The dream started the way it always did.
Marcus Chen strapped to the chair. White walls. White coats. White lies about "rehabilitation" and "treatment protocols."
Dr. Ramirez adjusted electrodes with clinical precision, stylus tapping against his tablet in steady rhythm. "Subject displays continued resistance to suppression protocols. Neural pathways remain active despite previous sessions. Recommend escalation to Protocol Seven."
Marcus's mutation was pyrokinesis. Small flames. Party tricks. Lighting cigarettes, keeping homeless people warm. Harmless.
They wanted to know what happened when you pushed a pyrokinetic past breaking point.
Marcus's eyes found the observation window. Found her standing behind the glass. His lips moved—Run, Tessa. Run.
She'd already run. Six weeks ago. When the van doors closed and Marcus screamed her name.
Stay and help: 0.03% survival. Run immediately: 47.2%.
The mathematics had been clear.
Dr. Ramirez pressed the button.
Electricity surged. Marcus screamed. Fire erupted from his skin—uncontrolled, agonized, his body trying to protect itself. The restraints held. The electrodes kept firing.
Thirty-eight seconds.
His thrashing weakened.
Forty-two seconds.
The flames guttered.
Forty-seven seconds.
Marcus stopped moving.
Dr. Ramirez checked his monitors, frowned, made a note. "Interesting. Subject expired faster than projected baseline."
The dream shifted.
Marcus's corpse sat up. Looked at her through the glass. Smiled with burned lips.
You calculated correctly, Tessa. You always do. That's what makes you a monster.
I'm not—
You traded my life for yours using probability matrices. When they come for you—and they will—you'll run again. You'll calculate. You'll survive. And you'll watch someone else die in your place.
His eyes burned—flame replacing iris and pupil.
Because the probability of you dying to save someone else? Zero.
***
Tessa woke gasping.
6:23 AM. Three seconds before her alarm. Her body had learned to anticipate.
Pain radiated from her left side immediately—three cracked ribs, internal bruising, infection probability climbing. Five days old, healing poorly despite stolen antibiotics.
She cataloged automatically: Temperature 99.1°F. Heart rate 68 BPM. Respiratory function compromised. Cognitive function: 87% capacity. Mobility: Reduced 43%.
Not ideal parameters.
But better than dead.
Seventeen monitors surrounded her bed—stolen equipment, black-market electronics, surveillance network that would make intelligence agencies jealous. Data flowed in cascading streams. Stock markets. Police communications. Social media sentiment. Traffic patterns. Government intercepts.
Her mind processed it all simultaneously. Omnipathic cognition. Her brain functioned like a supercomputer, absorbing and synthesizing information from dozens of sources at once.
Gift. Curse.
It meant she could never stop thinking. Never stop calculating. Never stop seeing the probability matrices governing every moment.
Including her imminent death.
She pulled up the tactical assessment.
PROBABILITY OF GOVERNMENT ATTACK: 94.7%
ESTIMATED TIME WINDOW: 36-48 HOURS
Yesterday's calculation. She updated with new intercepts—DMPS communications, satellite repositioning, equipment transfers.
PROBABILITY OF GOVERNMENT ATTACK: 99.2%
ESTIMATED TIME WINDOW: 8-12 HOURS
Her hands trembled.
They're coming.
Eighteen months of running, and the mathematics had always pointed to the same conclusion: Eventually, you get caught. Government had infinite resources. She had finite endurance. The gap could only close one way.
Her go-bag sat by the door. Packed since arrival. Forged documents. Cash. Encrypted drives. Medical supplies. Weapon.
And the pill case.
Cyanide. Fast-acting. Painless.
Tested on a rat four months ago. Death in forty-three seconds, no visible distress.
PROBABILITY OF SUCCESSFUL SUICIDE BEFORE CAPTURE: 67.8%
Better than Westchester. Better than Dr. Ramirez hooking her brain to machines, extracting every calculation until her mind burned out.
She'd read the facility reports. Knew what rehabilitation meant.
Death was logical.
But Clarice is in there.
Clarice Ferguson. Blink. The teleporter who'd saved her six months ago, portaling her to safety while DMPS closed in. Who'd stayed behind, exhausted herself, making sure Tessa escaped.
Captured because she'd prioritized someone else's survival.
Tessa had tried to calculate a rescue. Seventeen scenarios.
SOLO RESCUE PROBABILITY: 0.0% - 4.2%
Every one ended in failure.
That's the difference. She calculated saving you was irrational and did it anyway. You calculate saving her is irrational and do nothing.
Her monitors chimed. Motion sensors. Traffic cameras.
Three VTOL aircraft approaching from the south. Military-grade signatures.
Descending toward Crown Heights.
Toward her building.
Heart rate spiked to 94 BPM.
She pulled up more feeds. Ground units converging. DMPS tactical teams. And behind them—
Sentinels.
Three of them. Twenty feet tall. Millions of dollars of technology designed to hunt mutants.
COMBAT VICTORY PROBABILITY: 0.03%
ESCAPE PROBABILITY: 4.2%
SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 2.7%
The numbers had never been this bad.
This is where the equation ends.
Her thumb found the pill case latch.
But then Clarice dies alone. And no one even tries.
The building shook.
Not explosion. Impact from below.
They weren't using stairs.
They were coming through the floor.
She backed toward the window. Jump? Three stories with broken ribs?
SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 31.2%
Better than staying.
The floor erupted.
A Sentinel's arm burst through—massive, mechanical, crushing her desk and monitors like paper. Sparks flew. Screens shattered. Eighteen months of data destroyed.
She threw herself backward. Pain exploded white-hot through her ribs. She hit the wall, tasted blood.
Rib three puncturing lung tissue. Internal bleeding: 71%. Consciousness remaining: 4-7 minutes.
The Sentinel pulled itself up. Twenty feet of killing machine. Sensors glowing red.
"MUTANT DESIGNATED TESSA. CEASE RESISTANCE. CAPTURE PROTOCOLS ENGAGED."
Emotionless. Final.
Her hand moved to her modified taser—enhanced voltage, three seconds maybe—
The Sentinel was faster.
Its hand closed around her throat.
Lifted. Pressure precise—47 PSI. Immobilize, not kill.
Oxygen flow reduced 73%. Consciousness: 34 seconds to blackout. 2.4 minutes to brain damage.
The other Sentinels emerged. One at the window. One at the door.
Complete containment. Zero vectors.
SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 1.1%
Through darkening vision, she saw the VTOL landing. Agents with neural inhibitors, power dampening collars, syringes.
Six hours to Westchester. Then Dr. Ramirez. Then the chair.
Forty-seven seconds. That's all you get.
Her hand found the pill case.
At least I choose this.
She was bringing it to her mouth when the mist appeared.
Too sudden. Too dense. Rolling through her apartment with purpose.
Temperature dropped seven degrees. Visibility: eighteen inches.
Sentinels' sensors activated, cycling through spectrums.
"WARNING. UNKNOWN INTERFERENCE DETECTED."
Then roots came.
Massive wooden tendrils erupting from every surface. Not growing—manifesting. Grain patterns glowing with inner light.
Organic manipulation. Growth accelerated by factor 10,000%. Energy signature unknown.
The roots wrapped around Sentinels like living chains. Wood crushing metal—impossible strength.
The Sentinel holding her hesitated.
Point-three seconds. Decision tree failure. Should have been instantaneous.*l
The roots tightened.
The arm imploded.
Metal shrieked. Hydraulic fluid sprayed.
The hand released her.
She fell. Hit hard. Left shoulder, ribs compressing. Something cracked. Pain scale: 8.7/10.
Oxygen returning. Consciousness: 67%. Move. Calculate.
Her body wouldn't respond. Shock. System overload.
She lay gasping, watching.
The other Sentinels fought. One fired energy beams—scorching wood.
The roots regrew faster. Three for every one destroyed. Overwhelming biomass.
The Sentinel's arms were seized. Pulled opposite directions.
Metal tearing. Deafening.
Torso separated from limbs.
The third tried retreat.
Wooden spikes erupted below, impaling it. Pinning it like an insect.
Controller positioned beneath. Anticipated retreat. This isn't combat. This is chess.
Silence.
Three Sentinels reduced to scrap in seventeen seconds.
Power level: Omega-class. Tactical precision: Military-grade. Unknown actor. Extremely dangerous.
Through the mist, a figure descended.
Twenty feet, landing silent. Inhuman grace.
Bronze and bone armor. Technological integration beneath organic plating. Arc reactor glowing—Stark technology, modified, improved.
Genius-level intellect. IQ: 180+. Possibly exceeds mine in specific domains.
Mask featureless. Eye slots glowing cold.
Behind him, another figure. Woman. Energy manipulation—photonic.
Arclight. Philippa Sontag. Ex-Marauder. Wanted seventeen states. Disappeared eight days ago. Presumed dead. Neither accurate.
She works alone. Kills recruitment attempts. Fourteen confirmed. Yet she's following him.
What would make Arclight follow anyone?
The armored figure approached. Roots still writhing around destroyed Sentinels.
"Tessa," he said.
Filtered voice. Authority in every syllable.
"My name is Arbor. We need to talk."
She forced herself up. Pain lanced through her side. She swallowed blood.
"You need to talk. I need medical attention."
Show strength. Not weakness.
"Both waiting for you. But first—can you walk, or do you need immediate evacuation?"
Always calculating. Even concern wrapped in tactical assessment.
"I can walk."
"Good. Four minutes before reinforcements. I'd prefer not to kill more people today."
*More people. Implying he's killed. Implying it bothers him.*
"Why did you save me?" Sharper than intended. "What do you want?"
Head tilt—thinking gesture. She cataloged it.
"Someone who processes information faster than computers. Who sees patterns others miss. Who calculates probabilities in real-time." He paused. "I want you."
"For what purpose?"
"Partnership."
"Meaninglessly vague."
Behind him, Arclight laughed. "Told you."
"Recruitment pitch," Tessa said flatly. "You're stalling for rapport. I'm bleeding internally. Skip to terms."
"Direct. Good." Something in his voice—approval? "My objective: survival and power. The world's heading toward war—mutants versus humans. I'm positioning to survive and shape what comes after. I need strategic intelligence."
"Everyone needs that. What specifically—"
"I need someone who'll tell me when I'm wrong. Who'll argue when my plans are stupid. Who'll keep me from mistakes that kill everyone." He leaned forward slightly. "Someone who thinks like I do but isn't afraid to contradict me."
"Everyone says that until you actually disagree."
"Test me later. Right now—three minutes thirty seconds."
Tessa's mind raced through analysis.
*He calculates like me. Has power I don't. Resources I don't.*
"Your actual price?"
"Loyalty. Capability. Honesty when I'm wrong."
"That's recruitment pitch. Not price."
Arbor was quiet. Then moved closer—one step. Made it intimate rather than transactional.
When he spoke, his voice was different. Quieter. Human.
"Truth? I'm going to use you to win a war. Your calculations might determine victory or failure. People will live or die based on your advice." He paused. "But you'll use me too. My power. My resources. To save whoever you're trying to save."
How does he know—
"We're both using each other. That's not betrayal. That's honest partnership." His voice dropped further. "So name it, Tessa. What do you want? What's the one thing you'd risk everything for?"
There it was.
The devil's offer.
Perfectly calculated. Perfectly timed.
She looked at his extended hand. At Arclight watching. At destroyed Sentinels. At her shattered apartment. At monitors showing reinforcements three minutes away.
The pill case in her pocket. Eighteen months running. Calculations always ending in Eventually, you lose.
Clarice.
Marcus.
You chose yourself. Like you always do.
Not this time.
She took his hand.
Firm grip. Careful. Strong enough to lift, gentle enough not to hurt.
First touch in six months.
"I want to save someone," she said steadily. "A friend. She helped me escape six months ago. Got captured because of it." She met his eyes. "High-security facility. Solo rescue probability: zero to four percent."
"If that's your price, those are my terms."
He studied her.
Then smiled—she heard it.
"Agreed."
One word. Like agreeing to coffee.
"You don't want details? Risk—"
"Later. Reinforcements arrive in two minutes thirteen seconds." He looked at Arclight. "Collapse the building."
Tessa's mind stuttered. "What—"
"Evidence destruction plus chaos. Building collapse achieves both." He looked at her. "Trust the mathematics. Escape probability with collapse: 84.6%. Without: 23.1%."
He's insane. Brilliant. Going to kill us or save us. Maybe both.
Arclight moved to walls, energy crackling. "Hold onto something."
"Wait—" Casualty calculations flooding her mind—
Arclight's shockwave hit support columns.
Cracks spider-webbed. Metal groaned. Building shuddered.
Outside, screaming. DMPS shouting. Civilians running.
The remaining Sentinels registered instability.
"WARNING. BUILDING INTEGRITY COMPROMISED. CIVILIAN CASUALTIES IMMINENT. INITIATING STABILIZATION PROTOCOLS."
They moved to support the building. Programming demanded it. Save civilians first.
He's making them cause it. Making them responsible.
"Phase two," Arbor said calmly.
Roots erupted beneath Sentinels' feet. Not attacking—undermining. Destabilizing support.
Sentinels compensated. Shifted weight.
Arclight hit the final column.
The building didn't explode.
It gave way.
Four stories folding inward. Sentinels trying to hold it up, crushed beneath the structure they were saving.
"Underground," Arbor commanded.
Roots wrapped around Tessa—gentle, warm. Lifted. Cocooned.
Casualty estimate: Twelve to eighteen.
They plunged downward.
Not falling. Burrowing. Carving through concrete and earth. Past basement. Past foundation. Into bedrock.
Above, the building collapsed.
Four stories pancaking. Crushing evidence. Creating disaster.
Killing people.
I just agreed to work for someone who thinks like me but acts without hesitation.
Salvation or damnation?
The mathematics say salvation.
My instincts say damnation.
The world above disappeared in thunder and dust.
And Tessa descended into darkness, held by roots that felt like salvation but might be chains, following a man who calculated like her but killed like a demon.
I made a deal with the devil.
And I'd make it again.
God help me.
The last light from above vanished.
Only darkness remained.
And the sound of her own rapid heartbeat counting seconds until she discovered what she'd truly agreed to.
***
END CHAPTER 20