28. Malia
TWENTY-EIGHT
Malia
Darkness presses against my eyes, but sleep refuses to come. The institutional mattress crinkles with every restless movement. In the next room, Malikai’s breathing is labored, with each inhale carrying a slight wheeze that terrifies me.
My mind races through the day’s events like a broken film reel: the alarms, the evacuation, the terrible waiting while my brother descended into atomic hell. Every time I close my eyes, his exhausted face is all I can see, and I can’t forget the way his hands shook.
The facility creaks around us, settling into its nighttime rhythm. Or maybe those creaks are warnings—containment fields straining against forces they were never meant to hold.
How long until the next breach?
How many times can Malikai and Chen pull off a miracle?
Every distant mechanical sound could be the beginning of another emergency.
I can’t help but feel like we’re all just waiting to die.
The thought hits with crushing certainty. Even if Malikai and Chen keep the reactor stable, we know too much—we’ve seen too much. We become disposable liabilities when our captors get their quantum fusion weapon.
A soft buzz cuts through my dark thoughts. At first, I think it’s just another facility sound—ventilation, power conduits, or failing containment fields.
But this is different. Organic somehow. Almost like…
I sit up slowly, my ears straining. The sound fades and returns, weaving through the artificial hum of the building’s systems. It’s impossible. We haven’t seen a single insect since arriving. The facility’s environmental controls are too strict, and the decontamination protocols are too thorough.
As the buzz draws closer, it carries harmonics that don’t quite match natural wing patterns. Something about the pitch feels manufactured, precise in a way that nature never is.
My heart rate picks up as I track the sound’s movement. Years of watching Malikai work with precision instruments have taught me to recognize artificial patterns. This isn’t random insect flight.
This is—purposeful.
Guards pass outside, their boot steps regular and heavy. I force my breathing to stay steady, fighting the urge to search openly for the source.
Moonlight filtering through the mesh-reinforced window catches something in the corner. It is small, dark, and hovering with impossible precision. My breath catches as I study its silhouette against the pale concrete.
It’s not an insect—not quite. The wing movements are too regular and controlled, and the body proportions are slightly wrong for any species I know. As I watch, it adjusts its position with microscopic precision, maintaining a perfect distance from the surveillance cameras’ sweep.
The drone moves again, drifting closer with deliberate care. Its flight path traces a perfect arc between camera blind spots. Only one organization I know of has this level of technology. Only one team would attempt something this insane.
Hope blooms dangerously in my chest as I track the drone’s approach. Somehow, against all odds, he found me.
Under the moonlight, I catch glimpses of metal where chitin should be—microscopic joints and servos disguised as insect anatomy. My fingers twitch with the instinct to reach for it, to verify it’s real and not just another hallucination born from months of captivity.
But even that small movement could give everything away.
The drone drifts closer, defying every natural law of insect behavior. Real bees don’t hover with military precision. Don’t navigate between camera sweeps with calculated grace. Don’t maintain perfect distance while scanning with nearly invisible sensors.
My muscles coil tight with the effort of remaining motionless as it enters my personal space, close enough that its wingbeats stir my hair.
Fighting these defensive instincts feels like drowning—every nerve ending firing with the need to move, react, and protect myself. But I think of Walt teaching me about maintaining cover, about the importance of stillness under surveillance. His voice echoes in my memory: “Sometimes survival means letting the enemy get close.”
But this isn’t an enemy. It’s salvation.
I remain frozen, hardly daring to breathe, as this mechanical miracle carries hope close enough to touch.
The bumblebee drone lands in my hair, its tiny feet catching and pulling individual strands. Every point of contact sends shivers down my spine as it moves deliberately through my tangled curls.
Oh God, this is so wrong.
The sensation is nothing like a real insect—too heavy, too precise, each step calculated rather than organic. My scalp crawls as it navigates closer to my ear, and I bite my lip to keep from whimpering.
The urge to shake my head, to dislodge this artificial thing crawling through my hair, is almost overwhelming. Bile rises in my throat as I imagine its metal legs tangling in my curls, getting stuck, and having to explain to guards why there’s a mechanical bug in my hair.
It reaches my ear canal, and I nearly lose it completely. The mechanical legs scrape against my skin as it positions itself, sending violent shivers through my body that I desperately try to suppress.
Oh God, oh God, oh God, this is so gross.
It’s like having a spider crawl directly into your ear, except this spider is made of metal and circuits. My fingernails dig into my palms, and the pain gives me something to focus on besides the horrifying sensation of the drone finding its final position.
A soft click echoes through my skull as the device engages. The sound seems to vibrate through my bones, and for one terrifying moment, I’m certain the guards must hear it too. But their boots continue their regular patrol outside my door— click, click against concrete. Still, I hold my breath, waiting for alarms to blare, doors to burst open, and everything to fall apart.
Instead, Mitzy’s voice crystallizes in my head, so clear and precise it’s like she’s standing beside me. Her words bypass my actual ears, sending her message directly to my brain through bone conduction. The technology is incredible, but I can only focus on fighting my gag reflex as the drone shifts slightly, adjusting its position.
“Don’t respond,” her voice whispers through my skull.
Sweat trickles down my temple. The urge to cough, shake my head, and do anything to dislodge this invasion of my personal space is unbearable.
Mitzy’s voice hums through my skull, each word vibrating directly into my bones. “Listen carefully. We’re coming. I can’t tell you when or how—but you’ll know what to do when you see it.”
Really? That’s it?
After all this technological wizardry, after sending a mechanical bee through supposedly secure ventilation systems and making it crawl through my hair—which, by the way, still makes my skin crawl just thinking about it—that’s all she can tell me?
“The most important thing…” Mitzy continues, oblivious to my internal frustration. “When you get outside, you need to be ready to run. Don’t stop, don’t look back, just run.”
When? How? What kind of signal? I wish I could ask questions.
“One last thing…” There’s a pause, a softening in her tone that makes my heart skip. “He’s been obsessed with finding you. Hasn’t slept, barely eaten. Nothing else matters.”
Walt’s alive!
The words hit me like a thunderclap, stealing the breath from my lungs. He’s alive. A sob catches in my throat, half-formed and disbelieving. I press my hand against my mouth as if that will contain the rush of emotion surging inside me—relief so sharp it aches.
He didn’t die in that parking lot. He’s been searching, fighting, surviving—just like I have.
I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the sting of tears I can’t stop, a ragged laugh breaking free despite myself. He’s out there. He’s been out there this whole time.
Walt’s alive—and he’s coming for me.
The mechanical bee disengages before I can process that last bit, its legs untangling from my hair. I watch it disappear into a ventilation grate as if it was never here at all.
I arrange myself in what I hope passes for natural sleep positioning, but my heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m amazed the biometric sensors don’t sound alarms. My mind races with hope so fierce it burns.
He’s alive.
Of course, he survived those bullets.
Of course, he came looking for me.
And when I see him again…
I press my face into the thin institutional pillow to hide my smile, but my imagination runs wild. I’ll kiss him. I’ll grab his stupidly handsome face and kiss him like our lives depend on it. Then I’ll run wherever he tells me to run, but that kiss comes first.