A woman stands exactly in the middle of a white-walled room with high ceilings and a smooth ash-coloured wooden floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the right side of the room and morning light pours in. The sun reflects off the polished stainless steel of the rail on the balcony outside.
The woman is dressed all in white, in a microfibre cropped top and Hipster shorts. Her shoulder length hair is tied back in a single ponytail. She is facing a wall that has a solitary chrome edged 60" screen flush-mounted into it. The screen is not turned on, so the reflection of her face looks softly back at her.
She is standing perfectly upright, with her legs together and arms by her side. She starts to stretch. Small neck rolls at first, then side stretches and twists, then the rest of her routine.
She clicks a button on the tiny black box in her hand, and within seconds, "That Phone" by Grace Potter and The Nocturnals fills the huge void of the airy room.
Her movements are graceful as she starts to groove to the music. Her arms are slender and her skin is translucent white, her delicate veins almost visible. Her shoulders, elbows, wrists, fingertips, hips, knees, ankles and feet all pick up the rhythm effortlessly as if she is hard-wired into her sound system. Her fingers are long and slender and skillfully direct her body across the open space in small, graceful movements.
A distinct sound starts to challenge her music. Whup-Whup-Whup! Whup-Whup-Whup! The advancing blade of a six-bladed rotor, cutting though the wake vortex of the blade infront of it, in other words, a helicopter (probably an AH-6 Little Bird) - bad news.
Within seconds, the glass imploded as thousands of bullets were delivered to her living room by the M-134 six-barelled Minigun mounted on the helicopter as she springed for cover. She knew she had seconds, if that to take down the chopper.
From behind her overturned white leather and steel sofa, her porcelain-like fingers that looked as if they that might snap if not used too gently, opened a black polycarbonate box, and deftly assembled a Heckler & Koch G36K. Unfortunately, she would have to venture back to the balcony if she were to have a shot at taking down the bird. Running close to the wall opposite her now bullet-riddled screen, her feet left bloody footprints as she tried to avoid the broken glass on the floor.
She was in luck. The gunner had run out of bullets or had stopped to reload, giving her a split second to take out the main Rotor or 'Jesus Nut'. She steadied herself, leaning against a column, that also gave her a little cover, and slowed her breathing. She raised the assault rifle and emptied the 30-round magazine into the Rotor. She did not wait to see it plummet. They had found her. What she had to find out was Who?
Copyright © Alice Malachard 2012
