Sigma AU Short Story: Reprisal Pt.3

CONTENT WARNING
THE FOLLOWING FICTIONAL LITERATURE CONTAINS SEVERAL INSTANCES OF TRIGGERING MATERIAL, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO STRONG LANGUAGE, GUN VIOLENCE, AND GORE. INDIVIDUALS SENSITIVE TO THESE TOPICS SHOULD STOP READING IMMEDIATELY.

Zoey Lavender's amber eyes almost seemed to glow with a fierce intensity as she stood before the Sigma City military contract officers. The room was dimly lit, with the only source of light being a flickering fluorescent panel overhead. Her towering figure cast a menacing shadow across the room, her dark red fur almost appearing black.

The contract manager, a grizzled veteran with a scar running down his cheek, cleared his throat and began the briefing. "Aright, now that you're here Zoey, we've got a situation in the sewers. A nest of drug dealers has been sabotaging our convoys. They've been hitting us hard, stealing supplies, and causing chaos. We need someone with your... particular set of skills to clear them out. I don't like you, you don't like me, but this is a problem we can help each other with."

Zoey's prosthetic arms whirred softly as she crossed them over her chest. "Sounds like a fun time," she said, a wicked grin spreading across her muzzle. "What's the pay?"
The officer slid a dossier across the table. "Double your standard rate, plus a bonus for bringing in their leader. Dead or alive."

Zoey picked up the dossier, flipping through the pages. Her eyes scanned the details, taking in the information about the targets, the layout of the sewers, and the expected resistance. "Alive is boring," she muttered. "I'll take care of it."

As she turned to leave, the officer called after her. "Remember, Warlord, these guys are heavily armed and dangerous. Don't underestimate them."

Zoey's laugh echoed through the room as she walked out, always reveling when people used her callsign. "Oh, I never do."

The sewers of Sigma City were a labyrinthine network of tunnels, stretching deep beneath the city. The stench of rot and decay hung heavy in the air, mingling with the scent of damp concrete and stagnant water. Zoey's power armor, an advanced prototype designed for maximum protection and firepower, clanked with each step she took. Her internal monologue was a mix of rage and focus.

These bastards think they can mess with me? They've got another thing coming.

She adjusted her helmet, the heads-up display flickering to life and providing her with real-time data on her surroundings.

As she delved deeper into the sewers, she encountered the first line of resistance. A group of sentries, armed to the teeth and clearly on edge. Zoey's lips curled into a snarl as she fired a burst from her machine gun. With a deafening roar, she unleashed a torrent of pain, ripping through the first sentry before he even had a chance to scream.

The others scrambled to return fire, but Zoey was already upon them. Her movements were a blur of lethal precision, her prosthetic limbs enhanced by the power armor delivering bone-crushing blows. Blood sprayed the walls, mixing with the filth and grime of the sewer.

One of the sentries, a young man barely out of his teens, tried to crawl away, his leg shattered and bleeding profusely. Zoey's foot came down on his back, pinning him to the ground. "Where's your leader?" she demanded, her voice cold and devoid of mercy.

The boy whimpered, his eyes wide with fear. "I-I don't know! Please, don't kill me!"

Zoey's pressed harder, the boot's sharp metal edges digging into his flesh. "Wrong answer." With a swift motion, she pushed her foot down and snapped his spine, the sickening crack echoing through the tunnel.

She moved on, her anger fueling her every step.

These lowlifes have no idea who they were dealing with.

Her mind drifted to her past—her creation, the torture she endured, the countless battles she fought. All of it had forged her into the relentless force she was today.

The next chamber she entered was a makeshift drug lab. Tables were strewn with chemicals and equipment, the air thick with the acrid smell of cooking drugs. Several dealers, caught off guard by her sudden arrival, scrambled to arm themselves.

Zoey didn't give them the chance. She lunged forward, her fists punching through flesh and bone. One dealer's head was severed clean from his shoulders, blood spraying in an arc as his body crumpled to the floor. Another tried to flee, but a well-aimed burst from her MG reduced him to a messy pile of flesh.

As she moved through the tunnels, dispatching any resistance with ruthless precision, she couldn't shake a nagging feeling of emptiness and soullessness. Each kill brought a momentary rush of satisfaction, but it was fleeting, leaving her feeling hollow and numb. Her anger, her drive for vengeance—it all felt like a never-ending cycle of self-destruction.

Finally, she reached the heart of the nest. The leader, a hulking brute with a fully cybernetic body and a cruel grin, stood waiting for her. "So, you're the famous Zoey Lavender," he sneered. "I've heard a lot about you."

Zoey's eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on her machine gun. "Then you know how this ends."

The leader laughed, a deep, guttural sound. "You think you can take me? I've survived worse than you."

Zoey's response was a spray of machine gun fire, but the leader was quick, dodging to the side and returning fire with his own weapon. Despite his bravado, the leader was no match for Zoey's rage-fueled onslaught. She cornered him, her power armor's metal hands digging into his chest as she lifted him off the ground. "Any last words?" she growled.

He spat blood, a defiant glint in his eye. "Go to hell."

With a savage roar, Zoey ripped his head from his shoulders, the spray of blood painting the walls. She stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, the weight of her actions settling over her like a shroud.

Back at the military headquarters, Zoey clanked into the briefing room, her armor still stained with the blood of her enemies. She approached the contractor's desk and dropped the leader's head onto it with a sickening thud.

"Job's done," she said, her voice devoid of emotion.

The officer looked at the severed head, then back at Zoey. "Jesus Christ, the horrors of working with you never cease."

"Go fuck yourself, pay me," she responded, the armor softly humming as she stood over him.

"Ugh, payment will be transferred as soon as this mess is cleaned up."

Zoey turned to leave without another word. The thrill of the kill, the rush of battle—it all felt meaningless now. She craved a hit, an injection, a puff, anything to help her. She might have killed these lawless dealers, but she also depended on them to cope with the stress of simply existing.

She was a weapon, a force of destruction. And in the end, all that was left of her was the cold, numbing emptiness of her trauma that ruled her life every day.