Bree was nothing if not thorough. Her own mind could not match up to the simulation (she could not randomise, not without knowing what she was doing) but she was creative, and knew her own weaknesses with enough insight to match them up to as many situations as she could comprehend. She often failed in her own scenarios, and she was proud of that. It meant that she was able to see herself clearly. It was a remarkable quality, especially in such a young person. She treasured it. It was hers. Nobody had given it to her. No amount of favouritism could have placed it into her hands. She had very few gifts which she could claim so easily. Any assassin grumbled when she got a good job, but didn't hesitate to remark on her mistakes with unusual harshness.
Hah. As if her mother had ever shown her any special treatment.
She did not take the safety off of her gun. She was no fool. She treasured the out-of-the-way little gym, and had no desire to blow it to smithereens. That sort of stunt was for the muscled men in the main gym. Cost money, too. She got a salary, just like every other assassin. She paid for herself, and liked it that way, too. Independence was a wonderful thing. It wasn't easy, but it was liberating. She knew that her mother would not hesitate to charge her for any damage done to equipment. Bree had made a choice early on in her life: She could either have been Shay's daughter, or her employee. She'd made her choice. She didn't regret it.
Often.
She worked her way around the gym, swinging on and off bars, ducking behind obstacles with a complete lack of self-consciousness. If she'd been worried about what people thought, she would never have been able to use a gym at all. Assassins were the world's worst gossips, and judged everything. As it was, she was aware of somebody entering the gym, but they stuck to their spot and she paid them no real heed.
She changed the objective as she worked
Speed. Now intimidation. Now follow-through and thoroughness
and the reaction necessary from possible watchers.
Unseen. Now awe. Now recruitment. Now weed out the cowardly. Watch their faces. Feel them. Know them.
Always, in the back of the mind, she was aware of the other person, but she didn't watch them. She was busy. She leapt over obstacles and under them. She dived to save strength, flipped to impress. She began to work up a light sweat. The spicy smell of her deodorant (for, let's face it, anyone would get sweaty and stinky in her black outfit. It was impressive, but not exactly practical. She'd have to reconsider it) began to strengthen. Her breathing became quicker. Endorphins pumped. A fierce, predatory smile spread across her pinched face.
She was in mid-flight, a low leap to a vaulting horse, when the other person stepped into her path.
In the moments before collision, Bree's mind was working. She was already warmed up, and so simply fitted this intrusion into her simulation. She was certainly peeved. It was very rude to get in someone's way, and she'd gone to lengths to stake out her space. Either the intruder was very new, or looking for a fight. Which was fine by Bree, of course. If they were new, she'd teach them a valuable lesson in respect. If they were looking for a fight, a fight they would get.
As she leapt, she changed her position. She hugged her arms tightly to her collarbones, bracing her neck and turning her head into a battering ram. She would knock into him (it was a man; average height but not short and of moderate build), unfold her arms, flip onto her feet while corkscrewing to face him and bring on an attack. Her gun, still in her hand, was positioned beside her neck, so that she could shoot over the shoulder without any danger of shooting herself.
All that was left was to wait for collision.