Page 33 of Broken Sentinel

Trent considers this, then moves to the medical supplies. "There might be a temporary solution. Sentinel suppression injections."

I recognize the small black case he retrieves—standard field equipment for covert operations requiring Sentinels to temporarily dampen their enhancements to avoid detection by enemy scans.

"That could work," I agree, hope flickering. "But suppression injections are designed for standard enhancements, not whatever I'm becoming."

"It's a calculated risk," Trent acknowledges. "But our only option for maintaining cover until extraction."

He prepares the injection with practiced efficiency, measuring the dose carefully. "This will suppress all enhancement signatures for approximately six hours. Enough time to complete our shift and reach the extraction point."

I offer my arm without hesitation, trusting him completely despite the risks. The needle slides in smoothly, the familiar cold sensation of suppression compounds entering my bloodstream.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then blessed relief as my heightened senses dull to normal human parameters. The persistent hum of electrical systems fades to background noise, my vision settles into standard resolution, the overwhelming flood of sensory input recedes to manageable levels.

"Better?" Trent asks, watching me closely.

I nod, savoring the temporary normalcy. "Like coming up for air after being underwater too long."

He allows himself a small smile—a genuine one, not the professional mask he usually wears. "We should move soon. Return to our quarters through separate routes, maintain normal routines until shift end."

"And if Medical comes looking for me?"

"I'll intercept the summons, claim you're experiencing standard enhancement recalibration during deep cover. Common enough during extended undercover operations to buy us a few hours."

The plan is risky but sound. If we can maintain our cover until extraction, we have a chance.

Trent moves toward the supplies, selecting items for us to take—medical kits, portable nutrition, minimal survival gear that won't attract attention if discovered in our quarters.

This is gettingreal.

"Trent," I say suddenly, needing to ask the question that's been haunting me. "What if this is exactly what was planned all along? What if I was placed in Unity as some kind of...I don't know, sleeper agent? Programmed to activate at a specific time?"

He turns to face me, his expression serious. "Does that feel true to you? Do you feel programmed?"

I consider the question, searching my feelings honestly. "No. Everything I've done as a Sentinel—every mission, every decision—felt like my choice. But these memories that are surfacing...they suggest I'm not who I thought I was."

"Or perhaps you're exactly who you were meant to become," Trent counters. "The woman in your memory—if she was your mother—said the modifications were to help you survive. Not to infiltrate, not to destroy, but to survive."

His perspective shifts something in my understanding, frames my situation not as a deception but as protection. Not infiltration but sanctuary.

"We can't know for certain until we find answers outside," Trent continues. "But I do know one thing with absolute certainty."

"What's that?"

"Whatever you're becoming, Zara, you're still you." His eyes hold mine, unwavering in their conviction. "The personI've worked with for three years, the partner I trust with my life…that's not programming or manipulation. That's real."

The simple declaration steadies me when nothing else could. Whatever uncertainty surrounds my past or future, Trent's faith in who I am right now is my anchor point.

"We should move," I say, reluctantly breaking the moment. "Separate routes back to quarters, as you suggested."

Trent nods, returning to practical planning. "Twenty minutes apart. I'll go first, ensure the primary corridors are clear."

As he goes over the final details of our extraction plan, I allow myself to really look at him, not as my Sentinel partner but as the man who's chosen to risk everything for me. The man who prepared for this moment months before I knew it might come. The man who's decided his place is with me, whatever I'm becoming.

When he hands me the civilian clothing I'll need to wear beneath my maintenance uniform, our fingers touch briefly. That small contact sends a current through me that has nothing to do with enhanced senses and everything to do with the connection that's been building between us for three years.

"Zara," he says quietly, "whatever happens tonight—whether we make it to the extraction point or not—I need you to know that I?—"

The safe room's alert system interrupts with a soft but insistent beep. Trent immediately checks the security feed, his expression tightening.

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