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TWENTY-FIVE

THE TRIGGER WORD

~JINX~

Consciousness drifts like fragments of broken glass through my mind—sharp pieces of awareness cutting through pharmaceutical fog before dissolving back into chemical darkness.

Everything feels distant, muffled, like I'm drowning in cotton while voices echo from the surface of a reality I can't quite reach.

Static crackles through the transmitter, Maverick's voice cutting in and out like a broken radio trying to find signal in a storm.

"—inx can you—me? The situation has?—"

His words fragment into electronic snow before reforming into coherent syllables that slip away before I can grasp their meaning.

"—sorry but I have to—this keyword but the alpha—you is going to lose—whether he likes it or—don't hate me for?—"

Keyword?

The word penetrates fog with concerning clarity.

In the depths of institutional conditioning, keywords represent triggers built into enhanced subjects—psychological switches that override conscious control in favor of programmed responses. Panic buttons disguised as syllables, designed to activate when circumstances exceed normal parameters.

I try to focus through the pharmaceutical haze clouding rational thought, attempting to understand what Maverick means about keywords and losing leverage.

But consciousness keeps slipping away like water through grasping fingers, pulling me back toward medicated oblivion that makes coherent analysis impossible.

"—can't maintain connection much longer—interference patterns—if this doesn't work?—"

His voice grows fainter with each transmission, electronic distortion increasing as whatever maintains our communication link struggles against systematic jamming or distance limitations that exceed technological capacity.

What doesn't work? What's he planning?

Terror builds in my chest as understanding crystallizes through chemical suppression—Maverick intends to use institutional conditioning against me, triggering responses burned into enhanced biology through systematic application of psychological programming.

The realization should provide opportunity to prepare, to resist whatever compulsion he's about to activate.

But pharmaceutical interference makes mental preparation nearly impossible, cognitive function too compromised for effective countermeasures against conditioned responses that bypass conscious control entirely.

"—sorry Jinx but—situations require—desperate measures?—"

The apology carries genuine regret despite electronic distortion, emotion bleeding through technological limitations to convey reluctance at employing methods we both understand represent violation of autonomy in favor of programmed response.

Then his voice shifts—gaining authority that cuts through static with crystalline precision, carrying command weight that speaks to official protocols rather than personal communication.

"SHADOWMERE."

The word hits my neural pathways like a lightning strike, bypassing conscious thought to activate systems buried beneath layers of careful conditioning and psychological control. Enhanced biology responds with immediate compliance that transcends rational consideration or strategic evaluation.

My eyes snap open with violence that makes vision blur before snapping into hyperfocus—enhanced sensory processing activating as combat protocols flood my system with chemical cocktails designed to exceed normal human limitations.

Adrenaline surges through my bloodstream like liquid fire, transforming lethargy into explosive energy that makes nerve endings sing with electric awareness.

Fight or flight.

Survival mode.

Manic state activation.

The keywords unlock responses I've tried to forget—institutional conditioning that turns enhanced subjects into weapons when circumstances demand maximum capability regardless of personal cost or psychological consequences.

Chemical enhancement floods my system with substances that push biology beyond safe parameters, trading long-term stability for immediate tactical advantage.

My heart hammers against my ribs with a rhythm that approaches cardiovascular limits, each beat pumping enhanced stimulants through my circulatory system that operates beyond normal human capacity.

Vision sharpens until individual dust motes become visible, hearing expands to catch conversations happening floors away, proprioception increases until I can feel air currents moving across exposed skin.

Where am I?

The question forms with clinical precision as tactical assessment overrides emotional processing in favor of threat evaluation and strategic planning.

Suspended above—I register that immediately, arms secured around a familiar masculine frame that radiates protective determination despite obvious physical compromise.

Sable.

Recognition floods through enhanced awareness with devastating clarity.

My pack member, my chosen alpha, holding me against gravitational manipulation while enduring whatever systematic torture this chamber represents. His silver eyes meet mine with relief that transcends verbal expression—recognition of consciousness returned despite pharmaceutical interference.

But movement below draws tactical attention away from reunion toward immediate threat assessment that makes enhanced biology scream warnings through hypersensitive neural pathways.

Ten alphas occupy the chamber floor, their positioning suggesting military training rather than random institutional subjects.

Each carries military-grade rifles with practiced familiarity that speaks to combat experience beyond standard enhanced conditioning—specialized operatives rather than typical experimental subjects.

Professional killers.

Not test subjects but active threat.

The distinction crystallizes with perfect clarity as enhanced pattern recognition identifies threat signatures that transcend institutional classification.

These men move with coordinated precision that suggests unit cohesion and tactical training, weapons held with competence that promises lethal efficiency rather than intimidation display.

In the corner, forced to his knees with hands secured behind his back, Riot maintains defiant posture despite obvious recent violence.

Blood marks his face in patterns suggesting systematic beating rather than random assault—methodical application of force designed to achieve compliance through pain rather than simple sadistic pleasure.

Bruises darken skin across visible areas where clothing has been torn during whatever interrogation or torture preceded my return to consciousness. Yet his eyes burn with undiminished fury that speaks to unbroken spirit despite physical compromise and tactical disadvantage.

They hurt him.

They dared to hurt what's mine.

Rage builds beneath enhanced chemical stimulation with volcanic intensity that threatens to overwhelm tactical consideration in favor of primal vengeance.

The programming designed to create weapons doesn't distinguish between appropriate targets and personal vendetta—enhanced biology simply identifies threats and responds with maximum available force.

A giggle escapes before I can contain it—sound emerging from somewhere beyond conscious control as manic energy builds toward critical thresholds that make normal behavioral parameters meaningless.

The pharmaceutical cocktail flooding my system creates euphoric confidence that borders on insanity, chemical courage that makes impossible odds seem merely interesting rather than insurmountable.

The sound carries through chamber acoustics with crystalline clarity, drawing immediate attention from armed operatives who suddenly realize their unconscious prisoner has achieved unexpected awareness.

Rifle barrels swing in my direction with professional precision, trained responses activating as threat assessment shifts to include the suspended omega whose laughter suggests dangerous psychological instability.

Riot catches the shift in atmospheric tension first, enhanced senses reading micro-changes in positioning and scent that speak to imminent violence. His lips curve into a predatory smile that carries genuine appreciation for whatever chaos he recognizes building in chamber dynamics.

"Y'all are fucked," he whispers with quiet satisfaction that cuts through military tension like blade through silk.

The operative holding him at gunpoint steps closer, rifle barrel pressing against Riot's temple with pressure that should inspire compliance or fear.

Instead, my Alpha maintains relaxed posture that suggests complete comfort with proximate death—confidence born from recognition of variables the enemy hasn't yet calculated.

"What does he mean?" the operative demands, voice carrying authority that expects immediate compliance despite obvious disadvantage in information asymmetry. "Why is she laughing?"

Riot's chuckle emerges with dark amusement that speaks to a private joke involving consequences the military unit hasn't yet comprehended.

"Doesn't matter if I explain why," he responds with casual dismissal that infuriates through deliberate disrespect. "Y'all are dead men anyway."

The declaration carries absolute certainty despite his compromised position and apparent tactical disadvantage.

Not bravado or empty threat, but informed assessment based on knowledge the enemy lacks regarding enhanced capabilities and conditioned responses they've inadvertently activated.

"I may die too," he continues with philosophical acceptance that recognizes all outcomes within current scenario, "'cause this Jinx is exactly what your boss ordered her to become."

Understanding flickers across the operative's features— recognition that their supposed prisoner represents something beyond standard enhanced subject classification.

The intelligence briefing clearly included warnings about specific capabilities, yet academic knowledge proves insufficient preparation for witnessing those capabilities in active deployment.