Page 9 of Broken Sentinel

The receptionist scans our ID chips with a wave of herhand over our wrists. "Sentinels Thorne and Vanguard, synchronization chamber seven is prepared for your session. Supervisor Ellis will meet you there."

I grimace. "Ellis? I thought Supervisor Li was handling our sync sessions."

"Supervisor Li has been reassigned," she responds, her voice pleasantly empty of any actual information.

Trent and I exchange a glance. Li has supervised every one of our synchronization sessions for the past three years. His reassignment immediately after my enhancement incident can't be coincidence.

"Thank you," Trent says smoothly. "We know the way."

The corridors of the Sync Center are deliberately designed to calm the nervous system—soft blue lighting, gentle sound absorption panels, temperature maintained at precisely 22.7 degrees Celsius. Studies showed that optimal neural synchronization occurs when participants are physically comfortable but mentally alert.

"Li's reassignment is concerning," Trent murmurs as we walk, his voice pitched for my enhanced hearing only.

"Everything's concerning lately," I mutter back. "My enhancement reaction, your mystery tissue sample, and now Li disappearing."

"He didn't disappear. He was reassigned."

I give him a pointed stare. "In Unity-speak, that's practically the same thing."

We reach Synchronization Chamber Seven and pause before the sealed doorway. Through the transparency panel, I can see the familiar setup—two reclined synchronization chairs facing each other, surrounded by monitoring equipment and the neural interface devices that will connect our minds.

"Ready?" Trent asks, studying my face with unusual intensity.

No. Not even close. "Born ready," I lie. "Just another day at the office."

The door slides open to reveal Supervisor Ellis, a woman I've seen in the division but never actually spoken to. She's tall for a non-Sentinel, with the bland, symmetrical features typical of Upper Level Unity citizens. Her eyes assess us with clinical precision.

"Sentinels." She nods briskly. "I'll be overseeing your synchronization today. Please prepare for the procedure."

Standard protocol requires synchronization participants to wear minimal clothing to reduce interference with the neural sensors. We've done this dozens of times before, but today the routine feels different, charged with an awareness that wasn't there before.

I move to my side of the chamber, stepping behind the privacy screen to change into the standard sync garment, a thin, form-fitting bodysuit that leaves arms and legs bare. The material contains thousands of microscopic sensors designed to monitor every physiological response during synchronization.

When I emerge, Trent is already seated in his sync chair, and I allow myself one quick, appreciative glance. The sync suit leaves little to the imagination, clinging to the defined muscles of his chest and arms. His shoulders look even broader without the standard Sentinel uniform, and the contrast between the white suit and his tanned skin makes him look like something carved from stone.

And then of course there’s his, uh, package, which is hard not to stare at. Trent has been blessed in that department like he’s been blessed in all the others, and I’ve spent too many nights trying to imagine how big he could get, especially under my touch.

I quickly look away before he catches me staring, settling into my own chair directly opposite his, though I know mycheeks are hot. In this position, our faces are level, our knees almost touching, close enough that I can see the flecks of darker gray in his eyes.

That’s it, stay focused on his eyes, I remind myself, willing my hormones to behave themselves.

"Beginning preliminary calibration," Ellis announces, activating the monitoring systems. "Baseline readings appear normal."

Normal. Right. If she only knew how my heart is racing just sitting this close to him. Thank goodness the sync process focuses on neural patterns, not every treacherous physiological response.

"You've undergone thirty-seven previous synchronizations together," Ellis notes, reviewing our file. "Your compatibility rating is unusually high."

"We work well together," Trent says simply.

Ellis makes a noncommittal sound. "Today we'll be attempting a deeper synchronization level than your previous sessions. Command has authorized full spectrum neural alignment."

I blink in surprise. "Full spectrum? That's typically reserved for?—"

"Special operations teams, yes," Ellis finishes for me. "Given your recent field performance and partnership longevity, Command believes you're ready for the next level."

Or they want to see what happens when they push my already irregular brain activity even further. After my enhancement reaction, I doubt this is about reward for good performance.

"The procedure will last approximately three hours," Ellis continues, attaching the primary neural interface to a point at the base of my skull. I wince, grinding my teeth together. The sensation is always unpleasant—like someone pressing an ice cube against my brainstem.

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