Content warning: violence and gore
The warehouse reeked of sweat, old steel, and motor oil. Zoey leaned against a rusted support beam, cradling a bottle of vodka in her hand, the clear liquid halfway gone. She hadn't planned on drinking this much, not yet at least, but the cramping was unbearable. Both of her uteruses were hell-bent on tearing themselves apart, pain radiating from her core in waves that made her legs feel like lead and her head swim. Her prosthetic arms didn’t feel the strain as she gripped the bottle tighter, but her flesh-and-blood body screamed.
She took another swig, wiping a trail of vodka from the side of her muzzle with the back of her hand. Zoey felt bloated, heavy, and weak—a far cry from the image she portrayed. Her stomach churned with alcohol and misery. She knew the job had to get done. The client was paying a fortune, and she needed the money for more Elysium Green, the only thing that kept her mind in check these days. But this? This was the wrong time.
Cramps hit her with vicious intensity, and she let out a growl under her breath, sharp and guttural. She clenched her jaw, staring down at her rifle, the heavily modified PTRS-41 that looked like it had seen as much war as she had. Zoey could feel the blood pooling between her legs, soaking into her pants and making her more uncomfortable by the second. Her skin felt too tight, her insides twisted in knots, and the alcohol wasn’t numbing it fast enough.
"Fuck it," Zoey muttered, downing the rest of the bottle and tossing it into the shadows. The glass shattered, but she was already on the move, reaching for her weapon and slinging it over her back.
The job was simple—clear out a gang squatting in the building. No one cared if they lived or died, which meant she could handle things her way. That suited her just fine tonight. She was in no mood for restraint.
Her boots thudded against the concrete floor as she moved through the dimly lit corridors of the warehouse, eyes scanning for any signs of movement. The air was stale, heavy, matching the darkness that wrapped itself around her mind. Each step reminded her of the pain coursing through her abdomen, and she found herself gritting her teeth harder to stop from screaming. Every breath felt like it caught fire in her lungs.
And then, she saw them. A group of five men huddled around a table, laughing, oblivious to her presence. They were low-level scum, barely worth the bullets it would take to kill them, but she needed this. She needed to release the violence that was clawing its way up her throat like bile.
One of the men looked up, his face twisting in confusion as he spotted Zoey. “Who the hell—”
He never finished the sentence. Zoey moved faster than any of them could react. Her clawed prosthetic hand shot forward, grabbing the man by the throat. With a sickening crunch, she crushed his windpipe and tossed his lifeless body across the room as if he weighed nothing.
The others scrambled for weapons, but it was too late. The pain, the alcohol, the rage, it all exploded inside of her like a bomb. Her vision blurred as she lunged at the next man, slamming him into the wall with enough force to splinter the concrete. His skull caved in under the impact, blood and brain matter splattering across the room like an abstract painting.
Gunfire erupted, but the bullets bounced harmlessly off Zoey’s armor, pinging against the titanium and carbon fiber plates. The third man screamed, trying to run, but Zoey grabbed him by the ankle, yanking him off his feet. She swung him like a ragdoll, his body slamming into the ground with a sickening thud. Bones snapped, his spine shattered, and he lay there twitching, gasping for breath as his organs failed.
Zoey didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. Her blood boiled, every nerve in her body aflame with rage and agony. The pain in her abdomen only fueled her further, driving her into a frenzy. She ripped the man’s throat out with her claws, the scent of blood heavy in the air. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered.
The last two men tried to barricade themselves behind a steel door, but Zoey was relentless. She tore the door from its hinges, throwing it aside like it was made of cardboard. The men inside stared in horror as she stepped into the room, her massive form towering over them, drenched in blood—some of it theirs, some of it her own.
One of them begged for his life, tears streaming down his face. Zoey didn’t care. She couldn’t hear him over the pounding in her head, the searing pain between her legs. She crushed his skull beneath her boot, the wet crunch barely registering.
The last man stood frozen, his gun shaking in his hands as he pointed it at her. His lips trembled, trying to form words, but all that came out was a pathetic whimper.
Zoey tilted her head, the motion slow, predatory. She could barely see him through the haze of alcohol and hormones, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t need to see clearly to know what came next.
With a snarl, she lunged at him, sinking her claws deep into his chest. The man screamed, a high-pitched, desperate sound that echoed through the warehouse. She pulled him apart, ripping muscle from bone, tearing him open like a butcher with a slab of meat. His organs spilled onto the floor, steaming in the cold air.
And then, it was quiet.
Zoey stood in the carnage, her breath sharp, chest heaving. Blood soaked the floor, pooling around her feet, the metallic tang of it thick in her nostrils. The pain in her stomach was worse now, sharper, and it made her double over for a moment. she groaned, clutching her abdomen as another wave of cramps hit her hard. She could feel the blood still trickling down her legs, and she cursed under her breath.
The job was done. But there was no satisfaction. No sense of accomplishment. Just a hollow emptiness.
Zoey staggered back to where she had left her pack, searching for another bottle, something to numb the agony. She found one, twisting off the cap and taking a long, desperate drink. The alcohol burned going down, but it did nothing to dull the ache inside of her. She dropped into a nearby chair, the adrenaline fading and leaving only exhaustion and pain in its wake.
She glanced around at the bodies, the gore, and felt… nothing. No remorse. No guilt. Just a hollow, aching void where her soul should be. The world didn’t care about her pain, and she sure as hell didn’t care about theirs.
“Fuck this,” she muttered, slamming the bottle down, shattering it. She leaned back, staring up at the ceiling, the fluorescent lights flickering above her.
Zoey was a monster. She knew it. She had always known it. And maybe, that’s all she would ever be. Not a hero, not someone to look up to. Just a broken, violent animal trying to survive in a world that had already crushed her.
And as the cramps continued to tear through her body, and the blood continued to flow, all she could do was drink and wait for the next job. Because in the end, that’s all there was—violence, pain, and more violence.
There was no happy ending. There never had been.
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