She looked like a killer; well, if you had fantasies about scantily clad amazons with guns strapped all over them she looked like a killer. It was true that the outfit she was wearing was not in any way practical, but then that was the intention. The servants of The Sand had not had their sex centres burned out because they were still required to breed and if she could tap into that, even for just for a moment, it might buy her those few precious seconds that she needed to get the edge on her targets. Her enemy was fast and as hard as she pushed herself she could not outstrip them in some regards — you learnt the rules that they operated by though and you tried to bend them in your favour.
That last skirmish had been a close one — three of them had her cornered in a bar and she was drunk. The first one was no problem — her knife was in her hand and flying towards his head before she had even realised what she was doing, and it buried itself up to the hilt in his left eyeball. The second guy was a fumbled lucky gunshot that sky-lighted the motherfucker’s skull. The third was a case of caving in a skull with a bar stool, suffering numerous cuts and bruises and wishing to God that you had not decided to have that third G&T (the third one always being the one that opened the doors on a no-holds barred drink until you drop session.
Serena climbed into the wagon, booted up the targeting GPS and located the enemy forces that she had to tackle in the area. They were suspecting that there was a nest out here somewhere given the sudden explosion of activity. She was half wondering why they had sent just her if this surge was reputedly as big as it seemed to be. She perhaps needed to cut back on the hedonism and try being more professional for a change, but then her biological make-up was dialled up so that all of the pleasure centres were enhanced so she would orgasm here way through a killing spree. They had made her for pleasure and pain and she tried to get as much of each of them as she could.
She twirled a strand of her long black hair around her finger. Looked in the rearview mirror and popped out the colour-change contacts. Wiped the lipstick off her lips and began to wrestle her way out her clothes. The next job was going to require the stealth suit and cover of night — she couldn’t brazen the next one out — if she tried a full frontal assault on this crew she would be in a body bag or a shallow grave by the end of the day. She pulled the switch for the seat to drop into horizontal position and carefully pronounced the word hibernate so that the REMhive slid over her head and dropped her into a rapid sleep cycle. She would be ready to get out there soon. Ready to despatch some more enemy soldiers; some more corrupted humans.
She woke feeling ravenous, swung through a drive in to pick up some burgers, and then was on her way to the first target of the night. This one was going to be problematic because its manifestation wielded psychic power and wasn’t purely physical like most of the other mutations. She had her training and she had her equipment and she just had to hope that was enough. This thing either flew or it crashed and that was how it was every night. If she were to be honest with herself that was exactly how she liked it — she had spoken with some of the operatives that worked in the grey areas of their organisation and the kind of things that they had to go through were the stuff of nightmare. Being a genetically manipulated assassin wasn’t the worst job in the world.
She could feel herself getting wet at the thought of killing — adrenaline and whole other cocktail of hormones coursing through her bloodstream.
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