Down town had fallen all at once. She had watched with dispassionate, clinical interest. The company jet was coming into town just in time. The steep climb told her the pilot saw what she did. They couldn't outrun it. The jet wasn't supersonic. They made some good distance though, as she calmly watched the financial centre of the world collapse. The heat should have incinerated everything in the city by now... No fireball, no heat, no bomb... Mutant. How long had they been capable of that? What had made them lose control?

The blast hit. The plane shuddered, and the wing tore itself apart. The pilot and co-pilot skipped the Maydays, they ran from the cockpit, tossed her a backpack looking parcel and stepped into the harnesses of their own. Shula Nasser was a stranger to parachutes. She would follow their lead. As the plane tilted dangerously she connected herself to the little package that was supposed to save her life. The men opened the door, looked at her, and jumped. Shula followed.

What struck her was the the rushing air, carrying with it a scream. Her own. Yep, there went APCI HQ, a pillar of glass and steel reduced to a deadly rain of debris. Below her a parachute blossomed like a flower all of a sudden realising it was spring. She tugged her own cord. This had been explained in the pre flight brief. Like she hadn't heard it a hundred times. a few moments of uneasy sounds and a slight slowing, then, a tug, and she was falling at a far more acceptable rate.

Controlling a parachute was interesting. So much adjustment, so little knowledge. Through what had to be the biggest amount of luck bestowed to any mutant in the world, Shula eventually drifted into a huge cloud of dust that had once been down town Manhattan. She pulled herself out of the rig, and found some space to breath, though it was no easy task. there she waited out the dust, and the screams. Nothing she could do, the streets were easily twenty yards under her, and the rubble weighed as much as, well, a sky scraper.

It suited her. Now that the screams had stopped. Honestly, how many days did it take to die? Too many, that's how many. Looters had of course tried their luck. God knows why, there was nothing worth having in the financial district. Most found out exactly why the area was abandoned. Glass and plaster chunks fell, desks, chairs, steel finally giving in to the stress. Heck, she had watched one receive the better part of five floors land on him. She had laughed.

Those that survived the debris from above unanimously found their doom below. Shards of glass, six feet wide and razor sharp, concealed pits with floors full of twisted metal and broken bits and pieces, chunks of metal that seemed safe but were ultimately deadly spears in disguise when one slipped on top of them. Really it was all quite the spectacle. Though all her possessions in the world consisted of a parachute, and what she could find. That wasn't a lot.

She knew she would be required to find something or die. No longer could she rely on money and fear to get her things, now it was up to her. Well was she ever glad she had opted for sensible shoes on the flight. Heels would have been a death sentence.

Speaking of food. A man dashed by, a back bulging on his back, rattling. He never saw her. The heat would have shut his brain down instantly. Glass engulfed his head. It cooled quickly. He fell instantly limp. She tried not to look as she took the bag off his back. Inside were some supplies. "Well well," though Shula, "That was much easier than finding this myself!"

Indeed it had been, that was the result of over three days of carefully picking through rubble, trying to avoid his death, looting everything he could. It was hers now, for no more than a few second's work. She nudged the body of the edge of the hole he had been running along. He fell loudly below.

Shula enjoyed some of the spoils. all about her was ruin, piled high. Well, at least there was no lack of glass. Shula began work.

Construction on had been easy once the frame had been set up. Cleared of remaining rubble. Coat after coat of molten glass freezing into a huge crude window, other walls followed. The glass intake was near constant. The usage limited by her metabolism for glass. Metal pillars held up glass walls. It's own thickness the only thing that stopped it collapsing on itself. She eventually managed a nice glass room. Pieces of rubble were used to make ceilings, walls, frozen in place to stop light filtering through. She kept working.

Days passed. A few people came to see what was going on. those people went in the same hole as the first fool to run past her. Their supplies put to better use. Stupid humans. Stupid mutants, all died the same.

More days. Her house had developed a second floor, hanging doors, doors made from crude hinges set into the glass, locks made of whatever was available. Walls were thickened, reinforced. It was slowly becoming a mansion. A mansion of glass and rubble, incredulously large. She had to eat all that glass to start with. it had been a busy few weeks. Dust had started to settle on her palace exterior, the roof seemed to collect enough to block out most light. the walls gathered it where the glass was uneven, which was practically everywhere.

The months began to pass. Less people came her way, doubtlessly because there were simply less people in New York left, because there were no survivors to tell of her increasingly full pit. She had maybe fifty kills to her name since the end. she counted the bags every now and then to try and determine the number, but it wasn't a totally accurate method. She had started killing people simply for the fun. She still took their things. She also couldn't risk people finding her location.

By the end of the first year her food was looking pretty good, if she rationed it. She had made herself a solar still. From it she got both water and salt (though this she mostly used for putting into glass to observe the effect, or for throwing in her pit to try and drain the bodies of moisture, the river was far too polluted to use it for food). Her glass mansion was now more of a glass palace. She had taken it across a road and into the wrecked building next door. A sprawling complex in which to hid her food. Trap her prey. They still made it this deep, some of them. Not many.

She was curious one day. Her inspiration for building was drying up. as was her supply of glass, unlikely as it had seemed at first. So she had ventured out. The sun had been bright. She hadn't been exposed to it for prolonged periods in nearly a year and a half. Her path was marked for her by holes in the dust. the safe path well marked, as dust had not been allowed to settle there, and the rain had only served to turn all the dust around it to mud, which dried, and preserved the prints.

When Shula reached the end, she was suddenly aware of that which she had forgotten before. She was high. Off the ground that is. The edge of the Manhattan financial district was clearly defined by a body littered artificial cliff made of steel, stonework and glass. She suspected the fact it had remained a mostly vertical climb was largely thanks to a mutant. It looked like someone had put up a giant shield wall to protect the rest of the city from the raining debris. Or maybe just protect them self.

Still, no rubble from the financial sector seemed to be further than twenty feet from the edge, and what there was was a small amount, likely having fallen over time from unstable climbs. She was quite high up, twenty feet of so it seemed. Quite a scary distance below her. It explained why no one wanted to come looking any more. Not worth the climb some might say.

She could never get down. She would not try. Shula Nasser turned and strode away, looking for anything useful she could take with her, chewing a piece of glass like gum.

The breadcrumbs had been layed. Enticing people to her. It worked too, more and more people came her way. Step into my parlour, said the spider to the fly. They all died with the same confussed shock on their face. That and a considerable amount of molten glass. Their supplies were stripped from them, she took clothing these days too. Then they were thrown into the pit. It was a good system, worked great. Well, until people stopped coming. Between and the others causing the echoing screams the lower insland had been picked clean. Then some news reached her. A battery opperated radio. Over the air waves came an interesting bit of sporting commentary. Not football, no, nothing so boring, this was a fight. Not silly wrestling or deadly dull boxing, proper fights, no hold barred, to the death, or so it sounded.

"...rike, ooh, a solid hit, and now to the victor go the spoils, and to the dead, only the most fitting funeral. Hopefully he goes down easier than that!"

Spoils? What spoils? Shula did not know, but boy would she ever find out. She listened every day until the battery died. from what she understood, volunteers took to the arena and fought, to whatever point the boss thought was appropriate. The winner went home with a good amount of supplies. The loser. Well, he got kicked out on his ass and likely died from his injuries later. Suited her just fine. So she planned.