Really

Really

                "Thirty-fourth and Thirty-third?" said the radio, almost inaudible over the buzz caused by the poor tuning.

                "Thirty-fourth and Thirty-third," said the radio. A different voice this time.

                "Roger, on my way," replied the first voice.

                One of the balaclava clad henchmen swore. "They'll be all over us in a couple of minutes," he said, tightening his grip on his shotgun.

                Their boss glared at them. He was the only one to have shown his face, and also the only one who hadn't worn a balaclava. The almost comical iron helmet he had been wearing was set down on one of the theatre chairs. "That's the point, in case you forgot," he said. He went by 'Ironhat' to fit in with the sensibilities of the city. "While the cops are all over us Tophat will be blowing up their headquarters."

                "Aren't we meant to get away first, though?" asked a henchwoman. She only shifted her glance away from the hostages for a moment, but it was long enough for one of them to move. Ironhat caught it - the idiots were probably planning something.

                "If we can. Tophat is behind schedule, so we stay," said Ironhat. "And you idiots!" he barked, "stop fidgeting! If I see one more of you make a move I'm going to shoot the unlucky bastard!"

                The hostages cowered, fearful of both his threat and his voice. None of them really knew who Ironhat was, of course. He was just one of countless lieutenants' lieutenants, a member of one of the legion of organisations under the Lords of Sin. That he and Tophat worked directly for the Lords - under the 'Sane Hatter' - was something they weren't meant to know.

                Silence settled over the theatre; fearful hostages clustered on the stage, henches guarding them, and more henches spread throughout the room and the rest of the facility. It was those outside the theatre hall itself that would be fighting first - the hall was serving as their nerve centre, ergo the radio.

                They'd struck during an under-booked play. Interrupting a production of 'Oh My Lords!' had a kind of delicious irony about it for Ironhat. Not to mention that the play itself was crap. The Lords took advantage of the sin they represented, they didn't exemplify or fall victim to it as they did in the play. That was the point of them being Lords.

                As Ironhat settled back into the chair beside the portable radio, he heard a small thud. Turning in his seat angrily he quickly found the culprit amongst the hostages. "Last chance," he said, voice dripping with menace.

                Unless there was a hero of some kind amongst the hostages - or Lords forbid, a bunch of Sleepers - whatever nonsense they were building up to was going to end badly for them. Ironhat honestly didn't care. If they tried to stand up to the Lords it was what they deserved. Soft-hearted bullshit wasn't something he did.

                A rattling gasp came from the hostages, and as Ironhat stood to give the whole group the evil eye he saw an elderly man topple over with a loud thud. Here we go, he thought, walking over.

                Seemingly instinctively the hostages had shuffled back from the old man with the sole exception of a woman. She was poking him with the skill of a doctor, diagnosing him as best she could. As Ironhat's shadow fell across the pair she said, "He's having a heart attack."

                "Really?" asked Ironhat, quite sarcastically. "I thought he was just short of breath suddenly after getting a bit excited."

                "No, he's having a heart attack, sir," said one of the henchmen. He winced when Ironhat glared at him.

                The woman was similarly unimpressed. "He's going to die if we don't get him out of here," she said, looking directly at Ironhat.

                "Are you sure?" he asked. "Are you a doct-"

                "A surgeon, and I've only ever studied heart attacks," she said. "He needs to get out of here now or he's going to die."

                "Can't you do anything? Keep his heart beating or whatever it is you do," said Ironhat. This was going to be amusing.

                "No! Not without equipment," said the woman. She looked closely at the old man - his breath had been reduced to ragged gasps. "This is bad. He won't live through this without medical attention. He needs to go to the hospital!"

                Ironhat blinked twice, then pulled out his pistol and shot the old man's chest three times. The surgeon looked at him in horror. "Wh - why?" she stammered.

                "Because his life was only valuable as a hostage, and given that he'd be dead before the police get here this shit was a waste of time," said Ironhat. "Now, I know you tossers are planning something, so let me tell you something. We"- he waved his free arm to indicate his henchmen and himself -"are the get stuff done guys. We don't fuck around.

                "If any of you do anything, I am going to shoot you. So stay still, be quiet, and you'll probably survive this. Shooting you when we flee is a waste of time, ammo, and will bury us in legal shit if we get caught. We only need you to stall. Do you understand?" No-one said anything. "Say yes on three if you understand. One. Two. Three."

                A chorus of 'Yes' came from the hostages. "Good," said Ironhat, wandering back to his seat. A pair of henches started shifting the old man's body; putting their training to good use. The radio was halfway through a particularly buzzy message, prompting him to retune it slightly.

                "zzs been killed. Approach with caution. Total hostages: thirty-four," said the radio.

                Ironhat pursed his lips in thought. "Here they come," he said softly. He smiled up at the camera. You only needed a little bit of bait to lure a fish away from home. Then you could snatch the eggs away. Or just blow the whole place up.