The small clock at the bottom of Veronique Warrington’s computer showed 3:43 pm. She sighed inaudibly, utterly defeated by the remaining hour and 17 minutes of droning, repetitive, and utterly logical work that lay between her and blessed freedom. It was a challenge to keep her eyes from slinking closed, every blink threatening to send her into much needed oblivion. She stifled a yawn, feeling like she was operating on only two hours of sleep, a mug of coffee, and the frayed wisps of dreams that where all too vivid. The banker had slept through her alarm that morning, her sleep unusually sound, and it felt like her body was refusing to move past those extra 30 minutes of blessed unconsciousness. She was managing to keep moving through sheer stubbornness but as the day wore on, her focus slipped, her fingers flicked with less precision over her keyboard, and her eyes started to close. The memory of her dreaming hours kept slithering through Veronique’s mind, trying to seduce her back into whatever strange realms had filled her un-waking hours. She had seen vistas so fantastic that her mind struggled to recreate them, the images staying just out of her reach, like the face of a loved one seen through a veil of thick mist. The very air in her nevernever land was intoxicating, bristling with energy and the echoes of beings so immense their very thoughts shaped the world of men. It had been a dream like none other, so potent that the world dimmed in comparison and this above all else disturbed her.

The clock read 3:44 pm, and the banker almost felt like crying.

“Hoi, Veronique! Etes-vous bien?” a voice called behind her. Startled, Veronique turned around to find Anouk, her only colleague that was also originally from Montreal, standing just a few feet away. “You’ve been staring at your computer for most of the day. That’s not like you. Usually you’re all work from the moment you sit down to the moment you leave,” Anouk continued, still speaking French.

“Oh, you know, I just had trouble sleeping last night,” Veronique diverted, trying not to think about how poorly the day was going. Usually she didn’t think about her day, it just was what it was. She showed up at Eight am sharp, met with customers, did paperwork, filed projections and reports, and managed loans and account information until 5 pm, sharp, when she left. It wasn’t an important job, or one that she liked doing exactly, but it paid the bills, let her live a comfortable life, and above all, it was a steady job.

“If you say so,” Anouk continued, worry written across her features, “but if you need to talk, you know where to find me.” She broke off, brushing a strand of brown hair away from her face, and then leaned down towards Veronique, pitching her voice low. “Are we still on for Saturday? I hear the Place has an excellent DJ; the bartender’s are supposed to be able to mix a decent drink, too.”

Veronique offered a weak smile, the weight of her unforgotten dream smothering her enthusiasm. “Well, that’ll be a step up from Liquid, at least. Let’s talk about it later, d’accord?” She glanced at her computer briefly, hoping the brunette would take the hint, and saw the clock blink, the numbers changing to 3:45 pm. A clipped scream echoed throughout the room, the thud of a body hitting the floor punctuating the dawning of the quarter hour. Veronique stared in disbelief, hearing gasps of shock rippling through the room as the assembled staff of the Bank of Montreal (BMO) watched gunman clad all in black swarm into the room, a spreading lake of blood flowing in their wake.

Silence fell over the room like a cloud of smoke, and fear flowed in its wake, coating the inhabitants like a pall of ash, choking the breath, obscuring the sight, muffling the ears. In those first moments, only the flash of gunmetal and the staccato beat of boot soles existed within BMO. Barked orders rang off the polished tile floor and the bankers fell like wheat before the scythe, the assailants forcing everyone to the ground. Then, with startling precision, the men swept over everyone on the floor, circulating in some unknowable pattern while they collected all of the phones and wallets. Veronique lay on the cold floor, her neck craning so could watch her colleagues being robbed. Booted feet pounded past her head, and it was only when Anouk whimpered that Warrington realized her friend was next to her. Gloved hands pulled the brunette up and the gunman barked out a command to drop all her jewelry. Anouk’s hands shook as she took off her necklace, a simple gold chain with a birthstone pendant, and soon her earrings followed.

The boots moved closer to Veronique, and suddenly she felt a huge pressure on the back of her hand, her bones grinding against the tile as the man applied his full weight.

“Didn’t you hear what I said, bitch? Your earrings. Take them off.” The boot ground her hand into the floor, and Veronique cried out, feeling the skin begin to tear, her bones grinding together, her tendons straining. Tears pricked at her eyes and she gasped out a plea before fire shot up her arm, a crunching snap sounding somewhere far away from her. Suddenly the pressure was gone and the banker jerked upright. Snuffling, Veronique cradled her broken hand and glared up at the masked face of her tormentor, her eyes glinting like melting blue frost.

“They were a gift,” she gasped, forcing the words out, past the weight of her pain and ashen fear. “I’m not giving them to you.”

The outburst rang in the air around them, reverberating off the marble floor and vaulted ceiling. The man blinked, dragging leaden lids over bloodshot eyes, and then sighed impatiently, the breath rushing out in a whispered hiss through the weave of his ski-mask. His pistol came up again, and Veronique stared at the black metal weapon, watching as the pitch black barrel seemed to eat away the light itself. The guns hammer cocked, the subtle click sounding like a gavel blow in the trembling banker’s ears. Light flared behind the robber, casting a golden halo over his darkened silhouette, and a voice spoke, echoing across the vast chasm of the universe, past its whirling spheres and burning stars, rolling forth like a peel of thunder from the landscape of her dreams. Yet, smashing through that booming utterance, which rang with such awesome tenor that her mind quailed, was a starburst of flaming pain and Veronique’s head snapped to the side as a small sliver of metal tore through her earlobe. Her throat seized and a silent yelp caught in her lungs. The gaping pit of the barrel moved away and a flash of panic told Veronique that she had been shot and that the world was dimming as her soul fled from her corpse, as the light was gone, but the bloody glint of a small, fake diamond earring in the gunman’s hand snapped her back into reality. With fumbling hands she freed her other earring and passed it to the robber, tears blinding her.

Yet it wasn’t liquid pain that streamed down her cheeks or obscured her sight; it was flowing rage. Warrington watched as the man callously slipped the cheap jewelry into his pocket and the memory of when her mother, Michelle, had given them to her flashed in her mind’s eye. It had been the day before she went off to college, and for the first time that she could remember, Michelle had taken her to lunch someplace besides a cheap diner. They had eaten in one of Montreal’s kitschier, and well known, café’s, and suddenly, a miniature box with a bow on it appeared between them. Michelle had nodded for her to open it, a hopeful smile lighting up her features, but as soon as the wrapping came away Veronique saw a glint of shame spark in her mother’s eyes. They were the earrings Michelle had worn at her wedding, ones her mother had given her, and even though they weren’t worth much, it was time they were passed on, Michelle had said. But that didn’t matter now, and it never would again, not after the cheap jewelry was literally ripped from Veronique, and she was sure whatever importance the adornments had had would disappear under the appraising eye of some pawn shop hustler.

But Veronique didn’t move to stop the man or to speak out against him; she only glared at the man while blood ran from her torn ear, leaking slowly onto her once pristine white blouse. The man caught the look in her eyes and jerked her upright, shoving his pistol against the base of her spine.

“Walk,” he hissed, jabbing the barrel into her, his breath roiling from behind the mask like a rancid mist of ammonia and liquor. Veronique was dragged further into the bank, watching as the branch manager, Claire Munro, had her wedding band ripped of her finger, and how the tellers’ hands shook as they frantically filled bags full of cash, rushing around like chickens with a fox in the yard. Guns bristled, footsteps rang, and over it all, the air seethed with the heavy, iron tang of blood. Something sticky splashed against Veronique’s legs as she stepped around a fallen security guard, but the hand on the back of her neck kept her from looking at the crimson lake she had walked through.

Finally, the forced march ended, and Veronique was shoved inside the vault which held the safety deposit boxes. Suddenly a ring, heavy with keys, was thrown at her and the man growled out that if she didn’t find the key to box 276, he’d paint the wall with her brains. With shaking hands Veronique began to dig through the mass of keys, looking for the one that might save her life. The tears had stopped coming, although she wasn’t sure when, and her entire body trembled with the maelstrom of emotions boiling inside her, the iron laden air driving straight to her brain with every breath. The pain and terror, tears and grief, blood and dehumanization that these men inflicted, all because of their desire to glut themselves on the wealth that other had slaved to earn, began to fuel an inferno inside the young banker. The irony of this situation finally dawned on Veronique, the fact that the organization she worked for, a living idol of covetous wealth, was what helped inspire the corrupt and rancid beliefs of the men pillaging her work place. It was all in the name of getting their hands on small pieces of paper and metal, things that only had value because society said they did, and she felt a pang of emptiness spike through the cauldron of rage and terror that bubbled inside her.

Suddenly, the keys were ripped from her hands and Veronique realized that she had been staring at key 276 for some time now, lost in her own world of psychic turmoil and realizations. The man growled out something that sounded like gravel cracking and shoved her against the wall, crushing the breath from her lungs. She coughed once and glared at the man, hating that she was helpless and weak, that she couldn’t stop him or the other fucking murders with him. Life and Death where theirs to distribute and that power allowed them to do what they wished. A fact that was hammered home even harder when the hulking gunman aimed his gun at her head, his finger beginning to depress the trigger, and the stab of regret eclipse Veronique as she realized that she had devoted her life to material gains, to a meaningless existence, one that could be snuffed out by any maniac with a weapon and the will to use it, and suddenly she felt herself being dragged upward, buoyed by a surge of righteous anger and hope so blinding all she saw was golden light.

The confusion, pain, anger, and fear faded away and her vision began to clear, an unimaginably vast plain of golden, bronze, silver, and copper grasses and trees. The heavens above her swam with constellations that she would never be able to describe, stars, moons, and suns all moving in a choreographed dance so complex it was hypnotizing, and in the distance she saw a flashing tower of what seemed to be pure light crowned with what appeared to be a magnificent key. It would have been peaceful but the very air seemed to vibrate, thrumming with a powerful resonance that reverberated in Veronique’s bones, drawing her to the tower like flame drawing in a moth. She moved with surprising ease through the metal plain and soon she came to the foot of the Tower. Its walls shone with the reflection of a thousand suns, so brightly that the banker couldn’t decipher what material it was truly made out of, and suddenly a great portal opened before her. The tower began to ring with energy, resonating with pure bell tones that she could literally feel reverberating in her bones, and the power drew her into the Tower, the vibrations tracing to her very soul. The vibrations built, as different harmonies of energy built, coalescing in great, roiling waves, and Veronique felt the touch of something, some Being that seemed to be everywhere and everything at once, and the humming chords of Power built to a level so excruciating and beautiful Veronique thought she would be obliterated by it, and then the everything went still, her Name flashed before her eyes…

Veronique was back in the vault, staring down the barrel of a gun, and the reality of her situation slammed back into focus seconds before the hammer of the gun fell. She felt a coil of that energy flex inside her and she thrust her hand out, trying to will the bullet to fly fowl, and the coil released, sending her will into being. Just as the bullet left the gun, some unseen force acted upon it, angling its path of travel so that it buried itself deep within the bankers shoulder. The force of the 9mm parabellum round perforating her upper deltoid muscle spun Veronique off her feet, and when she hit the ground her forehead cracked off of the vaults marble floor, and she knew no more…