River ignores him for the moment, or seems to. Her eyes scan desks, potted plants, filing cabinets and water cooler; her bullets follow.

She rolls behind her filing cabinet again, reloading without looking, her fingers deft and gunslinger-fast. But when the cylinders are full again, she jams the guns back into their holsters, head cocked as if she's listening for something. Perhaps she is.

Because when she spins back around, it's the katana that's in her hands.