Charity grabbed the handle of the rusted cabinet and yanked it open. A cloud of thick, gray dust billowed out, making her cough harshly.
The shelves were mostly bare. Tucked in the far corner were a few silver, grease-stained tubes.
She grabbed one and wiped the grime off the label with her thumb. It read: [Low-Grade Synthetic Nutrient Paste].
The gnawing pain in her gut overrode any hesitation. She twisted the cap off and squeezed the thick metal tube.
A lump of grayish-brown paste oozed out. It smelled strongly of rotting rubber mixed with harsh industrial chemicals.
Charity pinched her nose, squeezed her eyes shut, and forced the paste into her mouth.
The texture was sickeningly slimy. A violently sour, chemical taste exploded across her tongue.
Her stomach instantly revolted. A powerful, uncontrollable gag reflex seized her throat. She doubled over, violently vomiting the paste onto the concrete floor.
Charity leaned against the wall, dry-heaving, her eyes watering from the physical rejection. This industrial waste was not food. Her human biology couldn't process it.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes hardened. If she didn't get real protein soon, this weak body wouldn't last three days.
She rummaged through a pile of debris near the door and pulled out a heavy, rusted iron pipe. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped it.
Charity took a deep breath, unlocked the iron door, and stepped back out into the lower sector. The acid rain had stopped, leaving the air thick with damp, toxic humidity.
This world was ruled by matriarchs. A female's word was law, and a male's worth was measured by his combat prowess and his loyalty to his bonded mistress. Charity's four bond-mates—Hjalmar, Braden, and two others she had yet to meet—were among the most powerful warriors in the known tribes. They were bound to her by an ancient, unbreakable neural link that the original matriarch had forced upon them. It was a mark of ultimate shame for a warrior to be so controlled. No wonder they hated her.
She moved carefully through the narrow, sewage-flooded alleyways, her senses on high alert.
Suddenly, a low, vibrating growl echoed from behind a pile of industrial trash just ten yards ahead.
A beast stepped out into the dim light. It was a mutated rockback lynx, larger than the dire rat from earlier, its spine lined with jagged, protruding cyber-spikes that glowed faintly with residual power.
The lynx's slit pupils locked onto Charity. It lowered its head, clearly identifying her as slow, easy prey.
Charity gripped the rusted iron pipe with both hands. Her palms were slick with cold sweat. She slowly took a step backward, desperately scanning the alley for an escape route.
The lynx let out a deafening roar. Its powerful hind legs kicked off the ground, launching its massive body through the air like a furry missile aimed straight at her chest.
Charity raised the pipe in a futile attempt to block, knowing the physical strength difference was an absolute death sentence.
A faint hum of a magnetic engine and the soft crunch of tactical boots on a nearby rooftop barely registered over the beast's low growl.
Just as the beast descended, a dark shadow plummeted from the roof of the adjacent building.
Braden Dickson landed squarely on the lynx's back. The heavy impact of his military boots drove the beast straight into the concrete with a sickening crunch.
A high-frequency oscillation blade—a weapon reserved for elite High Guard captains—materialized in his hand, humming with lethal energy.
Without a microsecond of hesitation, Braden drove the vibrating blade deep into the base of the lynx's skull, severing its spinal cord in one clean, brutal strike.
Boiling hot beast blood sprayed across the alley walls. The massive lynx twitched once and went completely limp.
Braden stepped off the carcass. He pulled a black cloth from his tactical vest and meticulously wiped the dark blood from his blade.
He turned his head. His icy gaze landed on Charity, who was still standing there holding the pathetic rusted pipe.
Braden let out a harsh, mocking scoff. "You are nothing but a liability," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "Even when you try to die, you make it someone else's problem."
Charity slowly lowered the pipe. She didn't look at Braden. Her eyes were glued to the massive, heavily muscled corpse of the lynx beast lying in the mud.
She could feel the faint, residual bio-energy radiating from the meat. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard.
A wild, desperate idea took root in her mind.
