When performing a symphony, the orchestra must have complete and unhindered loyalty to their conductor- if not, it leads to disorganization, a lack of unified musicians, and overall, a cacophony of anarchy.
Such were the special forces of Emil Tod.
They did not back down to any threat, nor did they refuse any challenge.
But when their leader put experimental weapons into their hands and told them to wait for the authorities to show before attacking the bank, even the most stalwart of them grew seeds of doubt. When the weapons they used came from literally alien sources, they had to worry. If he was perfectly honest with himself, Emil Tod was worried, too. This fear would not be shown, however.
It was outside the realm of possibility for a General such as himself to allow fear. Sitting behind the bank teller's desk, he very carefully counted at five twenty dollar bills, and handed it to the nice elderly lady across the counter, smiling as he did so. In his disguise, he was indistinguishable from one of the commoners, blood red skull hidden in a mask of synthetic skin. The mask was identical to one of the actual tellers, a Mister Gordon Spice. A charming little man, who donated blood on the weekends and raised money to support his ailing son, John. Mister Spice's story did not wholly matter to the Red Death, except for as a light reflection upon what dialogue choices would be deemed appropriate in banter with his workmates.
His eyes glanced up at the time. 3:16 PM. "Next in line, please." He said, calmly. Emil, as he did so, proceeded to place a small, palm sized EMP device onto the desk before him. At the touch of a button, it hissed and whirred to life, and at the sight of the computer before him fading to black, he saw the result. Other tellers saw their equipment fail, as well, and made quite a few remarks addressing it. Glancing up to the dead cameras, Emil saw that it was time, and stood up. "Excuse me, but this is a robbery." Quietly, he spoke, and at first, hardly anyone heard him- or believed him.
They believed him when he drew the chrome Luger pistol, however.
And were mortified as he fired two rounds into the teller on his left.
As everyone cried out in horror and began to run, he drew a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, and very slowly got out a cigarette. At this point in time, a teller was frantically calling the authorities from behind her desk. Good. That was the objective, after all. "Now, everyone remain ruhig, this won't go too violently. If you cooperate, of course." With a light smile, he stepped toward the teller on the phone, and (after she gave out the necessary information) executed her as easily as he executed the first. Lighting the cigarette, he turned around now, to whoever was still in the bank. Some had fled, which, really, was perfectly fine.
"Really, I am sorry for this. It was not my intention to cause you all such a belastung- er, burden- but that can just be chalked up to bad timing." With another smile, he turned to the vault door behind him, and emptied the clip in the Luger. Now, he drew forth a new clip, one that contained no bullets. Instead, a red energy surged from the sides of it, and as it loaded in, the gun began to glow in the red fashion as well, barrel lighting up as raw power fueled it. The Red Sentinel ring he had so kindly borrowed from a Mister Thompson had come in handy- for after months of operation, he had formed a perfectly suitable energy source, one that could be salvaged by him and his forces whenever he pleased.
With a few quick, high-powered energy blasts, the superpowered gun had blown a hole in the door of the vault, and he stepped through, satisfied.
Within minutes, he was standing outside, duffel bags full of cash in his arms as he strolled on out. Before he got very far, however, police cars rolled up, surrounding the front of the building. From above, a tall man flew down, obviously superhuman based on the neat cape and perfect teeth. "Wie lange müssen wir zu falschen Göttern aufblicken?" He murmured to himself. The hero introduced himself, but to be perfectly, honest, the General Blitzkrieg hadn't paid attention. Something ending in '-man' and wholly meaningless. A hole was blown through his chest by Emil's weapon, and he crumpled to the floor, landing on a cop car and breaking it's hood in his descent.
"Now, soldaten," he called in a sing-song voice, picking up the duffel bags once more. A rain of the laser fire came down on the cop cars, red beams of light blowing the men to oblivion. His soldiers came from the rooftops above, across the street, hiding in plain sight. No average police force could deal with such, and clearly, the big 'hero man' couldn't either. Walking over the corpses, Emil peeled off his synthetic mask, tilted his head back, and listened to the advanced weaponry fire.
Basking in the sound of unhindered glory.
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