Mick strode down the hallway, a cup of lukewarm artisan coffee in his hand. Every minute’s delay might put his head on the chopping block. Nothing short of decapitation could stop the rumours. 
His beat was Tech Support. Brutal performance evaluations, just this side of illegality, had pared down his team, and now the department was balanced between optimisation and understaffing. It would be grand. His team could manage. He had just trimmed the fat.
Arriving before the executive team, phew, Mick quickly took his place at the mahogany table. Whispering surrounded him, but nothing coherent. He drank the cooled coffee, going over his kill list. Other departments would have to suffer the reaper, he needed his drones.
The executive team, minus the CEO, filed in heads bowed. It didn’t bode well. The horse-trading reached a fever pitch, each speaker twisting the knife a little deeper. Red, angry faces glaring at each other, desperation and cruelty mounting.
In the melée, Mick didn’t even notice the CEO. One moment, his chair was empty and the next, he was there, eyes glowing. He said nothing but his presence was enough to stall the heated discussions. “I’m implementing a new downsizing strategy,” he said when the room was silent. “Project Púca.” He snapped his fingers and the projector flicked on.
Normally, Mick would have described the CEO as a mild-mannered techy type with a touch of the ‘tism, more comfortable discussing crypto, than running a company. That was not this man. This man was confident and amused, a touch of cruelty dancing around his mouth. 
“I have the list of redundancies,” the CEO continued. Mick couldn’t make out a single name. Objections and questions flowed around the room, previous combatants united in their outrage and indignation. The CEO held up his hands and the room quieted again, cowed by the air of menace in his expression.
“Deadweight, low performers and most expensive employees are going.” There was a murmur of agreement at his words. “A simple evaluation of who is innovating, and who is polishing my boot with their tongue?”
A shiver ran down Mick’s back. Before, the CEO required servility and subservience. Four directors had been fired for being insufficiently obeisant. Faking enthusiasm was a survival skill, but now arselicking was a liability? His head hurt. 
“All of you are responsible for mismanagement, so instead of laying off your workers, I’ve decided that everyone here is gone.” The voice cut through Mick’s thoughts, sharp enough to sunder his heart from his body.
“What?” Mick said before he even realised he was going to speak. 
“I’m letting everyone in this room go. Today is your last day.” smiled the CEO. “You’re a bunch of overpaid, middle-managers more concerned with slavish compliance, than innovating. Psychopathy is not a good team-building value.”
As Mick looked at him, the bottom dropping out of his world, he saw that the smile was that of a predator. How had he never noticed it before? This wasn’t happening, this couldn’t be happening. This was supposed to only affect the drones. There was a mistake somewhere. Something was wrong with the CEO. Could they get him committed?
He had a mortgage to pay. And a car loan and this was unfair. This couldn’t be happening. What was to become of him? He wanted to scream and cry and rage against the disruption, the cruel callousness of being rejected by and ejected. 
“I am not entirely heartless though,” the CEO drawled. “One of you can earn back your job through trial by ordeal. It’s your choice. Stay here, for the chance to win a seat at the table.” 
Mick grasped at the faint hope. What kind of ordeal could it be really? How bad could it be? He could win this. He had to win this. He would step over the broken bodies of his colleagues to keep this job—tech was a cutthroat industry.
Seven colleagues scurried away. Pathetic not to fight. Pathetic to just take the redundancy. The payout would run out, and he was not going to be left homeless.

The phalanx of security guards led the remaining seven down the backstairs, down and down and down they walked. The only sound was footsteps on concrete tiles, before that too changed, as the floor turned to stone. The only light was the dancing orange flames in blackened metal sconces. When had they replaced the lights? He steeled his spine. He had come too far to turn back now.
The steps led downward, ever downward, for hours. Until they were below daylight, below sanity, and yet further down they walked. Mick’s legs ached at the descent—he didn’t want to even think of the ascent. 
After time had lost all meaning, they were led into a rough-hewn straw-strewn chamber. Cold penetrated his shoes. The room was long, a Viking feast hall. An elaborately carved chair sat at the head of the table. It wasn’t a throne. Thrones didn’t fit into corporate culture, striving to appear egalitarian.
Weapons hung along the length of the hall—axes, swords, and daggers honed to razor sharpness. Belatedly, a sense of dread stole over him. Corporate mudslinging didn’t usually require weapons, at least of the physical type. Usually, a comment in the right place or a conversation with HR was enough.
Dark rusty patches stained the floor and walls, turbocharging his worry. It couldn’t be blood, it couldn’t be blood. This was just a game, an attempt to frighten them into submission. For one thing, how could they dispose of bodies? They were real people with loans and families. They couldn’t disappear easily. The thought provided a measure of comfort, in the flickering of torches.
The entity that had been the CEO, lounged on the throne. In the dancing light, his golden eyes broadcast a careless malevolence, looking eager for whatever was to come. “Grab a weapon,” he smiled, nothing human left behind that grinning mask. “The survivor gets to keep their job.” 

It was to be a fight to the death? His mind squirmed away from the stark reality. Mick had occasionally fantasized about murdering his co-workers, taking out the frustrations of the day on them, but didn’t everyone? He saw himself plunging a sword through Ger’s heart, shivering at the thought of getting blood on his suit—tacky to the touch, uncomfortable on his hands.
Mick’s heart sank as another thought struck him. He had always intended to go to the gym. Every week, he pledged to himself that this was it, this time he would go. But there had never been enough hours in the day. He wouldn’t be the fittest competitor on the battlefield.
Following some newly awakened instinct, he grabbed the wooden handle of a battle axe. It was heavy but beautifully balanced, with a side blade and a curved spike. As an afterthought, he also grabbed a dagger, sticking it in his belt. He must look ridiculous with weapons and a business suit, but he didn’t care. Survival trumped style.
His eyes scanned the room looking for anywhere he could hide. He could let the others knock off the weak, tiring themselves out. He’d take any advantage he could. The only refuge he saw was a large pillar in a corner of the room. He circled deftly around the dancing couples, avoiding random strikes and keeping an eye out for enemies.
His safe space was just ahead, but from another direction, he saw Johnny creeping along the other wall, with his destination in mind. If anyone was weaker than him, it was Johnny. Mick had nothing against him, but it was every man for himself. He could take Johnny, and wait as planned. He wasn’t going to surrender his hiding place.
Mick couldn’t be sure, but he thought that Johnny hadn’t seen him yet. This was his chance. He crept up behind him, fighting to get out the dagger entangled in his trousers. His plan was simple—he’d grab Johnny’s head from behind, expose his neck and slit his throat.
But Johnny didn’t allow his head to be grabbed. Something must have alerted him to Mick’s sneak attack. He turned and stabbed Mick’s arm as he was bringing it up to slit his throat.
Through the pain, Mick saw red. How dare this pathetic shithead try to foil his plan? Didn’t he know that this was life or death? Wildly, he stabbed over and over again. Many of his thrusts going awry but not all. When he paused for breath, what had been Johnny, was now an unmoving bloody heap on the ground. Mick kicked the heap once or twice to be sure and quickly scooted behind the pillar.
His hands were covered in blood. Rubbing them together to try and get rid of the sticky feeling, didn’t work. The blood was all over the sleeves of his suit and shirt. They would need to be trashed after this. Maybe if the blood dried with his hands flexed, it wouldn’t feel quite as repellent.
On the surface, his mind was thinking through these inconsequentialities, but below the conscious thoughts, his blood was up. Terrible deeds didn’t matter down here in the dark. He had just killed a man. Mick had always considered himself a good person until Johnny’s body lay within kicking distance.
But if there were no consequences for killing, would it really matter if I did it again? It was self-defence? Well, not self-defence exactly, but it was either him or me. If this was a few hundred years ago, no one would blink at a death in a melée.
He hadn’t chosen a fight to the death. He hadn’t known what he was choosing when he chose. He had to do what he must to survive, now. The only other choice was death. That counted as self-defence, surely? Besides, those bastards deserved to die.
With every beat of his pulse, the bloodlust rose. Every slight he had endured, every insult ignored, every rejection, flooded into his mind now. This wasn’t even about the job anymore. This was about avenging every single time someone had made him feel like a loser. This would be his triumph and revenge.
Looking around, all Mick saw were targets, full of the old hatred. It was the perfect time to settle some scores. He hefted the axe and crept out from behind the pillar. He didn’t need to cower. The blood already coated his hands. It had washed away any remaining morality.
He swung at the snivelling Quality, who fell easily enough, blood gushing out of the wound in his back, surprisingly warm on Mick’s skin. The sensation didn’t bother him anymore. He wanted to revel in the sight of it branded on his skin and scream his red victory to the rafters.
The action had pulled a muscle in his shoulder, he realised. It hurt to raise the axe, so he abandoned it in Quality’s body. The dagger would serve for now and was easier to wield. 
And then Mick saw him, the old enemy, the one who ignored his suggestions, spoke down to him, defended the company’s unfair policies and made his life miserable—the one he now itched to kill. As he crept up behind, he saw Engineering lopping off Marketing’s head and watched HR stab Finance through the heart. 
This was his moment, while that piece of shit was distracted. The quick thrust of the dagger through HR’s back felt so glorious that he screamed in victory. Twisting the dagger again to prolong the agony for as long as possible, he felt HR’s blood bathe his skin. Nothing up till now mattered. Watching the enemy die on the ground was the best he had ever felt. He revelled in it. Gloried in it. Watched as the light left HR’s eyes. This is what I was born to do.

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