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When I reached the center of the formation, I realized that all their attention was on me, leaving Ellie momentarily forgotten.
That was exactly what I had hoped for.
* * *
The guards thundered down the stairs, their metallic boots striking each step with a rhythmic clatter that echoed through the corridor.
It reminded me of a march, one that heralded their doom.
A mixture of their synthetic leather armor and the pungent stench of fear wafted up the staircase, a smell I was intimately familiar with.
It felt satisfying to be on the other side of that fear for once.
Due to the narrowness of the staircase, their overwhelming numbers became a hindrance rather than an advantage.
Their bulk and weight, meant to intimidate, worked against them, making them slow, clumsy, and predictable.
As the first guard reached the bottom, I struck, using the element of surprise.
My fingers snaked out, grabbing him by his armored collar and pulling him into a chokehold.
I could feel the heat of his breath, short and rapid against my arm, and the desperation in his movements as he tried to free himself.
Another guard opened fire, but I had already sensed his move.
The heat from the plasma shot was a mere whisper against my cheek as I dodged, the bright hue reflecting in my peripheral vision.
Without hesitation, I lunged forward, snatching a plasma rifle from a third guard.
I squeezed the trigger, and the rifle hummed to life, spitting out bolts of searing plasma.
One by one, the guards crumpled, their armor charred and smoky, filling the air with a burnt, acrid aroma.
In the chaos, my ears picked up a distinctive sound: the soft shuffling of someone trying to stealthily retreat.
Turning my attention from the fallen guards, my eyes locked onto the Supervisor.
His flabby, sweat-slicked skin glistened under the corridor lights.
The remote control dangled precariously from his pudgy fingers, his ticket to regain control of this situation.
Seeing that he was the focus of my attention, a hint of panic flashed in his eyes, making them widen comically.
I could hear the rapid thumping of his heart and see the fluttering of his pulse beneath the translucent skin of his throat.
Without warning, I aimed the plasma rifle at him.
The shot grazed his arm, the scorching heat causing a blistery wound that forced him to release the remote.
The device twirled in the air, reflecting the chaotic scene of the stairwell in its glossy surface.
The Supervisor lunged, desperation evident in his movement, his fingers splaying out to take control of the remote once more.
But it was in vain.
His short stature and portly figure hindered him, and he was a breath too late.
The remote descended, and as if time had slowed, I extended my arm, feeling the texture of the device’s cold, hard casing as it settled into my palm.
