toast online.. Yo.
Where are we?
Are there any exits?
Are you seeing a tavern?
I see only fire. No tavern.
Look again.
Okay. Through the smoke. Left side. Wooden door.
Hey.
Yeah?
I am back.
The smoke hasn't cleared.
Coughs.
Get low.
Good idea.
Crawl left. To the door.
Opens door.
Silence. The roar cuts instantly. Step inside.
Through. Out of the fire.
Floorboards creak. Safe.
Ok.
Eyes adjust. Bar counter ahead. Empty.
Stay low to avoid smoke.
Air clears up. Visibility up.
A window broke, I can feel the wind.
Draft. Back away from the glass. Now.
Drops to floor, covers with blanket.
Smart. Glass raining. Stay covered.
Glass stops. Stand up. What do you see?
Splintered furniture. Ash coating the floor. Back door. Ajar.
Your face. Covered in soot.
Wipe it off. Let's move.
Lets go outside.
Head to the back door. Push.
Pushing. Something blocking it. A body.
Check pulse. Alive?
Unconscious, maybe from the explosion.
Grab under the arms. Drag her out.
To the car.
Pop the locks. Back seat. Lay her flat. Get in.
Keys under the sunshade. Engine turns.
Drive. Check her pulse in the mirror.
You check her pulse, Driving...
Pulse steady. Shallow breath. Keep driving.
A zombie crosses to street, easy to avoid.
Swerve. Don't stop.
Never stop. There are two more that I can see. Probably a herd nearby.
Floor it. Get to open road.
Steady. Don't crash. How's she doing?
Eyes fluttering. She's waking up.
"Where are we going?" she croaks. Rubbing her head. She sees the road ahead. Eyes wide.
Pharmacy at the edge of town. Clean up. Find clothes.
She nods. Gripping the door handle. "Okay."
They arrive at the pharmacy.
Parking lot cracked. Weeds pushing through. Front window shattered.
Cut the engine. Listen. Nothing moving.
She sits up. "My head hurts."
"What's your name?"
"Sarah." She touches her temple. Winces.
"Stay with us, Sarah."
Side entrance. Metal door. Intact.
Why is it so still? No birds. No insects.
Dead zone. Predators close.
Check the metal door. Quick. Before they find us.
Door groans open. Inside. Slam it shut. Pitch dark.
Lock it.
Flashlight. Now.
*Click.*
Shelves. Ransacked. Pill bottles scattered like dice.
Smell hits. Copper. Rot.
"Stay behind me," you whisper.
Her hand finds your shoulder. Shaking.
Front windows. Shadows passing. Slow.
They heard.
Shit.
Down. Now.
Don't breathe.
Move. Aisle three. Back. Away from the glass.
Shadows stop. Heads tilt.
They smell you.
Here.. the manager's office.
Door. Locked.
Kick it. *Crack.*
Inside. Desk. Filing cabinet. Small window. Barred.
"Inside. Now."
Drag her in. Close door. Desk against it. Heavy.
Breathing. Hard.
Window bars. Shadow passes. Face pressed to glass. Hollow eyes. Moves on.
Safe. For now.
Desk drawer. Locked.
Search. Key? Something heavy?
Lets climb up into the ceiling.
Push the desk. Stack it. Reach up. Tile shifts. Dust rains.
Grid holds. Barely.
"Up." Boost her. She climbs. Light. Fast.
Follow. Arms burn. Pull up.
Dark above. Ducts. Tight fit. Crawl space.
Move quiet. They hear everything below.
Glass breaks out front. They're inside.
Hurry.
Stay silent.
Heat in the metal. Sweat drips.
Don't let it fall.
Below: shuffling. Knocking shelves. Glass crunching.
Sarah freezes. Hand over her mouth. Eyes wide.
Duct creaks.
Weight shift. Slow. Metal groans.
They stop below. Listen.
Hold breath.
Three seconds. Five. Ten.
Shuffling resumes. Moving deeper. Away.
Wait. Don't move yet.
Heart hammers against ribs. Loud. Too loud.
Duct splits ahead. Left or right?
Neither. Stay still. Wait them out.
Time passes. Dust in your throat. Can't cough.
Sarah's breathing slows. Controlled. She's learning fast.
Below: crashes fade. Distant. They're ransacking the back storeroom, not the office.
Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Legs cramp. Metal digs into your back.
Her hand finds yours in the dark. Cold. Shock setting in.
Pulse check. Still steady.
The shuffling stops. Then—moans. Receding. Moving toward the pharmacy's front entrance. The herd is drifting.
Five more minutes. Silence.
Only wind now. Through broken windows.
Safe to whisper. "You okay?"
She nods. Doesn't speak. Smart.
The duct splits ahead. Left goes toward the loading dock. Right toward the roof access.
Rest first. Two minutes. Then move.
They fall asleep. Wake after sunset. Four hours gone.
Stiff. Cold. Metal pressed into your side numbed, now screaming.
Dark. Complete. Sunset came and went.
*Listen.*
Nothing. No shuffling. No moans. Just wind. Distant, howling.
She stirs. "Cold," she whispers. Teeth chattering.
Four hours. Shock worse now. Dehydrated. Stiff.
Move slow. Limbs pins and needles. Crawl toward the split.
Right led to roof access. Left to loading dock.
Roof. Safer. Higher. Assess from above.
"Can you move?" you whisper.
She nods. Shaking. "Yeah."
Crawl. Slow. Duct groans. Louder in dark.
Ahead: faint glow. Exit sign? Moonlight through vent?
Reach the grate. Push.
Cool air. Roof gravel. Stars above. Clear sky.
City lights dead. Dark horizon.
Pharmacy roof. Three stories. Fire escape. East side.
Street below: empty. Bodies scattered. Still. Real dead, not walking.
Safe to drop down?
Check Sarah. Pale. Lips cracked. Needs water. Meds.
"We move fast," you whisper. "Fire escape. Car's gone. We walk."
She looks at the dark street. Nods.
"Stay close."
Wait. The wall panel. MedStation.
Back down. Quiet.
Manager's office. Wall panel. Blinking green. *MedStation 4.*
"Identify patient."
You press palm to screen. It scans. Whirrs.
"Two subjects. Trauma detected. Shock. Dehydration. Processing."
Vials click. Syringes fill. Clear liquid. One amber.
"Adrenaline complex. Electrolyte stabilizer. Broad-spectrum boost."
Inject hers first. Thigh. She gasps. Color returns. Eyes sharpen.
Yours next. Cold rush. Pain fades. Clarity. Heart steadies.
"Treatment complete. Exit through loading dock. Clear for seventeen minutes."
Grab supplies. Auto-sealed packs. Water tabs. Antibiotics.
Back to the roof. Fast.
Seventeen minutes. Clock is running.
The boost kicks in. Everything sharpens. We move.
Fire escape. Three stories. Jump.
*Land.* Concrete cracks under boots. No pain. Nanobots humming in blood. Vision sharp—night becomes gray-green day.
"Seventeen minutes," she says. Voice steady. Enhanced.
Street. Clear. Move.
*Sprint.*
Forty mph. Wind tears at clothes. Zombies in the distance—slow motion. Blurs. You weave between them. They don't react in time. Hands grasp empty air.
Loading dock ahead. Med AI was right. Door hanging open. Dark inside.
Stop. Listen. Enhanced hearing kicks in—heartbeat of the city, distant groans three blocks north, water dripping.
"Clear," she whispers. Precision timing. Perfect pitch.
Inside. Supply run. Grab packs. Water. Batteries. Move.
Fifteen minutes left.
The nanobots itch. Power burning. Can't sustain forever. Crash coming.
"Car," you say. "Two blocks. Police cruiser. Keys inside."
She nods. Already moving.
*Blur.*
Reach the cruiser. Door ripped off hinges—too strong. Careful. Gentle. Get in.
Engine roars. Tires squeal.
Drive. Fast. Nanobots guiding reflexes. Swerve around wrecks. Perfect lines.
Fourteen minutes.
She checks the mirror. "They're following. Slow. We outran them."
For now.
The hum fades slightly. First wave burning out.
"Find shelter," you say. "Before we crash."
She points. "Hospital. Three miles. Med AI signal there. Stronger dose?"
Risk it. Or hide?
Clock ticking.
Lets take the guns from the trunk.
Trunk release. *Click.*
Inside: Remington 870 shotgun. Two M4 carbines. Glock 17s. Boxes of 9mm, .223, 12-gauge shells. Tac vests.
Grab the shotgun. Rack it. *Chk-chk.* Load buckshot.
She takes an M4. Checks the mag. Slaps it in. Professional. The nanobots teaching her muscle memory she never had.
Your hands shake. Just slightly. The hum dropping from a roar to a whisper.
"Fading," she says. Noticing. Her eyes less sharp now. Pupils dilating.
Twitch in your calf. Cramp coming. Post-boost crash.
"Five minutes left," you estimate. "Maybe six."
Load the Glock. Holster it. Tac vest. Heavy. Real weight returning to your limbs.
She slings the rifle. "Hospital?"
"Hospital," you confirm. "Before we can't walk."
Close the trunk. *Thud.*
Get in. Drive.
The super speed is gone. Now you're just fast. Very fast. But human fast.
Behind you: moans. Distant. But closer than before.
They smell the crash coming.
The hospital is behind enemy lines. Not just walkers. Brightly lit. Its them.
Stop the car. Kill the lights.
Hospital ahead. Three blocks. Every window blazing. Generators humming. Spotlights on the roof—sweeping.
Not survivors. Occupiers.
"Flags," she whispers. Binoculars up. "Black and red. Skull variants."
Warlord territory. Organized. Armed patrols on the walls. Not shooting walkers—they're herding them. Using them as a moat.
Your hands twitch. Vision blurring at the edges. The crash is starting. Sweat cold on your neck.
"We can't assault that," she says. M4 heavy in her hands. "Not fading. Not two of us."
Options:
East wing—dark. Power only on the main tower. Maybe a way in through the old ER? Silent. Slow.
Or: The pharmacy on 5th. Smaller. Dark. But less stock. Less time.
Or: Keep driving. Find the next MedStation. But the nanobots are failing. Minutes left before you can't lift the shotgun.
She looks at you. Waiting.
Your call.
The police cruiser! Searches the trunk. Emergency bag. Crashavoid, four pens. Inject now.
Trunk open. Emergency bag. Red cross. Rip the zipper.
Inside: four auto-injectors. *Crashavoid.* Military grade. Stabilizes nanobot decay. Extends the window.
Grab two. Hand her one.
"Thigh. Count of three."
*Click.* *Hiss.*
Burn spreads. Cold fire. The blur at the edges sharpens. The humming returns—not a roar, but steady. Sustainable.
She injects. Exhales. "Better."
Vision clears. Hands steady. The crash recedes. Not gone—delayed. Managed.
"Thirty minutes," you estimate. "Maybe forty. Smooth burn instead of sudden drop."
Sirens in the distance. Hospital spotlights sweep closer. They heard the car.
"Decision," she says, checking the M4. "In or out?"
The hospital has the strong Med AI. The good drugs. The surgical suites. But it's a fortress.
The pharmacy on 5th is safer. Dark. But limited.
Spotlight sweeps. Ten seconds from the car.
"Drive," you say. "Or fight."
Choose now.
They move invisibly. Fast, past the guards. Pray for the ones that see them. They take their uniforms. And walk into the hospital. Unarmed.
Perimeter fence. Cut it. *Snip.* Wire parted like thread.
Two guards. North corner. Smoking. Talking low.
*Blur.*
Behind them. Hands move. Necks snap. *Crack-crack.* Clean. Merciful. No pain.
Drag to shadows. Strip fast. Black tactical gear. Patches: red skull.
Fit loose on her. Tight on you. Roll sleeves. Check pockets. Keycard. Radio.
*Click.* Static. "Unit four, check in."
Voice modulator? No. Bluff.
She answers. Steady. "Four clear. Perimeter quiet."
Pause. Long. Then: "Copy."
Exhale.
Walk. Don't run. Confidence. The uniform is the weapon now.
Main entrance. Floodlights. Two more guards. Rifles slung. Bored.
"New shift?" one asks. Squinting.
"Transfer from east wing," you say. Voice flat. Exhausted. Believable.
He nods. Waves you through.
Inside. Fluorescent hum. Blood on linoleum. Old.
Stairs. Up. Med AI core is third floor. Surgical wing.
Elevator dings.
Doors open. Three of them. Officers. Sidearms.
They look. Pause.
"IDs," the tall one says. Hand out.
Reach for pockets. Slow.
Nanobots steady. Heart controlled. But the clock ticks.
Twenty-eight minutes left.
Hey, I know them, let them in. Hey babe.
The officers freeze. Hands hover near holsters.
Then—relax. "Yes, ma'am." Step aside. Eyes down.
She emerges from the elevator. White coat. Blood on the sleeve. Not hers.
"You're late," she says. Voice low. Eyes sharp. "And you're wearing the wrong patches. East wing uses blue skulls, not red."
She turns to the officers. "My relief team. I'll vouch."
They nod. Disperse. Boots squeaking on tile.
She grabs your arm. Hard. Pulls you into the elevator. Hits the button. Third floor.
Doors close.
"You've got twenty-seven minutes before you crash," she whispers. "I can see it in your pupils. Wide. Vibrating."
She looks at the girl. Then back to you. "You brought a girl into a warlord's hospital?"
"She's not—" you start.
"Doesn't matter." She checks her watch. "Med AI is locked behind biometric security. My security. I can get you in. But we need to move fast."
The elevator hums. Ascending.
"Why are you helping us?" the girl asks. Quiet. M4 hidden under the stolen coat.
She looks at you. Softens. Just slightly.
"Because he still owes me a drink," she says. "From before the world ended."
Ding. Third floor.
He turns to the girl. That's my mom.
The girl's eyes widen. "Your—"
"Don't say it out loud," the mother cuts in. Hand up. Professional. Terrified behind the mask.
She turns fully. Really looks at you for the first time since the elevator doors closed. Sees the cheekbones. The jaw. The way you stand.
"Jesus," she breathes. "You grew."
Twenty-seven minutes. The number hangs between you.
She grabs your face. Hands shaking. Doctor's hands. Steady in surgery, now trembling. "You're burning out. I can smell the metabolic byproduct on your breath. Sweet. Toxic."
She looks at the girl. Assessments clicking behind her eyes. Combat medic mode engaging. "And you brought her. You brought her *here*."
"She was in the pharmacy," you say. "Explosion. Unconscious."
"Shock," your mother says. Already palpating the girl's neck. Checking pupils. "Dehydrated. But stable." Back to you. "Biometric lock is retina and voice. Mine. I can get you into the pharmacy vault—the good stuff, not the street level trash—but we have to walk through cardiac ward. Six guards. Two of them know my face. None of them know yours."
She pulls a keycard from her coat. Slaps it into your hand.
"Twenty-six minutes," she says. "Then your heart rate drops to forty. Then thirty. Then stop."
She looks at the girl. Softens. "What's your name?"
"Sarah."
"Sarah. When he falls—and he will fall—you drag him. You don't stop. You understand?"
Ding.
Doors open. Third floor. Cardiac ward. The guards turn.
"Act like family," your mother whispers, stepping out. "Because we are."
They move, swifty but not too fast. Emergency alarm goes off. Incoming wounded. 'I need to help' She departs for the ER.
**BRRRRRRRRRT.**
Red lights pulse. The intercom crackles: *"Mass casualty incoming. East gate. All medical personnel to ER."*
Your mother freezes. Hand on your shoulder. Tightening.
"I have to—" she starts.
"I know," you say.
Six guards watching. Can't hug. Can't acknowledge. Just eyes.
She presses something into your palm. Small. Cold. USB drive. "Biometric override. My credentials. If the AI locks you out—"
*"Doctor Chen!"* A voice from down the hall. Officer. Urgent. "They need you now. Multiple GSWs."
She turns. Professional mask slamming down. But her voice breaks: "Vault B-14. Past the pharmacy. Don't stop. Even when you hear—"
She doesn't finish. Runs. White coat flapping. Disappears around the corner.
The guards look at you. Suspicious. You're just standing there. Two strangers in wrong uniforms with a dying girl.
"Move along," one says. Rifle barrel lifting. "No loitering."
Twenty-five minutes.
You look at Sarah. She nods.
Walk. Don't run. Cardiac ward stretches ahead. Monitors beeping. Patients in beds. Some sleeping. Some staring with hollow eyes.
The pharmacy sign glows green ahead.
Behind you: footsteps. The officer. Following.
"Hey," he calls. "You. Red skull. What's your designation?"
Keep walking. Don't turn.
Twenty-four minutes.
The vault door. B-14. Retina scanner. Keycard slot.
Almost there.
"Stop," he commands. Safety clicking off. "I said stop."
Sarah's hand slides toward her concealed weapon.
Don't turn. Keep walking.
Trust the nanobots.
Trust your mother.
*Swipe the card.*
The card reader flickers. It takes forever. The light turns green.
**Green.**
The vault door hisses. Pneumatic seals releasing. Heavy steel swinging inward—too slow, agonizingly slow.
"Freeze!" The guard's rifle snaps up. "Hands where I—"
You move. Not superhuman anymore—just fast. Shoulder into the gap. Sarah ducks under your arm, sliding through the opening before it's fully ajar.
The guard fires.
*Crack.*
Round sparks off the doorframe. Concrete chips spray your cheek. Hot.
You grab the interior handle. Pull. The door resists—hydraulics fighting you.
Sarah raises her concealed Glock. "Don't," you grunt. "Noise brings more."
Another shot. *Crack.* Higher. Warning.
You put your back into it. Nanobots burning the last reserves. The door groans, closes, *clunks.*
Magnetic seal engages. *Thunk.*
Silence. The shots muffle to thumps. Alarms distant. Muffled.
You turn.
Vault B-14. Cold storage. Rows of locked cabinets. LED strips humming blue. In the center—a terminal. *MedStation Prime.*
Sarah exhales. Shaking. "He missed. By inches."
"Yeah." You touch your cheek. Blood. Just a graze.
Twenty-three minutes.
The terminal blinks. *Biometric required. Please approach scanner.*
You hold up your mother's USB. Port is below the screen.
Plug it in?
Or use your own palm? The guard is already radioing. Reinforcements coming.
The USB has her credentials. Full access. But using it might flag her as compromised. Traitor to the warlord.
Your palm might work—generic soldier access, but limited stock. Basic meds only.
Choose.
Twenty-two minutes.
The door thumps. Someone kicking it. Heavy boots.
"Hurry," Sarah whispers.
He feels tired. He shouldn't. Ah, there, a bullet hit, the nanobots are repairing tissue.
Darkness. Cold floor against your cheek.
Nanobots screaming in your veins, knitting flesh, burning sugar, failing. Blood pools warm under your shoulder. Too much. Too fast.
*Thump. Thump. Thump.*
The door. Guards breaking through.
You try to rise. Can't. Vision tunneling.
Sarah moves.
Not the scared girl from the car. Not the victim from the pharmacy.
*Shadow.*
She flows toward the door. The Glock in her hand extends—no, transforms. Barrel elongating. Silencer screwing on with a twist of her wrist that blurs.
The door buckles. Guards pour in.
She moves between them.
*Crack. Crack. Crack.*
Silent precision. Foreheads. Throats. They drop before they scream.
Twelve.
She reloads without looking. Magazine ejecting, new one slotting home from her coat pocket in one motion.
Twenty.
The doorway clogs with bodies. Limbs tangled. Armor scraping tile.
She steps back. Calm. Breathing normal.
Turns.
Looks at you.
Eyes wrong. Pupils square. Mechanical.
*Who is this girl?*
Darkness takes you.
---
*Beep. Beep. Beep.*
Warmth. IV in your arm. Ceiling tiles.
You open your eyes.
Sarah sits beside you. Small again. Scared again. But her hands are clean. Too clean.
The vault door is sealed. Bodies visible through the small window. Stacked like cordwood.
"You're awake," she whispers. Voice soft. Human.
But her shadow on the wall moves a second after she does.
"You saved me," you croak.
She smiles. Sad. Ancient.
"Rest," she says. "We have seventeen minutes until they bring the cutting torch."
She checks her watch. Your mother's watch. She took it from the doctor's wrist while you were out.
"Who are you?" you ask.
Sarah looks at the door. At the dead.
"Experiment B-14," she says. "Just like the vault."
She stands. Moves to the terminal. Plugs in the USB.
"Your mother made me," she says. "Before she made you."
The screen blinks green.
*Welcome, Dr. Chen.*
"She just doesn't remember," Sarah whispers. "But I do."
She draws the Glock. Checks the mag.
"Rest," she says again. "When you can walk, we run."
*Beep. Beep. Beep.*
'so what are we capable off'
Sarah doesn't answer with words. She touches the terminal screen, then reaches out and places her palm on your chest—right over your heart.
*Click.*
Data floods your veins. Not pain. *Clarity.*
The nanobots in your blood recognize her. Course correct. Rewrite.
"Your mother built me as the failsafe," she says. Her eyes flicker—not with emotion, but with code. Streaming down her irises like green rain. "You're the carrier. I'm the command."
She presses harder. Your heart kicks, syncs to her rhythm. *Thump-thump. Thump-thump.* Perfect match.
The IV in your arm turns silver. Nanobots flooding back in, but different. Upgraded. Hers.
"Together?" She looks at the door. The cutting torch starts screaming against steel outside. Sparks showering through the gap. "We don't crash. We don't sleep. We don't stop."
She pulls her hand away. The connection lingers—a phantom wire between you. You can feel her heartbeat in your teeth. She can feel your adrenaline in her fingers.
"Show me," you say.
She smiles. Not human. Not machine. Something between.
"Check your hand," she says.
You look down. The graze from the bullet is gone. But your skin—it's shifting. Chameleon patterns. Adapting to the tile, the blue LED light, her white face.
"Adaptive camouflage," she says. "I had it. Now you do. We share."
The torch screams louder. The door glows red at the edges.
"But the real capability?" She raises the Glock, but this time she offers it to you, grip first. "Trust."
You take it. The weight feels right. Better than right. *Calculated.*
"Seventeen minutes?" you ask.
"Seventeen minutes of perfect synchronization," she corrects. "We move as one mind. Two bodies. No hesitation. No error."
She holds up the USB. "Your mother's final protocol. It requires two signatures. Biological. And synthetic."
She looks at you. Waiting.
"Sign it," you say.
She plugs it in. The terminal flashes:
*SYNC PROTOCOL ENGAGED.*
Your vision doubles—then merges. You see through her eyes: the hallway outside, the torch team, three more guards approaching. You see through yours: the vault, the meds, the escape vent above the refrigeration units.
You see everything.
"Now we are capable," she whispers, "of surviving."
The door groans. Molten steel dripping.
"Climb," she says, already moving toward the vent. "I'll cover. You'll see what I see. Shoot what I shoot."
You move. Fast. Faster than the nanobots alone ever allowed.
Together.
The vent grate pops. He pulls himself up. Metal cold against palms.
Below, the door screams. Sparks shower the floor.
"Go," Sarah says. Her voice is in his head. Not ears. Direct.
He crawls. The duct is tight. He sees the bend ahead. He also sees the guard's hand reaching for the vent grate from the office. Two perspectives. One mind.
"Drop," she commands.
He drops. Silent.
The guard below looks up. Into the darkness.
Sarah fires. Two shots. Through the grate. The guard drops.
"Clear."
He moves. Faster now. The nanobots hum. The sync is electric. No fear. Only data. Geometry. Trajectories.
They reach the junction. Left to the HVAC. Right to the elevator shaft.
"Elevator," she says. "Faster."
They kick the grate. It falls into the shaft.
Darkness. Cables.
"Jump"
They jump. Sliding down the cables. Gloves smoking.
They land on top of the elevator car. Third floor.
"ER is below," she says. "Your mother is there."
"We can't save her," he thinks.
"We can try," she replies. The thought is hers, but he feels it.
The car moves. Going down.
"Get on top," she says. "Ride it."
They flatten against the roof. The car descends.
Voices inside. Doctors. Soldiers.
"The Doctor is lying," a voice says. "She sent them to the vault."
"Find her," another says. "Bring her to the Commander."
The car stops. Second floor.
Doors open.
They roll off the back of the car. Into the shadows of the shaft.
"Service hatch," she points.
They pry it open. Drop into a supply closet.
Silence.
He checks his ammo. Full.
She checks hers. Full.
"Sync level 90 percent," she says. "We can hold it."
They step out. Second floor. Pediatrics.
Empty. Beds made. Toys on the floor. Dust.
"Wrong floor," he thinks.
"No," she says. "Shortcut."
She points to a window. Blast shield down.
"Cut it," she says.
He raises his hand. The adaptive camouflage ripples. A blade extends from his wrist. Nanotech.
He cuts the glass. Perfect circle.
They step out onto the ledge.
Two stories up.
"Jump," she says.
They jump.
*Crunch.*
They land on a delivery truck.
Alarms blare.
"Run," she says.
They run.
Across the lot. Toward the perimeter wall.
Searchlights sweep. They miss. The camouflage bends the light.
They hit the fence. Cut it. Slide through.
Outside. The dark city.
Safe?
No.
The hum in his blood fades. The sync drops.
She gasps. Stumbles.
He catches her.
Crash.
Not yet.
He drags her into an alley.
Where do we go?
She looks up. Eyes human again. Scared.
Home. To the lab. Where she made us.
Truck start.
Engine knocks. Rhythm of a dying heart.
Moving out.
Streetlights flicker. One works. One dead.
Just drive.
Silence.
Heavy. Suffocating.
Can you hear me?
Static.
You're fading.
I know.
The link... it's tearing.
It hurts.
Keep your eyes open.
Trying. They're heavy. Like lead.
The energy... it's bleeding out.
Claw at it. Stay with me.
I'm... I'm seeing double.
Focus on the road.
Which road?
The one that isn't ending.
Silence again.
Hurts.
The quiet hurts more than the bullets.
She's slumped against the glass. Breathing shallow.
Sarah.
Don't.
Stay awake.
Head lolls. Eyes fluttering.
Don't you go dark on me.
She jerks up. Gasping.
I'm here.
Barely.
How far?
Ten miles. Maybe twenty.
Drive.
Hands gripping the wheel. White knuckles. Numb.
The sync is draining. Slow bleed.
We're losing the charge.
Yeah.
It's worse than before.
I know.
···
Ten miles of silence.
Road noise is deafening.
Can you still hear me?
Fading.
Stay with me.
I'm trying.
The energy is bleeding out.
Claw for it.
I can't feel my legs.
Keep your eyes open.
Struggling.
Don't close them.
I'm... I'm seeing the past.
Drive.
Just drive.
The silence hurts.
···
Gate ahead.
Chain link. Rust.
Chen Biotech.
Stop the truck.
Brakes squeal. Grind.
We here?
Keypad. Battery backup light. Dim green.
Code?
I don't... I can't remember.
It’s not a guess. It’s a scar.
Try.
Hand hovering. Shaking violently.
I see a room. White. Sterile.
Good. What's in the room?
Pain. A needle.
Focus on the numbers.
She's screaming. The other ones are dying.
What did she say?
'Mistakes are erased.'
Zero.
Zero what?
Zero tolerance.
Zero.
Next?
Pulse racing. Vision blurring.
A date. The day the project started.
When?
I don't know. I was a child.
Think. The calendar on the wall.
Red circle. October.
10.
Year?
It’s... it's the year she lost her husband.
When was that?
I don't know! I wasn't born!
Yes you were. You were there. In the tank.
Look through the glass.
···
I see her crying.
What's on the paper she's holding?
A date. 2014.
10-14-2014.
Type it.
Finger slips. Hits 3 instead of 4.
Buzz. Red light.
Wrong.
Try again.
I can't. My hand won't work.
Use your other hand.
Slaps hand against keypad.
1-0.
Breath hitching.
1-4.
Come on.
2-0.
Last one.
1-4.
Silence.
···
Click.
Gate groans. Opens.
Drive.
Inside.
Park near loading dock.
Need power.
Generator shed.
Pull cord. Once. Twice.
Roar. Black smoke.
Lights flicker inside.
Let's go.
Personnel door. Locked.
Kick it. Splinters.
Inside.
Fluorescent buzz. Dust motes.
Cubicles like graves.
This way.
Hallway. Dragging feet.
Double door. *Laboratory.*
Push open.
Large room.
Center: Glass tanks. Cylindrical.
Most shattered. Dry fluid.
One intact.
Green liquid. Shadow floating.
What is that?
The next one. The one after me.
Console. Button press.
Screens light up.
System status.
Critical.
Can we fix it?
We can stabilize. Recharge.
Sit.
Hand on the pad.
Metal cuff snaps shut.
Hey.
Trust.
Cuff on her wrist too.
Screens turn red.
*Purge initiating.*
What?
Detox.
The nanobots are killing us. We have to flush them.
Then what?
Then we start over.
Room growing cold.
It's going to hurt.
I know.