Page 20

When opportunity arose to join her escape attempt, I seized it without hesitation.

Not because freedom called with irresistible voice, but because something about her precise movements and calculating gaze promised more than mere extraction.

She represented possibility beyond institutional walls—purpose rather than mere survival.

Now, as the river finally releases us along a distant bank, that initial assessment proves insufficient to explain the protective instinct roaring through my blood.

Her unconscious form represents more than tactical advantage or potential alliance—something primal recognizes her as essential despite our minimal interaction.

Performing CPR on her cold body, forcing water from unresponsive lungs, watching color slowly return to blue-tinged lips—each action carries weight beyond mere medical necessity. When she finally draws breath on her own, the relief that floods my system defies rational explanation.

We've had no time to form a connection. No opportunity to establish compatibility or develop a genuine bond. We're strangers thrown together by circumstance and shared captivity, nothing more.

Yet everything in me recognizes her as mine to protect.

"Why?" Her first conscious word emerges as a pained whisper, confusion clouding extraordinary eyes. "Why save me?"

The question strikes deeper than its simplicity suggests.

Not merely why risk death to prevent her drowning, but why break institutional conditioning to assist her initial escape?

Why choose her pack over continued isolation?

Why recognize her leadership when designation and age suggest she should defer to alpha authority?

"Because you were falling," I answer simply, the words encompassing multiple truths simultaneously. Falling from the cliff. Falling through social hierarchy. Falling into despair after failed extraction.

Her eyes study me with surprising intensity for someone recently unconscious, gaze cataloging scars with clinical precision that suggests assessment rather than revulsion.

Unlike most who encounter my damaged form, she shows no discomfort at the extensive burn tissue or the nakedness necessitated by river submersion.

"I need to be stronger," she whispers, the admission carrying vulnerability I suspect few ever witness. "Smarter. Better. This shouldn't have happened."

Understanding flows between us with unexpected clarity.

Not merely acknowledgment of current tactical failure, but recognition of shared purpose beyond immediate circumstances.

This omega plans for the long game rather than simple escape—she sees board positions beyond current limitations, strategies requiring pieces not yet in play.

"Then we'll work on that," I promise, extending a hand to help her rise. "After we survive today."

Her fingers close around mine with surprising strength, the contact sending unexpected heat through my system, too long deprived of meaningful touch.

Something passes between us in that moment—recognition beyond rational explanation, connection that transcends institutional designations or biological compatibility.

For the first time since losing my original pack, something long dormant stirs within—the alpha instinct to claim and protect, to build and defend, to forge bonds that survive whatever chaos surrounds us.

The feeling terrifies as much as it exhilarates, carrying the possibility of both redemption and devastating repeat of past failure.

When her consciousness fades again, I lift her without hesitation, cradling her slight form against my chest, still marked by the river's brutality.

Though logical assessment suggests minimal chance of ultimate success, something deeper than rational thought whispers certainty:

This omega will change…or ruin everything.

The memory fades as I complete the final stretches, body cooling from the maze run while my mind remains caught between past and present. Six years separate that riverside revelation from current reality, yet the connection forged in that brief interaction remains undiminished by time or distance.

What began as a tactical assessment evolved into something neither institutional conditioning nor psychological isolation could eradicate—a genuine bond formed through shared purpose rather than forced proximity.

The memory of her determination, her strategic mind, her unwavering focus on objectives beyond immediate circumstances continues to provide orientation when institutional reality threatens to consume identity.

Guards approach with practiced caution as I finish cooling exercises, their weapons held at ready positions despite six years of demonstrated compliance.

They maintain a standard five-meter separation—close enough for immediate response if needed, far enough to potentially react if enhanced alpha speed suddenly targets them.

I notice their tension with clinical detachment, understanding it stems not from current behavior but from designation as "The Scarred Saint" within the institutional hierarchy.

The name carries history they've only heard in whispered warnings—an alpha who once burned through an entire security team to protect wounded packmates, who endured fire itself rather than abandon those under his protection.

They don't understand that violence serves a purpose rather than emotion. That protection requires calculation rather than mere aggression. That loyalty, once earned, becomes a foundation rather than a limitation.

"Subject 359, return to containment for recovery period," the senior guard announces, voice carrying artificial authority meant to mask underlying fear. "Performance metrics recorded for evaluation protocols."

I comply without comment or resistance, following the designated path with measured steps that betray none of the exhaustion weighing each muscle.

Displaying weakness serves no strategic purpose—better to maintain the performance of unaffected efficiency that keeps them cautious and creates space for private thought.

The corridors leading from training areas to containment quarters stretch in labyrinthine complexity— another layer of institutional security designed to prevent subjects from developing a complete understanding of the facility layout.

But six years of daily transitions have created a perfect mental map despite their efforts to regularly alter routes and access points.

Eighteen left turns from the main training complex to the residential section. Twenty-three right turns. Forty-two security checkpoints require biometric verification. Sixteen separate elevator transitions between varying depths of subterranean construction.

Each detail is cataloged with precise methodology, creating a comprehensive understanding of the institutional structure they believe remains fragmented in the subjects' perception.

The complete blueprint forms the foundation for whatever opportunity might eventually arise—preparation meets possibility at the critical moment of convergence.

The final checkpoint processes my return with mechanical efficiency—retinal scan, fingerprint verification, weight and height confirmation, ensuring identity matches recorded parameters.

The data collection serves a dual purpose—security verification and ongoing medical assessment, tracking subtle changes that might indicate a degrading condition or enhanced adaptation.

Bars rise from floor to ceiling as I enter my assigned quarters, the mechanical sound of interlocking security systems providing familiar accompaniment to the end of each training session.

The space beyond offers minimal comfort compared to institutional standards—a bed bolted to the floor, a desk similarly secured, a small bathroom area with basic necessities.

The simplicity suits tactical requirements rather than aesthetic preferences.

Fewer objects means fewer potential weapons, fewer potential tools, fewer variables to monitor during security sweeps.

What appears as deprivation to outside observation serves as an advantage in maintaining a clear mental space, uncomplicated by material distractions.

I settle onto the edge of the bed, muscles finally permitted to acknowledge the day's exertions as security systems complete activation cycles.

The unique ache of pushed limits and tested boundaries spreads through tissue still rebuilding from yesterday's session—a familiar discomfort that serves as a reminder of continuing survival rather than evidence of institutional cruelty.

My gaze lifts to the ceiling, where careful tracking marks the passage of days since separation from her carefully assembled pack.

Twenty-two hundred and seventeen lines etched with makeshift tools when observation systems cycle through blind spots —a visible reminder of both time's passage and continuing determination to maintain precise measurement despite institutional attempts to blur temporal awareness.

Six years distilled into simple markings.

Six years of running the maze, perfecting routes, memorizing configurations, and waiting for the opportunity that institutional arrogance will eventually provide.

Six years of maintaining peak condition despite systematic attempts to break body and spirit through carefully calibrated torture disguised as training.

Six years of holding onto a connection formed in less than twenty-four hours of direct interaction.

The reality should seem absurd—maintaining such focused determination based on a brief association with an omega who may no longer even remember our existence.

Logic suggests the probability of reunion approaches zero after such prolonged separation, particularly given the resources marshalled to prevent exactly such outcomes.