Page 36 of Aviatrix

The computer screen flickers.

INCOMING TRANSMISSION.

Lark steps closer, peering over my shoulder as I click to accept.

Static.

“Nova—! You—there? They know. They’re coming. For—[static]—her.”

My heart stops.

“Atlas?” I gasp. “Oh my god. Atlas?”

More static. Then, a rush of garbled words I can’t make out.

“Where are you?” I say as I type, fingers flying. “What happened?”

The screen pulses, flickers. One phrase splits through clear. “They’re coming. For her.”

My chest squeezes like a vice. The air feels thinner, my lungs refusing to fill. I grip the edge of the desk, trying to steady the swell of panic rising fast and sharp in my throat.

And then, nothing.

Just a blank screen and a blinking cursor.

I stare at it, breath caught in my chest.

Lark looks at me. “We need to go.”

I nod, but my mind is already spinning. My team is alive. But they could be in danger. Because of me.

I push back from the chair. “We need to find them. We need—”

WEE-OOO. WEE-OOO. WEE-OOO.

A siren blares overhead.

Red lights strobe across the ceiling.

Someone’s coming.

And we’re out of time.

NINE

DID YOU LOVE HER?

The sirens wail as I follow Lark down the dimly lit hall. He throws up a hand when we hear a scuffle of footsteps.

I don’t make a sound. I barely even breathe.

The low, rhythmic blare of the base alarm pulses in my bones, vibrating through my chest like the echo of something ancient and wrong. My limbs feel unsteady. My body already knows we’re not safe. This isn’t the drill kind of siren. This one has teeth.

Lark edges forward, his sidearm drawn as we reach the mess hall, eyes scanning the room like it might bite. That tells me more than anything, we’re not safe.

It’s empty. Chairs overturned. Trays abandoned mid-meal.

“What is it?” I whisper, stepping in behind him.