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The second charge comes with better coordination— lessons learned from initial failure applied to tactical modification despite continued restraint limitations. But predictability works against him as enhanced anticipation allows preparation for obvious attack vector.
I avoid his rushing form again, this time adding insult to tactical injury through a precisely applied kick to his shin.
The impact resonates through enhanced bone structure with a satisfying crack that suggests successful application of force to a vulnerable pressure point.
Before he can recover balance or redirect momentum, my follow-up kick finds target between his legs with surgical precision.
Enhanced anatomy provides natural vulnerability despite pharmaceutical conditioning that might reduce normal pain response—biological imperative ensuring certain reactions remain consistent regardless of chemical modification.
The combination sends him crashing to his knees with an agonized roar that echoes through the sterile chamber with acoustic properties that amplify suffering rather than provide mercy or relief.
I don't waste the tactical advantage his vulnerable position provides.
My fist connects with his face in a precisely controlled strike designed to cause disorientation without permanent damage—enough force to establish dominance while maintaining combat capability should continued engagement prove necessary.
But he's not finished yet.
Enhanced alpha resilience proves greater than anticipated as he attempts to use his entire body as a weapon, throwing himself forward in a desperate tackle that might succeed through mass and momentum where finesse and coordination failed.
The maneuver forces tactical adaptation—retreat rather than direct confrontation when opponent abandons technique in favor of brute force application.
I execute a backward flip with enhanced acrobatic capability, landing in graceful recovery that provides maximum distance while maintaining visual contact with threat assessment.
He tries following with another full-body assault, prompting a second backward flip as space requirements demand continued tactical withdrawal. The pattern repeats once more before sufficient distance allows breathing room for reassessment and strategic recalibration.
"I just want Sable to hurry up and arrive," I mutter with genuine frustration at circumstances that force combat engagement when navigation represents primary objective. "'Cause I miss that judgmental fucker and don't want to deal with this douche."
My casual expression of affection for my absent pack member triggers an unexpected reaction— laughter that carries dark amusement rather than humor or genuine entertainment. The sound suggests knowledge or experience with Sable's capabilities that inform his response to my stated preference.
"Sable wouldn't give a damn about you," he declares with malicious satisfaction at delivering what he clearly considers devastating revelation. "I'm sure he could use you as blackmail just as easily."
The suggestion that my pack member would view me as tactical resource rather than genuine connection stings despite rational understanding that institutional conditioning affects everyone trapped within these walls.
But emotional response gets overwhelmed by what happens next.
His roar builds from somewhere primal and uncontrolled—alpha vocalization designed to trigger biological submission through acoustic dominance and designation hierarchy.
The sound carries pharmaceutical enhancement that amplifies natural capability beyond normal parameters, creating physical pressure that seems to penetrate bone and tissue rather than remaining an external auditory input.
But instead of triggering expected omega submission response, the artificial roar creates opposite reaction entirely.
Goosebumps erupt across my skin not from arousal or biological recognition, but from visceral disgust that makes my stomach turn with violent rejection of corrupted alpha signature.
This isn't natural designation dynamics or genuine dominance display—it's pharmaceutical manipulation of biological systems, institutional conditioning that corrupts natural responses to serve research objectives rather than genuine connection or pack formation.
"You better not use that shit again," I warn with deadly precision that cuts through lingering acoustic effects, "or I'm gonna knock you out in one strike."
My threat apparently carries insufficient deterrent value because he disregards warning entirely, launching another charge with renewed determination despite previous failures and obvious tactical disadvantage created through restraint limitation.
But something changes mid-assault—not his approach or my defensive positioning, but fundamental environmental parameters that transform combat scenario into an entirely different challenge category.
My feet leave the ground without conscious intention or deliberate movement—gravitational force suddenly reversing or neutralizing, sending my body floating upward with increasing velocity that defies normal physics and suggests technological intervention rather than natural phenomenon.
A shriek escapes before I can contain it—automatic response to unexpected loss of ground contact and rapid altitude gain beyond normal human experience.
The sensation of uncontrolled flight triggers primal fears that enhanced training never fully addressed despite extensive preparation for unusual circumstances.
But I'm not alone in this aerial predicament.
The charging alpha finds himself similarly affected—his forward momentum becoming upward trajectory as whatever gravitational manipulation affects the entire chamber rather than targeting specific individuals.
The difference in our positioning becomes immediately apparent as distance to ceiling rapidly decreases.
My lighter body weight and superior positioning allow reaching maximum altitude first, impact with ceiling occurring with force that drives air from lungs despite attempt to prepare for collision.
Recovery from impact proves challenging given continued weightless environment—normal combat techniques requiring gravitational stability that no longer exists within chamber parameters.
But tactical training adapts to unusual circumstances with creative problem-solving that institutional conditioning might not anticipate.
The combat shirt I borrowed from Riot becomes an essential resource rather than simple clothing—durable fabric that can serve purposes beyond modesty or protection.
I slip out of the garment with efficient movements, grateful for the combat bra that maintains adequate coverage while providing freedom of movement necessary for an improvised solution.
The shirt transforms into a lifeline as I tie one end around my waist before securing the other to ventilation grating that provides the only stable anchor point within reach.
The improvised harness creates tenuous connection to ceiling structure, preventing uncontrolled drift while maintaining strategic positioning above immediate threat.
"You're only trapped now," the alpha taunts from his own aerial position, proximity allowing him to potentially reach my location despite gravitational manipulation affecting combat dynamics. "I'll enjoy choking you when I get my hands on that pretty neck."
His confidence appears premature given basic physics that he seems to have overlooked in favor of immediate tactical gratification.
"When it comes to gravity," I remind him with clinical observation that cuts through his apparent euphoria, "what goes up must come down."
The words prove prophetic as whatever technological system maintaining gravitational reversal suddenly deactivates without warning or gradual transition.
Natural physics reassert dominance with violent efficiency that transforms floating predator into falling victim in milliseconds.
His scream echoes through the chamber with acoustic properties that amplify terror and agony as he plummets toward concrete flooring from significant height.
The impact resonates through structural elements with force that speaks to enhanced body weight meeting unyielding surface at terminal velocity.
I hear bones snap with wet precision that suggests multiple fractures— ribs, possibly spine, certainly extremities that absorbed impact force beyond their structural capacity despite enhanced alpha resilience and pharmaceutical conditioning.
His outcry of agony follows collision with concrete, vocalizations that carry both physical trauma and psychological shock at sudden reversal of perceived tactical advantage. But my attention shifts away from his suffering toward more pressing concerns about my own precarious positioning.
The improvised harness holds my weight adequately, but suspended positioning creates new challenges that require immediate tactical adaptation.
Dangling from ceiling ventilation with limited mobility options, I begin considering extraction strategies that might facilitate return to ground level without creating additional injury risk.
But movement above draws attention before I can fully process alternative approaches to current predicament. The ventilation grating that serves as anchor point shifts slightly—not structural failure but deliberate manipulation by something operating beyond my immediate observation.
Looking upward through the grating, I freeze as recognition hits with devastating force that renders tactical consideration momentarily irrelevant.
A face appears inches from mine through metalwork—features that remained preserved in memory despite years of separation and systematic institutional interference.
Silver eyes that seem to hold entire universes within their depths, carrying intelligence and calculation and something approaching wonder at unexpected reunion.
"S-Sable," I whisper, the name emerging as breathless recognition that transcends simple identification to encompass emotional impact too powerful for adequate verbal expression.
Time seems suspended as we stare at each other through barrier of metal mesh—omega and alpha reunited despite institutional separation, pack members finding each other again through whatever impossible circumstances Press has orchestrated for his entertainment purposes.
But something warm begins trickling from my nose, the sensation registering peripherally before understanding crystallizes with growing alarm.
Blood—bright crimson drops that speak to internal pressure or physiological stress rather than external injury.
Both of us notice the crimson evidence simultaneously, our expressions shifting from reunion joy to concern at unexpected medical complication.
The nosebleed intensifies despite absence of trauma or obvious trigger, suggesting systemic response to emotional overload or pharmaceutical interaction rather than simple physical strain.
Dizziness creeps through my consciousness like rising tide—starting subtle but building toward overwhelming force that threatens to wash away cognitive function despite desperate attempts to maintain awareness.
The chamber begins spinning despite my stationary position, visual input becoming unreliable as neurological systems struggle against whatever chemical or emotional response my reunion with Sable has triggered.
What the…
My eyes roll backward without conscious control—autonomic function overwhelmed by circumstances that exceed normal processing capacity.
The last sensation I register before consciousness abandons me entirely is the security of knowing that above me, through metal grating and institutional barriers, the second member of my pack waits for whatever reunion our circumstances might allow.
Then darkness claims me completely, stealing away the precious moment of recognition and replacing it with chemical void that erases all sensation beyond the certainty that somehow, against impossible odds, we're finally in the same space again.
The gravitational manipulation fades to background noise as awareness dissolves—Sable's voice calling my name through metal mesh, urgent concern bleeding through judicial calm as he witnesses my collapse from tantalizingly close yet impossibly distant positioning.
But consciousness refuses to cooperate with strategic necessity, dragging me down into pharmaceutical darkness where reunion becomes memory and hope transforms into dreams too precious for institutional reality to accommodate.
So close.
Table of Contents
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- Page 63 (Reading here)
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