Chapter 5
Xena fought with a ferocious intensity, a whirlwind of motion and destruction in the blood-soaked alley. Each fallen Ny-X1 bought her precious seconds, but the relentless tide surged forward. Her breath came in ragged gasps, muscles screamed in protest, yet she pressed on, her gaze repeatedly drifting to Zion, a grim calculation in her eyes.
Zion, despite the throbbing pain in his head and the searing agony in his side, watched her fight. He saw the exhaustion creeping into her movements, the attacks becoming less precise, less devastating. The brutal reality slammed into him: he was a liability. A wave of bitter self-disgust, so intense it bordered on nausea, washed over him. He was a soldier, a warrior, trained to fight. Yet, he lay here, useless, bleeding, relying entirely on Xena to protect him. The carefully constructed wall of stoicism he'd built around himself crumbled under the weight of his helplessness. It was humiliating. He was supposed to be her partner, her equal. Instead, he was a burden, weighing her down, slowing her down. The shame was a bitter poison, burning in his throat.
He had to do something, anything, to change that. He needed to contribute, to help her, to be worthy of fighting alongside her. He had to redeem himself.
He took a deep breath, the pain momentarily forgotten in a surge of grim determination. His hand went to his inner pocket, fingers brushing against a familiar object – a small, almost innocuous device resembling a lighter. It wasn't a lighter. It was something far older, something he'd salvaged years ago, during the Ny-X1 attacks that ravaged his hometown. He'd kept it hidden, a secret shame, a last resort he never wanted to use. Now, he had no choice.
With a firm press, the device transformed. The seemingly ordinary lighter unfolded, its parts extending and aligning to form a sleek, compact firearm. It wasn't a human weapon; its design was far more sophisticated. He pressed it to his side, the familiar weight a small comfort in this overwhelming situation.
He knew he couldn't engage in direct combat; his body was too battered. But he could provide support. He raised the weapon, aiming carefully. His first shot ripped through the air, silencing a Ny-X1 charging toward Xena. The weapon was precise, each shot calculated to disrupt, to create openings, to alleviate the pressure on Xena.
From his position, he became a silent guardian, picking off Ny-X1 one by one. His shots were perfectly aimed, each bullet finding its mark with deadly precision. His minimalist communication style was replaced by a devastating series of accurate shots, quiet but effective. He wasn't showy, but his actions were vital. He was compensating for his physical limitations with precision and tactical awareness, creating opportunities for Xena to fight more effectively. His shame remained, a heavy weight on his chest, but it was now mingled with a grim satisfaction. He wasn't a liability; he was a support.
Xena, sensing the shift in the dynamic, glanced over her shoulder. Surprise flickered in her eyes as she saw Zion providing covering fire. She didn't comment, but a subtle shift in her movements, the renewed focus in her attacks, spoke volumes. His contribution, however quiet, had given her the edge she needed. They were a team again, even if flawed and under duress. The tide had turned, not just by brute strength, but by teamwork—a testament to a resilience neither of them had expected. The fight was far from over, but now, there was a sliver of hope.