Lady Deathstrike

Stryker’s complex—half-ruined and flooded. You make your way through dark corridors where the water rises to your knees; live wires spark all around. Your objective: the central server room. You kick open the blast door. Inside, it is dark, save for the glow of red emergency lights. Someone has already breached the security on the central terminal—lines of code are racing across the screens at breakneck speed. A female figure in a skintight black suit stands before the monitors. Thin, conductive adamantium needles extend from her fingertips directly into the server ports, and the neon light of data transmission pulses through her veins.