Page 68 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

There’s no window, no clock. Just the steady cycle of meals I haven’t touched and the weight of fatigue anchoring my bones. My body remembers more than one sleepless night. More than one round of screams echoing from Stitch’s cell. The silence now feels—recent. Like the kind that follows a storm no one dares name.

Across the corridor, she hasn’t moved since they dragged her back. Not even to drink. The dried rust on her collar tells me no one’s cleaned her up since.

Boots thud—six pairs, not four. Heavier. Intentional. A plastic container swings from one gloved hand—gauze, antiseptic, bandages. Not mercy.

Maintenance.

“Stand.” The lead guard unlocks Stitch’s cell first.

Stitch remains motionless, a broken thing. Long seconds pass before she moves, each shift telegraphing invisible damage—broken ribs, torn muscles, lacerations hidden beneath blood-stiffened clothing. Her face remains unmarked—calculated cruelty.

Malfor wants her brain to be functional, her fingers to be operational, and her expertise to be accessible.

The rest is expendable.

A medic enters her cell, cloth scraping wounds, antiseptic hissing against open flesh, gauze wrapping lacerations. Stitch endures the torture without sound, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the walls. Treatment finished, they haul her upright by her arms.

The key turns in my lock next.

“Move.”

No medical attention for me. My damage, a split lip, bruised jaw, and muscles spasming from electric punishment, doesn’t impair my usefulness.

Jenna’s knuckles whiten around her cell bars as they drag me past. “Stay sharp,” she mouths, eyes burning with warning.

Corridors stretch endlessly today, the distance to the lab multiplying with each step. Guards press closer than they did yesterday, fingers hovering near the remote triggers, eyes tracking every muscle twitch for signs of resistance. New cameras swivel at each intersection, black lenses following our path like predators tracking prey.

The lab’s transformation strikes like another punishment. Four additional guards flank the room, their rifles pointed inward rather than downward. Three monitoring stations bristle with screens displaying our workspace from every angle. Even the air hurts to breathe—colder, sterile, saturated with implied violence.

Dr. Elkin hunches smaller at his terminal, shoulders curved inward as though trying to disappear into his equipment. Dr. Rafeeq’s hands quiver against keyboards, the tremors traveling up his arms. Their collars dig deeper today, skin beneath raw and weeping.

A guard positions Stitch at the furthest workstation, one standing close enough behind her that his tactical vest brushes her shoulders. Her fingers move mechanically across the keys, inputting security protocols, one slow tap at a time.

My terminal glows with yesterday’s progress—quantum entanglement algorithms approaching viability. The interface shows remarkable progress since yesterday—someone worked through the night, tearing down the barriers I constructed, dismantling the problems I planted to slow progress.

Dr. Elkin appears beside me, voice barely audible. “Specialists arrived after yesterday. Added resources.” His eyes dart toward a camera. “Don’t repeat yesterday’s error.”

I won’t, although I wish Stitch told me what she was trying to do. Using code, Malfor was destined to discover her subterfuge, but she’s given me an idea. Perhaps I can leverage the quantum entanglement and turn the communications from one-way to two-way.

I could get a message out.

Succeed where Stitch failed.

Dr. Elkin’s warning costs him. A guard steps forward, his thumb pressing a remote. Dr. Elkin’s body jerks, a puppet with yanked strings, as his collar activates briefly—not as punishment, but as a reminder. He stumbles backward, fingers scrabbling at his throat, eyes watering.

It should serve as a warning. What Malfor did to Stitch and how his guards enforce discipline should stop me, but the others would want me to try, especially after what he did to Stitch.

It’s a risk, but it’s worth it. All I have to do is figure out how to send a message and tag it with geo-location.

Time dissolves into code. Quantum formulas spill from my fingers—entanglement protocols, communication systems engineered to be unjammable, untraceable, unstoppable once deployed. Work that once filled me with wonder—particles communicating across impossible distances, defying conventional physics—now twists into obscenity as Malfor weaponizes my research.

Lunch arrives—tasteless protein bars and lukewarm water delivered silently. No breaks permitted. Bathroom visits are conducted under direct observation, dignity stripped alongside freedom.

By mid-afternoon, the system reaches a critical stage of integration. The quantum processor requires calibration with the communication arrays—a delicate procedure demanding precise timing and frequency adjustments. Dr. Rafeeq announces the phase, drawing attention from supervisory staff.

A suited technician approaches my terminal. “Proceed with quantum calibration sequence.”

The perfect moment unfolds. Guard rotation begins at the door. It’s a momentary distraction as personnel exchange positions. Dr. Elkin moves to assist Dr. Rafeeq with hardware connections, pulling monitor eyes toward the server rack. The surveillance camera above my station sweeps toward the main array, creating a ten-second blind spot.