Page 15

Three months. While I was still blissfully unaware of the changes happening inside me, Trent was already preparing for this moment, the moment when Unity would identify me as a threat.

Good lord.

We navigate through a maze of maintenance tunnels, eventually emerging in a section of Mid-Level I don't recognize. Trent leads me to an unmarked door, again entering a code I've never seen.

Inside is a small but well-equipped safe room with portable medical supplies, civilian clothing, nutrition packets, and what appears to be wasteland survival gear.

"Sentinel emergency cache," Trent explains, securing the door behind us. "Officially designated for deep cover operations requiring temporary isolation."

"Officially," I repeat, noting the supplies that go well beyond standard emergency provisions.

"We have approximately forty minutes before security protocols flag our absence from the training center," Trent says, all business now. "Physical biometric tracking is still locked to our location there, but that discrepancy won't last."

I sink into the room's single chair, still fighting waves of disorientation as my vision continues to shift between normal and enhanced perception.

"What happened back there?" I ask. "You said my eyes changed color. "

Trent pauses in his equipment check, turning to face me directly. "Not just color. Structure. The irises exhibited reflective properties similar to Eden's. Brief, but unmistakable."

Like Eden's. Evidence of deliberate modification, not random mutation.

"The memory I saw," I continue, struggling to hold onto the details before they fade. "A woman, I think she might have been my mother. She mentioned modifications, said Unity wouldn't know what I am."

"What else did you see?" Trent urges, recognizing the importance of these fragments.

I close my eyes, trying to recapture the vivid flash. "A laboratory. Fire alarms. She said I just needed to survive long enough for the modifications to activate."

"Which is exactly what's happening now," Trent concludes.

"But why? Why would my supposed mother hide me in Unity? Why make me a Sentinel, of all things?"

Trent's expression softens slightly. "The perfect hiding place is often in plain sight. What better cover than becoming the very thing designed to hunt your kind?"

The logic is sound, but the implications are devastating. If true, my entire life—my training, my purpose, my identity as a Sentinel—has been built on a foundation of carefully constructed lies.

"I can't go back to Sentinel quarters," I say, stating the obvious. "Not with these symptoms becoming visible."

"No," Trent agrees. "Our only viable option is the sympathizer transport tonight. Eden's handlers have arrangements to extract Splinters and those with emerging modifications."

"You mean defect," I say bluntly. "Leave Unity. Become traitors."

"I mean survive," he counters. "Unity won't distinguish between you and a Splinter infiltrator if they confirm modifications. The processing protocols are clear."

He's right, and we both know it. Unity's response to genetic deviation is absolute—extraction of useful information, reversal of modifications where possible, then disposal in wasteland death zones.

"And you?" I ask, the question that's been burning in my mind. "What about you, Trent? You're not showing symptoms. You could maintain your cover, continue your career."

His expression hardens. "That's not an option."

"It should be. There's no reason for both of us to?—"

"There is every reason," he interrupts with unusual intensity. "We're partners. Where you go, I go."

The simple declaration hits me with unexpected force. Despite everything we've been through, everything we've felt during synchronization, we've never explicitly acknowledged what exists between us, this connection that transcends just a professional partnership.

"This isn't your fight," I say quietly.

"It became my fight the moment they targeted you." His voice leaves no room for argument. "Besides, I'm already compromised. Protecting a Splinter child, falsifying mission reports, accessing restricted information about genetic modification, they'd process me too, just more quickly."

I want to argue further, to give him an out, but his logic is unassailable. We're in this together now, for better or worse.

"So what's the plan?" I ask, yielding to the inevitable.

Trent activates a secure tablet, displaying a schematic of Lower Arcology's southern access points. "The sympathizer transport leaves at 2300 hours. We need to reach junction point 19-F by 2245, where we'll rendezvous with Lyra's team."

"What about our Sentinel tracking?" Every Sentinel carries multiple embedded trackers, standard security protocol to monitor field operatives.

"Already handled," Trent says, retrieving a small device from his gear. "Electromagnetic pulse, calibrated to deactivate specific tracking frequencies without damaging other enhancements. Temporary solution, but it will buy us time to reach the extraction point."

I stare at him, momentarily speechless. The level of preparation, the careful contingency planning, all done without my knowledge, all in anticipation of this moment.

"You really have been expecting this," I say finally.

Something flickers across his face, an emotion I can't quite identify. "I've been protecting you for longer than you realize, Zara."

Before I can ask what he means, another wave of sensory distortion hits me. This time it's not visual but auditory. Suddenly I can hear conversations through walls, the hum of electrical systems, even the steady rhythm of Trent's heartbeat across the room.

I press my hands against my ears, but it doesn't help, the enhancement is internal, bypassing normal sensory pathways.

Trent is at my side immediately, recognizing the symptoms. "Focus on a single sound," he instructs, his voice steady. "Use it as an anchor point."

I latch onto his voice, letting its familiar timbre guide me through the overwhelming sensory input. Gradually, the chaos recedes, my hearing returning to something approaching normal.

"It's getting worse," I say, stating the obvious. "Faster progressions, more noticeable symptoms."

"Proximity to Eden might have accelerated the process," Trent suggests. "If your modifications respond to the presence of others like you, as she implied..."

It makes a disturbing kind of sense. After years of stability, my symptoms began accelerating precisely when our Splinter captures increased, when I was regularly exposed to individuals with active genetic modifications.

"If we can't control these symptoms until tonight, we'll never make it to the extraction point," I say grimly. "The first visual manifestation will trigger security protocols."

Trent considers this, then moves to the medical supplies. "There might be a temporary solution. Sentinel suppression injections."

I recognize the small black case he retrieves—standard field equipment for covert operations requiring Sentinels to temporarily dampen their enhancements to avoid detection by enemy scans.

"That could work," I agree, hope flickering. "But suppression injections are designed for standard enhancements, not whatever I'm becoming."

"It's a calculated risk," Trent acknowledges. "But our only option for maintaining cover until extraction."

He prepares the injection with practiced efficiency, measuring the dose carefully. "This will suppress all enhancement signatures for approximately six hours. Enough time to complete our shift and reach the extraction point."

I offer my arm without hesitation, trusting him completely despite the risks. The needle slides in smoothly, the familiar cold sensation of suppression compounds entering my bloodstream.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then blessed relief as my heightened senses dull to normal human parameters. The persistent hum of electrical systems fades to background noise, my vision settles into standard resolution, the overwhelming flood of sensory input recedes to manageable levels.

"Better?" Trent asks, watching me closely.

I nod, savoring the temporary normalcy. "Like coming up for air after being underwater too long."

He allows himself a small smile—a genuine one, not the professional mask he usually wears. "We should move soon. Return to our quarters through separate routes, maintain normal routines until shift end. "

"And if Medical comes looking for me?"

"I'll intercept the summons, claim you're experiencing standard enhancement recalibration during deep cover. Common enough during extended undercover operations to buy us a few hours."

The plan is risky but sound. If we can maintain our cover until extraction, we have a chance.

Trent moves toward the supplies, selecting items for us to take—medical kits, portable nutrition, minimal survival gear that won't attract attention if discovered in our quarters.

This is getting real .

"Trent," I say suddenly, needing to ask the question that's been haunting me. "What if this is exactly what was planned all along? What if I was placed in Unity as some kind of...I don't know, sleeper agent? Programmed to activate at a specific time?"

He turns to face me, his expression serious. "Does that feel true to you? Do you feel programmed?"

I consider the question, searching my feelings honestly. "No. Everything I've done as a Sentinel—every mission, every decision—felt like my choice. But these memories that are surfacing...they suggest I'm not who I thought I was."

"Or perhaps you're exactly who you were meant to become," Trent counters. "The woman in your memory—if she was your mother—said the modifications were to help you survive. Not to infiltrate, not to destroy, but to survive."

His perspective shifts something in my understanding, frames my situation not as a deception but as protection. Not infiltration but sanctuary.

"We can't know for certain until we find answers outside," Trent continues. "But I do know one thing with absolute certainty."

"What's that?"

"Whatever you're becoming, Zara, you're still you." His eyes hold mine, unwavering in their conviction. "The person I've worked with for three years, the partner I trust with my life…that's not programming or manipulation. That's real."

The simple declaration steadies me when nothing else could. Whatever uncertainty surrounds my past or future, Trent's faith in who I am right now is my anchor point.

"We should move," I say, reluctantly breaking the moment. "Separate routes back to quarters, as you suggested."

Trent nods, returning to practical planning. "Twenty minutes apart. I'll go first, ensure the primary corridors are clear."

As he goes over the final details of our extraction plan, I allow myself to really look at him, not as my Sentinel partner but as the man who's chosen to risk everything for me.

The man who prepared for this moment months before I knew it might come.

The man who's decided his place is with me, whatever I'm becoming.

When he hands me the civilian clothing I'll need to wear beneath my maintenance uniform, our fingers touch briefly. That small contact sends a current through me that has nothing to do with enhanced senses and everything to do with the connection that's been building between us for three years.

"Zara," he says quietly, "whatever happens tonight—whether we make it to the extraction point or not—I need you to know that I?—"

The safe room's alert system interrupts with a soft but insistent beep. Trent immediately checks the security feed, his expression tightening.

Fucking hell! Can’t he ever finish a damn sentence!?

"Security sweep in adjacent corridor. Standard pattern, but they're moving in this direction." He gathers the final essential supplies. "We need to move. Now."

And just like that, another almost-moment between us slips away, sacrificed to the immediate demands of survival. If I didn’t know any better I’d swear the universe was cockblocking me.

As we prepare to venture back into Unity's carefully monitored world, I wonder if we'll ever have the chance to finish these interrupted conversations, to say aloud the things we've only acknowledged in the deepest levels of neural synchronization.

But that's a luxury for a safer time. Right now, we have six hours of suppression treatment, a risky extraction plan, and the weight of Unity's entire security apparatus potentially descending upon us.

"Ready?" Trent asks, hand on the door control.

I nod, stepping into the role of maintenance worker Mira Davis one final time. "Ready."

As we part ways in the corridor, following our separate routes back to our quarters, I feel a strange sense of calm despite the danger surrounding us.

For the first time since my symptoms began, I'm not fighting against what I'm becoming but moving toward it—toward answers, toward truth, toward whatever future awaits beyond Unity's walls.

Whatever that future holds, I won't face it alone. Trent Vanguard—rule-following, protocol-obsessed, perfect Sentinel Trent—has chosen to follow me into the unknown.

And that, more than anything, gives me the courage to face whatever comes next.