Liro’s warning about the automated emplacements was barely a hum in my ear before the main service lift doors, a reinforced slab of burnished titanium, groaned and shuddered. A high-pitched whine built, then a percussive *thwump* echoed from the other side. Not a bang. Something deliberate, mechanical, calculated. My grip tightened on the flask. Minna, strapped securely into her stroller, merely blinked, her tiny fingers attempting to snatch at the faint heat radiating from the insulated metal. “Main service lift, Nura. It’s the fastest route to the penthouse,” Corso observed, ever the expert on building schematics. His voice was calm, almost bored, a stark contrast to the rapidly escalating situation. “But it’s a direct line of fire. They’ll be expecting us.” “Good,” I grunted, assessing the scuffed metal panels. “Saves me the trouble of finding them.” The *thwump-whine* repeated, closer this time. The titanium groaned again, a deep, metallic lament. I could hear the faint *thrum* of high-frequency emitters. Not just static guns. These were something nastier. I pushed Minna’s pram forward, positioning it directly in front of the lift doors. The indestructible wheels hummed softly across the mirror-sheen floor. “Minna, brace for impact,” I murmured, my hand resting on the pram’s frame. “This is a full-contact menu presentation.” The doors buckled inward with a concussive *CRUMP*, showering us with metallic dust and splintered trim. Beyond, a cavernous, banquet hall stretched out, bathed in the sickly green glow of emergency lighting. And then the *snapping* sound began. Pinpricks of crimson energy lanced out from recessed ports in the ceiling and walls, tracing sizzling lines across the marble floor. The penthouse banquet hall was not just guarded; it was a gauntlet of laser fire. I shoved Minna’s stroller forward, using its reinforced chassis as a mobile barricade. The first laser bolts splattered harmlessly against the frame, leaving smoking scorch marks without denting the metal. The *thwump* of the next shot shook the air, a distinct *clack-whirrr* as a heavy swivel-mount swung to acquire us. It was a massive, spider-like mechanism descending from the ceiling, its triple muzzles locking onto our position. “That’s a Kratos-pattern energy projector,” Corso noted, a flicker of genuine interest in his voice. He launched a spread of micro-darts from his wrist-mounted launcher, piercing the housing's optical sensors. The Kratos sputtered, its scarlet beam veering wildly, scoring the expensive wall hangings. But there were others. Smaller, more numerous, chattering like angry wasps from every shadow. I ignored them, my gaze fixed on the head of the banquet table. Chairman Cleaver sat hunched over a half-eaten platter of melons, his face pale and slack with terror. “Liro, blind them,” I ordered, my voice cutting through the cacophony. “Give me a window.” [“On it, Nura! Rerouting power grids now! System overload in three… two… one…!”] Liro’s voice spiked with a static burst, then the emergency lights flickered violently. The laser fire sputtered, several ceiling pods powering down with a mournful whine. Others merely switched to infrared tracking, their guide beams vanishing from sight. “He’s got backup generators,” Corso grunted, already moving, a blur of motion as he dodged a near-miss that vaporized a priceless antique vase. “Adaptive protocols.” I didn’t pause. The pram absorbed the brunt of the fire. I kicked off the frame, propelling myself and the stroller across the tiles like a battering ram. The remaining active mounts shifted, their beams still hot enough to scorch flesh. A focused volley scorched the air inches from my head. I twisted, using the pram as a shield, deflecting a beam that would have incinerated my carefully wrapped entree. *The truffle soufflé!* I thought, a sudden, cold dread washing over me. *It’s delicate!*. With a final, desperate lunge, I reached the table, slamming the pram against it. Cleaver shrieked, tumbling backward from his chair, a half-chewed durian falling from his trembling hand. He scrambled on the floor, attempting to crawl under the heavy table, but I was faster. I grabbed the syndicate boss by the collar of his silk tunic, hauling him up. “You ordered a twelve-course tasting menu,” I stated, my voice flat, holding him eye-level. “And you’re going to enjoy every single bite.” He struggled, gasping, but my grip held. I yanked a length of heavy-duty appliance cable from my belt—intended for securing oversized dispensers—and lashed him to the ornate chair. The automated guns, confused by our sudden proximity, hesitated to acquire. Laser fire sizzled through the air, carving divots into the table around us. I ignored it, my focus absolute. “The Volcanic Oyster Stew, first,” I announced, unclipping the Ever-Boiling Thermal Canteen. Steam wafted from its opening as I poured a generous serving into a pristine porcelain bowl I’d snagged from the sideboard. The syndicate boss squirmed, staring between my face and the glowing red targeting dots dancing across his chest. He choked back a sob. “No, please! I’ll pay anything! Just… not that!” he pleaded, gesturing weakly at the fragrant stew. “Customer satisfaction is my highest priority,” I said, scooping a large spoonful. “Open wide.” He clamped his mouth shut. I sighed, then drove a clean jab directly into his hinge joint. His mouth dropped open. I shoveled the spoon inside. He gagged, but swallowed. Another laser beam glanced off the vessel in my hand, showering sparks. I didn’t flinch. I just refilled the spoon. “Next, the River Loach Sashimi,” I continued, plating the cuts. “Freshly prepared.” The Chairman's struggles intensified as I fed him course by course. Rich aromas mingled with scorched upholstery. A chair leg splintered under another bolt. Tears cut channels through the garlic glaze running down his chin. He choked down the Truffle Encrusted Quail Egg, then the Midnight Bloom Foie Gras, each mouthful a battle. [“Alert: Palate satisfaction registered. Despite egregious environmental factors, the client’s gustatory receptors indicate a profound, albeit reluctant, appreciation for the culinary artistry.”] I paused, mid-spoonful of the Glacial Berry Sorbet. That was new. A reluctant appreciation. Progress. [“Presentation: Abysmal. Utterly, tragically appalling. A three-star bistro would be ashamed. Deducting 7,000 Presentation Points for dining room desecration and unseemly force-feeding techniques. However, the unwavering commitment to the sacred act of sustenance, under duress, is… mildly commendable. Reward: [Luxurious Dining Ensemble – 12-piece, self-cleaning, indestructible cutlery and serving ware set. Perfect for any hostile environment].”] The incoming fire abruptly died. The remaining ceiling units slumped on dead servos. The Chairman leaned limp against his bindings, wheezing and thoroughly stuffed. My work was done. “See?” I said, wiping a bit of truffle sauce from Minna’s cheek, who had been silently watching the spectacle. “Perfectly satisfied.” Corso emerged from the shadows, a faint smile playing on his lips. He stepped over to our captive, who raised a trembling, sweat-streaked brow. Corso patted the man's shoulder. “Nura, my dear, your dedication to service borders on artistic genius.” He slipped a hair-thin steel needle from his sleeve. “Unfortunately, I hold a private contract on the Chairman. Conflicting appointments, you understand.” The captive opened his mouth to scream, but Corso slid the tip into the base of his skull. No thrashing, no dramatics—just an instant slump as muscle tone evaporated. The Chairman's chin hit his chest. Corso wiped the metal on his cuff and looked up, looking absurdly pleased with himself. “Pure, untraceable neurotoxin. No mess. Very efficient.” He seemed to expect praise. I just stared at him, then at the dead Chairman. “He was still digesting,” I said, a frown creasing my brow. “You could have waited until the after-dinner mints.” Corso’s smile faltered. Just then, a faint, rhythmic *BEEP-BEEP-BEEP* started ticking from the corpse, rising in pitch. A diode pulsed on his wrist cuff. Liro’s voice, now clearer, screamed through my earpiece. [“NURA! GET OUT OF THERE! HE HAD A DEAD MAN’S SWITCH! THE ENTIRE BUILDING IS GOING TO CATASTROPHICALLY DECOMPRESS IN LESS THAN SIXTY SECONDS!”] My shift on the penthouse floor was turning out to be quite brief.

The Twelve-Course Takedown