The cell was white. Not the clean white of hospitals or laboratories, but the sterile, suffocating white of sensory deprivation chambers—walls, floor, ceiling all bleeding into one another without shadow or distinction. Jesse Ferrari's optical implants cycled through filters automatically, searching for contrast that didn't exist, and the constant adjustment sent sharp pains radiating from her left temple.
Another glitch.
She sat on the edge of the metal bunk, her scratchy voice barely a whisper as she counted: "One thousand, four hundred, sixty-two. One thousand, four hundred, sixty-three." The numbers helped. They were real. They were hers—or at least, she believed they were hers. That distinction had become hazier over the past six months of detention.
Her right hand trembled. Not from fear, but from the degradation spreading through her neural tissue like frost creeping across glass. The medical reports had been clinical: "Human consciousness integration failure. Estimated deterioration rate: 2.3% per week. Recommendation: full cybernetic conversion or terminal status within eighteen months." She'd stopped reading after that.
The fluorescent panels overhead hummed with a frequency only her auditory processors could detect. Most humans would never notice. Jesse had learned to hate that frequency. It reminded her that she was no longer mostly human, and that the parts of her that were human were dying.
Footsteps. Real footsteps, not the whisper-soft tread of automated systems. Multiple people, moving with military precision. Jesse's combat subroutines activated before her conscious mind caught up, flooding her system with adrenaline and tactical overlays. Her body tensed, muscles coiling despite the months of confinement.
The cell door—solid steel, no windows, no mercy—hissed open. Harsh light flooded in, and Jesse's optical implants screamed in protest, dimming automatically. Through the glare, she made out silhouettes. Three figures. One taller than the others, moving with the confidence of command.
Commander Voss stepped into the cell, and his weathered face arranged itself into something that might have been satisfaction. "Ferrari," he said, his voice carrying the weight of classified operations and hard decisions. "We need you. And we need you now."
Behind him, extraction teams moved into position. Whatever was about to happen, Jesse's imprisonment had just ended.
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