The bunker was silent, except for the hum of the power-dampening fields and the wet, rhythmic sound of Desmond Thorne’s breathing.
Sloane stood in the center of his private quarters. The obsidian suit, which had once been her shield and her pride, was gone. It had receded into her skin at Desmond’s command, leaving her shivering in nothing but her white cotton underwear. The cold air of the concrete room bit at her skin, but she didn't move. She couldn't.
Her eyes were still rolled back, a milky void where her personality used to be.
"Look at me, Sloane," Desmond whispered from his velvet armchair. He wasn't even touching her, but his psychic grip was a physical weight on her spine. "And smile. Tell me how you feel."
Sloane’s face contorted. Her muscles stretched unnaturally as she forced her mouth into a wide, jagged grin that didn't reach her vacant eyes.
"I am... happy," she croaked, her voice sounding like a doll with a dying battery. "I am happy... to be in the control... of my Master."
"Good girl," Desmond murmured. His hand moved rhythmically beneath his robe, his eyes locked on her trembling form. "Now. Show me how much you enjoy it. I want to see the 'Human Elastic' reach her limit. Aggressively, Sloane. Don't stop until I tell you."
Sloane’s hands moved by command, not by choice. Because of her power, her touch was different—more intense, her skin more sensitive than a normal human's. As she was forced to perform, her body reacted with a frantic, desperate energy, her fingers stretching and moving with a speed that was painful to watch.
"Faster," Desmond hissed, his own movements quickening. "Say it again. The Mantra."
"I am happy... I am happy..." Sloane sobbed out, the words clashing with the forced, horrific smile plastered on her face. A single tear escaped one of her white-out eyes, rolling down her cheek, but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop.
The Cells: Level 2
Below Desmond’s quarters, the others were trapped. Victor (Metal) was chained to the wall with high-voltage magnets. Artie (Rock) had been chipped into pieces, his consciousness barely holding his shattered granite form together.
"We have to do something," Leo (Bug) whispered from his glass enclosure. His metabolism was crashing; he was skin and bone. "I can hear her. I can hear her crying through the ceiling."
"He's broken her," Victor rumbled, his voice hollow. "He's using her to feed his own filth. If we get out of here, I'm going to turn his head into a coin."
The Warehouse: Red Hook
Rebecca wasn't crying anymore. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, but they were sharp. She had Sloane’s broken glasses on the desk in front of her, wired into a massive, jury-rigged satellite dish.
"I found the frequency," Rebecca whispered to the empty room. "He’s using a sub-vocal carrier wave. It’s not just telepathy; it’s a biological lock."
She picked up a soldering iron. Her hands were shaking, but her resolve was like steel.
"I'm coming for you, Sloane. I don't care if I have to blast every radio tower in the state to do it. You're coming home."
Rebecca looked at a photo of them from the summer before the meteorite. Two normal girls with bikes and snacks.
"He thinks he can own a girl made of rubber," Rebecca hissed. "But he forgot one thing. If you stretch something too far... it eventually snaps back. And God help him when she does
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