The broadcast lights amplified the cold glint of Drystan’s firearm. Time distended, each microsecond a stretched eternity. Bramen did not deliberate. He launched across the low partition dividing the anchor’s desk from the main dais. His shoulder drove Nivara off-axis an instant before the pistol cracked. A tear of white heat ripped across his deltoid, spinning him across the riser. Acrid propellant burned in the air over the muffled shouts behind the glass partition. Nivara planted her heel against the floor, catching her balance as Drystan recoiled from the shot's recoil. Before he leveled the barrel again, Nivara stepped inside his reach and seized his wrist with both thumbs pressed to his median nerve, wrenching the joint downward. Cartilage cracked beneath the heel of her free palm as she drove it upward into his septum. The pistol skittered across the gloss laminate toward the camera track. Drystan wheezed, blood spilling over his mouth, and stumbled backward. Nivara hooked her instep behind his ankle while driving her forearm into his collarbone, taking him hard onto the floor. She knelt on his scapula, wrenching his right arm behind his spine until the tendon strained taut. The overhead crane camera dipped lower, focusing on Drystan pinned to the boards. “The show isn’t over, Drystan,” Nivara’s voice, amplified by the stage mics, resonated through the studio, cold and clear. She looked directly into the red tally lamp of the primary pedestal. “In fact, it’s just beginning.” She reached into her inner coat pocket with her free hand and withdrew a stiff sheaf of bond paper, tilting the title block toward the lens. “As of this moment, I, Nivara Lenth, the rightful majority shareholder of Mor Media, formally terminate your employment, Drystan Mor, with cause, effective immediately.” “You are fired.” Drystan jerked beneath her knee, cursing into the acrylic flooring. Inside the production booth, Jevna tapped the execution script across her terminal. “That’s the feed,” she murmured. The script bypassed the network filters, commandeering every broadcast terminal in the district. From the monolithic displays along the Aerium thoroughfare to the street-level transit tablets, the transmission replayed on infinite cycle: Drystan pinned to the platform floor, bleeding from his shattered nose, alongside the authenticated articles of termination. Bramen pressed his fingers against the furrow in his coat sleeve, checking the tear. The round had taken skin and wool, nothing deeper. He pushed upright against the desk rim and looked toward Nivara as she rose from Drystan's back. Nivara took half a step forward before her knee gave out. Her chest seized as though clamped in an iron vise, the residual stabilizer failing all at once. The studio rigs bleached into gray static. Her lapel mic transmitted the sharp rattle of her throat as she tipped sideways off the platform. “Nivara!” Bramen broke across the floor, catching her under the arms before her head struck the floorboards. Her skin felt icy, beaded with gray perspiration. Thick, blackened fluid welled from her split lower lip. Her pupils dilated upward into the studio light, unresponsive. Bramen leaned over her toward the booth glass, shouting, “Get a trauma team in here! Cut the broadcast!” The master feed dropped to dead air, leaving every panel across Obrada glowing solid black.

Hostile Takeover