just some super unrealistic crime stuff and slightly dom sam
The one day you needed the ATM to work without issue, of course, is the one day the damn thing eats your card.
Having to go inside the building and talking to the teller always instantly becomes the worst when you have to inform them, "The machine ate my card."
The bank is on the corner, right between a pedestrian crossing and a bakery where you usually get your breakfast. It's usually empty so even with problems, nothing really takes long.
You thought you got lucky with only having one little old lady queued in front of you, until you saw the handful of paperwork she held while giving a stare of pure death at the teller who was serving another man.
Only one booth was open, and you were expecting a long wait.
As the old lady walks slowly up to the counter, the sound of shattering glass and gunshots fill the air.
You go into panic mode almost instantly as you turn around and see three men in masks, each with a gun in his hand.
"Hands up! Get on the ground!"
Your heart rate kicks up tenfold as you anticipate chaos unfolding before your eyes, but no. The three's gazes fall on you and fear flashes in their eyes.
"Abort!" one of them calls, and the other two freeze momentarily.
You try to calm your panicked breathing as confusion mingles with relief.
You have no time to react, neither do the three men because the sound of sirens cut through the air.
The trio in masks flee outside, and only then do you notice their attire. Leather jackets with printed letters on the shoulder blade; S.P.
It only registers for you once they've sped off in their beat-up but still fancy-looking Porsche.
Sam Puckett.
Forgetting completely about work and all else, you head home and look her name up.
What greets you are multiple news headlines, articles, tabloids, and countless mugshots, none of which seem to be Sam's. There is, however, a Wikipedia page on her. You click on it.
Samantha Puckett, better known as Sam, (born April 17th, 1994) is the founder, leader, and runner of an unnamed crime syndicate involved in organised crime which originated in Los Angeles. Her name and face has been all over America and yet, has not been detained once. Even the police admit she is a skilled criminal.
What follows this is a flattering picture of the blonde with her sunglasses on top of her head and basic information, like her date of birth, place of birth, and known relatives, but what caught your eye most were the words No Harm List right below Years Active.
No Harm List
Y/N Y/L/N
Your name was the only one there. No others. Confused but still curious, you exit her Wiki page and click on a news headline from 2019.
Samantha Puckett (Sam) has resurfaced once again. The blonde coureuse du syndicat, as the crime family calls her, has been off the grid and inactive since early 2016. Last week, 2:34 PM, the police were called to a scene in a bank on Tenth Avenue where the still-unnamed syndicate's actions resulted in significant property damage, multiple injuries, and two casualties.
Police report that all five men involved in the particular incident turned themselves in yesterday.
"They begged to be locked away," states Officer Daniels. "Said they didn't want to — and I quote — 'feel the coureuse's wrath'."
Speculations are being made as to why these big, burly men chose to be locked away in a cell rather than face Samantha Puckett's so-called wrath.
You knit your eyebrows together, resting your chin on your palm as your free hand peruses Google with the mouse.
For the next hour, you browse articles and headlines about the blonde, learning more and more about her and her organisation. You find an article published just thirty minutes ago.
Sam Puckett's syndicate strikes again
Three of the coureuse's recruits broke into a bank on Broadway this morning and lead the police on a car chase. All three men were captured after a high-speed pursuit. Fortunately, no civilians were harmed in the incident. This is due to a Miss Y/L/N being at the scene, the sight of whom made the three men retreat as she is on Sam's no harm list.
Your name is in a news article. It feels weird, like a fever dream. It seems a lot of your friends saw this article as well because your phone began ringing, but you ignore it and continue reading.
A detained prisoner who was in the cell with one of the men reports, "He kept talking about this Y/N person. Said if they'd ended up hurting her, they'd be hurt even more."
Police are currently looking for Miss Y/L/N to question her about Samantha.
"Police are what!?" shrieks Jade as she reaches the end of the article on the other line.
"I don't even know," you sigh, trying to calm your growing nerves.
You listened intently for the banging of a fist on your door.
You've got two priors, however minor they may be, and you were sure your information was in their system.
"Okay, do you know where she is?" asks Jade, snapping you out of your thoughts.
"I haven't a single idea!"
"Then you've got nothing to worry about."
That was so wrong.
"Where is she!?" yells Detective Jenkins, slamming his fist on the table.
"I-I don't know!"
You feel tears starting to well in your eyes as he raises his voice at you.
Just as he starts to talk again, the crisp sound of glass breaking makes both of you jump.
You shut your eyes and brace yourself for impact as a gunshot echoes throughout the interrogation room.
"Let's go, let's go!"
Your eyes shoot open. You know that voice.
When you finally comprehend the scene before you — a dead police officer and glass shards scattered across the room — you freeze as you realise you're face-to-face with the girl you swore you'd marry someday.
Sam.
Thirteen years have passed since you last saw each other. Her appearance hasn't changed a bit, but she's also somehow unrecognisable. Her blonde locks fall down her shoulders and frame her face perfectly. She's wearing denim shorts over stockings, a red long-sleeved shirt and a black windbreaker with her initials on the right cuff. Aviator glasses encompass her dark blue eyes, a few strands of her hair falling on her face.
She snaps you out of your thoughts by throwing you a full-face helmet, hitting you in the stomach. She gives you a pointed look before climbing out of the room through the window where the double-sided glass originally was.
Unable to understand a single thing happening in your world, you put the helmet on and follow Sam out of the police station.
You get on behind her on the motorcycle she'd fixed up in high school.
She speeds through Manhattan's streets, three police cars right behind her.
You once again shut your eyes and tighten your grip around the grills of the bike.
She took a sharp left and revved the engine before making a right.
You steel yourself as you see her speed towards a garage door.
No impact comes. The garage door slides open and Sam brakes harshly.
You look around. You're in a warehouse-style building, no windows at all with tyres and vehicle-service boxes everywhere.
You flip the visor of your helmet up, still shaken from the previous events. "Where are we?"
She gets off and helps you onto your feet. "My, uh, clubhouse, if you will." She runs her palms over her leggings and gestures around the place.
"It's..." You trail off, looking for the word. "N-Nice," you finally stammer out.
"No, it's not," she protests.
You promptly forget to reply when you catch her eye just as she's scanning you from head to toe. She stares at you, her gaze drifting from your eyes to your mouth to your hair to your waist.
Self-consciousness takes over and you nervously shuffle your feet while she stares.
"Y-You look pretty," she whispers.
You nod, feeling your cheeks heat up. "Thanks. You look pretty, too."
That was true. You didn't expect absolutely nothing to change within thirteen years, although you also didn't expect this much change. Her style had improved; she wore clothes that enunciated her curves and complemented basically everything about her. She'd learned how to fix her hair in such a way that it looked messy and effortless but formal. The way she carried herself demanded authority, but was still casual. You found the way she looked around nervously and fidgeted with her fingers adorable.
"So," she says, clearing her throat, "long time, no see."
You nod, now not knowing what to say.
She sighs and shuts her eyes, seemingly bracing herself. And then she speaks, slowly and hesitantly, "I-I had to get you out of there, I-I couldn't —"
"No, it's fine," you interrupted, "I'm just, um, i-it's complicated."
And it truly is complicated. You're conflicted, torn between expressing an irrational anger at her for starting a goddamn crime syndicate and kissing her right then and there.
It's complicated.
"Right..." Sam clears her throat and turns away from you.
"So... when can I leave?" The question comes out harshly, despite your mental attempts to make it sound playful and joking.
Sam turns back to you, hurt flashing in her eyes and sadness and guilt etched on her features. "You can leave tomorrow," she says coldly, her voice cracking slightly.
You know you've hurt her, but you're not given a chance to say sorry because she brushes past you and heads into another room, so you're left there, frozen in place as you battle your emotions.