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They're taking me down. Bypassing standard intake protocols in favor of direct placement.

The realization carries both tactical advantage and concern.

Skipping the preliminary evaluation means avoiding repetitive testing and psychological conditioning designed to establish baseline parameters. But it also means entering higher-difficulty levels without appropriate preparation or resource acquisition normally available in earlier stages.

The platform slows its movement, suggesting arrival at the designated destination. I maintain perfect stillness despite a growing urge to assess my surroundings visually, knowing premature display of consciousness would trigger additional sedation protocols.

"Transfer authorization Blackwood-496-Omega," the male voice announces to what must be security checkpoint personnel. "Priority clearance Nexus-Seven."

A moment of silence follows—presumably security verification procedures—before mechanical sounds indicate barrier disengagement. The platform resumes motion momentarily before coming to complete stop.

"Prepare for transfer to containment unit," the female voice instructs someone not previously part of the conversation. "Standard restraint protocols apply despite unconscious state.This subject has demonstrated exceptional recovery capabilities and adaptation to chemical sedation."

The warning almost draws a smile despite my careful maintenance of apparent unconsciousness.

They've learned from previous encounters that standard parameters fail to predict my responses—a small victory in ongoing psychological warfare between institution and subject.

Hands grasp my limbs with clinical efficiency, transferring my unresisting form from transport platform to what feels like a standard containment bed. Restraints secure wrists and ankles with practiced movements, the material feeling slightly different from upper-level equipment—reinforced synthetics rather than standard institutional restraints.

"Monitoring systems activated," a new voice announces from somewhere near my feet. "Vital signs transmitting to central observation station. Recovery timeline projected at forty-three minutes before full motor function returns."

They consistently underestimate recovery rates. The actual timeline closer to twenty-seven minutes based on previous sedation response patterns.

The knowledge provides a tactical advantage that I carefully file away for upcoming requirements. Better they believe me incapacitated longer than actual recovery permits—creates an opportunity window for assessment before they realize full consciousness has returned.

"Observation team withdrawing," the authoritative male voice announces. "Automated systems will maintain standard monitoring until the subject demonstrates consciousness. At that point, orientation protocols will initiate via the communication system."

Footsteps retreat from the immediate vicinity, followed by the distinctive sound of the security door engaging multiplelocking mechanisms. The space falls into relative silence, broken only by the soft hum of monitoring equipment and barely perceptible airflow through ventilation systems.

I wait precisely ninety seconds after the last audible human presence before allowing eyelids to flutter open, ensuring no immediate observation prevents initial environmental assessment.

The ceiling above features standard institutional lighting recessed into panels that prevent access to electrical systems or structural components that might serve as escape implements.

Turning my head fractionally reveals a space significantly different from previous containment areas—larger dimensions, more sophisticated monitoring systems, and what appears to be an airlock-style entrance rather than a standard security door.

The walls feature subtle differences in construction materials, suggesting specialized containment parameters beyond mere physical restriction.

Level Minus One. Adaptation Chambers.

The realization forms with perfect clarity as details align with fragmented intelligence gathered during the previous navigation attempt.

This level serves as a transition point between upper institutional areas and the true Parazodiac testing grounds—where subjects either demonstrate capability to proceed deeper or become permanent research assets in ongoing experiments.

My restraints appear standard design despite enhanced materials—a four-point system securing limbs while leaving torso and head with limited mobility. The bed beneath me sits centered in the chamber rather than against the wall, allowing 360-degree observation without blind spots that might permit unsupervised activity.

Standard precautions for high-value subjects considered flight risks.

The monitoring equipment arranged at precise intervals around the perimeter displays various biometric data in real-time—heart rate, respiratory function, neural activity, and stress hormone levels.

More concerning are the metallic ports embedded in the ceiling at measured intervals—delivery systems for various chemical compounds should we subject to behavior that exceeds acceptable parameters.

Behavioral modification architecture disguised as medical monitoring.

I close my eyes again as the sound of mechanical activation suggests observation systems returning to active status.

Premature discovery of consciousness would trigger protocols designed to establish dominance through chemical intervention rather than allowing natural recovery to proceed on an internal timeline.

As I lie in artificial stillness, my mind races through implications of Press's unexpected acceleration. The original negotiation suggested a one-week preparation period—time to physically recover from starvation protocols and develop strategic approaches to modified Parazodiac parameters.