Elevator Inferno

  Fujikawa Corp. Tower, Tokyo, Japan

  20th Floor, Customer Service Call Center

  10:13 p.m.

  From my room I could see siren lights everywhere — a countless number of patrol cars from all directions around the building, police officers aiming their weapons at every window they could, snipers taking positions on the nearby buildings, and officers shouting orders all over. For a moment, I felt relieved seeing them arrive, so I took the opportunity to rest a little, check my weapons, and see what was happening so I could plan my next move.

  The assault rifle I stole isn't in the best condition; it looks like one of the cover plates was hit and broke. I removed the piece, but this weapon wasn't made to be fired without it — it will shoot a little longer, but it doesn't have much life left. That doesn't really matter anyway because I'm running out of ammunition first; I only have two magazines. I set the rifle aside, grabbed my pistol, and pulled the magazine out to see how many rounds were left in it. It seems that my pistol……

  A strange sound interrupts me mid-sentence; I turn my head to the window to see what's happening outside. I see the police mobilizing — it looks like their plan is already underway. I think it's too premature to act without examining the situation closely, but maybe they've simply decided there has already been enough damage and are determined to move now before things get worse. Will that be the right decision? Nobody will probably ever know for sure, but they'll have to live with the consequences for the rest of their lives.

  I hear the many shots, as they were, they're forcing their way in; I see more officers entering the lobby from the floor I'm on. In the distance, I can make out Inspector Yamamoto getting into a truck — probably the police command center — and he was arguing heatedly with someone beside him. The gunfire continued for a couple more minutes; it seemed the fight wasn't turning out to be as easy as the police expected.

  The situation is making me increasingly nervous. If the police are taking casualties or having trouble advancing, they could put all the hostages at high risk — I can't allow that. Maybe it's best if I go back and start looking for a way to get my aunt Damaris out of here without relying on the police.

  *BOOM*

  A massive explosion made the whole building shake; the lights went out for a moment before coming back on. The sound echoed through the very beams of the structure — for a moment, I froze at the mere thought that the building might collapse completely. But after seeing that nothing more happened, I let out a relieved sigh, though not for long: through the window I could see the SAT withdrawing from the building — an expensive defeat. The captain was furious and sad; he knew he had lost several of his men in the explosion.

  It seemed the police wouldn't be enough for this situation. I was going to have to rescue my aunt from the kidnappers myself.

  My pistol's magazine was about half full, probably holding 12 or 15 rounds. It was all that was left.

  The magazine of my weapon was about half full — probably 12 or 15 rounds — it was all that was left. I tightened the strap; it was time to move.

  I climbed the emergency stairs up to the 25th floor, where it had all begun and where the hostages had been taken at the start of the night. That was where I had last seen my aunt and where I hoped to find her, but as I got closer, I heard detonations and screams of panic. I got scared, too. I kicked the door hard, rifle in hand, looking for any enemy to empty the whole magazine into. Instead, I saw two of the terrorists appear in front of me, but they weren't paying attention to me — their weapons were angled toward the other corridor. They fired mercilessly at whatever was in front of them. It didn't help much when I saw one of them thrown backward with an incredible force, slam into the wall behind him and explode into a red stain — a man reduced to little more than ground meat in a second.

  The other one was struggling with his rifle when a black silhouette materialized behind him. He hadn’t seen anyone approach. The agent in black moved his arm at incredible speed past the terrorist’s back, and when the motion stopped, I saw it — a sharp blade integrated into his forearm, like an extension of his own body, gleaming faintly under the dim light.

  A second later, the terrorist’s screams stopped. His body fell to the floor — two halves, perfectly sliced along the length. I realized then how meaningless the human body was against that kind of power.

  The man turned to look at me. Behind him, I saw my aunt. She was screaming in panic, being forcibly held by another agent in black identical to the one before me. She wasn’t dead, which meant they needed her alive. She wasn’t in immediate danger, not like I was right now.

  The man in black standing before me said nothing — he just charged at me with all his fury.

  I reacted on instinct. I raised my rifle and fired. He didn’t dodge. The bullets struck his armor with a metallic clack, completely ineffective. He didn’t even slow down. In an instant, he was on me.

  His fist hit my side like a pneumatic hammer. The air burst out of my lungs, and I was thrown against the wall, seeing stars. The pain was sharp, piercing — I had never been hit that hard before. I rolled across the floor just in time to avoid a kick that shattered the drywall where my head had been a second earlier.

  I managed to put some distance between us. I could see the slime on my chest trying to regenerate and heal the damaged areas from the impact, but the pain and exhaustion from the blow were still there. I didn’t even want to imagine how much damage that would’ve done to a normal human body — probably wouldn’t have killed me, but I doubt I’d be getting up from the pain either.

  Still, I decided not to give up — to keep fighting one more time. Not giving up was what I had done my whole damn life. How hard could it be one more time?

  I stood up with difficulty, spitting out the taste of blood, and raised my arms, ready for the next round.

  "Damn it! You guys aren't normal people, are you?"

  “...”

  "Ouch, what a nice party we're having tonight."

  “...”

  “Unfortunately for you, this isn’t my first rodeo.”

  “...”

  "Come on, I'm not done yet. I can keep going—I love doing this over and over again.”

  What better way to feel alive than to be on the edge? I fight for moments like this, for the challenge."

  "This whole night has been one battle after another at the limit. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this excited."

  "I want to keep going. I want more enemies."

  “Come on, go ahead. Make my day.”

  The two men in black stopped for a second and looked at each other without saying a word. Despite their black helmets reflecting no trace of humanity, I could see my own silhouette mirrored in them—myself, wounded and exhausted, but smiling. I was enjoying this, after all.

  He advanced again, relentless. I fired the last bullets of my magazine at his joints, at his helmet. Nothing. Just useless sparks. The only thing I achieved was making him stop for the first time, tilting his head slightly—like a curious animal studying its prey.

  It was in that moment of deadly pause that the world exploded.

  The panoramic window of the hall shattered inward in a rain of diamond-like glass. Two slender, silver figures burst into the room, suspended in midair by thrusters that roared with a ghostly hum. The androids. I recognized the design immediately—the twins, Kazumi and Charlotte, were outside the building. With their energy blades, they had sliced through the reinforced glass in perfect synchronization, then stormed inside and dashed toward the dark agent who was holding Damaris against her will.

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  It seemed my mother had finally realized what was happening here and sent them to rescue her sister, so without a doubt, the best thing I could do was help them succeed.

  “Dad, cover the retreat!” shouted the monotone yet familiar voice that came from one of the twins.

  I didn't think twice. I slammed the empty magazine release and snapped in my last clip. I fired at the man in black—not to hurt him, but to distract him, to buy the twins a few precious seconds. The agent facing me was distracted for an instant, and it was all I needed. I lunged forward, not to attack him, but to put myself between them and the twins' escape. I emptied what was left in my magazine into the ceiling lights, plunging the corridor into a gloom broken only by the emergency lighting.

  One of them hurled herself at the man who had my aunt, but the agent in black shoved her aside to avoid the attack and swung his arm at the robot to strike. Instead, the Doll simply ignited her lightsaber once more and cut the enemy's entire arm clean off.

  I watched the twin android wrap my aunt in a protective embrace; she held Damaris fast—Damaris fought uselessly against that superhuman grip—and without losing an ounce of momentum she launched back through the shattered window, disappearing into the Tokyo night with her precious charge. A relief so deep it nearly buckled me. Damaris was safe.

  "Get out—now!" I roared at the remaining twin, who only tilted her head slightly in farewell and then leapt back into the void. I saw the flash of her thruster carry her away, free.

  The two men in black, seeing that the objective of their mission had already slipped beyond their reach, turned back around. I couldn't see their faces, but there was no doubt they wanted revenge for what had happened.

  "This is going to hurt, right?" I told myself, knowing the inevitable fight that would come in a couple of seconds.

  They charged. Both of them. The uninjured one, fast as lightning; the wounded one, slower but with the blind fury of a damaged machine. I had no bullets left—only the urge to grab somebody and hit them—and I had the perfect targets to take it out on.

  I dodged the first blow from the uninjured agent by rolling across the floor, feeling his fist shatter the marble where my head had just been.

  The wounded one, with his remaining arm, swung his integrated blade in a wide, deadly arc. I ducked; the blade hissed above me and buried itself deep into the wall. For a second, it got stuck.

  It was my only chance.

  With a cry that was half rage, half pure adrenaline-fueled joy, I jumped—not toward him, but toward the uninjured agent—using him as a springboard to propel myself into the hallway. My feet landed on his armored back, and I pushed off with all my strength, leaping away from the main hall and into the maze of corridors.

  “Like hell I’m fighting like this! I’m not an idiot!” I shouted, without looking back.

  I heard their heavy, fast footsteps chasing me. I turned a corner, then another, with no clear destination—just trying to put some distance between us. A steel door with the symbol of an elevator appeared ahead. I slammed it with my elbow; the control panel cracked, and the doors slid open with an ironically friendly ding.

  I didn’t look back to see if the agent was following me—by now I knew that with these guys, they always did.

  I threw myself inside, spinning to face the door, claws ready, expecting to see the two killer cyborgs appear in the frame. The doors closed just as a black-armored hand tried to stop them. When he made a hole through the door, he looked me in the face.

  "Just jokin'!" I said with a big smile.

  At the same time, my hand changed shape, and my dragon claws pierced through his head with the same ease with which he had also been taking lives, He probably didn’t even realize how easily he died, The elevator finally began to move upward.

  I exhaled in relief for a second—until I realized it was something wrong in the elevator.

  Instead, I found myself staring at four very different pairs of eyes.

  Four men, dressed in the black tactical gear of the terrorists, stared at me with a mix of surprise, confusion, and instant hostility. Their rifles, which had been hanging loosely a second before, were raised in an instant. They were crammed inside the elevator, clearly in transit. On the small display of the interior panel, the number 90 glowed in red.

  “Shit!” I yelled, and everything exploded into chaos.

  One of them, a man with a scar running across his lip, broke the frozen silence.

  “Don’t just stand there! Shoot her!”

  The closest one to me — a bulky guy with a neck as wide as his head — didn’t waste time asking questions. With a grunt, he swung the butt of his rifle straight at my face.

  The space was so tight that dodging was impossible. I took the hit with a wet crack, my head slamming against the steel wall behind me. Stars burst in my vision again. But this time, fury came faster than dizziness.

  The bulky guy who’d hit me grinned, showing yellow teeth. Mistake. In confined spaces, brute strength is a liability. I lunged forward, not to punch him, but to close the distance. My forehead smashed into his nose with a satisfying crunch of cartilage. He screamed — a sharp, startled sound — as blood poured through his fingers.

  The second terrorist, faster, raised his rifle. Too slow. I grabbed the barrel with both hands, twisting it toward the ceiling. The shot thundered through the metal chamber, the bullets ricocheting harmlessly.

  “Idiot! Stop shooting! Too close!” shouted the man with the scarred lip.

  But it was already too late. I used the weapon's momentum, pivoting on one foot and launching a low, brutal kick at the knee of the man holding the rifle. He felt it give with a wet, unpleasant sound. He fell with a strangled cry, his rifle now in my hands.

  The third man, younger, eyes bulging, squeezed the trigger of his own rifle. A blind burst. It didn't hit me, but it hit the big man who was still holding his broken nose. The bullets pierced his chest and back, and his body collapsed like a sack of sand, smearing everything red.

  “?Blyat Cyka!” Scar shouted, real panic in his voice now.

  “The cleanup crew is going to kill me when they see this,” I said without meaning to.

  The space had become more livable. Three against one. Better. The young man who had killed his companion was frozen, staring at the body at his feet. I didn't hesitate. I stepped forward and drove the butt of my newly acquired rifle into his throat with all my strength. He coughed, choking, and slid down against the wall to the floor.

  The elevator, now a sardine can full of gunpowder, blood and dead bodies, continued its imperturbable ascent. Floor 65... 66...

  Two remained. Scar and a fourth man, calmer, with cold, calculating eyes. The latter didn't shoot. Instead he dropped his rifle, which hung from its strap, and pulled out a combat knife. A professional.

  Scar charged me, blinded by rage. It was easy. I ducked under his flailing arm and fired once. He howled and fell to his knees. A kick to the neck finished him off, shutting him down for good.

  Only the knife-wielder was left. We stared at each other through the pall of gunpowder smoke and the smell of blood and entrails. The elevator rose, a refuge of mechanical normality in the middle of hell.

  “You can surrender,” I said, my voice hoarse from the exertion. “Drop the knife.”

  He shook his head, almost sadly. “The cause demands it.”

  He advanced. His style was economical, precise. A low stab toward my abdomen. I spun, avoiding the blade by inches, and countered with the butt of my rifle. He blocked it with his forearm with a grunt of pain, but held. His other hand grabbed the strap of my rifle and yanked hard.

  We fell together against the back wall of the elevator, a tangle of limbs and metal. His knife searched for my throat. I kept it at bay with one hand, my fingers squeezing his wrist with all the strength I had left. With my other hand I dropped the rifle and drove my fingers into his eyes.

  He screamed, a guttural sound of agony, and his grip loosened. I took the chance to roll on top of him, wrenching the knife from his hand. For a second our faces were only inches apart. I could see the fear in his eyes, the sweat on his brow.

  “His cause can go to hell,” I whispered.

  Then I drove his own knife into his shoulder — not in a lethal spot, but deep enough to put him out of action. He screamed, arching in pain. I got up, gasping, and kicked him in the head to make sure he stayed still.

  Ding. 90th floor.

  The revolving restaurant “The Spire” spread out before me, a luxury of glass and steel now marred by violence. Tables overturned, plates shattered, and at the center of it all, two frightened terrorists and another agent in black standing in front of me.

  “You won’t believe me, I swear the elevator was already like that when I found it.”