Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E. (The Parazodiac Nexus #1)

15. Infiltrate And Conquer

15

INFILTRATE AND CONQUER

~NYX~

“ C ’mon,” I hiss, fighting the bubble of panic humming through me.

My fingers grip the metal bar with desperate strength, my body dangling over an abyss that seems to have no bottom.

Water drips from my soaked clothes as I fight to catch my breath, my heart pounding from both exertion and the terrifying drop below.

Can't stay here.

The memory of that massive metal sphere is too fresh, too threatening. Another could come crashing down at any moment, sealing this escape route forever.

I have to move…

I force my trembling muscles to work, climbing the ladder rung by rung until I spot an opening above the tunnel I just fell from.

The panel comes loose with a bit of effort, revealing a smaller passage – some kind of emergency exit or maintenance tunnel. I pull myself through, grateful for any route that leads away from that watery hell.

Following the hazard signs painted on the walls, I move through the narrow space as alarms blare throughout the facility. The sound bounces off metal walls, creating a cacophony of warning and chaos.

Intruders!

I hear voices below shouting.

We have multiple intruders in the facility.

I pause at a junction in the ventilation system, pressing my back against the cool metal as I try to process everything that's happened. The shadows remain quiet, but my mind races with questions and concerns.

Where did Azurite and Luna end up?

I didn't see them at the bottom of that pit, which means there must have been another tunnel, another path. The thought of them out there somewhere, possibly injured or captured, makes my chest tight with unfamiliar worry.

Regrouping is impossible now.

The reality of that hits hard.

The best I can hope for is that they find their way out, that somehow fate will give us a chance to meet again in freedom.

The connection forged in that cell feels too important to lose forever.

My breath finally steadies as I contemplate how I managed to break free of the killing instinct earlier. How I stopped myself from becoming their perfect weapon, their mindless M.U.S.E. It was different this time – like finding a door in what I thought was a solid wall.

Maybe I can control it.

The thought is revolutionary.

What if instead of fighting the monster they created, I could direct it? Channel it? Find some balance between the weapon and the woman.

After all, who would I really be hurting?

The guards and scientists of Ravenscroft are no innocents. They're the ones who tortured us, treating us like lab rats, and in turn, morphed me into something caught between human and weapon.

They're all enemies here.

Every white coat who took notes while we screamed.

Every guard who watched impassively as we suffered.

Every person who helped keep us caged.

The shadows might be quiet, but my own thoughts grow clearer. I don't need their whispers to know what needs to be done. Don't need their guidance to understand that survival now means embracing what they made me – but on my own terms.

My hands clench as I remember every injection, every test, every moment of agony they inflicted. The rage is there, familiar as breathing, but now it feels different. Controlled. Directed.

Not a storm that drowns everything, but a blade that can cut with precision.

The sound of running footsteps below reminds me that I can't stay here forever. I need to move, fight, and find my way out of this maze they've kept me in for six years.

I won't lose myself to their programming.

This time, I choose how to use what they created.

The irony almost makes me laugh – they spent years trying to make me into their ideal weapon, never considering that I might learn to aim myself.

Had no expectations or hope that the opportunity would come where I can return the anguish they laid on me.

More shouts from below, more alarms blaring their warning. Something is happening in Ravenscroft tonight, something bigger than just my escape. The facility seems to be under attack, its carefully maintained order crumbling into chaos.

Good.

Let them feel what it's like to lose control — their carefully constructed world falling apart like a crumbling wall of bricks.

I take a deep breath, centering myself as I prepare to move.

The killing instinct simmers just below the surface, but it feels different now. Less like drowning in darkness and more like holding a loaded gun.

My finger on the trigger.

My choice when to fire.

My targets to select.

Riot's sacrifice won't be in vain. She showed me that choice still exists, even in the darkest moments. That strength isn't just about survival, but about how we choose to survive.

I pray that Luna and Azurite find their way to freedom. That somehow, in a world beyond these walls, we'll meet again. But right now, I have to focus on my own escape.

On using what they made me to tear down their precious facility.

I try not to focus on how frightening all of this is. A sudden sensation of independence. The best way to describe the tightness in my chest or the nervousness flipping in the pits of my stomach would be a child being forced out into the real world for the first time.

I may not remember my childhood or the feelings associated with it, but I can envision what it could feel like.

At least, similar to what’s pulsing through me now.

The ventilation system will give me the advantage of surprise. They'll be looking for escaped test subjects on the ground, not death from above.

I allow myself one more moment of stillness, one more breath of preparation. Then I begin to move, letting the familiar coldness of their conditioning settle over me – but this time, I remain aware.

They wanted a weapon?

They'll get one.

But not on their terms. Not as their mindless tool.

This time, every death will be my choice, every target my selection, every moment of violence a conscious decision rather than blind instinct.

The shadows may be silent, but I don't need them anymore. At least for now. I have my purpose I wish to proclaim, a path I fight hard to follow without their chorus of hymns and symphonies.

The ventilation system becomes my pathway through Ravenscroft's hidden depths, each turn taking me into sections of the facility I've only known through overheard conversations and whispered rumors.

The metal tunnels feel almost alive, carrying vibrations of chaos from below – running footsteps, shouted orders, and the occasional burst of gunfire.

Six years in this place, and I've never seen beyond my designated testing areas. Now I'm crawling through its skeleton, viewing its secrets from above like some vengeful spirit. The irony isn't lost on me – they kept me caged for so long, and now their own infrastructure provides my path to freedom.

Voices from below make me pause, pressing myself flat against the cool metal as I listen.

"Half our unit is down," a guard says, his tone tight with fear. The tremor in his voice catches my attention – I've never heard these men sound afraid before. They've always been so confident in their power over us, so secure in their dominance. "They must be using the vents to move around."

"Let's activate the gas traps in sector seven," his companion replies, and I can hear keys jangling as he presumably reaches for his radio. "That should take care of our little pest problem. No one survives that stuff."

Their footsteps move away with urgent purpose, but their conversation confirms what the chaos below suggests – someone is systematically dismantling Ravenscroft's security forces.

Someone powerful enough to make these usually unshakeable guards sound like frightened prey.

The ventilation shaft ahead ends in a solid wall, forcing a decision. With gas traps being activated, staying in the vents isn't an option.

I locate an access panel and test its strength – loose enough to remove without making too much noise. One solid kick sends it clattering to the floor below, and I follow with considerably more grace.

The room I drop into tells a story of violence.

Bodies lie scattered across the floor, their blood painting abstract patterns across what were once pristine white tiles. The scene should horrify me; trigger some basic human response to such carnage.

Instead, I feel nothing but clinical interest as I survey potential resources.

After all these years their experiments have left their mark – death doesn't shock me anymore. I've seen too much of it, and caused too much of it in their trials. The only difference now is that these aren't innocent omegas who couldn't survive their tests.

These are the guards who watched us suffer with indifferent eyes.

I move among the dead with practical efficiency, collecting weapons that might prove useful. The knives come first – they feel natural in my hands, like extensions of the weapon they crafted me to be.

Years of their combat training have made blade work instinctive, as natural as breathing. The guns I strap to my legs are more of an afterthought, a backup plan for situations that require distance rather than intimacy.

The thin medical gown they kept me in clings wetly to my skin from the earlier flooding, the material nearly transparent.

One of the fallen alphas wears a black tactical shirt that will serve my purposes better.

Guess he wouldn’t mind if I borrowed that…

As I strip it from his cooling body, recognition hits – this was the guard who used to taunt me about dying alone.

About never finding a pack to claim me.

"Not so smug now, are you?" I mutter, pulling his shirt over my head. The material is still warm, but I feel nothing but satisfaction at claiming this small victory from someone who took such pleasure in our suffering.

An odd thought strikes me as I adjust the stolen garment.

Normal omegas would be overwhelmed by an alpha's scent, their instincts triggering nesting urges and comfort-seeking behaviors. The medical texts they made us study were very clear about omega responses to alpha pheromones – the need for comfort, the drive to surround themselves with their scent, and the biological imperatives that make them susceptible to alpha influence.

But I feel nothing…

Catch no scent that’s supposed to make my hormones go wild.

I guess it’s another "gift" of whatever they did to make me scentless, but despite the numb reaction I display upon the surface, deep within — a tiny spec of the Omega in me — is disappointed with the acknowledgment.

I really am an odd Omega.

The shirt might as well have come from a store shelf for all the reactions it triggers in me. Just another piece of fabric, a tool to be used in my bid for freedom.

I've never experienced those omega instincts they write about so clinically in their texts. Never felt that primal pull toward alpha pheromones or the desperate need for pack bonds that's supposed to define omega existence. It's all academic to me, like reading about colors I can't see or music I can't hear.

Sometimes I wonder what they took from me along with my scent – what basic omega experiences I'll never understand. But right now, that emotional distance is an advantage.

I can't be distracted by instincts I don't possess. Can't be controlled by biological imperatives they burned out of me years ago.

Gunfire erupts in the hallway outside, much closer than before. I press myself against the wall beside the door, newly acquired weapons held ready. The shadows may be silent, but my enhanced senses - another "gift" from their experiments - pick up multiple heartbeats approaching. Steady ones, controlled.

These aren't scared guards running for their lives. These are predators stalking through Ravenscroft's halls.

Whatever force is tearing through the facility tonight, I need to decide quickly if they're potential allies or just another threat to eliminate.

The fact that they're killing guards suggests we might share common enemies, but six years in this place has taught me that the enemy of my enemy isn't always my friend.

Sometimes they're just a different kind of monster.

Even after the footsteps fade, I remain motionless, every enhanced sense straining to detect potential threats.

The silence feels oppressive, heavy with possibilities of danger. But it also offers an opportunity – these guards might have something useful on them, something to help me navigate my way out of this maze.

I move among the bodies with practiced efficiency, searching for anything that might aid my escape. More weapons? Maybe a walkie-talkie? No…something that can be valuable without revealing my location…

A communicator catches my eye, its screen still glowing with active messages. As I pick it up, the latest transmission makes my blood run cold:

"Capture Patient 495" glows in bold letters, followed by three words that hit like physical blows: "Dead or alive."

I shouldn't care.

Shouldn't feel anything about this clinical assessment of my worth. After all these years of being treated like an object aimed to be used, why should their disregard for my life affect me now?

And yet...

Something in my chest constricts as I stare at those glowing words. All this time, enduring their tests and trials, surviving when others broke, becoming exactly what they wanted me to be – and still —— I'm nothing more to them than a target to be acquired or eliminated.

The reality of my situation crashes down with a crushing weight. For as long as I can remember – which admittedly isn't very far back – I've existed within their cage. Every breath, moment, and trace of what might be called life has been contained within Ravenscroft's sterile walls.

Now, with freedom tantalizingly close, with the taste of possibility on my tongue, they've already marked me for recapture or death.

There is no middle ground, no chance for mercy, no option that doesn't end with me either back in their cage or in a body bag.

Something wet hits the screen's glowing surface.

I frown, lifting the device closer to watch as another droplet falls.

Then another.

And another.

The realization that I'm crying hits harder than I’d ever admit. Tears track down my flushed cheeks, each one a silent betrayal of the strength I've fought so hard to maintain.

In six years, I've felt my eyes burn with unshed tears countless times. But I never let them fall. Never gave them the satisfaction of seeing that weakness. Never dared allow myself the luxury of such naked vulnerability in a place that showed no mercy.

So why now? In this instance where so much is at risk. Far too much at stake, and freedom is just at my fingertips…

In this room full of death, surrounded by the cooling bodies of my tormentors, something finally breaks. The tears fall freely now, each one carrying years of suppressed pain, fear, and the horrible understanding that my life means nothing to them.

A sound tries to escape my throat – between a whimper and a sob – but I fight it back. Even alone, in this moment of revelation, some habits of survival run too deep to break.

The heavy tread of boots passing nearby forces me to focus, to think tactically about my situation. Those men who rushed past earlier – their movements spoke of military training, of coordinated assault tactics.

Against a force like that, what real chance do I have?

Ravenscroft may have made me into their perfect weapon, with enhanced abilities beyond normal human limits, but I'm still just one person. One omega. An experiment that happened to survive their trials.

I can kill, yes. Certainly fight with lethal efficiency. I’m confident I’ll take down quite a few of them before they stop me.

In the end, I'm still flesh and blood.

Vulnerable to bullets.

Capable of being overwhelmed by superior numbers.

All their experiments, enhancements, and careful programming – none of it changes the fundamental math of survival.

I'm alone, outnumbered, in unfamiliar territory, with enemies on all sides.

The tears continue to fall as I face this truth.

They've made me strong, deadly, and nearly indestructible in some ways – but I'm not invincible. Not immortal. Not immune to the simple physics of lead meeting flesh at high velocity.

I stare at the communicator's screen until the words blur, until "dead or alive" becomes a smear of light through my tears.

All this time, I've fought so hard to stay alive, to maintain some core of self beneath their experiments and conditioning.

But what self is there really?

What am I beyond their carefully crafted weapon?

I don't even know who I was before this place.

Don't remember having a family, a life, or any existence beyond these walls.

The fragments of memory that sometimes surface – the mirror image with different eyes, the woman with the hidden face, the lullaby that haunts my dreams, or even the man with blue eyes – feel more like fever dreams than actual history.

More tears fall, and I let them.

Let myself have this one moment of weakness, a brief acknowledgment of how thoroughly they've stripped everything from me. My past, my identity, my very nature as an omega – all of it sacrificed to their endless experiments and trials.

All for what?

The sound of distant gunfire reminds me that I don't have the luxury of breaking down completely.

The truth remains, heavy as chains: I can't do this alone.

As I wipe the tears from my face, I realize I have to make a choice. Try to fight my way out alone and probably die in the attempt, or...

Or what?

What other option is there for something like me?

My gaze drifts to the guard's waist, where the holstered glock rests like a dark promise against the black fabric.

The sleek metal catches what little light filters into this room of death, gleaming with devastating possibility.

A simple tool, really – just metal and mechanics designed to deliver swift endings. My lip catches between my teeth as I contemplate its brutal simplicity.

One squeeze of a trigger, one explosive moment, and everything just...stops.

The temptation that’s hauntingly satisfying to dare think about. The weight of my reality presses down with suffocating force as I examine my place in this broken world.

No true memories anchor me to any sense of self – just fragments that dance like smoke, always dissipating when I reach for them.

The lullaby echoes in distant corners of my mind, a melody that might be memory or madness. Those shadowed faces blur and shift, refusing to resolve into anything concrete. Even the possibility of a twin sister feels more like a desperate dream than truth; a story I've told myself to feel less alone in the endless white halls of my prison.

What pack would ever want something like me?

The thought brings fresh waves of anguish as I acknowledge my fundamental wrongness.

No scent marks me as omega – that essential essence stripped away by their endless experiments. No natural responses stir when alpha pheromones fill the air. None of the instincts that should define my designation remain intact.

I'm a malfunctioning creation, a failed experiment in everything except killing.

Even if by some miracle a pack claimed me, how could I fulfill any of the roles an omega should? How could I offer comfort I can't feel? Respond to needs I can't sense?

Provide the emotional connection that's been burned out of me?

Riot's lifeless form drifts through my thoughts – another failure, a soul sacrificed to the monster they made me. Azurite and Luna are lost somewhere in this labyrinth of horror, perhaps already dead or wishing they were.

Even those brief moments of connection, those precious fragments of what I’d dare claim as friendship, have been torn away like everything else.

The communicator slips from my nerveless fingers as I reach for the gun.

My movements feel dreamlike, detached , as I disengage the safety with practiced ease. The weapon's weight settles differently in my hands now that I'm the intended target rather than the executioner.

I've witnessed intimately what bullets do to flesh, and heard the desperate pleas for mercy that accompany their impact. Watched the light fade from countless eyes as final breaths gurgled through blood-filled throats.

If only I could be as emotionless as this construct of metal and purpose.

Perhaps then the weight of all I've done wouldn't press so heavily against what remains of my soul. Then I could forget the faces that haunt my dreams, the screams that echo in my quietest moments.

My breath hitches, uneven and raw, as fresh tears trace burning paths down my cheeks.

The barrel feels almost loving against my skin – cool, promising, final.

My hands tremble not from fear but from the enormity of this choice, this one true decision that is finally, completely my own.

A peculiar calm settles over me as I acknowledge the truth:

I don't want to die.

Not really.

The primal spark of life still burns somewhere deep inside, yearning for sunlight, freedom, and the possibility of joy. But living like this, existing as nothing more than their carefully crafted weapon to be abused until my use runs dry…that's not living at all.

That's just prolonging the torture they began six years ago.

My finger brushes the trigger with something like tenderness just as the lullaby begins playing in my mind.

The melody floats gently and sweetly through my consciousness, so faint I almost miss it beneath the thundering of my heart.

Is this the shadows' parting gift?

One last comfort before I step into whatever darkness awaits? The notes carry hints of love and safety, of things I might have known once, of everything I'll never know again.

Thank you, shadows.

Whether they were created out of pure insanity, or delivered aftermath of all the injected concoctions put into my system, I am grateful for their companionship, even if it feels short-lived.

I didn’t realize how significant their presence was until I no longer heard them, but to be comforted in such a way that feels unique for me, gives a pinch of relief that all the pain I’d endured will be over.

That the shadows that have kept me thriving can be finally laid to rest…

Lost in these final haunting notes, in this last moment that belongs purely to me, I miss the approaching footsteps until it's too late.

The gun vanishes from my grasp as an arm wraps around my throat, pulling me back against a solid form that radiates strength and purpose.

What the ? —

My head jerks up, eyes widening in shock, and in that moment everything I thought I knew about my broken existence shatters.

Because the scent that assaults my senses is unlike anything I've ever experienced – something that bypasses all their careful programming.

It awakens parts of me I thought long dead, ignites responses I believed impossible, and in that single breath, I understand what it means to be devastatingly alive.

A pinch of what it’s like to be an awakened Omega.