On the first floor, Temper's head snapped around as a faint sound reached her ears. Accessing her tracking implants, she crouched down and peered at the floor. She placed her fingertips lightly on the linoleum. Standing and turning, she moved off without a sound.
On the second floor, Wind flattened herself against a wall, and looked at a tiny detector on her wrist. She smiled and moved off at a run.
Temper walked slowly up to a stairwell door, sniffed the air, smiled, turned and went to a wall panel that gave access to the air duct system. She removed the panel and climbed in to a space that looked too small even for her slight frame.
Temper crawled through the air duct, sniffing the air, touching the floor, walls and ceiling with her fingertips which had a nanotech filament glove beneath the surface layer of skin that made her sense of touch function in the infrared and thermo-intensive ranges. Sensor implants linked into her nervous system allowed her to process data beyond what her normal senses could. It gave her access to thermal traces, energy sign and other data. She came to a junction, started to climb up.
Wind walked down the hallway, stopping to look from side to side as if she had lost something. She consulted her monitor again, then turned quickly but quietly and walked back the way she came.
Temper, her fingertips on the wall of the air duct, smiled, and continued climbing.
Temper reached a grill at the end of one shaft. Touching it with her fingertips, she was satisfied that the coast was clear. She pushed the grill open, wincing at the squeak its hinges produced.
Temper dropped silently out of the air duct, turned to close the grill, and then decided against it. Closing her eyes for a moment, she stood still, taking in the whole hallway with all her senses, then turned and moved on.
In the real world computer room, The Artist finished singing Gilbert and Sullivan's opening song from Yeoman of the Guard and was about to start another song. Skorpion was still jacked into the terminal. The Artist walked over to her, leaned over and sang directly into her ear. “Oh Wandering Minstrel I..."
In the virtual headquarters, Skorpion was walking down the hallway. She winced as The Artist's singing suddenly became louder, before fading away.
"I hate that,” she said.
"I heard that!” came the disembodied voice of The Artist.
At that moment, the Grey Assassin turned a corner down the hall from Skorpion. Her back was to him.
Skorpion was intensely studying yet another line of code written on the wall.
"The Michelangelo virus,” she murmured, “that bastard—"
Her head snapped around as the sound of cloth on cloth reached her ears. She saw the Assassin, and in the same instant, dropped to one knee, drew one pistol and opened fire. The Assassin disappeared around a corner.
She peered down the corridor as she drew and cocked the second gun before she realized she had used its shot on the overhead light.
I'm starting to think like Matthew, she thought. I can't just wander around this place and shoot at things: Plan Skorpion!
She backed down the corridor, turned and ran for the nearest stairwell again.
Somewhere in the real world, The Artist began singing a song from Princess Ida.
On the fourth floor, Goldstrike and Lastshot emerged from the stairwell, and closed the door behind them.
"Take the back stairs,” Lastshot whispered. “Meet me at the armory; and don't stop for a snack on the way unless you pick me up some popcorn."
"Got it; no butter,” Matthew said as they both raced off.
A few seconds after they split up, Sniper threw the stairwell door open, pumped a few rounds into the hallway and stepped out into the corridor.
"Nothing like a few ten millimeter rounds to soften up a room,” she said, smiling. The sound of a door closing drew her head around. “Oh, Shiny, you're making this way too easy."
She slammed a fresh magazine home in her weapon and racked in a round before jogging off towards the sound.
In the training room, The Eel was not having a good day.
The room was twenty meters across, it's periphery a series of racks, mats, weights, archery and pistol targets and workout gear. The Eel had, it seemed moved through most of the room in an attempt to batter down Firststrike's defenses.
"Will you stand still?” he screamed. The lithe man launched a complex series of spinning heel kicks, first in one direction then reversing himself, intending to catch the one-eyed Exceptional off guard.
Firststrike dodged each attack with graceful ease. The Eel looked like he'd run an obstacle course, sweating profusely, and breathing like a racehorse.
"I stood still before, Wu,” Jason said in a calm voice. “I don't think you were very pleased with the result."
The Eel drew back and calmed himself with a breathing exercise, before he looked directly into Firststrike's good eye. “You are so annoying,” he said.
The Eel lunged at the taller man, but Firststrike side slipped and drove his knee into The Eel's chest. Then he slammed a knife-hand blow to the back of his neck. The Eel staggered away three steps, and turned, obviously hurt. The Chinese criminal shook his head and growled like a wounded dog, but still would not quit.
"Give it up, Wu, you're hurt.” Firststike's voice was sincere, but he did not make the mistake of dropping his guard in case The Eel was not quite as injured as he seemed.
"Shut up!” The Eel yelled as he leapt forward. Firststrike spun and caught him in the stomach with his heel. The masked man staggered, Firststrike hooked his thumbs together, and fluttered his fingers straight up like a mime doing a bird impersonation. Momentarily distracted, The Eel let his guard down. Firststrike slammed a back fist into his opponent's nose, breaking it, and knocking him out.
Firststrike checked to make sure The Eel's pulse was steady. “David Carradine's Kung Fu is the best,” he said quietly.