Page 43 of Broken Sentinel

Lyra's eyes narrow. "The extraction system is for authorized sympathizer operations only. How did you even know about it?"

"I've been mapping emergency exit routes for months," Trent explains. "Unity security protocols are thorough, but they have blind spots if you know where to look."

Her gaze shifts between us, calculating. "You're not maintenance workers, are you?"

"No," I admit, seeing no point in further deception. "We're Sentinels. Or we were."

Lyra immediately steps back, her hand moving to something at her waist, a weapon, most likely. "Sentinels? You've been infiltrating the network all this time?"

"Not exactly," I say quickly. "We were undercover to investigate the sympathizer network, yes. But things changed."

"Changed how?" Her tone makes it clear she's not inclined to trust us.

I glance at Trent, who gives a slight nod. Taking a deep breath, I say, "I started experiencing symptoms. Changes. Unity was going to take me for processing when they discovered I wasn't, well,standardanymore."

Something in my words catches her attention. Her eyes focus on me with new intensity. "What kind of changes?"

"Enhanced senses beyond Sentinel parameters. Visual anomalies. Physical adaptations." I hesitate, then add, "The child, Eden—she said I was like her inside. That I had modifications that were 'waking up.'"

Recognition flashes across Lyra's face. "You're the one Eden mentioned. The sentinel with sleeping patterns."

"You know about this?" I ask, surprised. "About what's happening to me?"

"We've seen it before," she says, her stance relaxing slightly. "Not often, but enough to recognize the signs. People whose genetics suddenly activate in ways Unity can't explain or control." She studies me more carefully. "Your symptoms?"

"Progressing, slowly but surely. Trent gave me a suppression injection before we escaped, but it's wearing off."

She nods. "Expected. Once adaptive changes begin manifesting physically, suppression becomes increasingly ineffective."

Trent steps forward. "We need shelter and information.Unity will be searching for us, and Zara's condition is becoming more unpredictable."

Lyra seems to make a decision. "Eden is already on her way to safety. I stayed behind to oversee one final extraction tonight." She glances back at the outpost. "I have a transport vehicle. I can take you to a safe location, at least temporarily. The network will need to decide what to do with you long-term."

"Where?" I ask.

"A settlement called Haven's Edge," she answers, watching for our reaction. "It's where we were taking Eden."

Haven. The name triggers something in me, like I’d heard it before. I glance at Trent, whose expression betrays nothing to anyone who doesn't know him as well as I do. But I see the subtle tension around his eyes—this means something to him, too.

"Thank you," I say to Lyra. "We don't have many options right now."

She motions us toward the outpost. "There are dry clothes inside. Wasteland gear. Your maintenance uniforms are too distinctive."

Inside the outpost, we find the promised clothing—rough, practical garments with multiple layers and reinforced sections, nothing like Unity's sleek, standardized uniforms.

Lyra gives us privacy to change, though I catch her speaking quietly into a communication device in the next room: "Unexpected situation...two former Sentinels...one showing adaptation signs...require guidance...yes, I understand the risks..."

Once dried and changed, we follow Lyra to a covered vehicle parked behind the outpost. It's nothing like Unity's smooth, silent transports, this is a rugged machine with massive wheels and reinforced exterior designed to navigate the harsh wasteland terrain.

"Strap in," Lyra warns as we climb inside. "Wasteland terrain isn't like your smooth arcology corridors."

She's not exaggerating. The moment we leave the outpost perimeter, the vehicle bounces and jolts over uneven ground. I grab a handhold, my enhanced reflexes the only thing keeping me from being thrown against the wall.

"First time's always rough," Lyra comments, noticing my discomfort. "You'll get used to it."

Will I? Will I get used to any of this? The vastness, the unpredictability, the raw aliveness of the outside world?

In a way, I hope I never do.

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