Page 32

TWELVE

DIVERGENT PATHS

~JINX~

We continue our journey in relative silence, the tunnel's oppressive atmosphere seeming to discourage unnecessary conversation after our unexpected moment of connection.

Our footsteps echo in perfect synchronization—two predators moving with identical efficiency despite vastly different training methodologies and life experiences.

The revelation of Riot's personal history has shifted something fundamental between us—not quite alliance but something beyond mere temporary cooperation.

Shared purpose creates bonds that transcend institutional categorization, particularly when that purpose involves returning voluntarily to hell for the sake of retrieving those who formed unexpected connections.

I find myself studying her profile as we navigate the descending corridor—features illuminated intermittently by emergency lighting that casts everything in sickly green hues.

Her jaw carries the distinctive tension of someone maintaining composure through deliberate control rather than natural equilibrium. The slight elevation in her respiratory rate suggests emotional processing occurring beneath tactical awareness, memories clearly activated by our recent exchange.

"Your companion appears to have experienced significant trauma during her previous interaction with the Parazodiac," Maverick observes through our secure connection, voice pitched with unusual gentleness despite its analytical content.

"Her narrative suggests a near-death experience resulting in memory recovery consistent with specialized neural architecture similar to Blackwood program specifications. "

I offer no verbal response, recognizing that even whispered communication might register to Riot as concerning given our proximity.

Instead, I maintain tactical focus on our surroundings as the tunnel begins to widen, institutional architecture shifting from functional transit corridor to what appears to be a designated choice point in the navigation sequence.

The path before us suddenly terminates in a Y-shaped junction where the previously singular tunnel divides into two distinct routes— both identical in apparent construction but diverging at approximately forty-five-degree angles from our current trajectory.

We halt simultaneously at this unexpected development, tactical assessment activating with practiced efficiency.

"Well," Riot observes dryly, breaking our extended silence with characteristic directness. "This seems rather on the nose even for Press's theatrical tendencies."

The junction features no signage, no obvious indicators regarding what either path might lead to—just identical tunnel entrances disappearing into darkness beyond the range of emergency lighting.

Standard institutional methodology typically provides some form of guidance, even if deliberately misleading, to maintain the illusion of informed choice within controlled parameters.

This complete absence of directional indicators represents unusual departure from established protocols—either oversight in architectural planning or deliberate decision to maximize psychological impact through total information deprivation.

I frown, studying both options with measured consideration.

"The choice point appears deliberately designed to force separation without providing decision-making parameters."

Riot crosses her arms, mirroring my frown as she conducts her own assessment.

"We could technically go down one path first and then backtrack to the other," she suggests, though her tone indicates recognition of the likely institutional countermeasures to such a straightforward solution.

"I'm detecting significant temperature differential between the two pathways," Maverick interjects unexpectedly, analytical mind clearly processing environmental data beyond standard visual observation.

"Left path registers approximately twelve degrees cooler than ambient, while right path shows elevation of approximately seventeen degrees above current position. "

"Interesting observation," I respond automatically, momentarily forgetting that Riot can't hear the other half of this conversation.

She tilts her head slightly, confusion briefly crossing her features before understanding dawns with surprising quickness.

A smirk forms on her lips as she studies me with renewed assessment.

"My imaginary friend Maverick says the temperatures differentiate significantly down the paths." I declare.

“You’re imaginary friend…” she asks, perceptiveness demonstrating once again why she survived previous navigation attempts despite overwhelming odds.

I maintain a neutral expression, neither confirming nor denying the existence of external communication capabilities that institutional security protocols would consider a severe breach if discovered.

Riot doesn't press the issue, instead shifting attention back to the junction with tactical focus that suggests genuine training rather than merely survival instinct.

She crosses her arms, head tilting as if listening to something beyond normal auditory range.

"The chilled temperature would likely indicate either a river or a forest environment," she observes thoughtfully, eyes narrowing as she studies the left passage with increased intensity.

"Natural water features or extensive vegetation typically create microclimates with lower ambient temperatures than surrounding areas. "

I nod slowly, the assessment aligning with both environmental science principles and institutional design methodologies observed during previous navigation.

"That makes sense."

"Why do you say that?" she asks, curiosity seeming genuine rather than tactical information gathering. "What are you thinking?"

I consider how much to reveal— tactical advantage typically dictates minimal information sharing even with temporary allies. Yet something about this omega inspires unusual candor despite operational protocols that have served my survival for years.

"The paths we take must mimic the first instances with those alphas," I explain, the theory forming with increasing certainty as institutional patterns align with previous experience. "At least, that's what I'm assuming based on previous navigation parameters."

I turn back toward her, studying her reaction to this assessment with careful attention.

"You met your alpha because he brought you back from drowning, yes?" I confirm, recalling details from her earlier narrative. "Meaning the path you need to follow will likely involve a river or lake of some sort."

Understanding flows across her features with remarkable clarity—recognition rather than confusion, confirmation rather than surprise.

"That actually sounds right," she acknowledges, something like anticipation briefly replacing the caution she's maintained since our descent began. "That's a rather unique approach to navigation design."

Her gaze shifts to the right passage—the one Maverick identified as carrying elevated temperature.

"What does that mean for you then?" she asks with genuine curiosity. "What environment would connect to your first encounter?"

A smirk forms on my lips as memories surface with perfect clarity despite six years of separation—the fighting pits of Level Minus Zero, the scent of blood and desperation, the controlled violence of a man who fought through nineteen others for the privilege of first contact.

"My alpha will be in the midst of the ring," I state with absolute certainty, the image forming with crystalline precision in my mind.

"Sweat-drenched, blood-marked, and ruining anyone who challenges him.

" The description emerges with unexpected warmth beneath clinical accuracy, emotion coloring tactical assessment in ways I typically suppress for operational efficiency.

"So I can only assume the hot path is where he'd be," I conclude, nodding toward the right passage with growing confidence. "In the midst of a cage, fighting for his life."

Riot studies me with unexpected perceptiveness, head tilting slightly as if reassessing previous conclusions based on new information.

"You speak about him almost admirably," she observes quietly, "but you barely know him."

The observation strikes with uncomfortable precision, penetrating tactical facades to the fundamental contradiction at the core of my return.

Six years of separation.

A relationship built on a handful of interactions.

A connection that defies rational explanation yet drives every decision leading to this moment.

A smile forms—not the practiced expression employed for tactical advantage or the cynical version that warns of impending action, but something genuine that surprises even me with its appearance.

"Yeah," I acknowledge quietly, the admission carrying unusual vulnerability. "We were strangers when you think about it, but I guess that instant connection has made me cynical enough to return, even if it means it could be my last with him."

Something shifts in Riot's expression—recognition flowing beneath tactical assessment, understanding that transcends our limited shared history.

"Is this the alpha with the same name as me?" she asks, curiosity colored by what might be interpreted as emotional investment in someone less damaged by institutional experience.

Pride flows through me with unexpected warmth as I nod confirmation.

"Mmmm. The Reaper of Rot," I confirm, the designation carrying none of the fear it typically inspires but something closer to reverence. "My Aries."

The astrological identification emerges without conscious decision— the celestial connection between us that transcends institutional designation or simple biological compatibility.

Something in the stars themselves recognized what belongs together long before we encountered each other in this institutional hell.