Chapter 1: The Bank

Winnipeg, Maple Leaf Commandery.

The sparse population here made the place feel like a desolate little town. If you wanted to expand your social circle, there was no point knocking on your neighbor's door, since you already knew pretty much everyone he knew. You were better off going online and making friends far away whom you might never meet in your life.

Year after year, people went about their lives by the rules, their days uneventful. Occasionally, you heard rumors of someone getting shot for trespassing on some noble's summer estate or private lakeside property, but those were only rumors. The media never reported anything of the sort.

It was an interesting phenomenon. Terrorists were always falling over themselves to claim responsibility for an incident, while bureaucrats could never disavow responsibility fast enough.

Strangely enough, the things the two sides admitted to or denied were equally bad.

When planes crashed into buildings, a man stepped forward and said he had done it. Countless people hated him for the rest of his life, until he was killed, and even after his bones had rotted, the curses lived on.

When a train ran off the rails, another man stepped forward and said lightning had done it. Hmm...

Believe it or not, I believe it.

Tom Stall was thirty-three that year and had been living in the city for almost seven years. A man of few words, cold in manner and solitary by nature, he looked very much like the typical cold-blooded killer in a movie.

That air about him meant Tom had few friends when he first arrived. Once people got to know him, though, they discovered that he wasn't as unapproachable as he looked. There was nothing frightening about him; he was easy to get along with. He didn't say much, but he was far more dependable than those men who talked endlessly and had nothing else going for them.

He found a job at a large game company, soon earned a promotion, and quickly became one of the gang at work. He was a model resident in his neighborhood, too, an enthusiastic volunteer who often took part in community service activities and helped raise money for charity.

All in all, Tom soon settled into this life, living like an upright, respectable man. If he'd known a few politicians, he might already have been named one of the city's ten outstanding young people.

March 10, 2101, two in the afternoon.

Tom had just finished a twelve-hour shift and was driving home. As he passed the bank, he stopped the car and went inside.

Tom wasn't short of money. At home, he had a bank card linked to an enormous sum. At his current standard of living, that money would keep him comfortably fed and clothed for the rest of his life without any need to work. Unless, of course, there was catastrophic inflation in the next thirty years, or Tom accidentally lived to a hundred and twenty.

Still, he remained in the habit of visiting the bank on payday every month. He always checked his balance that day to see what he could spend over the coming month and draw up a plan. He had always lived solely on the money in his salary account, like a typical single, middle-class man: driving a car with a small engine, buying no more than two luxury items a quarter, occasionally picking up household supplies on sale, and so on...

Working a shift from the early hours through the afternoon was exhausting, but Tom's face showed no sign of fatigue, as though reversing his sleep schedule or going without sleep for long stretches was nothing new to him.

The line wasn't long, about five or six people, and Tom stood at the back. He seemed patient and calm. Waiting came as naturally to him as breathing, without making him the slightest bit restless or distracting him.

Bang! Bang!

Someone fired two shots into the ceiling. Screams rang out in the bank, followed by lines everyone knew by heart. “Everybody get down! Shut your mouth, you! Let me see your hands!”

“Listen up! Don't ask for trouble. Don't try to be a hero. Do as you're told, and nobody gets hurt!”

“You bastard! Touch that alarm under the desk and I'll blow your head off!”

There were three robbers, wearing jeans, jackets, and black masks. Judging by their builds, they were all tall, grown men. Their clothes were ordinary, and the masks could be bought at any ski shop. Two carried shotguns. The third was probably in charge of collecting the money, so he had a handgun.

The two men with shotguns had taken control as soon as they came through the door. There were about twenty staff and customers in the bank altogether, so keeping them all in sight wasn't particularly difficult.

While those two shouted curses and threats, the robber with the handgun was forcing a bank employee behind the counter to stuff money into a bag.

“Hey! You little bastard! I told you to shut up! Didn't you hear me?!” One of the robbers with a shotgun walked toward a woman with a child.

At the sound of the gunshots, the woman had pushed the little boy down beside her and lain flat on the floor with him. But the child wouldn't stop crying. His wails rang through the banking hall, clearly getting on the robber's nerves.

“Please... don't. He's only a child,” the woman begged, shielding the boy in her arms.

“Shut up! Make him close his fucking mouth!” The shotgun barrel was already trained on the mother and son.

Tom lay flat on the floor a short distance away, not daring to lift his head. Even with a murder about to unfold before him, he had absolutely no intention of intervening.

He didn't want to get involved in this sort of violence. Whether that mother and son lived or died was none of his business. If anything, he was eagerly hoping the robbers would hurry up, take the money, and leave before the police arrived and it turned into a hostage standoff.

The boy cried louder and louder. Losing patience, the robber raised his voice still further. “I'll count to three. Make him shut up, or I'll do it for you! One!” He had already started counting.

Tom lifted his eyes and saw the mother's despair. Fear and grief filled her face as she sobbed out pleas to the robber. Her gaze swept over everyone lying on the floor of the hall, begging for help, but all they could do was lower their heads and look away, or pray for her out of pity.

“Two!”

A figure suddenly lunged at the robber with the shotgun. He had been behind the man and fairly close, so the robber was caught completely off guard.

The move took everyone there by surprise, especially the robber's accomplices.

Tom and the robber were now locked in a struggle, all four hands gripping the shotgun. The two men rolled around on the floor, neither able to subdue the other or break free.

For the moment, neither the other robber with a shotgun nor the one with the handgun at the counter could get a shot at Tom. They could only stand nearby, shouting and swearing.

The two men grappled on the floor for a dozen seconds or so, then somehow got to their feet. They were no longer rolling around together, but now the robber's body stood directly between Tom and his accomplices, who still couldn't fire.

The other two robbers edged closer with their guns, shouting for their partner to turn around and swing Tom into their line of fire.

Bang! Another shot rang out. The gun Tom and the robber were both gripping had gone off accidentally, blowing away half the head of the other robber with a shotgun, three meters away.

The body fell, brains splattered across a pillar in the hall. The sight was so gory that three or four people immediately began to vomit.

But it wasn't over. The robber with the handgun actually started firing at his own accomplice. Apparently, he'd made up his mind to shoot through his partner to kill Tom.

At that very same moment, the robber grappling with Tom screamed and, for some inexplicable reason, let go of the shotgun, leaving it entirely in Tom's hands. The two finally broke apart. Holding the gun by its grip, Tom stumbled backward and fell onto his backside.

Less than a second after Tom fell back, the robber he'd been wrestling took three bullets in succession. The rounds were powerful, and all three passed straight through the robber's torso at close range. If Tom hadn't happened to fall backward, he probably wouldn't have escaped either.

Hatred filled the wounded robber's eyes. With his last breath, he hurled himself at his accomplice. The robber with the handgun tried to sidestep him, but was caught around the waist.

First his view had been blocked, and now he couldn't move freely. In the few seconds he spent struggling to cope, Tom fumbled with the shotgun like a beginner, ejecting the spent shell, then fired with a look of panic.

Tom even closed his eyes as he fired. People who have never fired a gun tend to make that mistake, whatever kind of gun they're holding. And at the instant they pull the trigger, they suddenly relax their grip for a second or so and instinctively duck their heads. All of this can very easily get them hurt.

His shooting was amateurish and lacked any sort of flair, but the result was fairly good. The robber with the handgun was a mass of mangled flesh below the knee. He howled in pain, then passed straight out.

As the last robber lost consciousness, Tom slumped on the floor too, gasping for breath, his face blank. His panting was the only sound in the utterly silent banking hall.

Everyone there was dumbstruck. After a long moment, the bank's security guard was the first to recover. He stepped forward, kicked the handgun out of the unconscious robber's hand, and picked up the shotgun held by the robber whose head had been blown apart. “Call the police! Get an ambulance!” he told his colleagues behind the counter.

The guard crouched down and put a hand on Tom's shoulder. Tom flinched. Unable to speak, he simply stared at the guard as though he had only just noticed him.

“Buddy... are you hurt? Are you all right?” the guard asked.

Tom answered numbly, “N-no... I'm not hurt... thank you.”

“All right, give me the gun. That's it, careful, keep the muzzle down.” The guard took the gun. “I'm the one who should be thanking you, buddy. Everyone here should. You saved our lives.”

Tom barely reacted, looking as though he was still in shock. Suddenly, he turned his face away and dry-heaved a few times. Then his eyes rolled back and he fainted.