Page 5

Three days after my enhancement disaster, and I still feel like someone rearranged my insides without bothering to leave an instruction manual.

"You're distracted," Trent says as we make our way through Central Arcology's main thoroughfare, his long stride forcing me to walk faster than I'd like.

"Just tired." I glance at the massive transparency panels overhead, where artificial sunlight streams through in carefully calculated patterns.

Today's simulated weather is "partly cloudy with mild temperature fluctuations"—Unity's idea of providing environmental variety without actual inconvenience.

Good thing we've got these lovely sealed bubbles to live in. All it cost us was, you know, freedom and privacy and the right to be something other than perfectly functional cogs in Unity's giant machine.

That’s all.

"Thorne." Trent's voice pulls me back to the present. "You're doing it again."

"Sorry." I rub the back of my neck, where a dull ache has been building all morning. "I'm fine. Just thinking about how much I'm looking forward to being hooked up to your brain for three hours."

His mouth quirks in what might almost be a smile. "Afraid I'll discover all your secrets?"

If he only knew. Like how I've memorized the exact angle of that almost-smile, or how sometimes I find excuses to walk behind him just to appreciate the view. He’s sculpted like a god all over but his ass is a separate deity all on its own.

"Please. My brain is the most boring place in the arcology. Nothing but Sentinel protocol and outdated song lyrics."

"Song lyrics? Didn't have you pegged as a music enthusiast."

I shrug. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Vanguard."

His eyes meet mine, gray and steady. "I look forward to finding out."

The simple statement sends an unauthorized tingle down my spine. Neural synchronization is intimate in ways that go beyond physical proximity. During deep sync, there's no hiding—every thought, every feeling becomes a shared experience.

Which is exactly why I'm terrified of today's session.

We reach the Sentinel Division's Synchronization Center, a sleek structure nestled in the heart of Central Arcology's security sector. The building's smooth curves and gleaming surfaces project Unity's favorite aesthetic: flawless, frictionless perfection.

The receptionist scans our ID chips with a wave of her hand over our wrists. "Sentinels Thorne and Vanguard, synchronization chamber seven is prepared for your session. Supervisor Ellis will meet you there."

I grimace. "Ellis? I thought Supervisor Li was handling our sync sessions."

"Supervisor Li has been reassigned," she responds, her voice pleasantly empty of any actual information.

Trent and I exchange a glance. Li has supervised every one of our synchronization sessions for the past three years. His reassignment immediately after my enhancement incident can't be coincidence.

"Thank you," Trent says smoothly. "We know the way."

The corridors of the Sync Center are deliberately designed to calm the nervous system—soft blue lighting, gentle sound absorption panels, temperature maintained at precisely 22.

7 degrees Celsius. Studies showed that optimal neural synchronization occurs when participants are physically comfortable but mentally alert.

"Li's reassignment is concerning," Trent murmurs as we walk, his voice pitched for my enhanced hearing only.

"Everything's concerning lately," I mutter back. "My enhancement reaction, your mystery tissue sample, and now Li disappearing."

"He didn't disappear. He was reassigned."

I give him a pointed stare. "In Unity-speak, that's practically the same thing."

We reach Synchronization Chamber Seven and pause before the sealed doorway. Through the transparency panel, I can see the familiar setup—two reclined synchronization chairs facing each other, surrounded by monitoring equipment and the neural interface devices that will connect our minds.

"Ready?" Trent asks, studying my face with unusual intensity .

No. Not even close. "Born ready," I lie. "Just another day at the office."

The door slides open to reveal Supervisor Ellis, a woman I've seen in the division but never actually spoken to. She's tall for a non-Sentinel, with the bland, symmetrical features typical of Upper Level Unity citizens. Her eyes assess us with clinical precision.

"Sentinels." She nods briskly. "I'll be overseeing your synchronization today. Please prepare for the procedure."

Standard protocol requires synchronization participants to wear minimal clothing to reduce interference with the neural sensors. We've done this dozens of times before, but today the routine feels different, charged with an awareness that wasn't there before.

I move to my side of the chamber, stepping behind the privacy screen to change into the standard sync garment, a thin, form-fitting bodysuit that leaves arms and legs bare.

The material contains thousands of microscopic sensors designed to monitor every physiological response during synchronization.

When I emerge, Trent is already seated in his sync chair, and I allow myself one quick, appreciative glance.

The sync suit leaves little to the imagination, clinging to the defined muscles of his chest and arms. His shoulders look even broader without the standard Sentinel uniform, and the contrast between the white suit and his tanned skin makes him look like something carved from stone.

And then of course there’s his, uh, package, which is hard not to stare at. Trent has been blessed in that department like he’s been blessed in all the others, and I’ve spent too many nights trying to imagine how big he could get, especially under my touch.

I quickly look away before he catches me staring, settling into my own chair directly opposite his, though I know my cheeks are hot. In this position, our faces are level, our knees almost touching, close enough that I can see the flecks of darker gray in his eyes.

That’s it, stay focused on his eyes , I remind myself, willing my hormones to behave themselves.

"Beginning preliminary calibration," Ellis announces, activating the monitoring systems. "Baseline readings appear normal."

Normal. Right. If she only knew how my heart is racing just sitting this close to him. Thank goodness the sync process focuses on neural patterns, not every treacherous physiological response.

"You've undergone thirty-seven previous synchronizations together," Ellis notes, reviewing our file. "Your compatibility rating is unusually high."

"We work well together," Trent says simply.

Ellis makes a noncommittal sound. "Today we'll be attempting a deeper synchronization level than your previous sessions. Command has authorized full spectrum neural alignment."

I blink in surprise. "Full spectrum? That's typically reserved for?—"

"Special operations teams, yes," Ellis finishes for me. "Given your recent field performance and partnership longevity, Command believes you're ready for the next level."

Or they want to see what happens when they push my already irregular brain activity even further. After my enhancement reaction, I doubt this is about reward for good performance.

"The procedure will last approximately three hours," Ellis continues, attaching the primary neural interface to a point at the base of my skull. I wince, grinding my teeth together. The sensation is always unpleasant—like someone pressing an ice cube against my brainstem.

"During full spectrum synchronization, you will experience significantly more sensory sharing than in previous sessions," she explains. "This means you may temporarily perceive through your partner's senses rather than your own. Some disorientation is normal."

What she doesn't mention is that full spectrum sync also allows access to deeper emotional states and memory fragments. In essence, we'll be closer to actually being in each other's heads than ever before.

My palms are suddenly damp with nervous sweat.

Oh god, please don’t let him know how I actually feel about him. I would die of embarrassment.

"The final stage of preparation requires direct neural pathway alignment," Ellis says, attaching the secondary interfaces to our temples. "Please establish physical connection."

This is the part of synchronization I simultaneously dread and look forward to the most. For the neural pathways to properly align, we need skin-to-skin contact. Specifically, hand-to-hand connection in a way that aligns the major nerve pathways of the arms.

Trent extends his hands toward me, palms up. I reach out, placing my hands in his. His fingers are warm, slightly calloused from years of weapons training, and they curve around mine with gentle pressure.

"Maintain contact throughout the initialization sequence," Ellis instructs, retreating to the monitoring station at the edge of the chamber. "Synchronization beginning in three, two, one..."

The first wave of connection feels like a cool tide washing through my mind as Trent's consciousness touches mine, tentative and controlled. I close my eyes, focusing on the techniques we've practiced for years, imagining our separate neural patterns as streams merging into a single river.

"Initial synchronization established," Ellis announces. "Proceeding to level two."

The second wave is stronger, breaking through the carefully constructed barriers we've maintained in previous sessions.

Suddenly I can feel the sync chair beneath Trent's body as clearly as my own, the slight tension in his shoulders, the controlled rhythm of his breathing. It’s absolutely disorienting.

"Level two synchronization stable," Ellis notes. "Cognitive patterns aligning at 87% compatibility. Exceptional response. Proceeding to level three."