Page 19

SEVEN

SCARS OF WAITING

~ASH~

Sweat burns my eyes as I navigate the ever-shifting labyrinth for the thousandth time.

Each breath comes measured and controlled despite the burning in my lungs, every muscle fiber screaming in protest as I push beyond normal human limitations.

The maze stretches before me like a living nightmare—walls that rearrange themselves when you aren't looking, floors that drop away without warning, traps designed with elegant cruelty to maim rather than kill.

Death would be mercy. Ravenscroft doesn't deal in mercy.

My bare feet strike the concrete with practiced precision, calluses built over six years of daily runs providing minimal protection against the heated surface.

The temperature rises incrementally as I progress deeper into the maze—another sadistic touch designed to test endurance beyond reasonable limits.

A grinding sound from the left triggers immediate response—my body dropping into a roll without conscious thought as a blade sweeps through the space where my torso had been a heartbeat earlier.

The movement carries me forward into the next section where jets of flame erupt in randomized patterns across the narrow corridor.

I don't hesitate. Don't calculate. Don't think.

After six years, my body knows this deadly dance by heart—muscles responding to subtle audio cues that precede each new threat, eyes tracking almost imperceptible pressure plates that trigger the next challenge.

What once required desperate concentration has become a meditation of survival, each movement flowing into the next with grim efficiency.

The flames part before me like reluctant curtains as I weave through their deadly choreography.

Heat sears against my scarred skin, adding fresh redness to tissue long since damaged beyond natural healing. Pain registers as distant information rather than immediate concern—one more data point in the complex calculation of survival.

Step. Duck. Roll. Jump.

The sequence repeats with mechanical precision as I navigate each obstacle. My mind is simultaneously present and elsewhere—focused completely on immediate survival while a separate part reconstructs alternative pathways and potential escape routes.

Six years of the same routine.

Six years of memorizing every possible configuration.

Six years of searching for the single vulnerability that might offer genuine freedom rather than the illusion of choice they present through structured challenges.

This isn't training. It's containment disguised as opportunity.

A wall slams down behind me with bone-crushing force, sealing off retreat and forcing continued forward momentum.

The vibration travels through concrete beneath my feet, triggering recognition of the next sequence—rotating platforms over electrified water, timing requiring perfection beyond human capability for those without enhanced reflexes.

I launch myself forward without hesitation, body twisting mid-air to land precisely on the first platform as it begins its rotation. My toes grip the edge as it tilts dangerously, core muscles contracting to maintain balance while eyes track the movement pattern of the next target.

One miscalculation means electrocution severe enough to render me unconscious—delivering failure and the "correctional protocols" that inevitably follow.

The memory of those sessions rises unbidden—sterile rooms and clinical pain, white-coated observers documenting responses with detached fascination.

They enjoy watching alphas break almost as much as they enjoy watching us heal for the next round of torture.

The thought fuels a surge of fresh determination as I time the next jump, body suspended momentarily above certain agony before landing with practiced grace on the second platform.

The impact sends shockwaves of pain through old injuries that never quite heal between sessions—ankle bones repeatedly fractured, knee cartilage worn to almost nothing, hip socket damaged from a particularly brutal "training exercise" three years ago.

But pain means nothing against the greater drive to perfect this route—to eliminate every possible error, every potential misstep that might prevent successful navigation when it truly matters. Because someday, this won't be just another training session.

Someday, this could be the difference between captivity and freedom.

Between never seeing her again and the impossible chance of reunion.

Her face forms in my mind with perfect clarity, undimmed by six years of separation. Silver-green eyes calculating even in moments of apparent vulnerability. Magenta hair bleeding into teal tips in that distinctive ombre pattern that marked her as unique even among Blackwood genetics.

The subtle star beneath her left eye—Corvus's mark of protection and connection.

Jinx.

The omega who assembled us with such careful precision. Who saw beyond our designations to the potential beneath. Who recognized something in each of us that complemented her ultimate strategy— a plan I glimpsed only in fragments before everything collapsed around us.

My foot slips on the third platform, the momentary distraction of her memory nearly costing critical balance.

Muscles contract instantly to compensate, years of conditioning preventing the error from becoming a catastrophic failure. The correction sends fresh pain through my left knee, but I push forward without adjustment to rhythm or pace.

Pain is temporary. Failure is unacceptable.

The final platform rotates at double speed, the gap between us wider than standard parameters. I gather myself for the leap, calculating angle and velocity with practiced precision despite the exhaustion weighing each muscle.

The jump carries me through empty air with dangerous grace, my body turning mid-flight to maximize distance.

My hands catch the edge as the platform continues its rotation, shoulder joints screaming protest at the sudden strain. For a dangerous moment, I hang suspended over the electrified water, fingers seeking purchase on the smooth surface as momentum threatens to tear my grip loose.

Then discipline reasserts control over instinctive panic.

My breathing steadies as muscles engage in the precise sequence required to convert dangerous position into tactical advantage.

A controlled swing builds momentum before I pull upward with explosive force, body arcing over the platform's edge to land in perfect balance despite the continuing rotation.

The exit lies visible ahead—standard completion point that signals successful navigation of today's configuration. The timer on the far wall counts down mercilessly, red digits marking the difference between acceptable performance and punishment protocols.

I push harder despite screaming muscles and depleted reserves, calculating minimum pace required to beat my previous record.

Not just to satisfy the observers who document each session with clinical detachment, but to prove something essential to myself—that six years of captivity haven't diminished capacity or determination.

That each day brings not degradation but refinement, not surrender but preparation.

For her return. For the moment when opportunity finally aligns with readiness.

The finishing sensor registers my passage with a soft electronic tone as the timer freezes at 18:43:27—seven seconds faster than yesterday's run, nineteen seconds ahead of my closest competitor among Level Minus One subjects.

The leaderboard updates automatically, my designation remaining in the top position as it has for the past three hundred and seventy-two consecutive sessions.

Oxygen debt demands payment as I finally allow my pace to slow, lungs burning with the need for deeper breaths than the controlled rhythm permitted during the run.

Sweat drips from every pore, mixing with blood from minor wounds accumulated during passage—small prices paid for maintaining perfect focus through increasingly difficult configurations.

The observation window reveals nothing of the white-coated figures I know watch from behind one-way glass. Their silence speaks volumes about the nature of today's evaluation—not mere physical performance but psychological assessment of continuing motivation despite years of repetition.

They want to see cracks in my foundation. Evidence that time erodes even enhanced willpower.

What they fail to understand is that each day doesn't bring diminishing returns but strengthening resolve.

Each session doesn't wear away determination but hones it to a sharper edge.

Because, unlike most subjects, I run not merely to avoid punishment but toward something specific—a goal beyond mere survival.

My mind drifts backward through time as I begin the cooling routine required before return to containment quarters, muscles stretching through familiar patterns that prevent cramping and support accelerated healing…

Six years ago...

The mountain river roars with spring melt, its frigid waters carrying us far from the failed extraction point with merciless efficiency. The omega in my arms remains unconscious, her slight body radiating alarming cold despite my efforts to shield her from the worst of the current.

Survival instincts demand full focus on immediate threats—hypothermia, drowning, the rocks that appear with deadly suddenness in our path.

Yet something beyond rational thought keeps returning my attention to her face, to the strange certainty that this omega matters beyond explanation or understanding.

I'd observed her from a distance for weeks before our paths directly crossed—this slight figure moving through Ravenscroft's hierarchy with calculated precision, selecting specific alphas with criteria that defied institutional expectations.

Where researchers sought conventional compatibility, she chose based on specialized capabilities—violence, judgment, perception—assembling components for some greater strategy I could only glimpse in fragments.