Interrupted by a classic

On the way home, as you're looking out the window, at the cars you pass in town, the dragon speaks up as you pass a bank, highlighting it in your vision, “Mind stopping there for a minute?”

“Sure…” you idly answer and turn to your mother, “Mom, mind stopping at that bank?” You point, “it's a request from my trainer.”

“Yeah, sure,” he answers, parking in their lot.

“I'll wait here,” your mother pulls out her phone, finds it doesn't recognize her face, and logs in with her password, starting to update her biometrics.

“Thanks…” you get out and start heading in,directing your attention to the ring on your hand, “...mind if I ask why?”

“Oh… you'll see in a minute,” he chuckles, “...just get in line.”

You pick a line and wait, listening to the quiet piano background music and looking at the mostly-plain beige walls with the occasional plant. Oh, they have a drink station… eh, you don't need instant coffee right now. The Second Regional Bank is busy enough: There's a mother in a plain dress wrangling a young child… a baker still in uniform… huh, no security guard?... and three animal-headed men coming in with guns.

One has an octopus for a head, complete with eight tentacles; his head is angled such that you can see the beak. One has a crab for a head, complete with the two pincers… but not the legs? You guess that the human neck and body cover that. The third has a dolphin head. Otherwise they are identical: Ripped blue jeans (the same rips, even…) muscular torsos left bare, a blue kerchief tied around each one's highly muscular left arm, a blue backpack, and an assault rifle held in their hands.

The dolphin-head fires a short burst into the wall, shattering the drywall, and shouts, “Everybody down! This is a stickup! Fill the bags!”

The other two rush to the front of the lines as everyone drops… including you. Your ring speaks up in your head, “You’re not a victim.”

You smile as you turn your bracelet up two clicks to the hundred mark, feel the tension increase, and watch everything slow down to a virtual halt. You then get up… your clothes disintegrating again… the three baddies seemingly frozen as you walk over to them and check their guns… ah, there's the safety… oh, may as well pull the clip… push the angle up to a safe direction, squeeze the trigger to empty the chamber, and move on to the next two baddies to repeat the process.

Stepping back and surveying your handiwork, watching the bullets lazily fly out of the barrels, the ring speaks up, “These are just minions. They're soulless collections of magic, you don't need to worry about hurting them… which makes them perfect practice for tying someone up without harm, because it doesn't matter if you mess it up, they're just going to discorporate a little while after they're neutralized.”

“What to use…” you glance around, and settle on the stanchions managing the lines: Seatbelt-quality straps in metal poles. You walk over, pick one up, pull the strap out as far as it will go, and use that to tie up the dolphin man's legs. You get more, and do the others’ legs, plus all of their arms. You find you're able to move them with very little resistance.

Before you turn time back on, you consider, “How'd you know?”

“Saw them in a van while you were watching traffic,” the ring replies, “seemed like a super-standard setup, a good way to let you get a feel for hero work.”

You consider that, “Does it pay?”

“Yes, actually,” the ring confirms, “banks have a standing policy of paying out ten percent of the expected losses had a hero not stepped up, which their insurance reimburses. Three active tellers, at least two grand per drawer, so an expected loss of at least six grand, and easily much more, and so will pay you six hundred or more, cash…” he pauses, “...if you stick around. I suggest changing your face a little: Raise your cheekbones, elongate your nose, increase the space between your eyes by a quarter inch each. That will break basically all facial recognition software.”

You shrug - you're not used to this face yet anyway - look around for a reflective enough surface, and settle on using a glass window. A few moments of concentration… and you find yourself looking at the face of a different stranger than usual. Starting to get light-headed, you click the watch back down to baseline…

…and watch as the guns go through the ceiling tiles, the ejected ammo cracks the floor tiles, and the robbers’ arms and legs make sickening cracking and popping sounds before their bodies fall and hit the floor with a meaty thud as they scream.

"This is why we practice,” the dragon chuckles, “aren't you glad those aren't real people?”

You nod slowly, and speak up, trying for ‘over the top confidence’, “Fear not! I have subdued those rapscallions! You are all safe!”

The men in the room stare openly… and you realize you're nude. Well… no help for it… your cheeks start to burn as a man in a nice suit approaches, “Ah… thank you. I'm the manager, Michael Monet.” He reaches out to shake your hand, and manages to look you in the eye.

You grasp his hand firmly, trying to project a confidence you do not even slightly feel, “Call me…” you can only think of an old country song at the moment, “The Streak. Nice to meet you, Mr. Money.”

“Likewise,” he releases your hand, twitching slightly… oh, you mispronounced his name… “It will take a few minutes to do an inventory to get the official tally…” he glances pointedly at the tellers, who gets to work counting their drawers, “...but the electronic progress report says…” he pulls out his phone and hits a few buttons, “...we had sixteen thousand, two hundred eleven dollars and eighty-four cents in the open drawers. So - pending the official count - tradition says we owe you one thousand, six hundred, twenty-two dollars.” He takes a breath, “Would you like that now, or would you prefer to wait for the official count?”

Seriously? Over a grand for a few minutes’ work? “I'll accept the computer's listing, as I'm sure this fine institution has very honest and diligent employees, so the counts will match.” You take a breath yourself, “...and I'm sorry I got your name wrong, Mr. _Monet_.” You're careful of the pronunciation this time.

That makes him smile, “This way, please…” he walks over to one of the currently empty stations, types a few things in, scans his badge, and counts out sixteen Benjamins, one Andrew Jackson, and one Thomas Jefferson. He pauses at your hesitation, and chuckles, “Go on, you've earned it. We'd have been out ten times that amount if they'd gotten away with it, possibly more if they risked the time to break into the vault… but they don't have that kind of gear, so that's not what they were planning. Ten percent is a long tradition that's also official policy.”

The room goes quiet as you pick up the money. It's an interesting feeling, getting paid for doing the right thing. As you stand astounded, your body guest interrupts your thoughts, “Oh, hey: You're doing it without the bracelet already! Just the ten mark, but still! Good job. Remember this feeling.”

Holding onto it, you carefully and slowly roll the bills up, shield them in your palm, and walk back to your mother's car.