Zoey Arc Chapter 21: Not My Choice

May 2079, 12 years ago...

The room spun in a haze of neon and darkness, distorted by the toxic cocktail of alcohol, stimulants, and whatever else she had recklessly thrown into her system. Her breath was ragged, her heart pounding too fast, too erratic. She staggered, barely aware of her surroundings, only of the weight in her chest pressing her down like an iron slab.

Zoey had always been strong, always been the one to intimidate, to fight, to kill. But now, all she felt was failure. Failure after failure. Contracts gone bad. Allies turning their backs. Jobs drying up. The weight of it all crushed her, more suffocating than any enemy’s grip. The past clawed at her mind, a festering wound never given the chance to heal. Faces from her past - tormentors, betrayers, victims - swam through her thoughts, jeering, screaming, accusing. The drinks did nothing to silence them. The drugs only made them louder.

She didn’t remember how she got here.

The floor beneath her was moving, cold metal against her back, the hum of machinery buzzing through her bones. Harsh industrial lights flickered, illuminating jagged shadows. A rhythmic clanking echoed through the chamber, mechanical, unfeeling. A factory? A scrapyard? Some industrial hellhole? It didn’t matter. Nothing did anymore.

Then she saw them.

Two massive sawblades, spinning, descending toward her.

Her eyes widened. For a split second, the fog in her brain lifted. Instinct screamed at her to move, to fight, to do something - but she couldn’t. She was still too slow, too drugged, too lost in the abyss of her mind.

The world narrowed down to the gleaming steel edges, to the high-pitched whir growing louder, to the realization that this was it. This wasn’t some calculated plan. This wasn’t a deliberate end. This was happening, and she hadn’t even made the choice.

Then - 

SHRRRKKKK!

Blinding, white-hot pain.

She screamed, a raw, guttural sound of agony as the blades tore through flesh and bone like they were nothing. A sickening wetness sprayed across her face, hot and coppery, the scent overwhelming. Her body spasmed as she tumbled from the conveyor, hitting the cold, hard floor with a brutal thud.

Everything hurt. Everything.

Her arms - her arms were gone.

Breath hitching, vision darkening at the edges, Zoey writhed, her mind caught between the unbearable pain and the dawning horror of what had just happened. I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t - 

Her body jolted as something hard dug into her ribs.

Her phone.

Fuck - 

Her remaining instincts took over. Desperation drowned out agony. With shaking movements, she twisted, pressed her snout against the screen, struggled to unlock it - fuck, wrong attempt - again - again -  and finally, finally, she hit the emergency dial.

The ringing barely registered. Her screams hadn’t stopped. The pain wouldn’t let them. The metallic taste of her own blood filled her mouth.

A voice crackled to life.

"911, what is your emergency?"

Zoey’s breath hitched, the words barely coherent between her sobs of pain.

"M-my arms - my fucking arms!” she wailed, body convulsing against the cold floor. "Please - fuck - help - help me!"

Her voice was breaking, the edges of her vision fraying.

"Ma’am, stay with me. We have your location. Help is on the way. I need you to keep talking to me - "

Zoey’s body gave another violent tremor. She choked on her own breath. The room blurred into nothing.

Then - 

Darkness.

Zoey’s consciousness flickered back into existence like a faulty light, dim and unstable. Her body was heavy, her mind fogged by residual painkillers and exhaustion. The rhythmic beeping of medical monitors punctuated the sterile air, an all-too-familiar sound that sent a ripple of irritation through her. Hospital. Fuck.

Her throat was dry, her body weak, but it didn’t take long for her to realize the most critical fact - her arms were gone. Even before she dared to look, she could feel the absence, the phantom tingling where flesh and bone should be. It made her stomach twist, her pulse spike.

She opened her eyes, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights, and immediately noticed them.

Five men in business suits stood at the foot of her bed. Strangers. Well-dressed, well-fed, all of them radiating the polished arrogance of corporate executives. Their eyes were focused on her - not with pity, but with something else. Interest. Calculation.

One of them, an older man with silvered hair and a crisp navy-blue suit, stepped forward first. His voice was smooth, well-practiced. “Zoey Lavender. It’s good to see you awake.”

She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “The fuck… are you?” Her voice came out hoarse, but her hostility was clear.

“We represent various technology corporations in Sigma City and beyond.” He smiled, a politician’s smile. “When we heard about your… unfortunate incident, we took an interest. Your biology, your past, your - ” he gestured vaguely toward the blank spaces where her arms should have been, “ - current predicament.”

Her ears flicked, a flash of unease buried beneath the lingering haze of medication. They weren’t here out of kindness. They weren’t here because they gave a damn about her. They saw an opportunity.

She let her head fall back against the pillow, exhaling slowly. “I don’t give a fuck what you want. I need to get back to work. ASAP.”

There was a brief silence. The executives exchanged glances, some unreadable, some amused.

Then the first man cleared his throat. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The current demand for prosthetics is astronomical. Even priority cases face years-long waitlists."

Zoey’s jaw tightened. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. I’m not letting you poke and prod me unless I have arms.”

“I wish I was,” he replied smoothly. “We can pull some strings, expedite certain processes, but even in the best-case scenario, modern prosthetics - true replacements - are simply unavailable to you for the foreseeable future.”

Her pulse pounded in her ears. Years? The idea of being useless, helpless, of spending even a fraction of that time stuck in recovery, made her stomach churn. She needed action, movement, purpose. If she wasn’t fighting, if she wasn’t working - then what the fuck was she supposed to do?

The other CEOs shifted uncomfortably. They didn’t have answers.

Then, from the back of the room, a younger voice cut through the silence.

“I might have a solution.”

Zoey’s gaze snapped to the source.

A man stood apart from the others, noticeably younger - late twenties, maybe early thirties. Dressed in a less formal suit, his tie loosened, dark brown hair slightly unkempt. He had the sharp look of an engineer more than a businessman. Unlike the others, his expression wasn’t polished indifference. It was… curiosity. Confidence.

The older CEO turned to him with a raised brow. “You?”

The younger man nodded. “My company specializes in industrial robotics. We build machines for extreme environments; volcanic mining, underwater excavation, deep space operations. The tech is meant to survive conditions that would obliterate standard human prosthetics.” His gaze settled on Zoey. “It’s not what you’d call conventional, but with some modification, I could have a full set of industrial-grade arms fitted to you in about a week.”

A week.

Zoey considered it.

They wouldn’t be like standard cybernetics. No tactile feedback, no delicate precision, but they'd work. And if they were built for high-stress environments, that meant they’d be tough. Durable. Stronger than any human-grade prosthetic.

She flexed her non-existent fingers out of habit and felt the cruel emptiness of nothing.

Her ears flattened slightly. “They won’t feel like normal arms?”

The younger man shrugged. “No. You’d be sacrificing a lot of finesse. They’d be strong, but heavy. Built more for endurance and force than precision.” He hesitated, then added, “But if you just need to be operational? To fight? To work? They’ll do the job better than anything else you’ll find in this city.”

Zoey exhaled slowly, the weight of the decision pressing against her chest.

She didn’t like the idea of settling. She didn’t like the idea of having to compromise. But the alternative was waiting years.

And she’d rather be dead than wait that long.

Her eyes locked onto the young businessman’s. “Do it.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Alright then. Let’s get to work.”