But in all chaos there is calculation

LUCKY

    Something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.

    I stand at the very edge of the crowd, motionless, a stray hand tangled in my hair. Police barricades bar the way forward, and people hang over the dividers, straining to see through the throng of SWAT members and emergency vehicles piled outside the bank. We've been gathered here for twenty minutes already, and the tense silence that hangs above our heads has lasted for half that time. I can hardly tell if anyone is breathing, their attentions wholly fixed on the closed glass doors that stand at the epicenter of this crisis.

    But they've no need to fear this outcome - I can feel how this will work out.

    This is not what I intended.

    Mere seconds after the thought crosses my mind, the doors are flung open, and out rush a myriad of bedraggled-looking people. Some of them scream, though the danger has long since passed; others huddle together, half draped over one another as they shuffle forward and into the waiting arms of the police and the EMTs. SWAT members overtake the group and file into the bank, guns raised, fanning out to check the situation out.

    They'll find only the bodies of three would-be bank robbers, growing colder now as the minutes tick by. Heart attacks, I'd guess, and the medical examiner will call it a freak occurrence, the news another miracle. And they'll be right - awfully, irritatingly right.

    I've been keeping a closer eye on the events I set in motion every day ever since the confusion revolving about the apartment fire a few days ago. The results have been... less than ideal. I can see now that it wasn't an isolated incident; little things are off all over the place, and I suspect that's how it's been for quite a while. Had the fire not tipped me off...

    It's not worth thinking about.

    I can hear the police ordering the civilians to clear out, and after slight hesitation, they do as they're told, dispersing into the streets like rats driven from their nest. I'm left alone, and I remain relatively unnoticed as I approach the barricades. Officers cast me a cautious glance as I slip through the barriers, angling myself to squeeze by without having to displace them; they turn away, though, without questioning me, and I continue towards the mass of security blankets and gentle whispers that's taken up a significant portion of the bank's parking lot.

    Humans are naturally suspicious creatures, and rightfully so. They've retained enough of their animal instinct to be wary of potential danger in every encounter they face throughout the day, though it's been dulled to the point of uselessness in some. Others, like these cops, know to scan faces for threats and watch hands for fatal movements. I respect their wariness, in all honesty. It's nice to know where I likely picked up my recent paranoia, as well.

    Back to the matter at hand, though.

    With them being such suspicious creatures, however, it's wise to act as though I belong here. What that entails changes with the circumstances, of course, and right now playing a blue-blooded cop seems the best option to fly below the radar for as long as possible. The disguise is simple enough to maintain, and the uniform is comfortable, though I must say, the material is too stiff for my liking. I'll be glad of the moment I'm finished with my business and I can return to the more casual attire I was sporting before this mess began.

    I skirt past the returning SWAT men, head tilted down and cap pushed down low over my eyes. I'm not concerned with detection so much as I am being called out to help in some way or another; the last thing I need is to be delayed at a time like this.

    The hostages are obviously shaken. More than one of them has dissolved into loud, ugly sobs; those around are too fazed to seem bothered by the noise, even when someone has fallen against their shoulder and is crying into their shirt. Shock has settled in for all of them, its claws pricking beneath their skin and hooking onto their hearts. I would pity them if they weren't meant to be dead right now.

    It's an easy thing to do as I approach them: the gun slides free of its holster at my hip without resistance, and I finger the trigger as I lift it, my aim centering nicely on the temple of the closest hostage. They don't move, their blank stares on their feet, or their trembling hands, or glazed over and unseeing. The officers and medical personnel are similarly uninterested in my exploits, and while I'd like to attribute that to some sort of telepathic power of persuasion I conveniently possess, it's nothing more than a happy coincidence. Probably, anyway.

    I'm finding coincidences aren't as likely as I'd previously thought.

    Balance is key, I think to myself, narrowing my eyes; my finger hooks over the trigger and pulls back--

    "Put the gun down - now!"

    I have a split second to think, I am the unluckiest being in the universe, before my hand jerks - subtly - and the bullet fires from the chamber; it misses its mark by only a degree or two, ricocheting off the metal side of the ambulance at the hostage's back and digging into the asphalt only inches from the foot of a man. He's now staring straight at me, eyes slowly widening, as if he's seeing everything through a haze of thoughts and is only just resurfacing from the depths of his own mind.

    Then someone is screaming to high heaven.

    I don't stop to single out the hysterical victim; instead I allow the gun to evaporate into smoke between my fingers, letting it dissipate into the cool afternoon air. Seeing as I highly doubt they have these fingerprints in the database, it's unlikely anything would come of someone picking up the gun; but it's better to be safe than sorry, and should I ever slip up again, I wouldn't want them to have something to compare new prints to.

    I could simply vanish from this place - drift away on the wind and reassemble myself somewhere else. But there's too many witnesses; they'd make too much of a story out of my disappearance, and even though these people are fractured in every possible way, so much of the same tale is bound to cause a stir in the world. And yet, running is all I can do anyway - just much less efficiently.

    I twist around, looking for an escape route. If I can lose the eyes of the crowd - even for a heartbeat - I could change completely, drop the clothes and this face, and hole myself up somewhere while I attempt to sort out the consequences of yet another botched event. But, no - of course that's not what happens.

    "Down on your knees. Hands behind your head."
    He's tall and broad-shouldered, his blond hair ruffled beneath his cap. He looks every bit the street cop he's meant to be - which is annoying, in all honesty, because as I am now, I can't see myself getting past him without getting shot. And that would only add to today's unpleasantness. So I blow out a short sigh through my nose, mentally gauge how much I'm willing to expose myself after everything that's already happened, then drop down onto my knees, cradling the back of my head.

    "Officer," I say, not unkindly, tilting my head to watch him as he circles around to my back. Metal flashes in his hands, glinting in the bright afternoon sunshine; handcuffs, then. Wonderful. "Would you be so kind as to let me go, just this once?"

    By way of an answer, my arms are jerked nearly out of their sockets as he pins my wrists together in order to lock the cuffs around them. I wince, angling my shoulders back to accommodate the awkward positioning of my arms. It's not the first time I've had to deal with uncompromising policemen, but it is one of the worst times for it to be happening again. Too many witnesses, too little options.

    There's power thrumming through my bones, humming just beneath my skin. To be confined in a human body is punishment enough for it; this is merely adding insult to already grievous injury. I'd like nothing more than to destroy these chains and be on my merry way, but there's only so much I can accomplish while abiding by the rules I've obeyed since the beginning of my existence. I must not harm those who are not marked for it - and this man bears no signs of my intervention. It's frustrating in a way I find difficult to describe, though at the same time, I draw such comfort from these invisible bonds; to be true chaos, destruction without reason or end, would be far more of a curse.

    I close my eyes for a moment, regaining some of my mental fortitude.

    "Officer," I say again, and the tightness in my voice must give him pause, because his hands still, wrapped around my forearms in the process of hauling me to my feet. "You're going to think I'm insane, and I can't fault you for that. But delaying me here will do no good for anyone. I could explain it all to you, if you'd like, though I would ask that you release me first. I'm a... person of my word, I assure you."
    I think he almost snorts, clearly amused that a would-be shooter thinks they have a chance outfoxing him. He regains his grip on my arms and drags me upward; I go without much complaint, aside from another sigh and an eyeroll towards the skies. I'll do something once he's shoved me into the back of a cruiser; with no prying eyes on me, it'll be simple to make a quick escape. .

    "Am I receiving the silent treatment?" I ask curiously. I feel as though someone who was just seen attempting to murder an innocent civilian would warrant some sort of verbal bashing, or at least intense questioning even before being led to the backseat of the police car. The officer says nothing, though, as he moves past me briefly to unlock to door. I catch sight of his nameplate and blink: Drake. It's a name that conjures up a twinge of unease for me, though he wouldn't understand why.

    I'm just about settled in the cruiser when Drake straightens up suddenly. The lines of his shoulders are tense, and the muscles of his arms tighten to an uncomfortable extent. He looks prepared for battle, which isn't a comforting prospect at all. Brow furrowed, I lean to the side, peering past his taut form.

    Ah. Am I actually the unluckiest being in the universe? I raise a brow, considering. Well, perhaps this is a stroke of good fortune, actually.

    "Lucky~ I see you! Come out and play, will you?"

    Officer Drake whips around as I nudge him aside and plant my feet on the asphalt, digging in my heels to pull myself from the cruiser. He's preparing himself for a fight he has nothing to do with, and while I know it's only his instincts kicking in, I'd rather spare him from any sort of unnecessary misfortune, if at all possible.

    "Get back in the--"
    He stops short, mouth clamping shut, at the look I give him. I can't imagine what he's seeing in my eyes right now. Eons and war, destruction and endless, harrowing terror. Whatever it is, I'm grateful that he takes a step back, though I could without the hand he's reaching towards his firearm. Satisfied Officer Drake will be silent at least for a few moments, I turn my attention to the girl standing a dozen feet from me.

    She's a young thing, with bouncing blond curls and a coy smile. Hands on her cocked hips, that electric twinkle sizzling in her eyes. There's a lightness to her that I can't help but frown at; I've never liked the looks of Nike's creatures, not really. There's always been something unnaturally vibrant about them that's never sat well with me. And she's no different; when she smiles, I feel as though she's conducting the very sun through pearly teeth and pink lips.

    There's a gun in her hand. Of course there is. The hostages have since been ushered away, so at the very least I don't have to worry about a symphony of shrieks being set off. But the sight of her here is troubling nonetheless. If Nike has taken an issue with me, then why not come themselves? Why send an advocate instead, when they know what little difference their presence makes to me?

    "Nike sends their regards, I take it?" I step forward and the girl mimics the movement, lessing the distance between us with two great strides. "Tell them I want to speak in person. They have something they need to correct."
    "Now, now, Lucky, Nike is very busy. Busier than you nowadays, I'd assume." She swings the gun around her finger, still smiling at me, still dazzling and horrific with the sunlight shimmering around her. "They don't have time to meet with you. Besides, Nike's done nothing wrong."
    "Nothing wrong?" My mouth twists distastefully. "Can you explain the past few days, then? Why nothing's adding up? Why so many people have been saved?"

    Her lips turn up even more, if that's possible.

    "So you've finally noticed. Good for you! Nike bet us that it would take another month at least before you caught on."
    "Caught on to what?"

    "Ah, if you haven't figured that out yet, then I won't spoil the surprise." She blinks. "Actually, Nike did send me here for a reason, and I suppose you won't have to worry about that little surprise after this."

    Officer Drake has only just issued another one of his delightful warnings when the shot rings out and the bullet tears into my chest.

Officer Drake