their attention riveted elsewhere.
Grunting, the sergeant tried to hoist the BFG onto his shoulders, but it was too big and unwieldy. He stumbled, lost his balance, and toppled forward.
Eyes darting, the second cop flailed his arms toward a haphazard mound of firepower. "Prop it on that pile—railguns, hand grenades, those wonky bombs! It'll hold steady!"
The sergeant clawed his way upright, dirt smearing his uniform, and barked with a manic gleam, "Bloody brilliant plan!"
Meanwhile, the hostagees… the hotster-keepers… the hosteestees…
…The people in the bank with the guns were making an announcement:
Engagement announcement?
Admitting they cheated at Donkey Kong and Pac-Man to set world records?
Revealing they hired people to boost their account and play for them in Diablo 3?
Confessing they actually liked the Netflix version of Death Note?
Or that they once enjoyed Dragonball Evolution? No, no, no... and... well, maybe?
They're announcing something.
One of the bank robbers said, "Shut up, narrator! I'm doing the talking here!"
Another one of them said inside, "We are going to start shooting the hostages one by one now."
A gasp spread through the group. Eyes wide with disbelief, some women trembled, while others stammered, "W-we're gonna die?"
"Please, don't!" One woman cried, her voice cracking as tears welled in her eyes. "I've got catto and doggos to look after!!"
The woman in the red dress staggered forward, clutching her chest in desperation. "Please, don't shoot us!" Her voice trembled, and her face twisted in fear, eyes wide with panic.
Sobs and frantic whispers filled the air, each breath thick with fear.
Another robber spoke up, "Shouldn't we, like, make actual demands or something, instead of just threatening to shoot people? I mean, we could say, 'We'll start shooting unless you send us MikuCoins,' y'know? That's what those ransomware viruses do with their demands, right?"
The lead robber at the bank rolled his eyes and replied, "You've been watching way too many movies, man."
Another figure in a ski mask, sounding genuinely confused, piped up, "Wait, am I on the Terrorists or Counter-Terrorists team? I forgot which role they gave me."
As the bank surged with shouted threats and the stifled sobs of hostages, Chad froze. He inched backward, his shoes scuffing against the pavement. His eyes locked on the scene—people zip-tied, trembling, faces drained of colour, pleading under the robbers' menace.
It was too abrupt, too unreal. His mind splintered, as though he'd slipped outside his own skin. The cries, the tension—they were happening, but they felt distant, like a drama or a video game.
If Chadwick's father, John Wick, were here, he'd take them all out before they even knew what happened. He'd dodge bullets like they were afraid of his very existence—like the universe itself would bend reality just to keep him untouched. He'd move so fast, the bullets would turn around and beg for mercy, but he is busy, looking after a dog, or something.
One of the female hostages' eyes locked Chad's, wide with desperation, tears streaking smudged mascara down her pale face. Her bound wrists tremble, zip ties cutting skin. A gun presses to her temple, its barrel glinting.