Pax Libria: Scenes from a Shattered Equilibrium

Chapter Two - Blitzkrieg

Nikita loved order, but she thrived on chaos. Amid the shouts and screams, the gunfire and ricochets, she was in her element.

Father's Avenging Angel. Cleric of the TetraGrammaton.

Movement to the left.

There.

Two shots, then a third.

Target neutralized.

Brightly colored fabric disappearing down the stairwell.

Follow it.

Jump onto the banister, slide down, Berretas lighting up all the way. Somersault at the end, land on a rickety table, backflip over a group of disoriented sense offenders. Shoot them in mid-air before they can comprehend who or what I am.

Land while rolling to the right, now in the center of the room. Remain fluid, in motion, never in one spot as target positions are assessed, predicted, compensated and reprocessed. Constantly reassessing myself, the targets.

Do not let up on the trigger, keep firing. Keep dodging.

They are many, I am one. But I am Retribution. I am Faith.

I am perfection itself.

Four more of the enemy join their comrades in death, their craniums split by my hand.

One-two-three-four, every beat is another flow; my steel extensions again spit fire. Five-six-seven-eight, sense offenders again fall. Where are they coming from?

A bullet whizzes past. That was close. Focus! Retaliate.

The man clothed in brightness collapses, a gaping hole where his heart once was.

Kata 28. Now 43.

Bang-bang, a flip and a kick. Arms to the sides, now front and back.

There, by the vase. The door – that's where they're coming from.

More shots, more screams.

One, two, three four…

This is gun kata.

Five, six, seven, eight…

Reload. Repeat.

Justice. The Katas.

A dance of death.

And I, at the center of it all.

Nine, ten…

I'm out of ammo, so I launch myself at a frightened teen. The impact crushes his lungs, causing him to drop his semiautomatic rifle, still firing. A movement almost too fast for the eye to see, and I hear his neck snap.

My final opponent lapses into eternal slumber as I end in a crouch, arms extended with lethal pistols out; nails just retracted.

Slowly standing, the analytical portion of my mind still in overdrive, I survey the carnage.

The artist in the sense offender would have appreciated the swirls of raw color, the illicit symmetry of blood splatter adorning the pockmarked walls, and the geometric arrangement of the dead bodies, had any of them still been breathing.

The Prozium-laced adrenaline coursing through my hot veins begins to cool, and I feel… nothing.

Libria, you have won.