3. Infiltration Is Key For Opposition
~DANTE~
The blueprints of Ravenscroft mock me from the table, their neat lines and orderly layout belying the horror within. My good ear strains against the static of the earpiece, trying to catch any snippet of information about their next "collection."
Fucking collections.
That's what they call it when they round up omegas like cattle, claiming they show signs of M.U.S.E. potential. Most are lies – convenient excuses to disappear the ones who ask too many questions, who fight too hard, who refuse to submit.
The static crackles, and I adjust the frequency again. Have to get this right. Need to know when they're moving next. The monthly sweeps are our best chance to catch them off guard, to strike when their security is spread thin.
My fingers trace the path through Ravenscroft's lower levels. Six subfloors. Each worse than the last. The bottom level isn't even on the official blueprints – just rumors and whispers of what goes on down there.
"...Operation Cleansing scheduled for..." Static cuts through the transmission, and I swear under my breath, adjusting the dial. "...full moon cycle. Primary targets identified in sectors..."
More static. Fucking hell.
Movement behind me. Can't hear the footsteps with my bad ear, but I feel the vibration through the floor. Someone approaches, their presence familiar.
Kieran says something. The words get lost in the dead zone of my right side, the side that's been silent since…
Heat. Crushing weight. Can't breathe.
Dirt in mouth. In nose. In lungs.
Bombs falling like rain.
So thirsty.
God, so thirsty.
Digging. Clawing. Fighting.
Have to get out.
Have to live.
Please.
Please.
Let me live ? —
"DANTE!"
“*Ty so mnoy?*"
Reality snaps back into focus.
Kieran's face inches from mine, grey eyes sharp with concern beneath furrowed brows. He's gripping my shoulders, and I realize I'm shaking.
I want to tell him to fuck off, to stop looking at me like I'm about to shatter. But my hands are trembling, and the phantom taste of dirt fills my mouth.
"I'm here," I manage, the words rough in my throat. "Just... spiraling."
Kieran's grip on my shoulders loosens, but he doesn't step back. "You looked like you were back there," he says quietly. "Had to be an asshole to snap you out of it."
A weak laugh escapes me.
"Mission accomplished, mudak ."
He smirks at the insult, but the worry doesn't leave his eyes. We both know what these episodes mean.
How dangerous they can be in our line of work.
The day I lost my hearing plays on repeat in my nightmares. A routine mission gone wrong. Intel failure. We walked right into a trap.
The first bomb took out our exit route.
The second collapsed the building around us.
The third...
The third is the one I don't remember. Just darkness. Pressure. The desperate need to breathe as tons of concrete and earth pressed down.
They say I was under for three days.
Three days of darkness.
Three days of thirst.
Three days of clawing my way toward a surface I couldn't see.
When they finally dug me out, the right side of my world had gone silent. Small price to pay for survival, the doctors said.
But they don't understand.
It's not just the silence.
It's the memories that come with it.
The panic that rises when spaces feel too small.
The way my throat closes up when dust fills the air.
The desperate need to know where every exit is.
Always.
"You're doing it again," Kieran says, his accent thickening with concern.
I blink, forcing myself back to the present.
The blueprints. The mission. Focus on what matters.
"Sorry," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. "The earpiece picked up something about Operation Cleansing. Monthly sweep is coming up."
Kieran's expression darkens.
"When?"
"Full moon cycle. Lost the rest in static." I tap the device in my good ear. "But they're definitely moving soon. Taking more omegas."
"Suki," he spits. "How many this time?"
I shake my head.
"Didn't catch numbers. But last month they took twelve. Month before that, fifteen."
"And how many actually showed M.U.S.E. potential?"
"Does it matter? They're all dead either way." The words taste bitter. "Or worse."
Kieran moves to study the blueprints, his shoulders tense. I know what he's thinking. We've both seen what happens to the omegas who disappear into Ravenscroft's depths.
The lucky ones don't survive the initial trials.
The others...they pray for death.
"Atlas wants to move before the sweep," he says, tracing the path to the lower levels. "Says we can't wait."
He's right. Every day we delay is another day Patient 495 – Nyx – suffers. Another day she's pumped full of whatever poison they're using to enhance her abilities.
But rushing in blind is suicide.
"We need more intel," I argue, tapping the blank space where the lowest level should be. "We don't even know what's down there."
"Nothing good," Kieran mutters. His fingers drum against the table, a nervous tell he's never quite managed to break. "Vale's contact says they're ramping up the trials. Something about breakthrough progress."
A chill runs down my spine. In Ravenscroft, "breakthrough" usually means someone's screaming.
"How reliable is this contact?"
Kieran's mouth twists.
"Reliable enough to end up dead in a ditch yesterday. Officially ruled suicide."
"Fuck."
"Yeah."
The static in my ear crackles again, and this time the voice comes through clearer.
"...priority acquisition from Sector Seven. Subject shows unprecedented shadow manipulation. Terminate protocols authorized if extraction proves difficult..."
My blood runs cold.
They're going to kill her.
If we can't get her out clean, if she fights back too hard, if she's too damaged to be useful – they'll put her down like a rabid dog.
Kieran must see something in my face because he grabs my shoulder again, grounding me before the memories can drag me under.
"We won't let that happen," he says firmly.
I must have said that part out loud, for him to respond this way.
"You don't know that."
"No," he agrees. "But I know us. And I know what we can do when we have no choice."
Like crawling out of a grave.
Surviving the unsurvivable.
Defying every odd stacked against us.
My hands have stopped shaking, I realize. The phantom taste of dirt fades, replaced by determination.
By rage.
"Atlas have a plan yet?" I ask, focusing on the practical.
The possible.
Kieran's lips curve in a predator's smile.
"He always has a plan. Whether it's a good one..."
This is going to be hell. I bet a hundred fucking bucks.
"When is it ever?" I snort, but there's no real humor in it. We both know Atlas's plans tend to work, even if they're insane.
Insane means madness is working in our favor.
"Get some rest," Kieran says, squeezing my shoulder once before stepping back. "We move soon."
I nod, but we both know I won't sleep. Not with the memories so close to the surface. Not with the taste of dirt still lingering on my tongue.
Instead, I'll stay here, studying blueprints and listening to static, trying to piece together the puzzle that might keep us all alive.
And if the shadows grow longer and the walls feel closer, I'll remember:
I survived being buried alive.
I clawed my way out of hell itself.
Ravenscroft will be a piece of cake.