Chapter 4
The alleyway reeked of ozone and blood. Thirty-one Ny-X1 remained, a relentless tide of black skin and burning red eyes. Xena, her arm throbbing with pain, felt a cold rage ignite within her. Zion lay sprawled against a crumbling brick wall, his head bleeding profusely. A deep gash marred his temple, and his breathing was ragged.
Xena had seen him go down. A coordinated attack, two Ny-X1 converging on him at once. One had landed a brutal blow to his head while the other ripped at his side. She'd deflected the second attack, but couldn't reach Zion in time to stop the first. The sickening crunch of bone against bone still echoed in her ears.
"Damn it," she snarled, her voice low and dangerous. She knelt beside Zion, quickly assessing his injuries. The bleeding was substantial, but he was still conscious, his eyes struggling to focus. His breathing was shallow, but his pulse, though weak, was still there.
"Stay down," she hissed, her voice devoid of any warmth. It wasn't concern; it was a pragmatic assessment of the situation. Leaving him here was a risk, but carrying him would be suicidal. He was a liability now, but a necessary one for now.
She checked his weapons, his sidearm still intact. She then grabbed his own, placing it in her hands. She secured it in her belt, then stood up, her eyes locked on the remaining Ny-X1, who were closing in, their movements disturbingly coordinated.
The fight became a brutal dance of survival. Xena fought with a ferocity born of desperation, her movements as ruthless as the weapon she now wielded. She wasn't fighting to win; she was fighting to survive. Every blow was calculated, every movement designed to maximize damage and minimize risk. She moved like a whirlwind, her strength augmented by anger and adrenaline. Each time a Ny-X1 got close, she met them with a whirlwind of strikes, using the cramped space to turn the numbers to her advantage. She carved a path through the horde, her weapons singing a deadly song of destruction.
She fought with the precision of a surgeon and the ruthlessness of a predator. She didn't flinch, didn't hesitate, didn't show any sign of fatigue or fear. Her every movement was controlled, efficient, and deadly. She turned their numbers against them, using one Ny-X1 as a shield against another before delivering a swift, decisive blow, leaving a trail of fallen bodies. The alley, which was already a mess of debris, became a gruesome slaughterhouse.
She fought with the relentless efficiency of a well-oiled machine. Blood splattered her clothes, mingling with sweat and grime. Yet, she pressed on, her gaze fixed, her resolve unwavering. Every now and then, she would glance at Zion, checking to see if he was still breathing. It wasn't pity; it was a calculation. He was a burden, but a necessary one for now. As long as he was alive, there was a chance of making it out.
But the Ny-X1 were relentless. The battle was draining her, her body screaming in protest, her strength waning with each passing moment. More than the physical toll, the isolation weighed heavily on her. She was alone in this warzone, fighting against impossible odds, her usual confidence fraying at the edges. The cold, calculated savagery which was her usual fighting style was starting to falter. Fear, cold and sharp as ice, started to creep in. The weight of the situation, the ever-present threat of death, the silence save for the rasping of her breathing, and the sickening thud of fallen Ny-X1 - all these chipped away at her resolve.
She was outnumbered, outmatched, and exhausted. But she continued to fight, driven by a primal will to survive, a stubborn refusal to give up. And all the while, she kept a watchful eye on Zion, silently praying for his survival, just as much as hers. The relentless assault was starting to break her, but she continued to fight - and her resolve would be tested even further in the coming moments.