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My legs burn with lactic acid, lungs pumping as I sprint through the simulated urban landscape.

The training course is designed to test a Sentinel's peak performance—reflex enhancement, sensory proccessing, and decision-making under pressure.

Usually I'd navigate this obstacle course with fluid precision, every movement calculated and efficient.

Today, I'm barely keeping up.

"Defensive pattern theta, sector four!" Trent's voice comes through my earpiece, sharp with urgency.

I pivot instantly, reading his intention through years of partnership. The holographic Splinter rushes at me from the left, a simulation based on actual combat data. I drop into a defensive stance, ready to execute the countermove.

Then it happens.

My vision wavers, colors bleeding into one another, depth perception suddenly unreliable. The simulated Splinter splits into multiple ghostly images, all moving at different speeds. I can't tell which is real.

I hesitate—a fatal error in actual combat—and the simulation registers a direct hit. Red light floods the training chamber, signaling mission failure.

"Simulation terminated," announces the automated system. "Performance evaluation: Below standard. Recommend remedial enhancement therapy."

The holographic environment dissolves, leaving Trent and me standing in the bare training chamber.

We've maintained our regular Sentinel training sessions despite our undercover assignment, claiming they're necessary for mission readiness.

In reality, they're one of our few opportunities to speak freely without Lower Arcology's constant surveillance.

"What happened?" Trent asks quietly, approaching as the monitoring systems reset between programs.

"Visual distortion," I explain, still catching my breath. "Everything split apart, like multiple overlapping images."

"Third malfunction this week." His voice is neutral for the benefit of any observers, but his eyes convey genuine concern. "First enhanced hearing, then tactile hypersensitivity, now visual disruption."

Since our encounter with Eden three days ago, my symptoms have been accelerating. Each enhancement seems to be destabilizing in turn, but not failing.

No. Transforming .

"It's different this time," I murmur. "When my vision changed, I could see through the holographic projection. For a second, I saw the emitters behind it."

Trent's expression doesn't change, but I notice the slight tension in his jaw. "That shouldn't be possible with current Sentinel enhancements."

"I know." The implication hangs between us.

Whatever's happening to me isn't a malfunction—it's an evolution.

"We should continue with the scheduled program," Trent says loudly enough for the monitoring systems to record. Then, barely audible: "Something else happened. During your blackout."

Before I can ask what he means, the chamber door slides open, and Training Supervisor Mercer enters. His presence here is unexpected as supervisors rarely observe routine maintenance sessions personally.

"Sentinel Thorne," he addresses me without preamble. "Medical has flagged your performance metrics for immediate evaluation."

My stomach tightens. "Standard fluctuation during deep cover operations, sir. Disrupted enhancement schedule."

Mercer's eyes reveal nothing. "Perhaps. Report to Medical Bay 7 upon completion of your current assignment. Director Voss wants a full workup."

Fuck. Voss herself? That elevates this from concerning to potentially catastrophic.

"Acknowledged, sir."

Mercer turns to Trent. "Sentinel Vanguard, continue with the scheduled training program. Thorne's performance issues require individual assessment."

He's separating us. Breaking our carefully synchronized routine.

"With respect, sir," Trent says smoothly, "as Sentinel Thorne's designated partner, protocol indicates my presence during performance evaluations to provide baseline comparison data."

Mercer's expression hardens slightly. "Protocol has been superseded in this instance. Director's orders."

No room for argument there. Trent meets my eyes briefly, a silent warning passing between us.

Be careful.

"Resume training in five minutes," Mercer instructs, then exits the chamber.

The moment the door closes, Trent moves closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "During your visual disruption, your eyes changed color. Just for a second."

My blood runs cold. "Changed how?"

"Amber. Like Eden's. "

The implication is staggering. Not just internal changes anymore, but physical manifestations visible to others. If Mercer had been here moments earlier...

"They know," I whisper. "That's why Voss wants a full evaluation."

"They suspect," Trent corrects. "If they knew for certain, you'd already be in processing."

"I can't go to Medical," I say, the realization settling like ice in my veins.

"No," Trent agrees. "We need to accelerate our timeline. The sympathizer transport leaves tonight with Eden. We need to be on it."

The suggestion stuns me despite its obvious logic. "You want to defect? Both of us?"

His gray eyes hold mine steadily. "I want us to survive. If Medical confirms genetic modifications, they'll take you for processing. And if they review our mission logs and discover we've been protecting a Splinter child instead of reporting her..."

He doesn't need to finish. We both know the consequences of treason against Unity.

"Training resuming in thirty seconds," announces the automated system.

Trent steps back, his expression shifting seamlessly to professional detachment. "Focus on maintaining visual stability during the next sequence," he says loudly for the monitors. "Compensate with enhanced audio processing if necessary."

I nod, mind racing with implications and possibilities. In less than twelve hours, we could be leaving Unity forever, abandoning everything we've known for a hostile wasteland and uncertain future.

The simulation begins again, holographic Splinters materializing around us. I force myself to focus, to move through the familiar combat patterns while part of my mind continues processing our situation.

We're halfway through the sequence when it happens again, but worse this time.

My vision doesn't just blur; it transforms entirely.

Suddenly I'm seeing heat signatures pulsing through the walls, electromagnetic currents running through the simulation equipment, the beating heart of Trent's circulatory system as he moves across the chamber.

Then pain—sharp and overwhelming—as my brain struggles to process the flood of new sensory information. I falter, dropping to one knee as a wave of dizziness hits me.

“Shit!” I cry.

"Simulation pause!" Trent calls out, rushing to my side.

But the training program doesn't pause. Instead, the holographic Splinters converge on me, a programmed response to detected weakness. I try to stand, to defend myself, but my muscles won't cooperate.

Through kaileidoscopic vision, I see something else—a memory that can't possibly be mine surging to the surface:

A laboratory. Gleaming equipment. A woman with dark hair like mine working frantically at a control panel.

"They've found us," she says to someone off-screen. "We need to move the children now."

Fire alarms blaring. The smell of smoke and chemicals.

"Zara will be safe," the woman continues. "The modifications are stable. She just needs to survive long enough for them to activate."

A man's voice, urgent but controlled: "And if Unity finds her first?"

"They won't know what she is. Not until it's too late."

The memory—if that's what it is—dissolves as suddenly as it appeared. I'm back in the training chamber, on my hands and knees, with Trent kneeling beside me.

"Simulation terminated," announces the system. "Medical emergency protocols engaged. "

Red warning lights pulse overhead. We have minutes, maybe seconds, before medical staff arrive.

"Can you stand?" Trent asks, his voice calm despite the urgency of our situation.

I nod, letting him help me to my feet. The world tilts alarmingly, but I force myself to stay upright.

"New memory," I manage to say. "A woman. A laboratory. She said my modifications were stable, that Unity wouldn't know what I am."

Trent processes this in seconds, his tactical mind adapting to new information with characteristic efficiency. "We need to move. Now."

He guides me toward the emergency exit, a maintenance access point designed for equipment transport rather than personnel. Unity's obsession with efficiency means there are always alternate routes through the arcology, if you know where to look.

"Medical personnel dispatched," the system announces. "Remain in current location."

Trent ignores the instruction, placing his hand against the maintenance access panel. It shouldn't respond to his standard Sentinel clearance, but he does something—inputs a code I don't recognize—and the panel slides open.

"How did you?—"

"Later," he cuts me off, urging me through the opening. "We have approximately four minutes before they lock down this sector."

The maintenance tunnel beyond is narrow and dimly lit, designed for service drones rather than humans. We move quickly, Trent leading the way with the certainty of someone who's memorized paths they should never need to use.

"Where are we going?" I ask, still fighting waves of disorientation as my enhanced vision fluctuates between normal sight and something else entirely .

"Secure location," Trent responds cryptically. "Been preparing it since your first enhancement reaction."

This revelation shouldn't surprise me—Trent's always been ten steps ahead—but it does. "You've been planning for this? For how long?"

He glances back at me, expression unreadable in the dim light. "Since I first noticed the pattern in your biometric data three months ago. The modifications weren't random glitches—they were too systematic, too deliberate."