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But we needed a plan, and fast.
He drew close. “Trust me,” he murmured against my ear, sending pleasant shivers down my spine.
With a firm nod, I replied, “Always.”
And with that, we turned away from the balcony, ready to face whatever challenge lay ahead, together.
* * *
The hum of distant machinery assaulted my senses as we darted through the door.
I could feel the cool, metallic touch of the floor beneath my boots, and the air had a sterile tang to it, reminiscent of antiseptic.
The large docking bay stretched out before us, filled with crates, robotic loading arms, and various other logistical equipment.
Above us, the expansive ceiling bore an intricate network of lights, each illuminating a section of the hangar, giving the vast space an almost ethereal glow.
My ears were filled with the muffled noises of the prison facility — the distant alarms, the shouts of guards, and the low hum of the magnetic barriers that separated sections of the facility.
I could see the sleek lines of the delivery shuttle at the far end, its smooth surface reflecting the ambient lights.
The security door blocking our way was thick and imposing, with no visible access panel.
Our options seemed limited.
Breathing heavily, Ceara stepped closer to the door, placing his hand on its cool surface, as if trying to discern its secrets.
His palm flattened against it as he closed his eyes.
I watched, fingers itching with anticipation, willing him to find a way.
Moments later, his eyes reopened, and the weight of despair within them was unmistakable. “It’s no good,” he admitted, voice strained from exhaustion. “There’s no way past this door in the time we have. I need to see further… I need to understand the broader patterns.”
My heart sank. “But the only way you can do that is with the Supervisor’s machine,” I whispered, tasting the bitterness of defeat on my lips.
Ceara nodded, looking dejected. “Heading back now would be suicide.”
We both jumped as the clang of boots against metal sounded from behind.
Spinning around, I was met with a nightmarish tableau.
Guards, dozens of them, stood on the upper ramparts.
Their rifles, glistening under the hangar’s light, were trained squarely on us.
Between my racing heartbeat and the steadily approaching footsteps, the world seemed to blur around me.
The sharp odor of ozone filled my nostrils as plasma rifles powered up, and a sense of impending doom settled heavily on my shoulders.
Then, the final figure emerged:
The Supervisor.
His demeanor was calm, almost serene, as he stood there observing us, a slight smirk playing on his lips.
“Well, well,” he began, his voice dripping with amusement. “Looks like we have ourselves a little predicament.”
I felt Ceara’s hand squeeze mine.
