Finally I extract myself from the crowd and approach the window.
“Hi there. I need to make a cash withdrawal.”
She looks at me over her glasses. “Card or account number?”
“I don’t have either on me.”
“ID?”
“Don’t have that either.” I give her a bashful smile, hoping it wins her over.
Her expression doesn’t change. “Sir, I can’t process a cash withdrawal without proper identification or account credentials.”
“Right, but—” I gesture at my face. “You don’t recognize this mug? It’s me. Vanguard. I’ve been on the cover of Time Magazine. Twice.”
“I don’t read Time Magazine.”
Jesus Christ.
“Look, I just need cash. What’s the daily limit for a withdrawal?” I’ve never felt like more of a civilian.
“Ten thousand dollars. But a cash transaction of that amount without identification is going to flag in our system. I’d need to file a suspicious activity report, which means?—”
“A suspicious activity report. For me. ForVanguard. For America’s superhero?” I’m cringing internally as I say all that.
“For anyone, sir. Those are the rules.”
The voice comes out of nowhere.
Take the money. Kill her. She’s in your way. Kill her and take what you need.
My hands go cold. I can feel my jaw tightening, my fingers curling against the counter. The teller is still talking, something about federal regulations and bank policy, but I can barely hear her over the static building in my skull.
Do it. Hold up the whole place. You could take them all down in seconds. Take out the cameras. No witnesses. No problems.
“Sir? Are you alright?”
I’m gripping the counter hard enough to dent the wood. I force myself to let go. Force myself to breathe.
“Fine,” I manage. “I’m fine. Just—give me a second.”
Kill her. Kill them all. Take what you need and go.
“Is there a problem here?”
A new voice. I turn and there’s a man in a slightly nicer suit than the other employees—manager, probably—coming out from a back office. He’s maybe forty, balding, and he’s looking at me like I’m a celebrity and a potential PR disaster all at once.
“Mr. Vanguard, sir, I’m Tom Hendricks, branch manager. Is there something I can help you with?”
“I need to make a withdrawal. Ten thousand. I don’t have my ID or my card on me. I’m sorry.” I give him anothergolly-gee, how embarrassing, apologetic smile.
The teller opens her mouth to protest, but Hendricks holds up a hand.
“That won’t be a problem,” he says smoothly. “We can verify your identity through other means. Facial recognition, biometrics—we have your file on record from the Citizen Heroes program. Linda, process the withdrawal please.”
Linda looks like she wants to smite the both of us.
Five minutes later I’m walking out of the bank with ten thousand dollars in a manila envelope, the voice in my head finally quiet, my hands still shaking slightly as I wave goodbye to the security guard.
