So My Sister Is a Fugitive, Or Not Really

Okay. So let's review. I, twenty-two years old, cripplingly broke and bitter went to the bank. Okay, normal. And why? No, I was not going to rob a bank Mar!

I had gotten a job and, was going to deposit my first paycheck safe and secure in my back pocket of skinny jeans.

There's some stupid backlog on today of all days. A Thursday at two in the afternoon. Lucky for me my boss was easygoing. Way too nice to deal with my sharp, salty tongue brimming with lovely sarcasm and barely concealed envy of his sleek desk and gorgeous wife and adorable kids all loving and smiley on his framed pics.

But none of that would really help me. Humanizing? Sure, okay. Of any importance to keep me alive in a savage, greedy, and completely spazzing soon-to-be bride's arms? No.

I'd barely been close enough to see the asshat who'd cut the line. And too in my own world to care, staring down with the clients today being execs I'd have to assume from such polished, fine looking suits, shined shoes, and Blackberries.

And then the Phaser appeared, raining down smoke bombs with a noxious paralytic.

In pure instinct I dropped like a sack same as everyone else.

Waited for one pair of boots to pass me by before I raised my head, arm, outward shielding my face to keep that fact covert. Yeah, my world is a comic book. And I had a fairly mundane, unexceptional power of being immune to poison.

What I hadn't expected, was for their getaway to have a bird's eye view of the place, helped along by a Feather mutation and his dominant power being X-Ray.

I had gone to the bank on Thursday morning. And never had cashed in my check since a ringleader wearing the honey blond curls and jutting, angular features of my sister Marilyn had scooped me up in her arms.

"I do apologize doll," she simpered, though her smile was too slick and knife-like at the edges. "Business and all. Busy, busy, oh you won't be harmed."

I'd not stopped glaring at her.

"Yeah I'm sure I won't Mars Bar," I huffed, past the rushing air current.

"I could drop you," she warned.

"And have Mom on your butt for the rest of eternity. Please," I sneered, "she may be blind to how prissy and moody you often get, but she is still a psychic user."

My first sign that I may have made a dumber than usual mistake.

The flash of confusion to this deeply personal and pertinent lore drop.

"You and-- me, don't get on do we?"

"Oh no, I'd say we get on just fine," I hummed. "I simply love, love, love how you always have to have the upper hand or make all your snide jabs at me. Lovingly dismissing me as a failure when I had to drop out-- of-- ?"

"Stop talking," she said, holding me close against her chest. "Don't. Look."