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THREE

WHISPERS BETWEEN CONSCIOUSNESS AND DELIRIUM

~JINX~

~Partiur Un Joir~

Juilette Armanet

Consciousness returns as a fragmented mosaic— shattered pieces refusing to form coherent patterns as my mind struggles through layers of starvation and dehydration.

The padded cell spins despite my body remaining motionless, institutional white blurring into nauseating streaks across my field of vision.

"Jinx? Jinx, can you hear me?" Maverick's voice crackles through the implant, distorted by either technological limitations or my deteriorating neurological function. "Your vitals are critically unstable. Heart rate dropping below sustainable levels."

His concern washes over me without impact, words becoming meaningless vibrations as I drift between awareness and darkness.

The straitjacket feels simultaneously too tight and strangely absent, my nerve endings failing to transmit consistent sensory data as systems begin systematic shutdown.

Interesting.

Part of me— the clinical, analytical part that survives even as basic functioning deteriorates —finds the process fascinating. The systematic failure of biological systems follows predictable patterns, each symptom building logically upon previous deterioration.

Tachycardia giving way to dangerous bradycardia as the heart conserves energy. Peripheral vasoconstriction redirecting blood flow to vital organs. Cognitive function narrowing to essential processing.

The body's final desperate attempts at survival, following protocols encoded in evolutionary memory.

"—need to respond—" Maverick's voice fades in and out, urgency evident even through disconnected fragments. "—tracking cellular degradation—cannot maintain implant functionality if?—"

His words blur into background noise as consciousness slips again, pulling me deeper into memories that feel more real than present reality.

The melody returns, humming through neural pathways with hypnotic insistence— Riot's lullaby, the comfort he offered when clinical protocols demanded only data.

The tune carries me backward, through darkness and pain, into a memory I've kept sealed away for six years of external existence...

Seven years ago.

Level Minus Three stinks of desperation and forced compliance.

The lighting here differs from other levels—harsh spotlights focused on central arena spaces while observation areas remain cloaked in strategic shadow. Perfect for psychological manipulation, for creating the illusion that judgment comes from darkness itself rather than human observers.

My bare feet make no sound against the polished concrete as I follow the white-coated researcher conducting my "educational tour." I've been carefully crafting the persona they expect—wide-eyed fascination masking calculated observation, naive questions concealing strategic information gathering.

"This is our judicial assessment center," she explains, pride evident in her clinical tone. "Where we evaluate alpha subjects' capacity for decision-making under stress."

Torture disguised as research, cruelty masquerading as science.

I've learned to read between carefully constructed lines during my time at Ravenscroft. To recognize the euphemisms they employ to distance themselves from the reality of what happens within these walls.

"What kinds of decisions?" I ask, injecting innocent curiosity into my voice while my eyes catalog every detail of the space—camera positioning, guard stations, ventilation access points, potential weaknesses in security protocols.

The researcher smiles, pleased by my apparent engagement.

"Life and death, primarily. We've found that alphas with judicial backgrounds demonstrate fascinating neurological patterns when forced to make rapid determinations with limited information.

The stress hormones produced during these sessions have proven exceptionally valuable in our pharmaceutical development programs."

Translation: they torture alphas by forcing them to condemn others to death, then harvest their biochemical responses for profit.

We approach a viewing window that overlooks a circular chamber dominated by a strange apparatus—a mechanical harness system suspended from the ceiling, currently holding a man upside down.

His wrists are secured behind his back, forcing his spine into an unnatural arch that must cause excruciating pain.

Despite his compromised position, he maintains an eerie stillness that raises goosebumps along my arms.

"Subject 731," the researcher notes, checking her tablet. "Former criminal court judge with an exceptional conviction record. Specialized in capital cases. Demonstrates remarkable cognitive function even under extreme physiological stress."

I study him through the glass, this man suspended between the floor and ceiling like some twisted art installation.

Long dark hair hangs toward the ground, obscuring his face from this angle. His body shows evidence of systematic abuse—scars layered upon scars in patterns that speak of deliberate, repeated trauma rather than random violence.

Yet something in his posture suggests not defeat, but patience.

Not submission but calculation.

"What's he doing now?" I ask, noting how his head occasionally turns slightly toward different monitoring screens positioned around the chamber.

"Multi-phase judgment protocol," she answers, pride evident in her tone. "He's simultaneously monitoring eight different combat scenarios occurring in adjacent arenas, evaluating participant performance in real-time, and determining which subjects advance to the next testing phase."

My eyes widen with genuine surprise.

"He decides who lives and dies?"

"Precisely." The researcher taps something on her tablet, bringing up biometric data streams. "The psychological impact of such responsibility— particularly when combined with physical stress positions and sleep deprivation —generates unique neurochemical responses we haven't been able to replicate through other protocols. "

I study the data scrolling across her screen, memorizing patterns and values while maintaining my facade of casual interest.

My gaze returns to the suspended man, watching how he methodically rotates attention between screens despite his compromised position.

"What happens if he makes wrong decisions?" The question slips out before I can filter it through my carefully constructed persona.

The researcher's smile turns cold.

"There are no wrong decisions in our protocols. Only consequences." She gestures toward a panel of buttons near the suspension controls. "If his determinations fall outside statistical probability models or contradict established baseline parameters, he experiences immediate correctional feedback."

Torture for deviating from their expectations. Pain as enforcement of compliant judgment.

"Does he ever refuse?" I ask, studying how the man's muscles tense slightly when action on one particular screen intensifies—two alphas engaged in brutal combat, blood spraying across arena walls.

"Not anymore." The simple answer carries volumes of implied history. "Subject 731 underwent extensive compliance conditioning during initial assessment phases. He understands the parameters of his role here."

The suspended judge suddenly raises one finger on his bound hand—a small, precise gesture that might have gone unnoticed if I hadn't been watching him so carefully.

Immediately, guards enter the combat arena visible on the screen, separating the fighters and dragging the bloody but still breathing loser away.

"He chose mercy," I observe quietly.

The researcher's expression sharpens with interest.

"Interesting interpretation. Most visitors assume he designated the subject for termination."

I shake my head slightly, certainty flowing from instinct rather than evidence.

"He chose intervention before fatality. The combat had reached conclusive determination without requiring death."

Something flickers across her face—surprise, perhaps, at accuracy she didn't expect from someone my age.

"Very observant," she acknowledges. "Subject 731 demonstrates unusual conservation tendencies regarding research assets. It's one of his more fascinating behavioral anomalies."

He tries to save lives even while forced to determine who lives and dies.

Something about this man— this judge suspended between world s—resonates with a frequency I recognize. A strategic mind evaluating multiple scenarios simultaneously. A capacity for decisive action even under extreme duress. The ability to identify patterns within chaos.

Valuable. Essential. Mine.

The thought forms with surprising clarity, primitive possessiveness interwoven with tactical assessment. This alpha represents a critical piece in whatever strategy might eventually emerge from the fog of my existence here.

"May I speak with him?" The request emerges with calculated innocence, as if born from simple curiosity rather than strategic necessity.

The researcher hesitates, consulting her tablet.

"That's highly irregular. Subject 731 rarely receives direct interaction outside scheduled assessment protocols."

I employ the techniques I've been perfecting—widening my eyes slightly, projecting an aura of harmless scientific interest that appeals to their research instincts.

"I'm just curious about how he makes decisions so quickly. It might help with my own cognitive development protocols."

The mention of my own status as a research subject creates the connection I intended, reminding her that my "educational tour" serves dual purposes as developmental stimulus.

She considers for a moment before nodding.

"Brief interaction only," she warns, tapping authorization codes into the security panel. "Five minutes maximum. Remain behind the safety line at all times."

The door slides open with pneumatic precision, and the atmosphere changes immediately—scent carries different information than visual observation, revealing dimensions invisible through glass barriers.