While roaming the bank in search of the Magician and the Mime, he moved with extreme caution, fully aware that the Magician had already proven herself dangerously unpredictable with a single earlier action.
From what he had observed, she was clearly the type to misdirect, confuse, and weaponize uncertainty itself. Every step he took was measured, his senses stretched thin as he scanned the environment for traps disguised as harmless theatrics.
He halted abruptly when he noticed several balloons drifting lazily through the air. His mind immediately began to overanalyze the possibilities: the balloons could be filled with some kind of gas—deadly or non-lethal—or simply designed to pop on contact as a distraction.
Either way, they were clearly not harmless. He silently hoped the bank had been fully evacuated, because anyone still inside would be caught directly in the crossfire of whatever chaos followed.
"Come out, Magician!" Mightyfly shouted, his voice firm despite the knot of fear twisting in his chest.
He was acutely aware of his own nervousness—afraid that he would fail to personally stop a villain, that he should have relied on kamikotizing someone instead of handling this alone.
Without warning, he stepped onto a whoopee cushion. The sound that erupted was absurdly loud, nearly bursting his eardrums and stunning him for several seconds. As he looked up, he saw three puppets perched on a chair, each wielding a Nerf gun.
The moment the triggers were pulled, a barrage of foam bullets filled the air. Mightyfly reacted instinctively, spinning his cane at high speed to deflect the incoming projectiles.
When the Nerf guns finally ran dry, a sudden gust of powerful wind swept through the room, sending the balloons flying directly toward him. He swiftly dodged them and sprinted away just as the balloons exploded behind him, releasing clouds of sleeping gas.
Covering his nose, he ducked into a nearby room and slammed the door shut, forcing himself to stay inside briefly until the gas dissipated.
As he took a moment to steady his breathing, he unexpectedly noticed the Mime standing motionless nearby, clutching an assortment of childish equipment that clearly doubled as traps. He realized too late that he had entered the same room as the Mime, immediately putting himself on high alert.
Still, he forced himself to remain calm—this was someone close to his own age, not a hardened criminal.
"Hi. Are you okay?" Mightyfly asked gently, his tone calm and non-threatening.
The Mime didn't answer. He refused to converse with a hero, knowing that if his mother found out, she would berate and punish him severely. Panic clawed at his chest as he searched for a way to escape.
He had already made a mistake, and he knew his mother would punish him regardless. Anxiety and fear overwhelmed him as the weight of inevitable trouble pressed down on his thoughts.
"Can you speak?" Mightyfly asked, lowering his cane as a clear signal that he meant no harm.
The Mime still didn't respond, but something unexpected happened—he felt oddly calm. As Mightyfly spoke, the tension in his chest eased. Having spent much of his life around the criminal underworld because of his mother, he could easily tell when someone was pretending to be kind.
Yet this hero felt different. There was no malice, no manipulation. Only genuine warmth. Mightyfly's smile, sincere and unguarded, somehow put him at ease.
"I can tell you didn't want any of this earlier," Mightyfly said softly. "Your mother… she forced you to take part in her crimes, didn't she?" He let his cane fall to the floor and slowly raised his hands. "You don't have to follow her anymore. I can protect you. She'll be put behind bars, and I'll make sure you don't end up in jail. Please… just stand down."
The Mime wanted to answer out loud, but fear seized him. This was his chance—his real chance—to finally escape his mother's control. He didn't want to be a criminal. He wanted to be an entertainer, to make people laugh like Fred Haprèle, not terrify them as part of one of his mother's schemes.
But terror won. Even when she wasn't in the room, his mother's presence loomed over him. He could hear her voice in his head—sharp, furious—calling him a coward, threatening abandonment if he didn't obey.
He had been given chances before to escape, to report everything to the authorities, but her influence was always too strong, crushing his resolve before he could act on his heart.
"I'm sorry," the Mime signed before abruptly aiming a small box at Mightyfly.
A boxing glove shot out and slammed into him.
The impact staggered Mightyfly just long enough for the Mime to flee the room. Mightyfly felt no anger, no frustration—only failure. He hadn't been able to pull the Mime away from the darkness. Still, he refused to give up.
Without hesitation, he gave chase.
—
The Mime set his mother's traps with practiced efficiency, ensuring that Mightyfly wouldn't be able to follow him. Once everything was in place, he allowed himself a brief moment to stop and process what had just happened.
Guilt weighed heavily on him for hurting an actual superhero—someone who had been trying to help him, just as others had before. He blamed himself for his cowardice, for once again failing to follow his heart and instead surrendering to his fear-driven instincts.
He eventually made his way into the security room, where his mother had been the entire time. The Magician was laughing as she watched the monitors, clearly entertained by Mightyfly's excessive caution as he navigated the maze of traps her son had so carefully planted.
The Mime couldn't bear the sight of the hero's strained expression, struggling and second-guessing every step while his mother amused herself at his expense.
"Well done, my son," the Magician said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "You've done exactly as you were told. This is why you're my favorite assistant—better than your father ever was."
The Mime nodded hesitantly and replied in sign language, "Thank you, Mother."
"Now all we have to do is wait for my tricks to wear this hero down and then we'll have the bank all to ourselves," the Magician continued.
She leaned back in her chair, casually resting her legs on the back of a restrained security guard.
"That hero had better give up soon, before the police storm this place. Otherwise, I might end up doing something I don't want to."
The Mime knew exactly what she meant—murder. Despite her words, he understood how much she enjoyed killing people from the very beginning of her criminal career. According to some of his mother's former associates, it had even disgusted his mysterious father.
The Mime himself had witnessed her delight firsthand, which was why he despised the criminal life. He couldn't stomach the terror on people's faces when his mother indulged in what she considered her hobby.
Every part of him screamed to act—to finally stand up to her and prevent more innocent bloodshed. Yet fear seized him once again. His body went slack, the urgency draining from him in an instant.
He couldn't defy her. He would forever remain her partner in crime.
Suddenly, the Magician frowned at one of the monitors. "What the—?"
One of the security feeds had gone completely black, as if the camera had been destroyed. Then another screen followed, and another, each plunging into darkness. She stood up, realization dawning on her face. Mightyfly wasn't the only one trying to stop her.
Someone else was here.
On the final screen, she briefly caught sight of a masked vigilante clad in a bird-like costume—one she recognized immediately.
"Sparrow? Knightowl's sidekick?" the Magician muttered, confusion creeping into her voice. "What the hell is a sidekick hero doing all the way in Paris from New York? I doubt he was sent here to stop me."
"We should es—" The Mime tried to suggest, using sign language to urge her to escape, but his mother grabbed him without warning.
The Magician roughly yanked him by the arm, fury flashing in her eyes. "I told you to make sure there was no one else here! You failed twice! I forgave you for Mightyfly since he came out of nowhere, but there's no excuse for missing that damn Sparrow!"
The Mime's confusion showed on his face. He couldn't recall her ever ordering him to ensure the area was completely clear of superheroes.
It wasn't as if he could magically produce a hero detector to warn him of their arrival. He feared his mother deeply, but moments like this made it hard to believe how foolish she could be, despite the brilliance of her traps.
"Go set more traps!" the Magician barked. "I'll open the vault and get out of here. It'll be your responsibility to escape and avoid getting captured, because I'm not coming back for you. If you manage to get away, return to our hideout immediately and make sure you're not followed. Do you understand?!"
The Mime nodded reluctantly.
"Good. Now go!" she snapped as he turned and ran off to obey. "And don't disappoint me the way your father did, son."