The sniper's weight shifts slightly, surprised by your comeback. You push up, forcing the rifle closer to him and further from your neck. The elbow joint of your metal arm makes a clicking noise -- not of mechanical failure, but of intentional function. It locks into place, giving you ample breathing room. Your eyes glance around, taking in the situation.

The rifle, which you and your opponent struggle over. Large, rigid polymer construction, bolt-action. A full barrel-length suppressor. Words etched into the frame: L96 AWS. Near the window, a box of ammunition. Bold letters: .338 Lapua Magnum. Below that, masking tape, and words written in black marker: SUBSONIC.

Images come back into your mind. The training. The visions. It's a brief flash, nearly imperceptible to the outside observer, but recognition crosses over your face. This explains the muffled sound of the shots. You're not certain how you heard the shots before the bullet struck, since the sniper was using subsonic ammo, but with all the things you've been seeing and hearing in the last hour... well, that's not the weirdest thing for you to notice, that's for certain.

An idea crosses your mind. Yes, subsonic means less pressure, but the recoil should be enough to jar him. Your non-metal hand slides over to the trigger. Your index finger brushes the magazine release, your thumb presses the trigger.

PT-FUT

The recoil is enough to shake his grip. The scope even strikes his wrist as it jerks back, and he yells something. You aren't sure what -- even suppressed, the sound of the shot stunned you slightly -- but it sounds vaguely like swear words. He stumbles back a bit, giving you a chance to grab the rifle. Grunting, you shove the buttstock towards his face, almost like stabbing with a spear. Not as harmful as swinging it like a bat, but you need the extra reach. Unfortunately, he grabs the stock with his uninjured hand, stopping it from smashing his nose in.

You get up onto your feet, pushing more and more, and he pushes back. You grip the barrel with both hands, feeling the uncomfortable heat, but you don't flinch. You push him, closer and closer to the window. A cruel smile passes over his face.

"Big mistake, bitch," he snarls, using one hand to pull back the bolt. The empty cartridge pings out the side. He shoves the bolt back into place. You're holding the barrel, and it's aimed right at your chest. He pulls the trigger.

Click.

You both freeze. His violent smirk turns to confusion. He glances at the floor. The magazine. You ejected it before firing.

But then you both notice your pistol, lying on the ground. 13 rounds, by your count. Loaded. Primed. You glance back at him, and he glances back at you.

He shoves you away, tossing the rifle to the side and scrambling for the pistol. You chase after him.

He grabs it, spins around... and you've drawn your knife from your backpack shoulder strap. Metal hand, grabbing his, forcing the pistol away.

PAK PAK PAK

Three shots, as he struggles against your grip. Left hook, aimed at your jaw. You swing back, using the grip of the knife to smash his knuckles and send his punch careening off to the side. Both arms neutralized. A metal knee to the stomach, thumping against the bullet-resistant vest, and he grunts. Your leg then pulls up higher, foot braced against his stomach. A forward kick, sending him tumbling. The pistol clatters to the ground, skipping across the floor, landing near the open window.

Deciding the pistol isn't worth it, he draws his knife. Long, with a slightly forward-curving blade, and a knuckle-duster grip. Swing, slash. You step back, avoiding the knife as it grazes your tank top across the stomach. He stabs, you grab. Metal upon metal screeches as the blade slips through the grip of your metal hand, the tip of the blade aimed square at your heart. Squeezing, crushing. The metal screams as it is slowly crushed by your metal hand. He attempts to pull away, but his fingers are locked into the knuckle grip. He attempts to look away, but his gaze is locked with yours. He shudders for a split second, giving you time to think.

Okay, breathe. Hundreds of thousands of instructions have been wired into your head. They're all there, and you have to sift through them, fast. Martial arts? That'll do nicely.

You flip the knife around in your hand, reversing the grip. In a flash, your blade arm goes up to his, elbows touching, forearm wrapped around his upper arm, using the back of the knife blade as leverage. His entire right arm is locked. A downward kick at his leg, dislocating his kneecap. Using his locked arm, you flip him forward, sending him tumbling and crashing across the floor.

The sniper scrambles to his feet, wincing as he keeps his weight on his non-injured leg. He spits on the ground, a thick dry ball of phlegm. Your mouth feels sticky from exertion as well, and a drop of sweat runs down your nose. You lock eyes again. His body armor is heavy, too heavy, and he quickly unzips it and tosses it to the side, revealing a black compression shirt that hugs his muscles tightly, which heave as he sucks in several raspy breaths. He tugs his helmet off, swinging it wildly at you. This catches you off-guard, and your vision goes spotty and white as it strikes you across your face. You take a few steps back, and warm blood runs from your nose.

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He goes for the pistol again, perhaps realizing that it would even the odds in this knife fight. With his bad leg, he nearly topples over as he nears the window.

You stand there, breathing heavily, eyes slightly lidded. The back of your non-metal hand wipes your nose, and you spit on the ground this time around. It's cloudy with blood.

Using one arm to brace against the window sill, the sniper pulls himself up. His body is shaking, sweat and rain drip off his face, and his fingers fumble to wrap around the pistol grip.

He turns. The pistol is aimed at you.

And then a knife strikes his now unarmored chest. The pistol drops again. He shudders violently.

Still standing in place, right arm extended, you continue to stare into his eyes. A direct hit, a perfect throw. Your hand wipes your face again, then drops to your side once more. Your intense gaze does not leave him, and you watch his pupils shake and begin to dilate. He coughs, sending a light spray of blood out from his lips. His hands struggle to hold him up, leaning against the windowsill.

"F... F-Fuck," is all he can manage to say, before limply falling backward out the open window.

Lightning flashes.

You wobble, exhausted.

I Will Be Victorious.

You take in a few deep breaths, collecting yourself. Okay, you need supplies. Food, weapons, ammo, medical gear. Surely this sniper had that.

Shuffling over to the crates of supplies, you slip your backpack off and unzip it. You take a knee next to the crates and dump it all out so you can take stock of it all again. Right, right... the water, the jerky, the alcohol... there's the flashlight, and the locked utility box, and... the old rusty key? Hm, you thought you dropped that when you first ran out of the room you woke up in.

The clasps holding the supply crates closed are heavy, and you have to really work at it to open them. Valerie's screen turns on for you.

"Thanks, Val." You sift through the first box. Dozens upon dozens of MREs, in a variety of flavors. You grab a few. Your backpack is big, yes, but you don't know how many you can stuff into it.

The next crate. Let's see... water. Purified water, in cans. You take a few cans.

"So... why couldn't you provide adrenaline?" you remark offhandedly as you struggle to open the next crate.

Another open crate. Batteries, hundreds, in all shapes and sizes. "I never said anything like that."

With a grunt, another crate opens up. Toilet paper, soap, shaving cream, and teeth cleaners in single-use sanitized and sealed bags. You take some soap and teeth cleaners, and two rolls of toilet paper. You highly doubt you'll need shaving cream. You don't even have facial hair. Just facial fur.

"I... I don't recall saying that to you."

You aren't sure how to respond to that. You limp over to the other side of the room -- your legs aren't hurt so much as they're quite sore -- to where the more 'tactical' gear was being stored. Ammunition, and the like. The rifle is still on the ground, as well as the box of ammo for it and the empty magazine. You gather those up, and search the crates. Ammo, grenades, detonators, bricks of plastic explosives, wires, electrical parts, tools for repairing and cleaning firearms, anti-personnel mines...

"Yeah... that does make sense..." you say, this time not lying. Clearly, with all the supplies this guy had, his employers must be very well-funded and incredibly focused on killing you. "Do you think any of his other stuff is bugged?"

You open another crate. Medical supplies, and tons of it. Bandages, splints, gauze, painkillers, and even little boxes full of single-use syringes -- morphine, epinephrine, and so on. You take the bandages and gauze, since you figure Valerie has you covered on the painkillers.

"That was fast."

"Than--"

"What?"

Valerie hums. You pick up your pistol and the sniper rifle, and put all your newly found supplies next to your bag. Valerie continues to hum. You sit quietly, pistol in hand, and focus on your breathing.

You begin to stuff the supplies into your bag. "What are they saying?"

Before you can say anything, you hear a voice. It's faint, but it echoes through the empty office building.

"Tucker? Andy? Y'all up there? Y'all alright? We saw the body!"