Page 59
A smile tugs at my lips—a genuine expression of amusement rather than tactical performance or social necessity.
She's right, of course. Normal people would find such pragmatic evaluation of survival disturbing, proof of institutional conditioning that eliminated appropriate emotional response to potential loss.
But we're not normal people.
We're enhanced subjects who chose each other through recognition of compatible damage rather than simple biological compatibility or social expectation.
"Come on then," I say, adjusting my grip to resume carrying her over my shoulder with efficient movement that makes her shriek at the sudden change in orientation.
My hand connects with her perfectly curved ass in a playful slap that surprises us both—gesture emerging from instinct rather than calculated decision, physical expression of affection and possession that feels natural despite being outside my usual behavioral parameters.
The contact sends a pleasant sensation through my palm while making her yelp with indignation that carries more amusement than actual outrage.
When did I become someone who engages in playful physical contact? When did casual intimacy become comfortable rather than threatening?
"You're only worthy of alphas who are as manic and ruthless as you are," I explain, settling into a steady pace that carries us through institutional corridors with purpose rather than aimless wandering. "Normal standards don't apply to people like us."
"I'm not manic," she protests with mock offense that makes me smile despite myself.
"Any omega willing to return to this place is just as cynical as we are," I counter, the observation carrying fondness rather than criticism. "That's what I know I need for my omega, and I'm confident the others will want the same. They'll be alive if that's their ultimate wish."
The conviction in my voice surprises me with its certainty.
Not hope or desperate faith, but genuine knowledge that our pack possesses whatever qualities survival demands within institutional hell.
We didn't choose each other through random chance or biological accident—she selected us with strategic precision that recognized potential beneath apparent damage.
Her body relaxes against my shoulder, tension flowing from her frame as my certainty apparently provides the reassurance she was seeking.
Trust offered without reservation despite circumstances that would justify paranoia and skepticism in anyone with functioning survival instincts.
"If you say so," she murmurs, voice carrying acceptance that warms something deep in my chest. "Do you know where we're going? Surely everything isn't the same as the first time around, though I don't remember much."
The question touches on practical concerns that require honest assessment rather than false reassurance.
Press has certainly modified institutional layout and security protocols since our previous navigation attempt, learning from our earlier success to implement countermeasures designed to prevent repetition of previous strategies.
"Relax and I'll handle it," I assure her, confidence born from enhanced spatial awareness and tactical training that transcends architectural modification or security enhancement. "I know exactly how to get to Sable despite whatever changes they've made."
And I do know. Some things become instinctive after years of institutional navigation.
The route to Level Minus Three remains burned into neural pathways despite time and systematic conditioning designed to eliminate such knowledge.
Muscle memory guides my steps through corridors that may look different but follow identical underlying patterns—institutional efficiency prioritizing function over aesthetics in ways that create recognizable navigation parameters.
"Are you sure?" she presses with what might be concern or simple tactical thoroughness. "Should I ask Maverick?"
Her casual mention of the male voice that's been providing guidance throughout her return triggers an immediate alpha response that bypasses rational thought to manifest as a territorial growl.
The sound emerges from somewhere primal and possessive, a vocal expression of claim that needs no translation or explanation.
Male voice. In her head. Providing intimate guidance and support.
Every alpha instinct screams against allowing another male— regardless of circumstances or practical necessity —to maintain such a close connection with my bonded omega.
The rational mind recognizes potential strategic value, but emotion operates beyond logical assessment when it comes to perceived threats against established pair bonds.
"The male voice in your head?" I clarify with a dangerous quiet that makes her shift slightly against my shoulder.
"It's a transmitter implant," she explains with patience that suggests she expected this reaction. "But sure, if that's how you want to think about it."
The clarification does nothing to ease the territorial response burning in my chest. Transmitter implant just means the connection is even more intimate—technology embedded within her body, a foreign presence occupying space that should belong exclusively to pack members rather than external sources of guidance and support.
"You better transmit it out when we get out of here," I state with flat finality that brooks no argument or negotiation.
Her giggle catches me off guard—a light sound that carries genuine amusement rather than nervousness or placating behavior.
The reaction suggests she finds my jealousy endearing rather than threatening, an emotional response that somehow makes me feel simultaneously more and less secure in my position.
"Are you envious?" she asks with a teasing tone that makes my jaw clench despite her obvious enjoyment of my discomfort.
"I can't be envious yet," I correct with dark promise that sends anticipation through my system, "'cause at least I can fuck you nice and hard to claim you as mine over and over again. What can he do?"
The crude language emerges without a conscious filter—territorial marking through verbal possession that announces intent despite a public setting and continued surveillance.
She brings out responses in me that bypass institutional conditioning to access something more primitive and honest.
Her snicker carries satisfaction that suggests my reaction provides exactly the entertainment she was seeking.
"You don't want to hear his answer."
The implication that this disembodied voice has responded to my challenge with a counter-threat makes my hands tighten on her body with a possessive grip that probably verges on uncomfortable.
The idea that some external presence considers itself qualified to compete for my omega's attention triggers responses that transcend rational assessment or tactical consideration.
"Whatever," I mutter with false dismissal that fools neither of us. "That transmitter is going when we escape here, unless this Maverick douche wants to come out of his computer and be an alpha and claim you the same way we will."
The ultimatum carries absolute seriousness despite its apparent absurdity. I don't care about practical considerations or strategic advantages—no other male maintains an intimate connection with my bonded mate, regardless of technological mediation or claimed necessity.
"He says challenge accepted," she reports with obvious glee at having created this territorial conflict between alphas who will never meet in physical space.
My responding huff conveys exactly what I think of technological challenges from disembodied voices, regardless of whatever capabilities they might claim or strategic advantages they provide.
Physical presence trumps digital connection every time when it comes to genuine claiming and long-term pair bonding.
But even as territorial jealousy burns in my chest, part of me recognizes the strange normalcy of this interaction.
Is this what normal couples argue about?
The thought carries wonder rather than frustration—recognition that we're engaging in relationship conflicts that have nothing to do with survival or tactical advantage, everything to do with emotional connection and territorial instinct.
Ordinary problems for extraordinary people, mundane concerns arising from extraordinary circumstances.
Her laughter vibrates through my shoulder as she apparently receives additional commentary from her electronic companion.
The sound carries pure joy despite our dangerous circumstances—emotion so genuine and infectious it makes my own lips curve upward despite territorial irritation and lingering combat stress.
This is what I want for the rest of whatever life we manage to build together.
Not just survival or strategic alliance, but genuine connection that creates space for ordinary relationship dynamics amid extraordinary challenges. The ability to argue about jealousy and communication boundaries rather than life-and-death tactical decisions.
Permission to feel possessive and protective without those emotions being immediately weaponized against us through institutional manipulation.
Moments like these— suspended between institutional horrors and an uncertain future —when her presence transforms nightmare navigation into something approaching normal human experience. When conversation flows naturally rather than being filtered through tactical necessity or survival calculation.
"Keep talking to your computer boyfriend," I grumble with feigned irritation that masks genuine affection. "See if his challenge is still accepted when I'm buried so deep inside you that you forget electronic devices exist."
Her delighted laughter follows us through institutional corridors as we continue toward whatever fresh hell Press has prepared for our continuing education in survival and systematic torture.
But for these precious moments, terror feels distant and hope seems possible.
Because this— this bickering and jealousy and casual affection —feels like a glimpse of what normal life might offer if we survive long enough to claim it. And that possibility, however remote, makes every risk worth taking and every challenge worth facing.
We're going to make it out of here. All of us. Together.
The conviction settles deep in my bones as her warmth seeps through combat-worn clothing and her scent wraps around me like a promise of a future beyond institutional walls.
And when we do, I'm going to spend every day showing her exactly what real claiming looks like compared to electronic communication with disembodied voices.
The thought makes me smile as we disappear into institutional shadows, carrying precious cargo toward reunion with pack members who share our particular brand of beautiful damage and dangerous determination.
This is what home feels like. This is what we're fighting for.
This glimpse of normal in a world gone completely insane.
Table of Contents
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- Page 59 (Reading here)
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