Anne the Amazon
She emerged from a shimmering haze, her dark hair in a bun and her feet planted firmly on the concrete in a defensive position, holding her katana like sword. The metallic bikini armor-polished silver plates hugging her lean, athletic form-glinted under the neon lights of the city. Pedestrians froze, mouths agape, as she stretched her arms, the armor creaking with a soft, musical tone. As she smoothly put her sword back into its sheath on her back
Noting no danger, with a grace of one with a petite but muscular build, she reached behind her neck and unclipped the armor with her muscles rippling with the action. No Amazon hides her body from anyone. The armour is mostly decorative and only worn in battle. It clattered to the ground, revealing smooth, pale skin and the subtle scars collected over years of battle. Her small breasts unmarked. She kicked the armor aside, her eyes-deep, ancient brown-scanning the skyscrapers and the stunned crowd.
A young group of men, drunk, celebrating someones 21st birthday, stumbled forward, their phones raised. "Holy shit, are you a cosplayer?" one slurred. She turned to him, her gaze piercing, Instinctively they recoiled as if struck, sensing danger.
She walked through the city, her bare feet making no sound on the pavement. Her skin devoid of hair except her eyebrows and the hair on her head. People parted for her, some crossing themselves, others snapping photos. A child pointed, crying, "Mommy, look! A superhero!"
At a street corner, she paused, watching as cars whizzed by. A taxi screeched to a halt inches from her toes. The driver, a gruff old man, glared. "Watch where you’re walking, lady!"
She smiled, and drew her sword in a motion so swift the driver didn't see it till it was touching his throat. Her lips curling upward. "I am Anne of the Amazons," she said, her voice like honey and steel. A body still extremely fit despite her 40 summers. "I have walked the battlefields of Troy and the forests of Hyperborea. Your metal beast means nothing to me."
The driver’s jaw dropped. She stepped onto the sidewalk, and he sped away without further word.
She entered a coffee shop, where baristas and patrons alike stared. She approached the counter, her presence commanding. "I would have wine," she said, her accent strange, musical. "But if that is not available, your strongest drink."
A barista wearing a man bun, trembling, handed her a triple-shot latte. She raised it to her lips, sniffed, and drank it in one gulp. Her eyes widened. "This is potent. But where is the blood?"
The barista fainted. Anne sneered at such a weak man.
As the night continued, Anne felt a tingling along her skin and the hairs on her arms stood on end, the wind whipping about her nude form. The city pulsed like a living thing. People with raised phones, whispering among themselves at the spectacle. She raised her arms, and for a moment, the stars seemed to align in her favor.
Then, with a final glance at this strange new world, she leaped into the void. The city watched as she vanished into the same shimmering haze from which she had come. The metallic armor, left behind, glowed once, twice, and then was gone.
In the following weeks and months people debated that is was all a hoax, that it was just Ai, or cgi, but those that where there, the taxi driver with a small scar on his neck, all knew that it was real. That they had been visited by a powerful warrior from the past.
