Chapter Thirty-four

PART V



Chapter Thirty-four

Thursday, April 12th, 0012 NE

1852 hours

Norilsk, Russia




NATALIE HAD A feeling it’d come when she least expected it. Smack dab in the middle of a cafeteria dinner with the Falcons, the call came that Antipov’s mission briefing for the attack on EDEN Command was about to begin. It gave her just enough time to scarf down the remainder of her meal, bid her comrades farewell, and make tracks for the briefing room, which was packed with fulcrums. It was a strange feeling being counted among them—a distinction that was not lost among the crowd. More than a few times, Natalie found herself approached by fulcrums offering Nightman salutes and welcoming her into their ranks. But not all eyes were welcoming. Several times, she’d caught fulcrums casting frosty glares her way as if her presence was defiling the place.

Dostoevsky had saved her a seat alongside him and Rashid Faraj, the Turkish fulcrum who’d been a part of the Krasnoyarsk extraction. Colonel Saretok and Valentin were also in attendance, both sitting in the middle of the first row. There were men she recognized from all over the base, though she knew few of their names.

At the front of the briefing room, Antipov adjusted a collar mic, the jostling of fabric amplified through the theater’s speakers. Though not meant as a call to attention, it served as one just the same. As the murmuring diminished, Natalie leaned forward in her chair to focus on what he was about to say.

After clearing his throat, the scruffy, ponytailed general offered the crowd a sly, slanted smile. He drew a breath and addressed them.

In Russian.

Rolling her eyes, Natalie leaned back in her chair and released the softest of sighs.

Leaning over and whispering in her ear, Dostoevsky said, “He says thank you to everyone for attending. It has been a time of great turmoil for us all since EDEN’s attack on The Machine and the murder of General Thoor.”

The murder of General Thoor? Killing Thoor sounded more like good, old-fashioned justice to her. She listened as Dostoevsky translated on, more thankful than ever for the fulcrum’s presence.

“Many Nightmen were lost at Novosibirsk on the day of the betrayal. Some even abandoned our cause when it seemed we would be defeated. Resist the urge to label these men cowards; they were doing what they felt they must to survive. I implore you to look back on your time with them fondly, for they contributed to all we became. Though gone from us, they will always be our brethren.

“Over the past week, I have sent several messages to you regarding our path forward, including the abolishment of the Murder Rule and the expansion of our inclusivity.” Antipov’s eyes rested on Natalie, and he gestured her way as Dostoevsky translated. “Many of you have had the chance to meet Fulcrum Rockwell, the first woman to have such a designation. She is to be treated like a sister.”

If there was ever a time Natalie wanted to sink into the floor, this was it.

Antipov mercifully continued. “General Thoor was our greatest leader. It was he who made Novosibirsk a name that struck fear into the hearts of all who heard it. He raised us from nothing to make us the most feared fighting force the world has ever known. In all that he did for us, there was but one flaw.”

Just one?

“He did not adapt. He did not see the progression around us for what it was. He came from a different time with different rules. Things do not work the same now as they did long ago. We must adapt if we are to survive. We have already undergone several changes since the general left us. As time goes on, expect that you will see more. Without further delay, let us now discuss the mission before us—the most important we will have ever undertaken.”

Natalie’s eyes narrowed.

“By now, you have all heard the location of EDEN Command, in the Likouala Swamp of the Congo.” Working the projector controls, he brought up a map of that region. “The time has come for us to enter its hallways, to retrieve what is ours, then to destroy it as they attempted to destroy Novosibirsk.”

Retrieve what was theirs? They had to be talking about Scott and company.

“This operation, which we are calling Dark Thunder, will consist of three phases: the disruption of EDEN’s response force, the infiltration and destruction of EDEN Command, and the takeover of the EDEN bases of Novosibirsk and Leningrad by NSU forces, as directed by President Belikov. He has been working in conjunction with us during the planning phase of this operation, without whom none of this could be possible.”

What about Sydney? Where were they coming into play? Were they at all?

Antipov went on. “At 1450 tomorrow, transports and a fighter escort from Northern Forge will depart for EDEN Command on a low and carefully calculated trajectory that should leave them undetected until they reach Africa. Their approximate arrival time will be 1830 hours—this will be an evening attack on the facility.” He clicked to the next screen in the presentation, which highlighted the numerous EDEN bases on the planet. He turned to the crowd. “As many of you know, I have worked for many years to place eidola at the major bases in EDEN’s global network. These sleeper agents have been instructed to amalgamate into the ranks as legitimate EDEN soldiers. At the same time that our fighters are instructed to fire upon EDEN Command, I will send a signal to these agents to initiate a total disruption of EDEN’s interception network.”

A total disruption of EDEN’s interception network? What did that mean?

“This will be a coordinated disruption that will render all of their facilities unable to respond at precisely the time our attack begins. What few Superwolves they will be able to dispatch will be no match for our Omega Fighters. At that point, the success of the operation will be in the hands of those leading the base assault.” Once more, he faced the slide show, which transitioned into a timeline of events, just as he’d discussed. “As you can see, shortly after the eidola disrupt EDEN’s network, General Andreev of the National Soviet Military will coordinate simultaneous attacks on both Novosibirsk and Leningrad to purge them of EDEN forces. Once they are captured, he will release a message condemning EDEN for conspiring with extraterrestrial forces. To substantiate his claim, he will release a copy of the audio recording between Archer and the Ceratopians. It will justify all that we have done, even if there are those who disapprove of the manner in which we have done them.”

There was nothing about anything Antipov was saying that surprised Natalie. Of course, they’d have to hinder EDEN’s ability to intercept. Of course, they’d need Omegas to defend whatever Superwolves reached them, anyway. Of course, there would have to be backing by the NSU for this all to work. Had she been in charge of this operation, she’d be coming up with these same concepts and timelines. Yet her conscience was gnawing at her. These Nightmen were working toward the same end goal as her—to stop what EDEN was doing. But was sending armed NSU forces into EDEN bases to forcefully eject them the right course of action?

A Nightman raised his hand. Antipov called on him. Shortly after he asked his question, Dostoevsky leaned in to translate. “He asks what will happen to Leningrad and Novosibirsk after they are captured.”

Antipov answered, “Control of Leningrad will fall to the NSU, while Novosibirsk is returned to us, to be given to Colonel Saretok to serve as general. I will remain here at Northern Forge.”

The answer prompted a few murmurs in the crowd. As for Natalie, all she wanted to know was the death toll of all of this. How many innocent soldiers—soldiers who’d enlisted for the same reasons as her—were going to be killed for the actions of a few at the top?

Can we not just release the audio? Can we not let the law handle this? Do we have to go full assault, here? What if it was as simple as releasing the audio, watching Archer and his cronies get arrested, then seeing Scott, Tiffany, and Becan released? Would that not accomplish the same thing as all of this? It would. She knew it would.

Though Dostoevsky continued to translate, Natalie found herself lost in thought. I have no options, here. What am I going to do, steal the audio and release it myself? I don’t know where it is and I wouldn’t know what to do with it once I had it. And with Valentin’s cameras everywhere, I’d be busted the moment I got the recording in hand. But I want to be a part of this—I need to be a part of this. This isn’t some inconsequential event where I can just sit on the sidelines. This is important. Critically important. This is for Earth, and if Archer has his way, Earth is screwed. The Nightmen want to set the world right. It’s just the way they want to do it that’s so wrong. So what can I do?

What can I do?

Words in Dostoevsky’s translation caught her attention. “How will EDEN’s interceptors be disrupted?” someone asked. She wanted to know the answer to that, too.

“By destroying their air traffic control towers,” Antipov answered. “It is the simplest way to avoid mass casualty while simultaneously preventing them from coordinating responses in time.”

Destroying air traffic control towers was avoiding mass casualty? As opposed to what, dropping nukes? Closing her eyes, she lowered her head in disgust.

“Fulcrum Rockwell.”

The sudden addressing of her by Antipov snapped her head back up. His cold eyes were staring straight at her, his words in English—meant for her to hear.

“Is there a problem?”

Yes. Yes, there was. “How many people will be in these towers when your eidola hit the buttons?”

Antipov smiled briefly, in the polite way one does when they don’t like the question they’ve been asked. “We will do all that we can to ensure that as few people are injured as possible.”

Again, she asked the question. “Do we know how many people will be in the towers?”

“Between ninety-eight and one hundred twenty-two.”

She hadn’t expected him to have an answer.

Angling his head, he asked, “Do you know how many Nightmen EDEN intended to kill between Novosibirsk and Chernobyl?”

“Yes, but—”

“But the Nightmen were murderers, so that makes it okay, right? Is that what you are thinking?”

…yes. Yes, that was what she was thinking. But it was something she could never say. Silenced by his words, all Natalie could do was listen.

“I assure you, Fulcrum Rockwell, I have put far more thought into the loss of life in this operation than EDEN ever did for theirs. I do not wish to kill. I have tried to make that clear to you time and time again. I hope I have succeeded.”

Voice a tad lower, she said, “I just want to make sure that this is tactical and not…”

When she didn’t finish the statement, Antipov arched an eyebrow. “And not what, fulcrum?”

She sighed. “Vengeance. Bloodlust.”

Crossing his arms, Antipov chuckled behind tightly sealed lips. He shook his head a single time. “The waters are bloody, fulcrum, and you are in a room full of sharks. That is why I am here—not to chum the waters further, but to prevent the frenzy that would otherwise take place.”

She got that, now. Defeated by his argument, she simply said, “Thank you, general. I understand.”

Around the room, several low chuckles emerged. Thankfully, a sharp word from Antipov silenced them. Without sparing her another glance, he continued with his brief.


The next ninety minutes consisted of Antipov going over various details of the operation, from the involvement of Gagarin Wing to how exactly EDEN Command would be infiltrated. In the week leading up to the assault, Todd Kenner had identified the location of the underground hangar entrance that needed to be blown open for entry to be made. Once that was done, all the transports had to do was follow the tunnel into the heart of the facility. Though Antipov assured the group that the entry plan was fool-proof, Natalie had learned by this point that all doubts were warranted. She would reserve any and all judgment until they were flying home with the rescued soldiers.

Also mentioned in the mission brief were the names of the fulcrums who would be leading the EDEN Command assault. Unsurprisingly, Natalie was not listed among them—though Saretok and Dostoevsky were. Dostoevsky would be in command of one of three V2s taking part in the operation. The only members of the Fourteenth who would be involved were Egor, Varvara, and Esther. The rest of the beleaguered unit was simply too injured to partake. There would, however, be other familiar faces to fill the ranks. In addition to the Fourteenth’s contributors, Javon and Tom would be there, as would Feliks and Pyotr. Serving as XO for Dostoevsky’s squad was Rashid, who’d recovered enough from the injuries he sustained in Krasnoyarsk to resume field activity. Though Natalie didn’t know the man particularly well, in what few conversations she’d had with him at Northern Forge, he struck her as a sound presence in a scenario that desperately called for such.

Though Natalie’s name was listed as someone under Dostoevsky’s command, there was no indication as to where she fell within the ranking structure. Fulcrums oversaw slayers—that much she knew. Perhaps, that was all there was to know.

More than ever, the whole meeting left her once again feeling that she didn’t belong to this group of people. Antipov had talked a good game when he’d “recruited” her, but now that she was in, what was she? It seemed she was little more than a visual aid for inclusivity. The token woman. Or at least, the token woman that wasn’t Esther. And she wasn’t exactly sure what Esther was at this point. She only knew this: she would have a role in this operation, even if it was one of her own making. She hoped Dostoevsky would give her that much.

One thing Natalie was surprised about was that there was no mention of Sydney whatsoever. Whatever role they were playing in this was under wraps. She could only assume that General Becker was being kept in the loop.

When the crowd was dismissed, they rose with a typical post-brief murmur. On a better day, under better circumstances, Natalie would have sought out Antipov after the meeting to ask follow-up questions, but after having already drawn more attention to herself than she’d intended, the last thing she wanted to do was potentially entrench herself deeper into Antipov’s ire. Instead, she turned to Dostoevsky. “So what do you think of all this?” If there was anyone who could understand the internal dilemma she was dealing with, it would surely be him.

Sliding his hands into his pockets, the fulcrum answered, “I think tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

“He didn’t say anything about Sydney. Do you think they’re playing a role in this? I mean, they must be, right?”

“I am sure. But as is often the case, Antipov likes to keep his best assets secret.”

Glancing around to ensure no one was listening into their conversation, she leaned closer to him. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

Though he seemed a bit surprised by the request, he nodded his head. “Of course.”

“How do you do this?”

He looked at her strangely. “What do you mean?”

“How do you align yourself so easily with these people?”

At that, he chuckled and smiled. “I am one of these people.”

In response, she shook her head. “You know that’s not true. You wear the same kind of armor as they do, but you’re not like this crowd—at all.”

He offered a placating, if not strained half-smile. Drawing a breath, he answered, “Whether or not I feel the same way as my brethren is irrelevant. I committed murder to earn the right to wear this armor, as did they. I will always be a Nightman.” He seemed to consider her. “This is my ministry, Natalie. Only someone who has been through what they have been through can reach them. It has become my purpose. Though I fight with them, I know some of them look upon me to see something different—to see if there is hope in the darkness. I am a fulcrum. I am also a man who loves God. The two need not be mutually exclusive.”

She got that. She truly did. She just had no idea how that was supposed to help her. “Unfortunately for me, I don’t think I have much of a ‘ministry’ with this group, or whatever you’d call it.”

The commander angled his head. “Then who is your ministry with?”

Blinking, Natalie looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Who can you reach that no one else can reach? How have you been put in a unique position to address a certain group of people—or a need? That is your ministry. That is what you must find out.”

“And when I found out, then what?”

He smiled. “That part is up to you.” With no further words, he stepped backward to walk away. “Get ready, captain. Tomorrow is a big day.” Turning away, Dostoevsky made his way for the exit, his words left to linger.

And for Natalie to deal with.

Her ministry. Never once in all of her time with EDEN had she ever thought of her job as a ministry. If she indeed had such a thing, it was not to anyone in the Nightman sect. Her ministry would be to those like her. Those who followed a call to be something higher—something greater. Those who’d decided to protect Earth even if it cost them their lives. If Dostoevsky’s ministry was to the Nightmen, surely Natalie’s was to EDEN.

The question was, how was she supposed to live that ministry out? She was about to partake in a mission to attack EDEN Command. Beyond just the extraction of Scott and company, it was an opportunity to send a message to the world. But what message would that be?

I am one with The Machine.

That was the message. Or, that would be as soon as she appeared on the scene wearing that dark-horned armor. Natalie Rockwell, once an ideal soldier of EDEN, had succumbed to the temptation of darkness, just like Scott Remington had. But at least he had that golden collar. What did she have? Who would she be representing? Antipov? The late General Thoor? Herself?

No. None of those answers could be right. She needed to represent the young men and women who’d left everything behind to fight for a cause. For those who’d lost loved ones in this war. For those, like her, who’d joined to make a difference. Those for whom that gleam of silver and blue still meant something.

There were so many words that drifted through Natalie’s mind as she thought about tomorrow—about what it would bring, not only to her, but to the world. Tomorrow, the people of Earth would hear the truth about those they’d entrusted to protect it. They would know that there were people out there willing to risk death to save it. She could think of no better ministry than the restoration of that faith where it’d been lost.

And there was only one way she could think of to do that.


As news of the operation spread, the operatives of Falcon Platoon and the Fourteenth found cause to gather together. There was no place more appropriate than in the troop bay of the Pariah, the aircraft that’d brought them all together on this journey of purpose and circumstance—on this wild ride that occasionally resembled a slow-motion train wreck. And yet, in the company of each other, sitting spaced out along the floor and in the seats, they found reasons to smile. They found thoughts of those they’d lost and those they’d soon see again. Thoughts they knew would drive them tomorrow to find success. To demand it, not only of themselves, but of each other.

Dostoevsky made it clear that, despite the general’s preordained plan, anyone who wanted to partake in the operation would be allowed in his transport. It was a statement met with enthusiasm, but also a solemn understanding of why things had been planned the way they had. Every injured warrior who partook was one less able body who’d be able to fit inside. One less effective fighter. One less person to truly help. It was a shared understanding, even if it was one the group did not like. In the end, there was but one seat on the transport that went unclaimed of those that were available. As it turned out, there was only one truly able body who could possibly take it. It was the person Natalie wanted on board more than anyone else at Northern Forge. The person that, on this evening of clarity, she longed to share friendship with again.

Logan Marshall didn’t gather with the rest of the group when they made their way to the Pariah, nor did he send Natalie any messages regarding it, despite the fact that he surely knew this mission was going down. But that did not deter her from hoping he’d walk into that hangar tomorrow and tell her, “Hell, Nattie, you know I can’t let you go alone.” So strong was her conviction that she brought it up with the group. It was for that reason alone—for the sake of that Australian mercenary who could singlehandedly turn a tide—that no one claimed that one vacant seat. It was his, if he decided he wanted it.

Eventually, the chatter died down and the first of many yawns began to emerge. As comforting as it’d been to have a final moment of togetherness before the day of the mission, it was also important that everyone found rest. Leaving the Pariah, they ventured back toward their quarters to sleep.

Everyone except Natalie. There was but one more task—one more act of inspiration—that she needed to do. After making her way to a quiet corner on Level-2, she sat on the floor, set her helmet camera facing her across the hallway, and recorded a message. A testimony, much as she imagined Colonel Lilan’s had been. Something to be aired alongside the audio recording of Archer and the Ceratopians. The world was about to hear that some of their most trusted had sold them out. They needed to hear a reason to still hope.

As soon as the message was finished, Natalie too made her way to the living quarters, where she slipped beneath the sheets of her cot to find rest.

It found her quickly.



* * *


EDEN Command


At the same time



FUN IN THE SUMMER sun. Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the summer sun.

Tiffany’s head hung low in her chair—the same one she’d been strapped to for who knew how long. As her blond strands swung melodically with the chorus that now lived on repeat in her head, she stared at their ends as they moved back and forth like wheat swaying in the wind. Or a crowd waving their hands. Or perhaps, waves in the ocean.

Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the summer sun.

The song still played in the room, as it did every minute of every hour of every day, except when someone would enter the room to ask her questions she was no longer able to understand, let alone answer. She had no more fingernails to pry off. She’d been struck, had her hair yanked, been water boarded. The past however long it had been had seen her run through the gamut of torture techniques, with little success to show for it. Given what felt like mere minutes of sleep per day, she could scarcely conjure up enough brain power to remember her name. In fact, there was only one thing she knew well enough to recite at all.

Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the summer sun.

Eyes rolling back, Tiffany felt the reality around her start to fade as it did seemingly every hour. This was how it always happened.

Fun in the… summer sun. Fun in…

There was no existence to be had. No future to comprehend. Hope having long abandoned her, the only happy thing the blonde longed for was when her captors tortured Scott through the speaker. His screams were the closest thing she had left to a true human connection. They reminded her that she wasn’t alone.

Fun...

Eyes heavy as cinder blocks, she bobbed her head once, twice, then a third time. The pulsing bass continued.

Oceans. A surfboard. Her and her girlfriends as teenagers on the beach. Winking at the boys as they passed. Some of the boys winking back. The thoughts flitted through her consciousness like a flickering screen.

Then…

Gasp!

She never heard them come in anymore. Long and slow over her head, they always poured it. Making it last. Making it awful. The shock never changed. Open mouthed and hyperventilating, Tiffany tensed as the ice water came down. Her eyes always closed at first. Then they opened, watching as her soaked, blond strands streamed with water over her head and toward her lap. She sucked in as the slow pour was finished.

They never asked questions. Not anymore. For so long they’d tried, until it became an effort met with futility. Now, they just kept her awake. They just pounded her eardrums. They just twisted the knobs of insanity as far as they would go, as if waiting for her to come to them with information. As Archer had told her several times already, “the door is open when you decide you want to step through.” But she knew nothing of doors. She knew just one thing.

Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the summer sun.

Shivering as she stared through the wet hair that hung over her eyes, she gazed at the wall before her as if looking right through it. As if beholding some realm that only she could see. Her face was expressionless.

The guard—another one of the nameless few that Archer and Oleg seemed to employ for tasks such as this—leaned down to look at her face, almost as if to ascertain whether the woman before him was still a woman at all. To see if she’d been reduced to a shell. Reaching forward, he wiped her dripping strands back over her head. A kindness? Or did he just want to see the crazy in her? It mattered not. Standing upright again, he turned for the exit, stepping back into the hall with his empty bucket. The trembling blonde was left behind as the cell door closed.

There were no words. There were no feelings. There was no future or past. There was only a cold, miserable present. There was only the chill. Staring ahead for a few moments longer, Tiffany lowered her head back down, the strands so carefully pushed back once again falling forward. Once more, she watched them sway. Like an ocean. Like a crowd.

There was a sudden, loud clank. The room was cast in total darkness—the endlessly looping pop song fell silent. Flinching in her chair, Tiffany shot her head upright as red emergency lights kicked on. Was this a dream? In front of her, she heard a loud clunk come from the cell door. A lockdown.

Above her head, the speaker system crackled, as if a channel had suddenly been opened. From it, a voice emerged that she’d never heard before. “You need to listen, Tiffany. I don’t have much time.”

This voice…it was addressing her? It sounded so pressed, so real. So…southern. She wanted to question it as to its existence—to question the existence of everything that was suddenly going on around her. To interrogate this hallucinogenic manifestation. It continued before she could.

“I just initiated a remote restart of the base’s main power hub. I have just about a minute before it cycles back on and they’ll be able to hear me.”

Hear him? Lips pressing together, she managed to form a single word. “Who…?”

“Tomorrow, the Nightmen are going to storm this place. They’re coming to get you, Remington, and McCrae out before they destroy the facility. You’ll know when it happens. Every wall around you’s gonna start shakin’.”

Destroy the entire facility? McCrae? Did the voice mean Becan? Her head was spinning. But this was a dream. Wasn’t it? This voice was the final desperate grasping of her mind before it became forever lost.

“I’m gonna try and get to you quick, but I may not get there before EDEN does. If they show up, they’ll be showing up to kill you. Fight ’em with all you got left.”

All I have left? What else do I have left? Upon opening her mouth, she found it hard to form the word. “How?” Wait a minute…was this real? Was the voice she was hearing not the madness in her brain? Was someone really coming for them? Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the—no, listen!

“Hang in there, Feathers. You’ll be out of here, soon.”

The rush of sanity came to her quickly. The conversation she was having was real. Lurching forward in her chair, she yelled, “Wait!”

There was another loud clunk. The emergency lights faded. They were replaced by the bright white lights of the cell. Power had been restored. Ahead, from the cell door, she heard the lockdown bolt lift. The speakers burst back to life again, the blaring lyrics of Slammin’ Sam and the Wham Ka-Blam reverberating in all their top-pop glory. And just like that—just like that—everything was back the way it was.

Almost.

I just had that conversation. That voice I heard was really talking to me. Are we about to be rescued?

All of a sudden, despite the pulsing music and the shivering cold of the dousing, Tiffany found a ledge of clarity to cling to. She didn’t care who that voice was. What did it matter? If it was a trick of Archer’s, then she’d be no worse for wear imagining it real than writing it off as a delusion. But she didn’t think it was a delusion. That wasn’t what her quickening heart rate was telling her.

Angling her head downward, Tiffany stared at the floor. On the outside, she looked much the same as she had when the words of Fun in the Summer Sun were looping endlessly in her brain. But this time, despite its earsplitting presence in the cell, she wasn’t hearing it. She wasn’t affected by it. Her thoughts were too deeply focused.

“All I have left,” she whispered. Closing her eyes, she cleared her mind of everything except those four words. All I have left. All I have left. She was beaten, demoralized, chained, weakened. A mental shell of herself with scarcely the strength left to fight—and not even that did an ounce of good while she was shackled to a chair.

All I have left.

All she could summon. All she could possibly muster. Every ounce of everything she had left in her brain, body, and spirit. Until she had nothing.

All I have left.

The voice had had limited time to speak. It’d chosen to speak to her instead of Scott. There must have been a reason. Scott must have been too far gone to have heard it. There was no other reason why the voice would have chosen her. She’d heard Scott’s torture; it’d been relentless. She’d been given a heads-up, but Scott had been given nothing. If EDEN got to him first, he wouldn’t even know they were there to execute him. Suddenly, her heeding the voice’s warning was more than for her own benefit. It might very well be to save her and Scott’s life.

Twisting her hands in their clasps, she strained to pull one of them free. It was an effort she’d attempted many times before. Her wrists had already bled from it. Never had they come close to slipping out. Jaw tightening, she lowered her head.

I have time. I have time to figure this out. I just need to clear my head. It was easier said than done with Slammin’ Sam in the room—but at the end of the day, that was just another excuse. The time for excuses had run out. All I have left means all I have left. I’ve got a lot left in the tank. I am Tiffany vecking Feathers. I am exceptional. I am…

…I am totally rad.

Despite the fatigue, despite the physical and emotional torture, despite everything she’d endured, she found herself feeling a spike in focus. A spike in determination, like the recipient of an adrenaline shot. That voice—that hope—had done it for her. She wasn’t insane. She’d just fooled herself into acceptance of what seemed like an insurmountable task. Escape. Hope. How closely the two were tied together. Perhaps the latter could lead to the former. Perhaps that was all she ever needed.


Minutes and hours ticked past. Tiffany made no effort to mask her fatigue—no effort to try and hide it from view to avoid a dousing. She’d survived on scant sleep for this long. She could make it one more day. Lowering her head and closing her eyes when she needed a boost, she simply waited for the guards and their buckets to come. She met the water eagerly, even lifting her head on occasion to let it pour right over her face—open-mouthed and gasping all the while. A shake of the head later, and her brain was good to go. Figuring. Tinkering. Plotting like her life depended on it. She knew that it did. Salvation was coming.

She was ready to meet it.


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