*7 MONTHS LATER*

Despicable. Heinous. Thief. Murderer. Traitor. Monster.

Villain.

Yup, that's me.

I'm the bad guy, the one that parents look at and tell their children, "now that's someone you don't want to be, kids. You see, he probably didn't eat his vegetables growing up, and I'll bet you a whole dollar that he kicked and screamed when it was bedtime." And the kids look at me, wide-eyed, and hide behind their parent's legs because God forbid they might turn out like that if they don't eat their broccoli tonight.

I swear to you, I always ate my broccoli. Every last bit. That's not what happened to me.

But regardless of how many leafy greens I've eaten, here I am. A villain in the flesh. Boo.

I stand in line at Midwest Bank, tapping my fingers against my leg and surveying the place quietly. It's set up pretty much like any bank: brass nameplates, desks and spinny chairs, bored employees and customers. I'm one of eight people in line, and there are several others behind me being served at other desks. There are twelve people on staff. But there is one little detail that's vital to our plan--no windows. Not a single one.

A pretty brunette steps into line behind me and I move to the side and usher her in front of me. "Oh, please no," I tell her with a smile when she protests, "it's my pleasure."

She shrugs and grins. "If you're sure," she says.

And yes, I do indeed have ulterior motives for being polite to the pretty lady. Of course I do. I'm a villain, remember? I flirt with purpose (my devilish good looks make it easy) and my purpose this time is to avoid detection, which will be much easier without her watching my back.

I make eye contact with myself in the mirror down at the end of the room and can't help but grin when I begin to count down the seconds. Twenty. I'm dressed simply—jeans and a t-shirt with a pair of boots. Fifteen. My black hair is pushed back from my forehead. Ten. The only "bank robber" part of me is the black bandana tucked into my back pocket. Five. My eyes slide over to the guard standing just inside the door. Four. He winks at me but remains stone-faced. Three. I crack my neck. Two. Take a step forward when the line moves. One.

For Genie.

The lights flicker and go out. Tellers with acrylic nails tap on their keyboards, confused as to why their computers all suddenly dead. Murmurs rise up and nervous expressions cross faces, customers and employees alike. Someone says, "Power outage?"

The guard leaves his post and strides over to speak to the manager, who has conveniently stepped out of his office. As he passes me, he slips something familiar and heavy into my palm. I slide the handgun into the waistband of my jeans and pull my shirt over it without a hitch. In the dim light and confusion, I probably could've taken off my pants and swung them around my head without being noticed.

As tempting as that sounds, I opt for ducking out of line and pulling my bandana over the lower half of my face. My skin tingles from the adrenaline beginning to pump, blood pounding through my veins like fire. Nothing like the fear and adrenaline of a heist to get you going.

I watch as my accomplice pulls out his gun. He presses it against the managers head, forcing him to his knees. Not everyone's noticed what's happening yet, but they will soon. Crack. He fires straight into the ceiling—classic robbery style. You gotta stick to the old fashioned ways, folks.

A few alarmed shouts ring out— others just look confused at all the dust raining down around them. 

"Let's get this party started," I murmur to myself, snugging my bandana around my head.

"That's right, boys and girls," I drawl, using a spinning office chair as a step stool to stand squarely on top of a desk. "This is a robbery."

It's dead quiet for a heartbeat. Then they realize I'm serious—that wasn't just a power outage, and that security guard isn't really on their side.

Ah, and now my favorite part. Chaos erupts.

A woman in the back screeches. Some people immediately throw themselves to the ground and put their hands in the air. A few of the braver (and stupider) ones launch themselves at me. Tellers scramble. Men yell, "the police! Call the police!"

I take a deep breath and bask in it, spreading my arms wide and grinning ear to ear behind my bandana. My accomplice is working on locking down the building. As for the police—let them come. We're ready.

I jump down from my perch and land in a crouch, my boots hitting the carpeted floor with a soft thunk. My Glock handgun hangs loosely from my right hand, but I don't use it as my challengers rush me. The first one goes for a full on tackle, diving straight for my midsection and letting out a confused squawk when he collides with something other than my flesh. Having sailed clean through my body, he smashes his face into the desk and looks up at me, slack jawed. 

My eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise and I look at the other two men, who now stare wide-eyed. I click my tongue and shake my head in disappointment. "Did you see that, fellers? He missed! Standing right in front of him, and he blew it! What do they teach in school these days?" I gesture helplessly. "Well, I s'pose we should get on with things then, eh?"

The younger of the two men looks at me like I'm nuts (I am, so I don't blame the guy). "Right through you," he mutters, "He went through you."

I frown and look down at my own body. "Through me? I'm not dead, am I?" I pat my chest. "Huh," I muse. "Seems solid, but maybe you should try it." To his horror, I grab the dude's hand and slap it against my chest. Thunk thunk thunk. I give a sigh of relief and let go of his hand. "For a second there, I thought maybe I'd lost it."

"Boss!" my accomplice scolds as he cuffs a hostage. "Quit fooling around and get to the vault!"

Mention of the vault clears some of the confusion from the men's eyes. Before they can move, I lunge forward. I slip right through one of them, turning and kicking him in the back with enough force that he cracks his head on a desk.

"Then again, maybe not," I mutter. "Fun's over, boys." I flip my gun over in my hand and whip it across the last man's temple. His eyes loll into the back of his head and he slumps to the ground.

Well, cat's out of the bag now. I know you were wondering as soon as you found out that I'm one of the bad apples—does this bloke have a superpower? Something cool like Electro or Loki or Magneto? Hell yes I do. I'm gifted with the power of intangibility, and before you ask, it means that I can pass through solid objects. And no, my clothes don't fall off my body when I go intangible. Just to get that out of the way.

I push a rebellious strand of hair back into place. "Come secure these three," I call. "I'll get to the vault."

I let my eyes drift over the room as I saunter towards the back of the building, whistling "Can't Touch This" under my breath. Hostages are secured and lined up in a neat little row, their hands tied behind their backs. Arthur, my accomplice, watches them with eyes like a hawk as he wrestles the rowdies into submission and plops them down like they're toddlers and not grown men. Old Arty may be old and graying, but that man is still more fit than I'll ever be. He also takes care of most of the techy stuff, because I'm no good with computers.

I'm also 99% sure he used to do pro-wrestling because no one—I repeat, no one—has moves like that.

The master plan this time around is, admittedly, genius. We'd planted what looked like a large bomb at the only entrance to the bank, betting on the fact that they'd have to call in experts to dismantle it. It's actually (mostly) harmless tear gas, meant to distract while we make our getaway. As usual, I'll take all the attention and bullets because—well, they can fly right through me. Art, decked in Kevlar, will slip around the side.

I give him a pat on the back as I pass. We're like Batman and Alfred, just switched around a little because he's way more ripped than I am but I have a prettier face. We make quite the package.

I come to a stop in front of the vault and crack my knuckles. It's a beaut—and I've seen my fair share of vaults. This one is no sissy, loaded with a highly sensitive alarm system, a time lock, and probably a hundred thousand different possible combinations. Judging from the model, the door is about three feet thick. It really is a work of art, as most vaults are.

I click my tongue. "What a shame," I say gleefully, swinging three empty duffels to my shoulder and taking a swift step forwards. Right before I bonk my nose on the door, I turn to vapor and float right through it to the other side.

I give a cackle as my eyes land on stacks upon stacks of cash. "Bingo," I sing, and quickly begin to stuff the bags full of our dear old friend, Mr. Benny Frank.

Now, some of you skeptics might be wondering what all the hassle's about. If I can turn intangible, why don't I just float on through the door, scoop up some cash, and float right back out? Why the accomplice, the guns, the devious planning?

Because it's cheating, that's why. Maybe I've gone soft, but it just doesn't seem fair to the poor little heroes and police to do it like that. I've at least gotta act like this is difficult, right? I may not crack the vault, but at least I'm sticking to the good old bandana and gunslinger theme.

I sling the bags to my shoulder and glide right back out, relishing the brief weightlessness of my body. With the prize bumping at my knees, I stroll back down the line of hostages, ignoring the glares aimed at me.

"Gray," a voice guesses. "That's you, isn't it?"

I turn and look down, noticing without surprise that it's the cute brunette I'd stepped aside for earlier. It's always the pretty ones that come back to haunt you.

I wink at her. "Very good, Sweetheart. What gave it away? Surely it's not the hair?" My hand sweeps through it, and I pucker my lips and sigh.

No, it's not the hair. Of course it's not the hair, even though I do have remarkably shiny, ink black hair. It's my eyes that gave me my supervillain name. When asked to describe me, the witnesses usually say one of two things. It's either, "He's handsome as the Devil" or, "He's got gray eyes". Both are equally true, but I guess the general public didn't feel comfortable with calling me "El Diablo Guapo" so Gray it is.

I'm waiting for her to snarl at me, maybe try to kick my kneecap in or—God forbid—tell me, 'You won't get away with this!'.

Instead, she looks up at me with the darkest blue eyes I've ever seen and asks, "Do you normally rob banks in T-shirts?"

I'm glad I have a bandana covering most of my face because I almost laugh - almost. "Only on Thursdays, hun."

I carry on. I do, after all, have a heist to complete and what kind of villain would I be if I went weak-kneed at the sight of pretty girls?

I whistle at Art. "Ready, old man?"

He gives me the finger, frowning. "Where is that damn hero?" he rumbles. "Thought he'd be here by now." 

"Oh, he won't be stopping by today." I smirk. "He's a little... occupied... with his personal life."

Art shrugs, gives an unbothered "huh", and presses the button to activate the fake bomb. 

We make our getaway with style, exiting out the front doors as the police cough and cry at the tear gas we set off and send bullets harmlessly through my body. Voila. Heist complete.