I burst out of my trance-like state and crouch under my reading desk. Plunged into darkness, the symphony of death begins.
For the choir: journalists, their cries resonate passionately in the isolated conference hall.
For the percussion: shotguns, from the clicks and puffs of their sliding fore-end to their terrifying fortissimo impacts.
For the brass: the alarm solo, showcasing its trumpet’s most beautiful vibrato.
With the lights off, I can’t rely on Boobies, so I have to navigate this on my own.
I close my eyes and listen. I try to find the tempo.
“120 bpm, ta ta ta ta ta ta—”
It doesn’t fit, so I try faster.
“180 bpm, tatatatatatata—”
It’s still not right; the instruments are not synchronized, and the screams always fall a third time too late.
So, it’s ternary and slower.
“144 bpm, ta-ta-ta ta-ta-ta ta-ta-ta”
The scream falls perfectly, and the impact follows on time.
My eyes should be adjusted to the dark now, so I take my glasses from my suit’s pocket and put them on.
Holding my knife, I click my tongue. The alarm rings. I click, shotgun puffs. I click, journalist screams. I click, boom. I click and jump out.
Someone is right in front of me.
It’s the emcee. I click. He pushes me away.
What a nice person. I’m sorry I can’t save you.
I click.
He raises his arms and begs for mercy. I’m hiding behind his back.
I click.
His head is blown out. My eardrums are whistling from the clang.
I click.
I slide between his legs that are falling to the ground and slash the tendons of my first opponent.
I click.
The alarm wails. I stand on my feet.
I click.
I pierce his balls, his heart, and his temple in a single motion. The blood spurts on my forearms. But I didn’t hit his temple. They have helmets with infrared vision. So, this is why they could see… Good thing Kevlar doesn’t stop knives. My other hits were enough to deal with him.
I click.
The screams grow weaker as fewer people are alive. I hold the guy from his armpits to use him as a shield.
I click.”
I look over his shoulder to gauge the situation. There are fewer than 15 people standing in the hall. A group of them is crying in the furthest corner, their faces contorted by fear and incomprehension. But nothing falls on my tempo anymore.
It slows down. 98 bpm.
The other closest shotgun is just a few metres away, firing at the fallen one’s back.
I click.
You’re all very unlucky fellows. I drop the guy I’m holding and throw my knife right at the other one’s face.
He’s taken by surprise but has the reflex to block it with his knuckle. It pierces his leather gloves, and blood rushes out.
I click.
With a roar, he takes it out and throws it away.
I’m weaponless now. What should I do?
I grab the broken leg of a steel chair that the journalists were seated on.
His shotgun fires.
I click.
I roll and aim for his wound. The metal rod is thin enough that I can lodge it in his knuckle. The pain should be strong enough that he can’t press the trigger.
He yells, “What the hell is this madman?! He killed Santa too!”
I killed Santa???
I’m really tempted to look behind me to check if that guy truly was Santa Claus and if I did kill the guy who gives gifts to children at Christmas, but my instincts tell me I shouldn’t think about it.
“Fuck, he did! Hey Dream, this one is serious business.”
The last two shotguns stop caring about their herd of scared sheep and slowly walk towards us. The slaughter can wait.
I click.
They get closer and closer, and I keep pushing on the guy’s arm, but he holds still, roaring in pain.
I stomp on a chair back that was lying near my feet, making it jump in the air. I grab it with one hand and put it behind the guy’s nape while holding the nail with my other hand.
When the two stormtroopers are only a few steps away from us, I shout.
“DON’T MOVE!”
They stop walking. Ritardando, 51 bpm.
By pulling the chair back like a leash and slowly walking backward, I force my hostage to move with me.
“IF YOU COME CLOSER, I’LL KILL HIM! I CAN BREAK HIS NECK!”
I want to walk backward until we reach the furthest wall, but the guy I’m holding responds.
“HE’S FULL OF SHIT, HE CAN’T KILL ME IN THIS POSITION, COME AND KILL HIM!”
Yet those guys don’t move as I told them. They must take me seriously…
“WHY DON’T I HEAR ANY BULLETS ANYMORE? WHAT’S TAKING YOU SO LONG? Ew, that’s disgusting!” Yells ESMERALDA, who peeks inside the hall for the first time after the assault. She frowns at the sight of this massacre and tries not to stain her high heels with blood.
The few journalists who survived this long are still crouching in the corner, wailing, waiting for this carnage to end. I click.
ESMERALDA comes to fulfil their wish and takes out her Beretta to silence them.
She walks slowly towards the stage. “So what? Have y’all become deaf?”
I hold my breath and pull the guy with me a little closer to the wall. I close my eyes.
“Why are you so scared of one single bitch?!” she exclaims.
From the estimation of her voice’s distance, ESMERALDA is probably standing just behind the two who stopped moving.
I click.
In a blinding burst, all the hall’s lights shine anew.
“WHAT THE—”
They yell and jump in surprise. After staying in the dark for so long, their eyes aren’t prepared for such exposure.
I drop the chair back, pull the nail out of the guy’s knuckle, and pierce his throat, right under his helmet.
“Good job, Abhi,” I whisper.
“YOU FUCKING BITCH! WHERE ARE Y—”
SHHHZDONG~!
The guy on the left falls down, a hole in his helmet and blood flowing out of it.
The tinkling sound of broken glass and the feel of the wind make the two final opponents finally snap out of it and realize what just happened.
“SNIPER!!!” yells the last shotgun guy, while jumping down, spreading his whole body on the ground and using his arms to defend his head.
With the lights back on in the hall, the sharpshooter can finally enter the stage.
“-And with the lights back in the hall, I, the sharpshooter, can finally enter the stage!”
That’s what I just said in the narration! Oh, wait, it’s a flashback, so never mind, I’m just going to copy what she said.
Abhi and I are lying down on the sofa, watching an anime, while Boobies is standing between us, all proud, showing off her rifle.
“Hey, can you move out? We can’t see the TV—”
Wait a second… What the heck is that?
I jump to my feet to take a closer look at the rifle…
“Yoooo! Can you both not stand in front of the screen? I’m going to watch the rest on my computer!” exclaims Abhi.
I feel shivers running down my back. What the hell is this monster?
“His name is Gandiva! Isn’t it amazing?”
What I am looking at is closer to a bow than a rifle.
The barrel is flexible like the body of a snake, capable of bending up and down and changing in size. The telescopic sight is shaped like a golden arrow, and the bolt handle looks fiery. A thick white thread hangs in place of the trigger. The buttstock is wide and hollow, allowing one to put their whole arm inside, similar to a crossbow, and grip it with straps. It’s possible to shoot accurately while standing up with the arm straight, and all one needs to do is clench their fist and gently pull the string trigger with their fingers, like playing a harp, to shoot. The entire white body is adorned with intense red and purple lines and character prints in an obscure oriental language.
It looks alive.
An awkward smile forms on my face. My mind is so obsessed with this absurd weapon that I can’t even process the angry door clap, signifying Abhi’s determination to finish the episode without me.
Across the gigantic wall-sized blown-up window, in a tower a hundred metres away, I can see the beautiful busty angel of death smirking. “Show me your moves, ESMERALDA!” she says in our earphone, and I silently thank her for saving my life.
Pulling the string a second time, the bullet streaks across the sky at an inconceivable velocity, swirling between air particles. It shrieks like a thunderbolt and pierces the guy’s head, having calculated the perfect angle after he jumped down.
SHHHZDONG~!
The sound it produces is closer to a sitar than the normal 'BAM' of a cartridge, followed by the whistling of boiling water and the crackling of fire.
It’s the last instrument of this symphony.
Astonished by this abyssal melody and perhaps the stark realization of the bloodbath beneath her feet, ESMERALDA’s body freezes entirely.
She is ruthless, but as an amateur, she was never prepared to witness the aftermath of such a massacre.
After carefully waiting for our target to venture deeply into the battlefield, we could begin the fourth and final phase of our plan.
The headhunt!
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