Last speech of the year, complete. Anrada sighed in relief, idly watching the buildings pass by on her way back from the Radio Tower. She had been driven down this route five times a month for over a year now, and everytime it was a welcome break from it all. Her aide was forbidden from talking, restricted to merely filing through his binder. This was her respite, despite the risk. Travelling for half an hour along the same route on a predictable schedule was a weakness. An oddity drew her eye, a flash of light as a vehicle left the far alleyway and began to barrel violently across the street. … a weakness someone had finally decided to exploit.

Weightless, just for a moment, and then sickening pain. The car jolted as if struck by lighting and shattered glass battered against her uniform as she tried to roll up tight. The world filled with the screech of metal on metal as the entire vehicle began to roll violently, throwing her around like a child's toy, again and again. She glanced up just long enough to see the front cabin crumple against concrete as the ball of steel and glass smashed against the nearby building… and for a moment the world fell still. Her vision flashed like a slideshow, all black and white frames with just the distant muffled sounds. Flashes of fire. The crackle of gunshots.

She groaned and pulled a knife out of her pocket, cutting her way out of the safety restraints, and pushing the now eviscerated corpse of her favoured aide below her. She looked around for signs of life, and saw nothing - nothing right now. But if she were performing a hit… she had to move. Above her the ripped steel roof revealed the escape: a side alley. Mustering her strength and ignoring some throbbing pain in her right leg, she forced her way through. Shards of steel cut her uniform open like knives, but she made it through intact, slumping onto the concrete beyond. She tried to get to her feet- no, no. She reached back into the car and searched under her aides body. There. She checked the pistol, still loaded, and struggled to her feet.

A hit. A hit on her. Who the fuck did this? What the fuck were her police thinking, letting this happen? She turned her pain to fury as she hastily hobbled down the alley, checking over her shoulder for pursuers. She was in… in the industrial district. Ahead were metal side doors, entries to the disused and abandoned factories of the old regime. Military, naval? Her aide would have known. She stood back and cautiously shot open the door lock, letting her old training kick in. Straining, she realised her single working arm could barely open the fucking thing. Distantly, she became aware of… artillery shots? Was this a coup? Shit! Pushing hard, she wedged her body in the gap as soon as it appeared. She started to slide through, slowly but surely. No more than halfway, she noticed someone start climbing up the car. Shitshitshit! She pushed with all her might and forced the door open just enough to fall into the building, as bullets ricocheted down the alley behind her.

Dark, cool, muffled. A glance at the door… no barring mechanism. She wheeled around desperately. There, a doorway to the factory floor. She ignored the pain and ran into the dark. All around her were shadowed corners and metallic chains. The floor, a patchwork of broken glass and miscellaneous rubble. No time to look. Behind her the telltale screech of the metal door opening, as she ducked behind some kind of piston with a view of the doorway. A moments breath, then she tore off her medals. Her watch. Anything that’d attract light. A shadow appeared in the far doorway, and slowed as it saw the factory floor. Then quiet, cautious steps. She tried to catch her breath, waiting for… what? A chance to shoot first? The figure looked trained, she didn’t stand a chance in a brawl. The silence stretched. Step. Step. Step.

Their mask came into view, some kind of bird of prey, bleached white. The same soldier as before, she hoped. Adjusting as quietly as she could, she stole a glance at her leg. It was bleeding profusely, whether from the crash or the escape she couldn’t tell. Either way, she struggled against her own revulsion as she turned back to look to the assailant. They were getting closer. It wasn’t even a direct approach, just an inevitable drift towards her cover. All her escapes were in the open. Her hand was shaking, the gun felt heavier by the minute. She lifted up, steadied her arm against the railing, and prayed her cover was enough. The figure turned its head in her direction. A second story door slammed open above. She didn’t flinch. The mask started and looked up, gun raised. She took the shot.

She didn't see the figure fall, but still she ran. A sudden burst of pain from her shoulder sent her spiraling to the floor. Instinct took over. She rolled and fired back, the figure jolting violently and collapsing as at least one shot hit its mark. The bullet in her shoulder flared in delayed agony. She screamed in pain and rage, and the world above was filled with gunfire. The battle had come to her.

Anrada found herself in cover again, a noticeable blood trail leading from where she had been hit. She checked the clip, nothing left. The adrenaline continued, but she knew she’d start to crash in… she didn’t know how long. She had thrown her fucking watch away. But it was minutes. Who the fuck did this? Above her a firefight continued, leading another white masked gunman to land with a sickening thud mere feet away. ‘Long Live the Republic’ red letters across the mask proclaimed. Mother. Fucking. Clique. Assholes. She missed one. When she cleaned house last year, one must have gotten away. She screamed again, unable to hold back against the flaring wound in her shoulder. She had been so close, it had been so easy. No-one complained, no one grumbled, everyone followed her instructions to the letter. She was beloved. She was fixing everything. Now these assholes were going to fuck it all up. The sound of distant artillery filtered through the window. Were they trying to take her city apart building by building? How big was this?

She lifted up with all her strength and looked over the railing. A clear run to the back rooms. She took it, now dragging her leg across the concrete as as she shuffled. Spent shells and a single stray shot crackled around her as she make her break, gun awkwardly pushed up against her opposing shoulder. Bad form, but anything to numb the pain. The back room was quiet, till she crashed through double doors into someones long abandoned office. Bloody hands stained the desks as she checked for anything useful. A radio. A gun. A med-kit. A fucking flannel. No, nothing. Too much to ask. Onwards, she made for what she assumed were outer doors, hearing the reassuringly quieter gunfire out beyond. Gaining momentum, she found herself barreling past the door and collapsing onto the concrete outside unceremoniously. This… was the adrenaline crash.

Muffled voices, she looked up and noticed two garrison soldiers, black uniforms and masks, staring down at her. With guns drawn. In that moment, as she felt her body finally start to numb with the sheer wave of exhaustion and trauma, she couldn’t help but realise…

Who could have given the rebels all that artillery?

[Meta: Anrada and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. Tune in next week, I guess.]