Payday - SCP Foundation

Another quiet day in this quiet town.

On the east side of town stood a bank. It wasn't a large bank, it wasn't a small bank, just a bank. The neighborhood was small, and most importantly, didn't ask many questions. Such as why people commonly came through and cashed in at that bank, despite the fact none of them lived in the town. But, then, they worked for Soap from Corpses Products, Inc. It was best not to worry too much about any nutters who worked at that kind of job.

Two cars pulled up, right in front of the bank. An old VW bus with a faded red paintjob, and a nearly as old blue Ford Mustang. Neither had particular identifying marks, which is just how their owners liked it. Anyone who took the time to check their license plates would come up with names of men who didn't exist, several states over. The car doors opened, and out came five men. If their clothing didn't give away what they were up to, their guns did. 9mm handguns and pump action shotguns, and at least one had something automatic. This bank was a little small for their usual tastes, but they could always use easy money. They pushed open the bank doors, guns held up.

"Everybody down, now!"

Most did as they were told, men, women, even the pair of security guards. Notable, however, was the group clustered near one of the tellers. The rest of the town knew them as simply employees of Soap from Corpses Products, Inc. A motley crew that certainly didn't look like soap makers, all of them looking a little tired, or distracted, or like they were in a hurry. One in a lab coat stared at the bank robbers for a second, before speaking.

"Are you fucking kidding me? On payday?"

There was a beat of silence, somewhere between tense and awkward, and the men holding weapons reacted first.

"Are you deaf or something? Stupid? Get down!"

The group in lab coats stayed standing, looking from one to another before one of them — a short, stout woman with long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail — snorted loudly, bringing a hand to her mouth in a desperate attempt to stifle her choked-back, muffled laughter. The men frowned under their ski masks and narrowed their eyes, while another man in a lab coat sighed heavily, bringing his palm up to meet his face.

"Rights, stop it."

"I'm trying."

"Look, gentlemen, this is patently ridiculous." The large tattooed black man looked rather out of place, especially with the golden bling around his neck. "Do you in fact intend to rob this establishment in such a manner? I mean-"

"Shut the fuck up, or I'll shoot you."

"Come now, that type of talk is completely uncalled for, and useless besi-"

BLAM!

The large black man stared down at the hole in his torso, and sighed resignedly. "And I had just got this body in the shape I wanted too." His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the floor, dead as a doornail, his pretty necklace sliding across the floor.

"God damn it," the woman called Rights, muttered, but kept giggling.

A tall man with a shaved head stepped forward from the group, appearing remarkably calm for the situation, and addressed one of the men in a oddly toneless voice. "Sir, I would request you leave the premises immediately. Your actions may cause a unnecessary delay in our return to our duties, in addition to the delay already created by your neutralization of Dr. Bright."

A man with lank, stringy hair and a small beard stepped forward, pointing a shotgun at the bald man's face. "Are you serious? you're trying to argue us out because you're going to be late?" He laughed, and jabbed the bald man with the barrel of his gun. "Does nobody here get this? Does nobody see the dead man? We are not SCREWING AROUND!" He fired a round into the ceiling, causing most of the bank patrons to flinch or drop to the floor. The bald man continued to stare, unfazed.

"Your attempts at intimidation are misdirected. Even discounting my unique mental state, a shotgun is not the proper tool to elicit compliance from myself or my co-workers. Firearms and the threat of being shot are relatively low in our estimation of dangerous situations, so much so that some members of staff use it almost as a form of greeting." At this, a man in a ball cap and another with a hook nose and a wide grin began to snicker. "You lack the ability to incite the level of fear needed for immediate compliance with your requests. Your current course of action will not, in any way, lead to your desired resolution."

The man with the long hair and shot gun cocked his head to the side, confused. "The hell… who the hell are you people?"

"Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Gears… use less words. I think you've made the poor robber confused!", the woman snipped again.

One of the gunmen — the shortest of the bunch — snagged the necklace from the floor and slipped it on over his head. Hey, loot was loot, after all. He never even noticed being replaced in his own head. He did however, subtly shift the gun in a new direction, and give a wink and a thumb's-up to the rest of the group.

"Do you think this is some kind of game?" the long-haired man continued. The shortest robber ever-so-slowly began to redirect his aim. Originally aimed at the woman, it now pointed at the man with the shaved head. "Is this some kind of joke to you?" The short man's gun moved a bit more towards the man in the ball cap. "Do you think that this gun is a fake?" One last tiny shift had the barrel pointed squarely at the long-haired gunman's back. At the same time, the long-haired gunman pointed his shotgun at the still-giggling Rights.