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NINE

PREPARATIONS FOR WAR

~JINX~

Consciousness returns with unexpected clarity, my mind snapping to full alertness without the usual disorientation that follows sedation.

The ceiling above features the familiar padded sections of Ravenscroft's containment protocols, but something feels distinctly different about this awakening compared to previous experiences.

I remain perfectly still for several moments, cataloging sensory information before revealing consciousness.

The room carries the standard antiseptic smell, though less aggressive than medical wings. Temperature holds steady at what feels like precisely 70 degrees—comfortable rather than the deliberate chill often employed to increase subject discomfort.

Most notably, my body reports none of the expected restraints—no cuffs around wrists or ankles, no straps across torso, no limitation on potential movement.

Interesting choice.

Slowly, I lift my head to confirm what nerve endings already report—I'm lying on a standard institutional bed with completely unrestrained limbs.

The freedom to move without impediment feels almost disorienting after previous containment experiences, a peculiar luxury within this context of continued captivity.

The room itself offers minimal features—padded walls in standard institutional white, a single door with reinforced construction and observation window, and what appears to be a basic bathroom area partially concealed behind a privacy screen.

Unlike my previous accommodation, this space features only a single mirror mounted on the far wall rather than the disorienting array designed to facilitate identity dissociation.

Most surprising is how my body feels as I cautiously sit upright.

No dizziness clouds my vision.

No weakness trembles through overextended muscles.

No thirst burns my throat or hunger gnaws my stomach.

If anything, I feel... good. Better than I have since returning to Ravenscroft, perhaps better than I've felt in years.

"Maverick?" I whisper, fingers instinctively moving to the subdermal implant behind my ear.

The relief in his voice when he responds is palpable, emotion bleeding through his typically controlled tone.

"Jinx! Thank god. I've been trying to reach you for days. The transmission signal kept encountering interference patterns."

"Days?" I frown, swinging my legs over the bed's edge as I take in my surroundings more carefully. "How long was I unconscious?"

"Four days according to internal timestamps," he answers, professionally masking the concern his initial reaction revealed. "Complete communication blackout until approximately twenty minutes ago when implant signals began transmitting again."

Four days lost to chemical sedation—far longer than standard protocols would indicate for the dosage Press likely employed.

The extended unconsciousness suggests deliberate medical intervention rather than simply allowing natural metabolic processing.

"I feel... remarkably good," I observe, stretching muscles that should be stiff from extended immobility yet respond with surprising suppleness. "No hunger. No thirst. No physical deterioration despite extended unconsciousness."

"Probable intravenous nutritional support and hydration during the unconscious period," Maverick hypothesizes, analytical mind already assessing implications. "The question is why Press would authorize optimal recovery protocols rather than standard containment procedures."

My fingers trace the inside of my elbow, finding the telltale mark of recent intravenous access— confirmation of Maverick's assessment.

"He wants me at full capacity for whatever comes next," I conclude, the realization forming with perfect clarity. "This isn't just another experiment. He's staging something specific."

"The accelerated Parazodiac timeline," Maverick agrees, voice dropping slightly despite our secure connection. "But why invest resources in optimal physical condition if the intention is simply observation of failure patterns?"

I move to the center of the bed, crossing my legs beneath me as I consider the implications. "Because he genuinely wants to see if I can navigate it," I respond slowly, the picture forming with increasing clarity. "Or more specifically, he needs to document what happens when I try."

The silence that follows carries Maverick's careful consideration before he responds. "The Parazodiac has reportedly evolved since your previous navigation attempt. New parameters. Modified level configurations. Enhanced security protocols."

"And he mentioned no researcher involvement," I add, remembering Press's specific concession during our negotiation. "Which means automated systems rather than direct human intervention."

"Entering blindly," Maverick notes, concern evident despite his attempt at clinical detachment. "Without current intelligence on level configurations or subject distribution."

I close my eyes, mind reconstructing the Parazodiac's structure from memories of my previous navigation.

Level by level, challenge by challenge, the institutional hierarchy designed to break those who attempt to traverse its depths.

Most importantly, the carefully positioned alphas waiting at specific transition points—the pack I assembled with such precise calculation before everything collapsed.

"Riot will be first," I murmur, certainty flowing from strategic assessment rather than mere hope. "Level Minus Zero. The fighting pits."

My hand rises unconsciously to my chest, fingers pressing against fabric as if to contain the sudden surge of emotion the thought provokes.

After six years of separation, of carrying their memory through a life never meant to be mine, the prospect of actual reunion sends unexpected ripples through carefully maintained control.

"It's actually happening," I whisper, the reality crystallizing with each passing moment. "After all this time..."

"If the alphas are anything like they were," Maverick offers with surprising gentleness, "if they truly formed connection beyond institutional assignment, time will mean nothing against genuine recognition."

His words carry unexpected comfort as I rise from the bed, moving with deliberate steps toward the single mirror.

My reflection reveals someone both familiar and strange—the face I've seen every day for six years, yet somehow transformed by the context of return.

Despite the week of starvation followed by extended sedation, I look almost vibrant. Skin that should be pallid from institutional confinement carries healthy color. Eyes that should be dulled by chemical intervention gleam with clear determination.

The distinctive magenta roots bleeding into teal tips remain as vivid as ever, the reversed pattern from my sister's coloration marking me as unmistakably myself rather than replacement or substitution.

My body has been clothed in a simple black dress—functional rather than institutional, designed for movement and durability rather than degradation or restraint. The fabric flows with each motion, suggesting consideration of potential physical requirements beyond mere containment.

"They've prepared you for something specific," Maverick observes, reading my silence with practiced familiarity. "This goes beyond standard evaluation protocols."

I turn away from the mirror, systematic assessment of the room taking precedence over personal reflection.

Years of operational experience have taught me to never accept any space at face value—to search for resources, advantages, and hidden information before proceeding with primary objectives.

"First rule of tactical operations," I murmur, beginning methodical inspection of every corner. "Never leave a room without complete surveillance for potential assets."

The standard containment furniture yields nothing unexpected—bed bolted to floor in center of room, simple chair similarly secured near the privacy screen, minimal bathroom fixtures designed to prevent component repurposing.

The single dresser against the far wall contains basic clothing items—standard institutional undergarments, several variations of the black dress I currently wear, simple shoes with flexible soles but no metal components.

When I kneel to check beneath the bed, however, the discovery sends a surge of adrenaline through my system.

A backpack sits perfectly centered underneath, its presence so deliberate it can only represent intentional placement rather than oversight.

"Interesting," I observe, pulling it into view with careful movements that respect potential security measures. "Very interesting."

"What is it?" Maverick asks, curiosity evident despite inability to see directly.

"Resources," I answer simply, unzipping the pack with cautious efficiency to reveal contents that confirm my emerging theory about Press's intentions. "Combat gear. Basic medical supplies. Nutrition bars. Water purification tablets. Heat suppressants."

"A survival kit," Maverick translates, voice carrying the same suspicion I feel. "Why would Press provide tools that potentially facilitate success rather than ensure failure?"

My lips curve into something approaching a genuine smile as understanding crystallizes with perfect clarity.

"Because this isn't just an evaluation," I explain, removing items with careful inspection. "It's entertainment. He's staging a performance."

The realization sends fresh energy through my system, anticipation rather than dread coloring my assessment of the coming challenge.

"This is giving me an adrenaline rush," I admit, laying out the gear in precise arrangement across the bed. "Finally putting into practice everything I've prepared for over six years."

"Why would they leave tools for your benefit?" Maverick questions, professional skepticism, a necessary counterbalance to my growing excitement. "It contradicts basic security protocols."