Zoey rolled into Sigma City under a gray sky that stretched out like a worn canvas. Her Mantis-35 lumbered along the highways that wove through the city’s outer edges. The massive wheels crunched over debris that littered the streets—remnants of a city that had grown too fast, expanding like a creeping vine over the scarred land. She kept the windows up, the noise of the bustling streets muffled by the thick glass of her armored vehicle.
The skyline rose in jagged layers, a mix of crumbling old factories and newer structures that gleamed with holographic advertisements. Zoey kept her eyes on the road but couldn't ignore the undercurrent of tension humming through the air. Sigma City had a pulse that beat faster than the remote towns she had passed through in the last decade and a half. Here, everything moved, and everyone seemed to have somewhere to go, something to chase. Zoey wasn’t sure yet what she was chasing—just that she was done with running.
She parked the APC in a run-down lot in the Outer Ring, close enough to the city to keep opportunities within reach but distant enough to avoid too much scrutiny. Her first stop was a pawn shop in a cracked building, tucked between a ramen joint and a laundry service. It was a quiet affair—Zoey unloading cases of rifles, the shopkeeper giving her a skeptical look but not asking questions once he saw the quality. They both understood this transaction. The guns and ammo from her travels earned her a decent chunk of credits, enough to last a few months if she was careful.
The cash in her pocket made the city feel just a bit more manageable. She could hear the rattling in her chest settle as she filled up the Mantis-35’s fuel tank at a dingy automated station. The deep hum of the fuel pump was almost soothing, even if she found herself glancing over her shoulder every few minutes, a habit that years on the road hadn’t let her unlearn.
Once she felt like she had some breathing room, Zoey found a street vendor peddling electronics and picked up a cheap, clunky smartphone. It wasn’t much, but it had a local network connection, and that was all she needed. The first few nights, she didn’t stray far from the APC. Sleep came in fits, broken up by the usual nightmares, flashes of red and black and pain that pulled her back into the dark corners of her past. But as the days passed, she grew restless.
It was time to get her bearings. She stashed her purchases in the APC, climbed into the back where her makeshift cot awaited, and fell into a fitful sleep. It was the same as every other night—visions of the labs, the cold, sterile walls, the faces of people she wished she could forget. They'd blur together, merging with newer horrors: the faces of people she’d had to kill during her wandering years, the endless exhaustion of survival.
There was one face she couldn't forget, even though she barely saw it - the face of William, the German-speaking British soldier who'd been so kind to her as she was pulled from the clutches of death at the hands of the Nazis. The man who'd given her a name, and the man who'd shown her that no matter how bad things get, life is worth living. She'd forgotten about him when the rehab center was attacked, she'd forgotten to grab his letters, she'd forgotten to even say thank you, and it was her biggest regret, seeding itself in her dreams when she least expected it.
Over the next days, she set off on foot, aiming to blend into the city’s more shadowy places. She found a bar that didn’t ask too many questions about the past and had just the right mix of noise and anonymity. The bartender glanced at her arms, her height, her perpetual scowl, but served her without a word. She downed cheap whiskey, letting it burn down her throat, and started talking to anyone who seemed interested—or, more often, anyone who had information to share.
She didn’t give away much about herself, spinning a story about a nomad who’d wandered too long and ended up here. She traded tales of wild, empty highways and nuclear-scorched wastelands for news about Sigma City’s underworld, picking up names and faces, piecing together a map of who pulled the strings in the shadowy corners of the city.
Before long, the city’s mercenary scene came up—a chance for Zoey to put her skills to use. It wasn’t hard to find people who knew someone who needed work done. Her reputation as a drifter, ex-military maybe, but definitely a fighter, made the rounds. She was approached by a contact one night in a bar lit by flickering neon, the kind of place where no one remembered anyone’s face the next day.
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The job was simple: scare off some local thugs who’d been roughing up shopkeepers in a neglected part of the Suburban District. Nothing too dangerous, but enough to test if she could handle city life without resorting to her usual level of violence. They didn’t know who she was or what she’d been through, and she liked it that way. They just saw a huge, scarred woman who didn’t flinch at the mention of trouble.
Zoey accepted the job with a curt nod, tucking the folded stipend envelope into her jacket. As she walked back to her APC, she took a deep breath, letting the night air fill her lungs. This could work. Maybe she could find something like a life here. It wouldn’t be perfect—her past was still a shadow at the edge of her vision, and the nightmares wouldn’t just fade away—but at least she had a purpose again. And in Sigma City, maybe that was enough.
Zoey arrived at the address her contact had given her: a rundown neighborhood on the outskirts of the Suburban District. The place had seen better days—cracked sidewalks, peeling paint, windows barred up against whatever low-level crime thrived here. It was the kind of place where people kept to themselves, wary eyes peeking through blinds, and where businesses survived by knowing how to avoid trouble.
Her client, a balding, middle-aged shopkeeper with sweat stains under his collar, glanced up at her with a mixture of hope and apprehension. He was nervous, clutching the hem of his apron, but he didn’t ask about her past. He seemed more interested in the fact that she was huge and didn’t seem afraid of much.
“They’ve been coming every other day,” he said, his voice wavering slightly as he glanced up at her. “Four or five of ‘em. Just teenagers, but... well, they’ve been getting more aggressive. Roughing up the place, threatening my wife.”
Zoey listened, arms crossed over her chest, taking in the details without a word. She noted the fear in his voice and the way his eyes darted toward the door, like he half-expected the kids to show up then and there.
She gave a short nod. “I’ll take care of it. Where do they usually hang out?”
The shopkeeper fumbled over his words, giving her a location—a nearby alley where the kids liked to hang out, not far from a row of shuttered storefronts. Zoey turned to leave, her boots thudding heavily against the creaking floorboards, and the man called out to her.
“Just... try not to hurt ‘em too much, alright?” he asked, a tinge of desperation in his voice. “They’re just kids.”
She glanced back, eyes narrowing. “If they listen to reason, I won’t have to.”
With that, she stepped out into the night.
The alley was exactly what she expected—narrow, reeking of garbage and decay, and dimly lit by a flickering neon sign from the adjacent building. She spotted the group right away: four kids lounging around a rusted-out car, smoking and swapping stories about their latest “scores.” They barely looked up as she approached, but when they did, the casual bravado in their eyes faded.
Zoey wasn’t subtle about her presence. She let her footsteps echo on the concrete, let the shadows fall across her towering figure. Her hands stayed by her sides, not reaching for a weapon, but she let them see the sheer size of her prosthetic arms, the strength they hinted at.
“You dorks the ones messing with the old man’s shop?” she asked, her voice low and even, but carrying enough weight to make them flinch.
One of them, a lanky teen with a buzzcut, tried to put on a tough face, puffing out his chest. “What’s it to you, lady? We gotta right to hang out wherever we want.”
“Sure,” Zoey replied, her tone dry. “But you don’t have the right to threaten the guy and his family. You’re going to cut it out.”
A few of the kids exchanged glances, but Buzzcut wasn’t backing down. He stepped forward, trying to size her up, though his courage wavered when he had to crane his neck at almost a right angle to meet her eyes. He pulled out a knife—small, the kind of thing you’d pick up in a pawn shop, barely a threat to her.
Zoey didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a growl as she towered over him. “You think that’s going to do anything, kid? Look at my abs. You see that long scar? That's from a knife ten times the size of the letter opener you've got. I’m giving you one chance. I promised the old man I wouldn't harm children. I wouldn't want to break that promise.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized what she had said, and even though a wave of guilt and shame passed over her, she kept her demeanor.
Buzzcut hesitated, his bravado faltering. Zoey could see the fear working its way into his eyes, see the cracks in his tough-guy act. The other kids had already taken a few steps back, glancing nervously at each other, clearly weighing their options.
“Fine, whatever,” Buzzcut mumbled, tucking the knife back into his pocket. He gave her one last glare, trying to save face in front of his friends. “That place is a dump anyway. We were done with it.”
Zoey watched as they shuffled off, muttering to each other under their breaths. She didn’t let out a breath until they were out of sight, the tension slowly leaving her muscles. It was done—simple, almost disappointingly so. She hadn’t needed to throw a punch, just a few stern words and an imposing presence.
She headed back to the shop, finding the owner pacing nervously behind the counter. When he saw her, his eyes widened with a mix of hope and uncertainty. “It’s... it’s done?”
Zoey nodded. “They shouldn’t bother you again. If they do, give me a call.”
The relief in the shopkeeper’s eyes was palpable, his shoulders sagging as if a weight had lifted off him. He fumbled for a moment, then handed her an envelope—payment, just as they’d agreed. It wasn’t much, but she could stretch it out for a while, and she had no complaints.
“Thank you,” the shopkeeper said, his voice cracking. “You... you don’t know what this means to us. That's an entire month's of profit for you.”
She just shrugged, tucking the payment away without ceremony. “Just doing my job. Just a warning, they might come back when they get older. Might wanna buy a shotgun.”
It was nothing glamorous—no wild shootouts, no dramatic last stands, no bloodshed. It was simple, and it left her feeling strangely hollow as she made her way back to the APC. But it was a start. A chance to get used to the rhythm of this new life she was trying to carve out. She told herself that maybe the next job would be more exciting, more satisfying.
As she climbed back into the Mantis-35, she glanced back at the shadowed streets of Sigma City, wondering how long this feeling of being an outsider would last. For now, though, it was enough to have something—anything—to fill the days and keep the nightmares at bay.
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