Ultimum Carceron

Ultimum Carceron 20

Fifteen minutes ago, Rebecca had furiously descended several floors down, and fifteen minutes later, she frantically ascended back to her floor, now exploring her final options, preposterous as they may be, of vanquishing her nemesis. Swinging her crutch rhythmically until she was inside her room and away from the still astonished glances of the other staff members, she excitedly opened each and every drawer in her bathroom, attempting to find a razor or scissors so she could finish off Smythe at close range. She noticed quickly, however, that everything seemed to be conspicuously missing from her bathroom. There weren't any scissors, shaving blades, or anything at all.

Then she looked up and saw that a rough outline of two eyes had been carved into her bathroom mirror. It was unmistakably Smythe's work; she remembered the yellow eyes he had painted in the prisoner hallway, and although there was no color in this graffiti, the shape and subject were identical. Another warning by the man who anticipated her every move.

She paced to the other side of the bathroom when she impulsively revolved around and threw her crutch at the mirror. As she expected, a hundred silver triangles of glass shattered in a thunder and rained onto the floor and in her sinks. Some pieces were marble sized, others larger than kitchen knives.

Now there was a thought.

She carefully stepped around the mess to pluck a piece the length of a pen. It was easier to hide and still enough to kill. All she had to do was wait outside her bedroom for him to come out, and then she'd attack. For better luck, she would get him in the neck or the head, somewhere he was less likely to recover from. She curled her fingers around it, cautious enough not to grip too hard. She lifted herself out of the room with the crutch and out onto the public floor.

As soon as she saw the dozen occupied employees working and talking, she gulped. There were twenty-four eyes that were there to witness her commit her crime in action, as if she needed the additional complication. She was reevaluating her desperate plan when the door opened to Smythe's bedroom, and all of her concerns were instantly replaced by enraged determination. His hair was all over the place as he ineffectively combed it with his fingers. Wearing only his zebra striped vest, he put on his dark jacket and tied it around his waist. Five Crimson Serpent members loitering close by were quickly magnetized by his reappearance. Chatter commenced, both socially and professionally; she heard snippets of "Witz and I just had a little misunderstanding,", "I've already told these employees not to say anything about her slugging me", "How did it go with the new girl?" and "Song-Xu said...". What Smythe said she could only distinguish through his distinct Nigerian accent.

The rest of the pack would move away.

They had to, so she'd get close enough. But no matter; even if they moved together as a pack, she could work with that.

She'd throw the shard.

He was there, a half-court's length from her. Feeling the heat of nervousness and anticipation, she went forward.

So many people around her. She stared at them, quickly shifting her focus from one busy employee to another; so far, everyone was typing and working.

She glanced at two workers, one looking at his work, the other looking at her. She looked down, and could still imagine him staring, as she had been staring. One ...two...three swings with the crutch and she passed him. The coworker faded from her mind and her attention refocused. Smythe became less blurry and more sharp. It was an empty desk and about ten feet away, and she would win.

All of Smythe's friends except for Smythe himself laughed at something. He looked like he was frozen and like a statue when both of his eyes moved on her. He raised his hand in her direction and curled his index finger up, a beckoning to come close to him. He wasn't smiling.