Page 27

TEN

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

~JINX~

I turn the handle with decisive force, muscles tensing in preparation for whatever waits beyond this temporary sanctuary.

The door swings open with surprising smoothness, revealing not another institutional corridor as expected, but an expansive auditorium that momentarily halts my forward momentum.

Well. This is unexpected.

The space stretches before me with cathedral-like dimensions—soaring ceilings disappearing into shadowed heights, polished marble floors extending in perfect symmetry, walls lined with identical doors at measured intervals.

Institutional architecture typically prioritizes function over form, yet this chamber carries unmistakable theatrical grandeur beneath clinical precision.

Light emanates from hidden sources, casting an ethereal glow across marble surfaces that seem to pulse with subtle energy.

The ceiling features intricate constellations crafted from what appears to be actual starlight—pinpoints of brilliant illumination arranged in celestial patterns that create an unsettling impression of standing beneath an open night sky despite being deep underground.

The chamber's acoustics carry peculiar properties—my footsteps should echo across such expansive marble, yet the sound dies immediately as if consumed by the very air.

This deliberate engineering eliminates the possibility of subjects using auditory cues for strategic advantage— another layer of institutional control disguised as architectural feature.

The temperature holds steady at precisely 68 degrees—cool enough to maintain heightened awareness without triggering physical discomfort that might distract from the psychological manipulation clearly central to this space's design.

Every element has been calculated for maximum impact, the grandeur itself a weapon aimed at the psyche rather than the body.

My breathing remains steady despite the surprise, heartbeat maintaining even rhythm as tactical assessment overrides emotional response. I step forward with deliberate calm, door closing automatically behind me with the soft hiss of pneumatic precision.

"Quite the stage they've constructed," I observe quietly, knowing Maverick receives each word through our secure connection. "Press wasn't exaggerating about the evolution of the Parazodiac."

"This is new," Maverick confirms, voice carrying the analytical detachment that grounds our interactions. "No record of this chamber in previous documentation. The architectural investment alone suggests this has become something far beyond the experimental protocols you navigated six years ago."

I notice a single sign engraved in the wall upward, the words in cursive projecting a haunting message I wouldn’t want to grasp, would be one’s last.

"Some will rise. Most will fall. The Parazodiac demands sacrifice."

The chamber holds perfect stillness—no guards visible at access points, no white-coated researchers documenting reactions, no obvious surveillance beyond standard institutional systems embedded in architectural features.

Just twelve doors arranged at equal distances around the circular perimeter, including the one I've just exited.

Twelve.

The number registers with immediate significance—the zodiac wheel's perfect division, the celestial houses in their mathematical precision, the foundation of Parazodiac's naming convention and operational philosophy.

"Twelve doors, twelve signs, twelve omegas," I murmur, fingers instinctively touching the star beneath my left eye. "They're staying true to the celestial framework despite evolutionary changes I see."

"Systematic rather than random," Maverick agrees. "Question is whether you're the only one with previous navigation experience."

I position myself strategically near my entry point, maintaining clear sightlines to all potential approaches while cataloging escape routes with practiced efficiency.

The space offers no obvious exit beyond the perimeter doors, no visible transition to another level, no indication of the next challenge's nature.

A waiting room disguised as theatrical space. Interesting choice.

The air carries a distinctive scent beneath institutional antiseptic—something akin to ozone before lightning strikes, charged particles activating primal warning systems evolved long before civilization.

This space has been designed to unsettle on a subconscious level while maintaining surface appearance of civilized organization.

I scan for cameras with practiced subtlety, identifying seventeen potential surveillance points embedded within architectural features.

Each maintains optimal angle for comprehensive coverage without obvious visibility—institutional paranoia disguised as design elements.

Standard procedure dictates maintaining awareness of observation while never acknowledging its presence, providing tactical advantage through deliberate ignorance performance.

Movement catches my attention as the door directly opposite mine begins to open with hesitant increments.

A face appears— young, female, uncertainty evident in every microexpression— before the figure steps fully into the chamber.

She wears only the standard medical gown of institutional processing, hair disheveled from extended unconsciousness, movements carrying the telltale sluggishness of recent sedation.

Bruising marks her inner elbow where intravenous access was clearly established and maintained over extended period—evidence of similar chemical intervention to my own, though clearly without the accelerated recovery protocols I received.

Her eyes widen at the chamber's unexpected grandeur, fear briefly overwhelming caution as she takes several steps forward. She notices me immediately, body tensing with instinctive wariness before her attention diverts to another door beginning its opening sequence.

One by one, the remaining doors activate in clockwise progression, each revealing another female figure in varying states of institutional processing.

Some wear only medical gowns like the first. Others have been provided basic clothing—simple shirts and pants without practical function or tactical advantage.

Only a few emerge dressed in combat gear similar to mine, their movements carrying the distinctive precision of those who understand the reality of what waits beyond ceremonial introduction.

One particularly tall omega exits third from the right, her dark skin complemented by tactical gear that appears custom-fitted rather than standard issue.

Her eyes scan the chamber with military assessment—bottom to top, corner to corner, potential threats categorized and prioritized with unmistakable training.

Not standard omega socialization, but specialized tactical instruction only specific government agencies provide.

Another emerges wearing what appears initially as simple clothing but reveals specialized features upon closer inspection—reinforced seams, hidden storage compartments, fabric treated for fire resistance and liquid repellent properties.

Her movements carry the deliberate casualness of someone actively concealing expertise—another player with predetermined agenda rather than random selection.

The most interesting among them steps through a door three positions from mine, her gait carrying familiar confidence despite unfamiliar circumstances.

The omega called Riot.

My eyebrow rises involuntarily as recognition registers.

The researcher assigned to my monitoring now stands across the chamber wearing identical tactical gear, her expression revealing none of the submission typically displayed during our previous interactions.

The pretense has been abandoned—gone is the deferential posture and carefully modulated voice used during monitoring sessions. This omega stands with natural confidence, shoulders squared and chin lifted, eyes scanning our assembled company with the same tactical assessment I'm conducting.

Our eyes connect across the distance with electric intensity, silent communication passing between us without need for verbalization. She mouths something that reads clearly despite the separation:

I'll explain later.

I offer a single, measured nod in acknowledgment, attention shifting to complete assessment of our assembled company.

Twelve omegas total—each representing different stages of institutional processing, different levels of awareness regarding their circumstances, different capacities for the challenges Press has orchestrated.

Most appear disoriented, fear and confusion evident in their postures and expressions. They cluster instinctively toward the chamber's center, seeking safety in proximity despite being competitors rather than allies in whatever scenario awaits.

Their scents mingle in the air—distinctive omega signatures overlaid with various emotional markers. Fear predominates, sharp and acrid.

Confusion follows close behind, muddying the atmospheric composition with chaotic notes that lack coherent pattern.

Beneath these obvious markers lie more interesting indicators—determination from some, calculation from others, and from at least three, the distinctive hormonal signature of recent heat suppression.

Press hasn't simply gathered random subjects. He's specifically selected omegas in or near their biological cycles to maximize dramatic potential.

Only Riot and I maintain strategic positioning near our respective entry points, understanding that tactical advantage begins with spatial awareness and position selection.

A mechanized click echoes through the chamber as hidden speakers activate with institutional precision. The gathered omegas freeze collectively, attention shifting upward as if the voice might materialize from the soaring ceiling.

"Welcome to the Parazodiac."

The voice carries artificial modulation that renders gender and identity indeterminate—deliberately anonymized for theatrical effect rather than practical security.