Chapter 3
The Interstellar Defense Force headquarters was a stark, imposing structure of polished chrome and darkened glass. Xena and Zion entered, the air conditioning a welcome contrast to the humid city air. Inside, the atmosphere crackled with nervous energy and steely determination. Rows of recruits, similarly clad in grey uniforms, milled about.
After a medical check-up and briefing, they received their uniforms and ID tags. The weight of the tags felt significant.
Their first mission: multiple Ny-X1 sightings in Sector 7, a densely populated residential district. Thirty-seven Ny-X1. A significant challenge for two rookies.
The transport vessel deposited them at Sector 7's edge—a scene of chaos and devastation. Sirens wailed, the air thick with smoke and fear. Moving through the shattered buildings, Xena's voice was clipped.
"Thirty-seven. Intel's probably underestimating their coordination," she stated, her gaze sharp. "Minimize civilian casualties. Neutralize threats efficiently. This isn't a training exercise."
Zion, ever the minimalist, simply nodded, his eyes already assessing the terrain. "Close-quarters combat. Exploit the environment," he murmured, his voice low.
They found their first Ny-X1 in a narrow alley. It attacked with brutal speed, its claws outstretched. Zion moved with deceptive grace, sidestepping the attack and delivering a swift, brutal kick to the creature's chest that sent it sprawling. Xena, without a word, followed up with a flurry of blows, each strike precise and devastating. The Ny-X1 roared, its rage fueling its desperate struggles, but Xena was relentless, a predator toying with its prey before delivering the final blow.
The fight became a whirlwind of calculated violence. Zion's movements were economical yet devastatingly effective, his strikes precise and focused. Xena fought with a savage efficiency, a cold satisfaction in the precision of her attacks. She didn't hesitate to exploit weaknesses, her methods bordering on sadistic. However, a flicker of something akin to concern crossed her face when a Ny-X1 almost got Zion, its claws narrowly missing his neck. She momentarily shifted her strategy to create a distraction to help him, a small adjustment that belied a grudging respect for her partner and a hidden concern for his well-being.
They fought their way through the narrow streets, each encounter leaving them more battered and bruised. Zion, despite his minimalist communication style, provided constant, subtle support—a strategically placed block, a perfectly timed distraction, a perfectly executed maneuver that allowed Xena to land a critical blow. He absorbed hits that would have crippled lesser fighters, his body absorbing the brunt of the Ny-X1's attacks with stoic resilience. His quiet competence was a testament to his skill and hidden strength.
During a brief lull in the battle, as they moved between buildings, Zion grunted, wiping blood from his lip. "Thirty-one left," he stated flatly, adjusting his grip on his weapon.
Xena, nursing a deep gash on her arm, simply grunted in acknowledgement. She was used to the pain. But the growing intensity of the battle, and the sheer number of their relentless enemies, started to weigh upon even her. For the first time in the battle, she paused, briefly questioning their strategy. The arrogant confidence faltered as she realized their overwhelming disadvantage. They were fighting an unending tide of Ny-X1, and even their combined prowess could be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.