Focus. Breathe in. Breathe out. Get ready to fight.
She didn’t need to see the man rushing her from behind. Her instincts guided her from the first sound of approaching footsteps. Turning to face him mid-swing, the aluminum pipe vibrated in her hands as it connected squarely with her attacker’s jaw, and rung with a sickening, wet crack. The other guards charged from all sides, the fight devolving into an indistinguishable flurry of metal and blood as the pipe landed on flesh again and again.
Focus.
Breathe in hatred.
Breathe out fire.
She no longer needed the mantra to direct her fury; her body moved in flawless synchronicity, the blood-flecked pipe an extension of herself. Freya screamed, her voice unintelligible as she crushed a guard’s eye socket with bare knuckles before burying the rounded-off end of the pipe into the forehead of a second, watching as their bodies crumpled before her wrath. Only one guard remained, frozen between advancing and retreating, wobbling feet failing him as he fumbled with his radio, unable to find the transmit button through his paralyzing terror. She smashed the end of her pipe into his chest like a home run derby all-star, sending him flying backwards and through the glass turnstile. He fell as though in slow motion, twisting in a cascade of falling diamonds.
Freya stepped over the destroyed turnstile, hem of her hospital gown swaying as she moved. She bent over the collapsed man, grasped the security pass around his neck with her fingers. She gave it an experimental tug, but the magnetic card wouldn’t part from its lanyard. The guard had buttoned it the grey epaulettes of his uniform.
It didn’t matter. She just needed the pass. The badly-injured man could come along for the ride without slowing her down. Freya dragged him by his lanyard, his limp body gliding across the cool, polished tiles towards an open elevator at the end of the long bank. She glanced at the buttons, using a bloodied hand to request the penthouse. A small yellow indicator light patiently blinked until she waved the guard’s magnetic card below it, satisfying the automated security procedure. The elevator doors closed as she released the lanyard, letting the guard slump into the corner of the elevator, breathing, but unconscious.
Focus. Hatred. Fire. Lies.
The maddening, twinkling pop music was barely audible over the ragged breath in her lungs, the pounding heartbeat in her ears.
The doors opened with a gentle chime, revealing the partially-darkened penthouse, a tastefully designed expanse of frosted glass and empty conference rooms. The corporate hierarchy was made clear by the long, narrow hallway leading to a single office at the far end of the expansive floor, the surrounding décor all gently leading the eye towards its ornate doors. Well-designed buildings always had a way of telling you who was in charge.
Freya stepped from the elevator without casting a backwards glance towards the injured security guard. A general alarm began to sound from the public address system, strobe lights accompanied by a soothing, authoritative voice she couldn’t understand. The few staff that had braved the storm to come to work began to emerge from their glassy offices, casting worried glances towards Freya as they flowed around her like a human river.
She walked towards the main office with a slow deliberateness, leaving a bloody path on the carpet from the cuts on the soles of her bare feet. Silently rotating on perfectly oiled hinges, the heavy, ornate metal doors swung open revealing a massive corner office surrounded on two sides by floor-to-ceiling glass and antique art.
An older man glanced up from behind his desk as she entered, shock and confusion written on his face. She could only imagine how she looked — probably a full six inches taller than him, heavily muscled compared to his slight build. Her pale skin was still wet, her long blond dreadlocks dripped, and her stained hospital gown was soaked and smeared with blood. Crimson rivers from her split knuckles turned to smears on her wrists and forearms. She clutched the aluminum pipe in one hand before setting it behind her shoulders like a yoke, and waited for him to make the first move.
The man was older than her grandfather, but stood upright with unmistakable authority, his intelligent eyes sharp and penetrating. He shot a look from her to his desk phone, hand reaching out to pick up the receiver. Freya closed the gap between them before he could dial a single number, bringing the pipe down on the keypad with all her strength. It exploded into shattered plastic and circuit board as he jerked back in surprise. She leapt across the desk, grabbing his collar with both hands and hauling him bodily off his office chair. Her eyes darted across his desk, passing clear Lucite awards and mahogany plaques, commemorative paperweights, photos, family souvenirs. She reached towards the nearest of his framed photographs, knocking aside images of his family, vacations, and corporate retreats.
And then she found it — a photo of Yasua Himura, blind eyes unseeing yet smiling, as he posed next to the grandfatherly man she held by the lapels. A satisfied smile crept across her face and she dropped the aluminum pipe on the carpeted floor. The man began to struggle as she cocked back a fist, preparing to beat him unconscious with her bare hands.
A short, sharp whistle rang out from behind her. Freya whipped around, sweeping the old man into a choking headlock, teeth gritted as her muscles strained against his struggling. She saw the pistol first, the glint of nickel-plated steel held with unwavering intent. Instantaneously reacting on mere reflex alone, she hefted the CEO in front of her as a human shield. The CEO’s head lolled — she’d inadvertently put too much pressure on his carotid artery, knocking him out. Still, she held onto him.
Freya eyed the man behind the pistol. He was tall, over six feet, dressed in a yellow rain slicker and heavy boots. He’d pulled his hood back, revealing a gaunt, bearded face with a fading tan, close-cropped blond hair, and piercing, animalistic eyes that seemed to cut right through her. She grasped the CEO by the back of his belted suit pants and braced her bare feet against the soft carpet. And then she hurled him across the room.
The intruder barely had a chance to get a protective shoulder between himself and the unconscious CEO before he was hit with nearly a hundred and fifty pounds of flopping deadweight, knocking him to the floor. He grunted, tried to wrestle the body off of him, and point his pistol towards her once more.
She wouldn’t give him a chance. Freya flung herself headlong toward the intruder, slamming him to the ground and burying a fist between his eyes before he could bring up a forearm to block the blow. Swearing, the lanky intruder twisted his weapon toward her, trying to bring the pistol muzzle under control. Her hand met his wrist the instant before he pulled the trigger. A deafening pop-poppop erupted between them. A singed, blond dreadlock fell to the carpet, severed by the near miss as microscopic gunpowder particles burned the skin of her exposed neck. The smell of cordite drifted from the hot metal barrel.
Infuriated and now straddling the man, Freya pinned the intruder’s shoulders to the ground. He punched her repeatedly with his free hand as she struggled with his weapon, his fists landing hard against her ribs and exposed stomach. Sweat and rainwater dripped from her forehead, obscuring her vision as she twisted her thumb inside the pistol’s trigger guard. She yanked back, the next deafening blast annihilating a ceiling tile and sending a rain of debris down on them as she bent his hyperextended wrist away from her. The pistol went off again, twice, three times. Bullets shattered two tall panes of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The heavy glass fell in broken sheets, and howling wind filled the plush office with torrents of half-frozen rain.