Page 42

Cold metal against my back. Chemical taste in my mouth. Restraints on my wrists, ankles, and across my chest.

I've been captured before—training simulations where Sentinels practiced resistance techniques. This feels different. My body feels wrong, sluggish, like I'm swimming through syrup. My modifications aren't responding.

My eyes crack open to blinding white light. A laboratory. Monitors beeping steadily. Clear tubes running from my arms to machines I don't recognize.

"Subject is regaining consciousness," a clinical voice announces.

A face appears above me—female, mid-forties, wearing the distinctive white coat of Unity Medical Division. Her eyes scan me with professional detachment.

"Ms. Thorne," she says. "I'm Dr. Keller. You're in a secure medical facility."

"Where are my companions?" My voice comes out raspy, throat dry.

"The modified male is in containment," she answers, checking something on a tablet. "The Sentinel is being debriefed. "

Debriefed. Unity's euphemism for interrogation.

I test the restraints—medical-grade polymer, designed specifically for enhanced subjects. No give.

"Don't bother," Dr. Keller says, noting my attempt. "The suppression compound has temporarily deactivated your modifications. And even if it hadn't, those restraints would hold a subject five times stronger."

My eyes dart around the lab, cataloging details through the fog in my brain. Four exit points. Six monitoring stations. Two armed guards by the main door. Everything gleaming with Unity's sterile perfection.

"Where am I?" I ask, playing confused and scared. Not entirely an act.

"A research facility dedicated to genetic stability," Keller answers. "We've been looking for you for quite some time, Ms. Thorne."

"Why?"

She actually smiles at that. "I think you know. Your genetic structure is unique. The adaptive capabilities you've demonstrated are of significant interest to Unity."

"You mean you want to weaponize them," I translate.

Her expression doesn't change. "We want to understand them. Your mother's work was brilliant but incomplete. The applications could benefit all of humanity."

"By Unity's definition of humanity ," I counter.

Before she can respond, the main doors slide open.

A man enters—tall, silver-haired, wearing the distinctive gray uniform of Unity Command.

Even through my drug-induced haze, I recognize Director Mercer, head of Unity's Security Division.

I'd seen him at ceremonies, always at a distance, an almost mythical figure to regular Sentinels.

"Dr. Keller," he acknowledges. "How is our guest?"

"Stable and coherent," she reports. "The suppression compound is maintaining optimal levels."

Mercer approaches my examination table, studying me with cold eyes. "Sentinel Thorne. Or former Sentinel, I should say. Your defection was quite disappointing."

"Not as disappointing as discovering my entire existence was a lie," I reply, matching his tone.

"Ah, yes." He circles the table slowly. "Did they tell you the whole truth, I wonder? About what you were designed to be?"

I say nothing, unwilling to reveal how little I actually know.

"Your mother was brilliant," Mercer continues. "Perhaps the most gifted geneticist of her generation. But she was also dangerously idealistic, believing humanity should embrace controlled evolution rather than stability."

"And that's dangerous because it threatens Unity's power structure," I say.

He laughs softly. "Unity isn't about power, Ms. Thorne. It's about survival. The climate collapse proved that human nature, left unchecked, leads to extinction."

"So you created artificial environments where every aspect of human life could be controlled," I retort. "Calling it 'protection' while suppressing anything that threatened your authority."

"A simplified perspective," Mercer dismisses. "But not entirely incorrect. Control was necessary after the collapse. Still is."

"And people like me threaten that control."

He stops at the head of my table, looking down at me. "On the contrary. People like you represent the next phase of control. Imagine it—adaptive capabilities that can be regulated, modifications that respond to authorized commands. The security implications alone are revolutionary."

My blood runs cold. "You want to create modified Sentinels."

"We want to ensure human survival," he corrects. " Through controlled adaptation rather than chaotic Splinter evolution or rigid arcology limitation."

Dr. Keller approaches with another tablet. "Director, the initial analysis is complete. The subject's genetic structure is responding to the targeted compounds."

"Excellent." Mercer takes the tablet, scanning its contents. "The suppression formula is working as designed, then?"

"Yes, but with an unexpected side effect." Keller gestures to a molecular display. "The compound isn't just suppressing her modifications—it's allowing us to direct them. Her adaptive responses can be chemically guided toward specific outcomes."

Mercer's eyes gleam with satisfaction. "Precisely what we hoped. Elara Thorne's daughter may accomplish what her mother never could—controlled evolution under Unity authority."

My stomach twists with revulsion. They don't just want to suppress my modifications; they want to hijack them. Use me as a template for creating controllable modified soldiers.

"Where's Trent?" I demand, changing tactics. "I want to see him."

"Sentinel Vanguard is providing valuable information about the sympathizer network," Mercer says smoothly. "His cooperation has been most helpful."

"You're lying," I say with more confidence than I feel. "He wouldn't betray Haven's Edge."

"Everyone has breaking points, Ms. Thorne," Mercer replies. "Even model Sentinels like Vanguard."

The thought of Trent being tortured sends rage coursing through me, temporarily burning away the drug-induced fog. For a moment, I feel my modifications stirring, pushing against the suppression compound.

Dr. Keller notices immediately, checking a monitor. "Adaptation response detected. Increasing suppression levels."

A new wave of coldness floods my veins as more chemicals enter through the IV. My brief surge of strength fades, leaving me weaker than before.

"Fascinating," Keller murmurs. "Her system attempted to neutralize the compound. Adjusting the formula now."

"Continue your analysis, Doctor," Mercer instructs. "I want a complete genetic profile by morning."

"What about the Splinter male?" Keller asks. "His predator adaptations show interesting complementary patterns to the subject's."

"Run parallel tests," Mercer decides. "Their modifications likely evolved in response to similar environmental pressures."

They're talking about Vex. Testing him like a lab specimen. The thought makes my chest ache with a surprising intensity.

"And Director," Keller adds, "the evolved subject—designation Lin—is requesting another meeting."

Mercer's expression hardens. "Tell him our agreement stands. He'll receive research access once we've completed our initial analysis."

"Lin sold us out," I realize aloud. "For what? Access to Unity research?"

"Dr. Lin understands the value of cooperation," Mercer says. "His faction believes the next evolutionary step requires resources only Unity can provide. A pragmatic alliance."

"Until you've extracted what you need and eliminate them," I counter.

Mercer merely smiles. "Rest, Ms. Thorne. Tomorrow begins your contribution to Unity's future."

As they exit, the guards remain by the door, weapons ready. The suppression compound makes my thoughts sluggish, but one certainty cuts through—I need to escape. Find Trent and Vex. Warn Haven's Edge about Lin's betrayal.

Hours pass in a haze of medical tests and changing staff. I track shift patterns, security rotations, trying to identify weaknesses despite the drugs. My body feels increasingly wrong, like wearing clothes that don't fit. Without my modifications responding normally, I'm only half-present.

During a brief moment alone, I test the restraints again. Still no give, but I notice something—when I push against them, the monitors register a slight fluctuation. My modifications are trying to respond, fighting the suppression.

A technician returns before I can experiment further.

More tests, more samples taken. Through it all, I maintain the appearance of defeated compliance while gathering information.

Four guard rotations. Six hours between full medical checks.

A ventilation system that cycles every thirty minutes, creating a brief audio dead zone as the fans engage.

Then, during what must be the night cycle based on reduced staffing, the main doors slide open. Two guards enter, escorting a prisoner.

Trent.

His face is bruised, one eye swollen. He walks stiffly, favoring his left side. His Sentinel uniform has been replaced with standard prisoner gray. Despite his condition, his posture remains unyielding—spine straight, head high.

Our eyes meet across the lab. A thousand unspoken words pass between us in that glance. He's alive. Hurt but unbroken.

"Prisoner transfer for comparative analysis," one guard announces to the night technician. "Director's orders."

The technician looks confused but doesn't argue. "Secure him to examination platform B."

The guards maneuver Trent to a table adjacent to mine, efficiently fastening restraints. When they finish, one leans down to check the ankle restraint—and subtly presses something into Trent's hand. The movement is so quick I almost miss it.

"Monitoring active," the guard says aloud. Then, barely moving his lips: "Twenty minutes. Be ready."

Unity guards helping prisoners? Something doesn't add up .

Once they leave, the technician focuses on her monitors, largely ignoring us. Trent turns his head slightly, eyes meeting mine.

"You okay?" he mouths silently.

I give a small nod. "You?"

"Been better," he mouths back, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.