Page 21 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

Through the barred window into the adjacent cell, Jenna curls into herself on her metal bunk, her forehead pressed against her knees, her fingers white-knuckled around her shins. The woman who led our self-defense classes, who never broke stance, has collapsed into a tight ball of silence.

Malia’s cell echoes with the metronome of her pacing—five steps, pivot, five steps back. The purple-black bruises on her forearms stand stark against her skin as she rubs them absently, wincing at her own touch.

Across from me, Rebel leans against the concrete, cradling her shattered arm. Sweat beads on her gray-tinged skin. Bone fragments press visibly against flesh, distorting the contours of her forearm. Yet her eyes—clear, focused, predatory—track every movement in the cellblock.

Mia sits rigid on her bunk, her face turned toward the wall, but her spine is straight as rebar. Her fingers drum a precise pattern against her thigh—not nervous energy but calculations, timing, planning. When she briefly glances my way, her eyes burn with barely contained fury, a biochemist’s mind no doubt cataloging exactly what compounds would dissolve our captors most painfully.

At the row’s end, isolated by design, Stitch stands at her bars. Our eyes lock through the narrow space between cells. Her jaw tightens, nostrils flare. The message passes between us wordlessly—survive, resist, remember. These bastards don’t know what we’re capable of.

Boot heels announce new arrivals before they appear—measured, confident steps, not the hurried shuffle of guards. Different cadence. Different purpose.

Malfor appears at the cellblock entrance flanked by two men in pristine lab coats. Their presence strikes deeper than any armed guard could. These aren’t hired muscle but educated men—PhDs, colleagues, peers who’ve chosen this path with open eyes. ID badges hang from breast pockets, laminated proof of their complicity.

“Time to get to work.” Malfor rubs his hands together, cologne wafting through the bars—sandalwood and amber, jarringly refined against the reek of fear and blood. “We have schedules to keep.”

A guard unlocks Stitch’s cell. She rises without prompting, spine straight as steel, face emptied of everything but cold calculation.

“We’ll start with her.” Malfor flicks two fingers toward Stitch, casual as selecting produce. “I need someone to analyze our network security protocols, find the vulnerabilities. Shore up our defenses.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Stitch’s words drop like stones, each syllable precise and deliberate.

Malfor’s smile doesn’t falter as his hand slides into his pocket. “I was hoping for an early demonstration.”

Pain explodes through my nervous system before I can draw breath. Every muscle seizes simultaneously, my back arching so violently that something pops in my spine. White-hot electricity courses through blood vessels, setting nerve endings ablaze.

Around me, the others convulse in identical agony—Rebel’s scream cuts off as her throat locks, Malia slams against her cell bars, Jenna’s teeth clack audibly as they snap together.

The assault lasts three seconds. Five. Ten. An eternity.

When it stops, I’m face down on the concrete, tasting blood and bile. My vision fragments into kaleidoscope patterns that refuse to resolve.

“Collective punishment.” Malfor’s voice floats above the ringing in my ears. “One refuses; all suffer. Simple behavioral conditioning.”

Stitch drags herself upright, palms scraped raw from the concrete, expression murderous. “When I get free?—”

“You won’t.” Malfor cuts her off. “You’ll analyze my security systems because the alternative is watching your friends suffer until their hearts give out. And you’re many things, Stitch, but you’ve never been someone who sacrifices others for principles.”

The words land like grenades. Stitch’s face contorts, not from physical pain but from the impossible choice laid before her.

Malfor pivots toward my cell, index finger tapping his chin in theatrical contemplation. “And you. You’re going to work with Dr. Elkin and Dr. Rafeeq. Help them build what only you can.”

Blood pounds in my ears, drowning everything but his voice. “Me? Build what?”

“The quantum entanglement network that will control my nanobots once they’ve infiltrated the world’s financial systems.” His smile spreads like an oil slick, teeth too white, too perfect. “I need a robust control mechanism that can’t be jammed or intercepted. Your research is the key.”

“Nanobots?”

“Yes.” There’s something slimy about his smile. As if he’s savoring a secret only he knows.

I’m not up for playing his games. Instead, I focus on what makes sense.

“That’s…” My throat constricts around the words. “That’s global terrorism. Financial collapse. Millions would die in the aftermath.”

Malfor’s hand slides toward his pocket, fingers hovering over the outline of the remote.

“Wait!” My palm shoots out, fingers splayed. Everyone’s ragged breathing fills the silence. “I’ll try. But the mathematics are incomplete. The quantum coherence breaks down at scale—it’s why I was still researching it. What you’re asking might not be possible with current technology.”

“Oh, I believe you’ll find a way.” His hand remains near his pocket, a constant threat. “Your motivation is quite literally staring you in the face.”