Ayda stepped through the center of three sets of double doors. She paused just long enough to get her bearings. This must have been the front lobby, if this building followed modern construction trends. It was quiet and empty. Anyone left inside likely hid according to whatever their lockdown procedure was, which was exactly where she wanted them; out of both the way and the line of fire. No more children would die on her watch.

In a flash, Ayda took in all the details of this new space. The front lobby was a mostly open space, outfitted with white on the tile, walls, and ceiling, while wooden details made up the corner accents. A staircase immediately right of the doors provided access to the upper floor. A small and mostly empty trophy case sat against the same wall about halfway between the stairs and a set of wood doors inlaid with glass which led to a long hallway. To her left was a pair of offices. Long glass windows allowed for sight into each, although they currently were abandoned.

Ayda ducked into the closest one. Being within direct line of sight with the entrance made her feel uncomfortable. It was much smaller than it appeared from the outside, a room longer than it was broad with barely enough room for a long desk, a few filing cabinets, and a couple chairs for visitors. A nameplate on the desk designated this as the secretary's office. There were two doors, one in the very back which led to the intercom station, and a closed one to its right.

No time to catch her breath. Every second she wasted, the gunman got further away. So, while a quick pause would've been nice to get her heart rate under control, the teenager whipped out her phone and opened up the screen sharing app Elliot mentioned previously. Speaking of which...

"Elliot, are you there?" She said, staring at her phone. "I'm in."

"Yeah, I'm here," he responded after a second. "Nice job talking your way in there."

"It's all thanks to Captain Mustache," Ayda quipped.

"Captain Mustache?" Elliot asked. Ayda could practically hear him raise an eyebrow.

"You should've seen it, El. It was awful."

"I'll take your word for it," Elliot said. "Where are you now?"

"I'm in the front office, trying to find the guy on the cameras," Ayda said while flipping through views on her phone. She held the thing lengthwise. There were arrow buttons on either side of the screen. A press of one initiated a short loading time before a transition to the next camera.

"I'm not at my desk right now, so I can't help you," Elliot said. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. I shouldn't need you from here."

Ayda swiftly scoured the cameras, staying with each view just long enough to tell what was in them. The displays were black and white and grainy. Clearly, no expense was spared in the security of these children. The cameras seemed to cycle in a linear fashion down each hallway. Ayda recognized similar landmarks from the previous view each time she switched. Although, she hadn't the slightest idea where the first one was. It could be the other side of the building, for all she knew.

About a minute more of searching passed, when all of a sudden Ayda' s heart leapt into her throat. It was the only person she'd seen on the mobile monitor so far. A white man about in his forties, slightly overweight and balding. He jogged right to left out of the angle. Ayda switched and caught him in the next camera maintaining the same momentum. In his hands was a construction of wood and metal, fatter at the rear end tucked below his right arm. A gun; an old, Vietnam-era design. This was him. This was the shooter.

All at once, Ayda was relieved. Finding him took only a couple minutes of looking. Hacking the cameras had been a great idea. Now all that remained was to confront and subdue him. Easy enough, especially against someone so obviously unfit.

She looked around his environment. The quality of the film made much beyond him and the room doors difficult to divine. She looked for room numbers, a janitor's closet, anything to give away his position. But the search was in vain. The picture was too dark, too hazy. She couldn't see. Whatever relief the girl at first felt quickly was replaced by hysteria.

"I don't know where this is," she breathed. "This doesn't help me, I don't know where he is!"

"Can you see the room numbers?" Elliot offered. "Is there anything else around?"

"No, Elliot. It's too grainy. I can't—" She cut off harshly as her eyes drifted from the phone to the open door behind the secretary's desk. "Hold on, I have an idea."

Ayda vaulted over the desk, knocking several papers and office supplies to the floor in the process. Rushing footsteps brought her into the back room with the intercom equipment. It was a massive switchboard propped up on a white card table, hundreds of buttons each labeled with a number which, assumedly, corresponded to a similarly designated room.

The entire setup was daunting, to say the least. Ayda scanned through row after row of buttons. She figured out they started at the bottom left with the number one, and worked all their way up through a few hundred at the top right. Three, though, did not fit this pattern, and accordingly stood out. Bigger and round, as opposed to square, they lay on the table in front of the switchboard. From left to right, they were labeled as outside, inside, and both.

Ayda leaned into stick microphone attached to the table. With one hand she swapped camera views until again locating the criminal, who hadn't made it far. She cleared her throat. Laying her staff down on the table, she pressed the button labeled inside.

"Hey, asshole!" She shouted into the microphone. The sound of her voice echoed through the building, reverberating off the hard walls. It was momentarily disconcerting to hear herself so loud, but no one was more surprised than the gunman. Ayda watched through her phone as he stopped cold in his tracks, looking up at the nearest speaker.

"Yeah, I'm talking to you. I can see you, right now, in the cameras," she said. The gunman spiked the lens. Ayda looked directly into his eyes. "This is the vigilante speaking. You know, the badass bitch who's been fucking the Triad? I bet you think you're so fucking tough, waving a gun around at defenseless, terrified children. Well, I'm not afraid. And I'm not defenseless. I know you're probably trying to make a statement, or go out in a blaze of glory, or something. What better way than killing someone like me? If that's what you want, come to the front lobby. I'll be waiting."

With that, the girl released the button. She watched her phone intently as the gunman paused. He stood in the middle of the hallway, as if visibly weighing his options. Only for a few seconds, though. The murderer spun completely around and took off back the way he came. Ayda chuckled to herself, and let out the breath she hadn't been aware of holding.

"What a dumbass," she scoffed, shaking her head.

"Ballsy move, Ayda," commented Elliot as his partner started out of the office. "Do you think it'll work?"

"Hopefully, but I'll keep watching him, just in case." Ayda said while she walked out of the office and back into the lobby. "If it doesn't seem like he's coming this way, I'll move on to Plan C."

"Which is...?" Elliot insisted.

Ayda hesitated for a moment. "I don't know yet," she admitted with a downward glance to the right. "I kind of expected the camera thing to work, if I'm being honest."

"I'll be thinking of something," Elliot sighed. "Just stay safe, alright?"

"El, I'll be fine. I can take one old dude with a gun." Ayda did her best to reassure him. Whether he believed it or not, the conversation again died down.

Ayda stood in the middle of the lobby for a moment. She looked right toward the entrance, and then left down the hall, idly spinning the collapsed staff between her index and ring fingers. The girl wasn't really sure what to do with herself. Should she wait with her weapon out menacingly, or go outside and tell the authorities what's going on?

She purposely kept the challenge on internal channels to avoid outside interference. This way, no one else had any danger of being hurt. So, scratch that option. There was also no way of knowing how long the criminal would take in arriving, or even if he would in the first place. Standing in the middle of the lobby for God knows how long appealed not.

Ayda gave a grimace, then walked to a spot just before the glass of the office. She gave one last look down the corridor, and then leaned back against the wall. Rooting around in her pocked produced a pair of white Belmont International brand earbuds. She plugged them into both her ears, and then the phone. A few deft taps brought up a music app. Ayda leaned over the phone, watching the criminal move through the school as the sweet sounds of her favorite song by her favorite band filled the silence: Animal I Have Become by Three Day's Grace.

Ayda would've liked a moment to reflect, to prepare mentally for the coming bout. It'd been all go since she arrived; not a single opportunity to clear her head. Fate, though, made other plans. The wait was not a lengthy one. The song barely had time to finish before a middle-aged man turned the corner about a quarter of the way down the hall. He approached swiftly, with intent. The sun glinted off the recently polished barrel of his gun. Ayda shifted her eyes to watch him as he came.

The gunman jogged into the front lobby, kicking open one of the wood and glass doors to make his entrance. The pathetic old sod probably thought that made him look cool. In reality, with his bright orange shirt, khaki shorts, and combover, the only things he looked like were washed up and strung out. When he entered, Ayda heaved a sigh and at a leisurely pace removed her earbuds. Shame, really. She quite enjoyed the next song, but it was time to go to work.

"Hey!" The man shouted at the youngster who seemed to take no notice of him. "Were you the one on the intercom?"

"You actually showed up," Ayda replied while wrapping the buds around her phone. "Gotta admit, I'm surprised." She popped off the wall and walked to the center of the room. "Maybe I misjudged you." She faced the killer. He kept his weapon in a lax posture, but continually flexed his fingers around the trigger guard.

"I thought you said this would be a real fight. You're just a girl!" Remarked the man. Ayda growled under her breath.

"Don't try to match wits with me," she warned, channeling her powers. The staff glowed purple. "You already lost one fight today." A small yet quite audible blast extended the top half of her weapon. "Don't make it two." A second burst locked the other half into position.

The man's expression faded from sick confidence to anxious confusion at the sights and sounds before him. He shouldered his weapon, breaths shallow. A normal person like him could never understand what he just saw. The light around the staff glowed with an unnatural luminescence, and the explosions—as previously established—sounded just like gunshots. His eyes darted around the room. Ayda could practically see the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Every sense in his body was on high alert. He obviously didn't know exactly what was happening, and that made him afraid.

"Don't point that gun at me unless you intend to use it." Again Ayda cautioned the criminal against actions he would regret.

The teenager immediately recognized the impasse both individuals faced. She couldn't attack him from this distance, and he was probably more than happy to root her in place with the threat of gunfire, especially so close to an exit the police could access at any given moment. Someone had to inspire action, and Ayda wasn't patient enough to wait. She took a step forward.

The man pulled his trigger. A shot rang out. Ayda reacted with the least effort possible. A swift flick of the wrist and a blast were all she needed to deny the bullet with her staff. She hadn't even needed to use two hands. The bullet shattered on contact with her power. Little bits scattered to her left as she continued to advance on him.

The shooter waffled for a second, pulling his head back to get a good look at her, mouth agape and visibly sweating. Ayda sneered a sinister grin. The puzzlement on his face pleased her. She had him now. The girl crept ever closer at a normal walking pace.

A second shot sprang up. Ayda deflected it with another leftward flick. A third bullet met a similar fate as Ayda swished her weapon back the other way. Again and again fire issued forth from the barrel of the man's gun, but it had no effect. The defense of his assailant was impeccable, impenetrable. Every twirl of her staff halted his attack. Meanwhile, her own assault continued.

Ayda never stopped nor slowed down, even as bullets assailed her. The projectiles hardly even registered as a threat. Ayda batted each and every one away with only one hand on her staff, paying them little attention. Instead, she locked eyes with her assailant, staring him down as she made a metered and menacing advance. The man took a step back, but otherwise held his ground. Ayda had seen this kind of thing before. Her opponents always held on to some slim chance of victory, fighting until the very end. She'd make him pay for his insistence.

The two were within easy melee range, now, Ayda completely unharmed. The man took another step back. Ayda kept pace with him. She clasped her free hand over the gun. Her palm blocked the muzzle, while the barrel slid between tightly curled fingers. It glowed with purple energy at her touch.

Instinct took over for the man. He pulled the trigger. Normally, Ayda deflected bullets by listening for the shot, as sound reached her ears processed stimuli quicker than her eyes. This time, though, she watched for any movement on his hand, the slightest twitch of a finger. As soon as the gunman made a move to fire, Ayda produced a blast from the hand covering the rifle. A shockwave resounded down the length of the barrel now influenced by her power. A series of metal clinks inside just barely rose over the dissipating blast.

The shooter fired again. Ayda used another blast to destroy the projectile before it left he barrel. More metal shards filled the tight tube. A third time the man pulled his trigger, but this time was met only with a click. He paused for a moment, surprised at the lack of action. Frantically, he pulled the trigger again and again, willing it to function, but only produced dull snaps. All the while, a malicious leer worked across Ayda's face.

She struck him across the stomach with her staff, barely a tap, but the ensuing burst was more than enough to send him flying. The gun came loose from his grip, left to dangle in Ayda's fingers. She dropped it to the floor. The shooter smacked his head against the tile once as he slid to a stop a few feet away.

Ayda dashed over to him on a blast below her feet. She gathered up his shirt in her free hand and pulled the man's face close. His breaths were quick and shallow, expression the personification of pure, unfiltered fear. His eyes darted around, desperate for any means of escape. He made a concerted effort to look at anything other than her. Ayda didn't like being ignored.

"Hey!" She gave him a shake. Their eyes locked, hers focused and his wide. Ayda channeled energy into her hands. They glowed purple. "Do you get it now? Do you know how fucked you are?"

"Wh-what are you?" The gunman stammered, voice high-pitched as terror constricted his throat.

Ayda leaned in even closer. She all but whispered, words meant for only the two of them.

"I'm your worst fucking nightmare."

She stood and released him. His head once again smacked the floor. He lay there for a moment, beaten and broken, resigned to his fate. Ayda smacked him in the temple with her staff. No blast accompanied the hit, but it wasn't necessary to knock him out cold. With her prey unconscious, the teenager gathered up his collar from behind, lifted him into a sit, and dragged the motionless criminal toward the exit. A simultaneous pair of little blasts collapsed her staff.

Exhilaration filled her heart, accomplishment spurred her step. She did it. She won. These kids were safe, and it was all thanks to her.

The sun blinded her momentarily as she left the schoolhouse. She reflexively put up her hand—still clutching a now collapsed staff—to shield against the offensive rays, but realized that was probably a good place for it with all the police officers outside. Hand up, Ayda pressed forward down the stairs. As she did, she realized it was not just the sun which obscured her vision, but also camera flashes.

Almost everyone, including several of the cops, had dug out their phones and begun taking pictures as soon as she emerged from the building. Ayda paused for a split second on the stairs, taking in the scenario. She expected gasps and gunpoint, but instead was greeted with silence and bright lights. Most of the officers seemed on edge, ready to react, but none brandished weapons. Indeed, the atmosphere was almost receptive, like the people wanted her there. That must have been all in her imagination, though. She was a vigilante, a lawbreaker much like the monster in her grasp.

Ayda blinked once, just enough to clear her head. The triumphant warrior resumed her descent toward street level. As she did, a single sound broke the silence—the distinctive slap of two hands coming together. Her keen senses zeroed in on its source immediately. An older gentleman in the crowd clapped with the stoney faced gusto of a man biting back tears.

A wave swept through the crowd. Almost instantly, the onlookers burst into rapturous applause. Officers, medics, reporters, civilians; all joined in the cacophony, their celebration reverberating off the nearby buildings. A few cheered, but most stuck to simple clapping. It was almost enough to give Ayda pause once more, but she pressed on through the shock. It took all of her willpower to keep a smile from parting her lips.

The applause continued as Ayda hit the bottom of the stairs. The moment she did, three officers rushed her. The girl stopped in place, ready to accept a pair of handcuffs. She take the law into her own hands, after all, among many other past offenses. They ran right past, however, tending instead to the man. The three rolled him onto his stomach and slapped shackles across his wrist, all of which seemed unnecessary, given his state.

Ayda watched them for a moment, amazed she didn't share a similar fate. She realized if there were ever a chance to slip away, this was it. Cautiously, the girl slinked over to the yellow tape barrier, eyes glued to the cops before her, and deftly ducked underneath it. Escape, though, would not be so simple.

The moment she emerged on the civilian side, reporters swarmed her. Ayda froze in place, eyes the circumferences of golf balls. This also was a completely unforeseen circumstance. They launched questions her way, shouting over both each other and the continuous praise from the crowd. Ayda took a sharp breath in, and blinked several times in surprise. But the shock wore off after only a few seconds, replaced with mild annoyance. These people blocked her exit.

She put up a palm in what would assuredly be a vain attempt at silencing them. The surprises continued to roll as—in defiance of all logic—the press fell quiet. Their faces were eager, awaiting a word from the mysterious entity who just brought down a child murderer. But Ayda couldn't oblige them. She began to walk forward. The crowd did not part, but instead followed along with her.

"No questions, please," she said. "I need to get out of here before I'm arrested." A joke as, at this point, as the authorities seemed completely disinterested in her.

"Can you at least tell us your name?" A lone female voice piped up before any of the others had a chance to.

Again, Ayda stopped, instantly put into a defensive disposition by the question.

"What?" She asked, honing in on a blonde woman.

"Your name," repeated the reporter. "What should I call you when I write my story?"

In that moment, Ayda remembered a brief conversation with Elliot, the one where he suggested she use a codename to protect her secret identity. It had faded into obscurity as another one of his brilliant ideas, but now it bubbled to the surface. He was right, of course. She couldn't just give them her real name and sacrifice any semblance of a normal life. However, she had to say something, lest people use her refusal to do so as another reason to distrust her. In desperation, Ayda gave the first name that came to mind, the same one Elliot had suggested a week ago.

"Call me Pulse."