Page 99 of Broken Sentinel

An EMP disruptor. Standard Unity counter-surveillance technology, designed to create temporary electronic dead zones.

Hope surges through my drug-muddled brain. This isn't random. It's planned. The guards weren't Unity at all—they were disguised sympathizers.

Trent's eyes ask a silent question. I nod my understanding.

The technician returns, checking Trent's vitals before making notes on her tablet. "Subject shows residual enhancement patterns consistent with Sentinel augmentation program," she mutters to herself.

"When's the last time you actually touched grass?" I ask her suddenly.

She looks up, startled. "What?"

"Real grass. Not Unity's synthetic growth medium. When's the last time you felt it under your feet?"

Her expression shifts from surprise to practiced neutrality. "Please remain silent during the examination process."

"That's what I thought," I continue, deliberately provocative. "You spend your life in labs like this, never experiencing the world outside. Just following orders, running tests on people you've been told aren't quite human."

"Ms. Thorne?—"

"Do you even know what they're planning to do with yourresearch? How many people will die so Unity can maintain its perfect control?"

Her jaw tightens. "Security protocols exist for everyone's protection?—"

"Protection?" I laugh harshly. "Is that what they call it now?"

"I'm activating the sedation protocol," she announces, reaching for a control panel.

Perfect. As she moves away from her main monitoring station, Trent palms the EMP disc, thumb finding the activation switch.

"Now," he says.

The lights flicker as the disc emits its targeted pulse. Monitors go dark. The ventilation system drops into emergency mode, fans engaging at maximum power—creating exactly the audio dead zone I'd noticed earlier.

The technician freezes in confusion. Before she can reach an alarm, the lab doors slide open. Two figures enter—the same "guards" who delivered Trent. They move with swift efficiency, subduing the technician with a targeted neural suppressant.

"Extraction team," one explains, hurrying to release Trent's restraints. "We have seven minutes before emergency protocols engage."

The other reaches my table, quickly disconnecting the IV tubes. "Suppression compound will take time to clear," he warns. "Your modifications won't fully respond for at least an hour."

As the restraints release, I sit up despite the wave of dizziness. "Vex? Where is he?"

"Containment level three," the first sympathizer says, helping Trent stand. "Another team is moving to extract him now."

"How did you find us?" Trent asks, testing his balance.

"We've had people inside this facility for months," thesympathizer explains, handing us each what appear to be security keycards. "The evolved faction thought they were making a private deal with Unity. They didn't realize we've been monitoring their communications."

"Where are we exactly?" I ask, sliding off the examination table with shaky legs.

"Unity Research Outpost 17," the second sympathizer says. "Officially decommissioned after the climate shifts. Unofficially, their primary genetic research facility."

Trent's hand steadies me as I struggle to stay upright. The contact sends warmth through me despite the circumstances, my body remembering our interrupted moment in the forest.

"Can you walk?" he asks, voice low with concern.

"Have to," I manage. "Lead the way."

The sympathizers guide us through the lab to a service corridor beyond. The EMP has disabled local security, but the facility's main systems will reactivate soon. We move as quickly as my drug-weakened condition allows, Trent's hand never leaving my arm.

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