In the last minutes before the heist—really more of a robbery, but heist sounds cool and exciting—I almost talk myself out of it. I mean, I’m about to rob a bank. Before today, I’ve never done a crime. I feel like some part of me should be recoiling just from cultural conditioning, but all I feel is terrified that I’ll fail. That I’ll get caught. That I’ll disappoint Ferromancer. That I’ll never catch up to Striga. It’s just jitters, I’ll be fine. This is what all that practice was for. I try to shake out the nervous energy and focus on what I’m confident about. I’ve played through this scene in my head so many times, rehearsing every line. I can do this. I’m ready. A dozen imps squat behind me on the roof of a cafe across the street from the bank I’m planning to rob. The Carlisle Bank downtown is one of the nicer banks in Forks, with tall windows and a brushed steel facade. I’ve never been, which makes it perfect for eliminating any chance of a link to me—I trust the veil, but there’s no point taking unnecessary risks. One more deep breath, and then it’s go time. I whistle to my familiars and take flight, gliding down from my perch on the roof to land just in front of the bank’s glass doors. The imps with wings soar beside me, while the ones without wings scamper down the side of the building and lag behind. A pair of imps take up positions on either side of the bank entrance and pull the doors open for me. On the street, passersby take notice, and I hear the telltale click of phone cameras going off. The attention is always appreciated, but they’re not my primary audience. I sweep into the bank lobby, taking note of my surroundings as I spread my arms wide and gesture my familiars into the room with me. The interior is very clean and modern: gleaming marble floors, plush couches for seating, and an actual crystal chandelier that I’m itching to shatter. When I picked this bank and was talking about it with my friends, Mike complained that the crystal chandelier was completely out of character with the modern aesthetic of the bank’s interior, and then he mocked up his own idea for the interior in some house renovation game. He’s kind of a freak like that. “Salutations, good people of Forks! I deeply apologize for disrupting your busy lives and lively business, but I’m afraid I have an urgent appointment with this bank’s vault and the dollar bills therein. Do be a lovely crowd and keep away from the splash zone. Flash photography is encouraged, so get out those phones and record away!” Playing the part of the cackling villainess is so fun it surprises me. I luxuriate in the glow of performance, soaking in the excited reactions of the crowd. Seven customers are scattered about the lobby, well-dressed men and women talking to the tellers or taking advantage of the lounge’s free coffee. All of them turn to look at me, many with annoyed expressions that shift into delight when they see a real life witch standing in the entrance of the bank. They’re looking at me, taking in my lines and my appearance. Finally, people are paying attention to me. The tellers, on the other hand, look bored. They’ve probably been through this already more times than they can remember, being in the grandest city of magic on this side of the continent. I pity them, but not enough to regret doing this. They’ll be fine, and it’s not their money I’m taking. “Since I have your eyes,” I say with a grin, “now would be the perfect time to introduce myself—to you, and to all of Forks. My name is—” Then someone shoots me. Motherfucker! I clutch at my stomach where a fresh hole has been made and grit my teeth through the pain. There’s a goddamn bullet in me. Some idiot prick shot me. No one’s ever shot me before. What the hell is your problem!? And yet, although I’ve never been shot before, I get the distinct feeling that this is nowhere near as painful as a gunshot to the stomach is supposed to be. Aren’t gut wounds the very worst kind of wound? I could swear I’ve seen something about how it’s the only kind of pain that comes close to childbirth. The pain I’m feeling now is like a papercut compared to that. In the seconds it takes me to react to getting shot, the wound is already healing over. I watch the bullet get pushed out by regenerating flesh, and when the hole seals up the fabric of my dress seals with it, the only mark of the injury a bit of lingering blood on black. I pat the area and laugh, and then I look for the shithead who thought they could shoot a witch and get away with it. He’s not hard to find. The rest of the crowd has backed away from him, nervous shock filtering through the delighted excitement of before. The man is shaking in his tailored jacket, a concealed carry holster revealed around his waistband. This guy brought a gun into a bank, who does that? The gun is still in his hands, both of them holding it tight in a white-knuckle grip. His finger is still curled around the trigger. It’s a pistol, but I don’t know guns so I can’t place a make or model or anything like that. All I see is a boring, gray, useless piece of junk. An affront. “Mistake,” I tell him, cold fury seeping into my voice. With a flick of my wrist I send a fireball his way, and at the same time I spread my wings wide in case he shoots again—can’t have him missing and the bullet finding its way into one of my lovely audience members. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. He panic-shoots thrice before the green flame swallows him whole and reshapes him into one of my familiars. I watch a sheen of wet clay spread across his skin and suit, texture and detail carved into it as my magic does its glorious work, and then he’s one of mine—a brute, saurian and hulking, with Thunderclap’s axe-turned-hammer in hand. I take each gunshot with a forced smile, the pain becoming easier to ignore with every bullet that pierces my flesh. I would have been terrified when I was just another human, but now any fear I might have felt has burned away in the fires of my apotheosis. I revel in how the bullets are expelled from my body, for they are unworthy of harming me. A witch fears no weapon held in a mortal’s hands. “I thank you for the opportunity to demonstrate my power,” I tell the transformed gunman, though it’s entirely for everyone else’s benefit. “As I was saying: my name is Archon, and I am here to rob this bank. Resistance is unbecoming, and I believe I’ve just dealt with the only idiot in this room suicidal enough to take a shot at a witch. None of you can hurt me. None of you can stop me. So let’s all have a fun, pleasant robbery, yes?” Living in Forks has a funny way of changing how you react to supernatural phenomena. In a more normal city, I think the average person would still be more scared than excited to see a magic-wielding supervillain threatening to rob the very building you’re standing in. But here? The crowd was more worried about the gun than about the witch, and for good reason. Now, as the lone actor is removed, the mood shifts again. There’s a current of tension—a bit of nervousness at how I transformed the man who shot me, I imagine—but the dominant feeling is still interest. It’s a kind of curiosity that hasn’t quite reached adoration, but it might get there if I build enough of a name for myself. These people could love me. I want that more than I ever thought I would. Strange. I stride past the onlookers and march up to the bulletproof glass separating me from the bank teller. She’s playing some sort of tile-matching game on her phone. She looks up at me with a yawn when I politely knock on the glass. Brown hair, sleepy eyes, kind of cute. Writing my lines for this next part was a far greater ordeal than writing my entrance. There are plenty of classic phrases I could use, such as “I’d like to make a withdrawal,” or “Stick ‘em up, this is a robbery,” but if I say something too cliched the teller will probably just groan and roll her eyes, like how you should never, ever make a joke about something being free to a cashier working retail. It’s important for my branding that I develop a good rapport with the people whose place of business I’m robbing. “Out of curiosity,” I open, leaning an elbow on the counter and resting my chin on my palm, “do you get hazard pay when a witch shows up, or is it just normal hours?” The teller snorts. “Hazard pay? As if. Look, you know that there’s gonna be magical girls here any minute, right?” “Sure, yeah, that’s why I’m here. Do you need to wait until I beat them up before getting the money out of the vault, or can we start that process now and save a bit of a time? It’s fine with me if you want to drag it out, take a smoke break, do whatever. I’ve got all day.” I grin. “Just try not to break the chandelier,” she sighs. “It’s always such a pain to clean up.” On cue, the heroines burst into the bank: a trio of color-coordinated magical girls in matching costumes—pink, yellow, and blue—that I recognize as the Blurs, a team of speedsters. Their outfits are sleek and form-fitting, the kind of full-body spandex typical of a comic book hero, with each costume having black accents breaking up the profile. Each wears a black domino mask with opaque eyes that match the main color, and even their hair matches the color theming. It’s a little excessive, but I’m a sucker for the uniform look. I’m also, I have to admit, quite a bit relieved that I’m not facing Thunderclap with her Vanguard buddies. “Man, what is it with you guys and robbing banks?” bemoans Canary, the yellow Blur, as she leans on the entry door frame with her hands behind her head. “If you were banking on a payday, I really love to disappoint.” “Cool wings!” adds Amaranth, the pink one, her fists out in a readied stance. “Can’t wait to rip ‘em off ya. Don’t worry, you’ll live.” Azure, the predictably blue, has her arms crossed as she surveys the room with a severe expression. “Surrender now, witch,” she addresses me, voice tight. “We won’t give you another chance.” Gosh, have I mentioned how much I love magical girls? I mean, honestly, what’s not to love? The costumes, the banter, the sheer presence, it’s all just perfect. It takes all of my concentration not to squeal like I did in front of Thunderclap, and these gals aren’t even in my top ten. I do know them, of course. The Blurs are your typical vigilante team, doing their best to deal with mundane crime and the handful of witches not already married to conflict with Visage or Vanguard heroines. They’d probably join Vanguard if forced to choose, but they seem to enjoy their independence. Powerset-wise, they’re speedsters, and more importantly they’re a shared power unit: instead of each magical girl being selected separately and teaming up later, all three Blurs were granted their powers together, and it’s perhaps more accurate to say that they only have one superpower that’s being shared by all three heroines. Individually, they’re all weaker than a solo magical girl of comparable experience; together, they regularly punch above their weight class. Most of my evenings for the past two weeks have been filled with dreaming up how I’d beat all the various magical girls that I could conceivably get in a fight with, so I already have a few ideas for how I’ll approach this team. I’m itching to test those ideas, and I need to win this fight. There’s a lot riding on it, both reputationally and in my personal life. But a little bit of talk among peers can’t hurt, right? I clap my hands excitedly. “Oh, it’s so lovely to hear your lines in person! Canary’s puns, Azure’s straightforward focus, and Amaranth’s delightful sense of violence. I’m a big fan, really. I’m honored that you’ll be the first magical girls I get to kick around in a fight—that little tiff with Thunderclap didn’t count, of course.” “Oh good,” Canary groans, “a chatty one. And a big ego, but when is that not the case?” “She called me delightful,” Amaranth says to Azure. “They never call me delightful! Can we keep this one?” “No,” their team leader says bluntly. “Canary, get the civilians to safety. Amaranth, start clearing those familiars. The witch is mine.” The magical girls blur into motion and I cackle my best maniacal laugh. Okay, heroes. Let’s dance.