The impact of being yanked from the vent knocked the wind out of Rebecca. She hit the cold concrete floor with a sickening thud, the frequency jammer sliding across the room, its lights flickering and dying.
The room went silent, save for the distorted, dying whir of the J-Pop track.
"Sloane..." Rebecca gasped, clutching her ribs.
Sloane stood over her. She was no longer the shivering girl in her underwear; she was a terrifying pillar of obsidian. The suit had formed sharp, jagged edges at her shoulders and elbows. Her white eyes looked down at Rebecca without a trace of recognition.
"She can't hear you, little girl," Desmond spat, wiping blood from his upper lip. He was trembling from the feedback, his psychic grip frayed but still holding. "Sloane, finish it. Show her the 'Happy Mantra' one last time. Wrap your hands around her throat and squeeze."
Sloane moved. It was a slow, mechanical crawl. Her arms elongated, her fingers turning into thick, rubbery cables that wrapped around Rebecca’s neck.
"Sloane... please..." Rebecca choked out, her hands clawing at the black, slick material.
"I am... happy," Sloane’s voice echoed, cold and hollow. "I am... happy... to serve my Master."
The pressure increased. Rebecca’s face turned a bruised purple. She could feel the immense strength of Sloane’s elastic muscles—strength they had practiced together in the warehouse, now being used to end her life.
Level 2: The Break
The psychic feedback that had hit Desmond had a side effect: it momentarily lowered the power-dampening fields in the cells below.
Victor Steel (Metal) felt the magnetic chains hum and weaken. He didn't waste a second. He let out a metallic roar, his chrome muscles bulging as he snapped the dampeners off the wall.
"Artie! Leo! Now!" Victor yelled.
Artie’s shattered granite form began to pull itself back together, the orange glow in his cracks burning brighter. Leo, despite his starvation, felt a surge of adrenaline. He skittered up the glass walls of his cage, his extra limbs vibrating until the glass shattered into a thousand diamonds.
"We’re coming for her!" Leo chirped, his voice a blur of speed.
The three of them tore through the bunker's guards, a wave of stone, metal, and speed. They didn't care about the exits; they followed the sound of Rebecca’s fading screams.
The Private Quarters
Rebecca’s vision was spotting with black. She looked into Sloane’s white eyes, and for a second, she didn't see a monster. She saw her friend.
With her last bit of strength, Rebecca didn't pull at Sloane’s hands. She reached up and fumbled for her pocket. She pulled out the one thing she had saved from the night of the meteorite.
Sloane’s original, cracked glasses.
She didn't try to put them on Sloane. She simply held them up between their faces.
"Sloane..." Rebecca wheezed. "Look... at... the... frames..."
Sloane’s grip faltered. Her white pupils vibrated. Inside the psychic prison Desmond had built, Sloane saw the reflection of the cracked plastic in the light. She remembered the warehouse. She remembered the laughter. She remembered the feeling of not being a slave.
"I said SQUEEZE!" Desmond roared, staggering toward them, his hands glowing with violet energy.
The conflict in Sloane’s brain reached a fever pitch. Her suit began to boil, shifting between the matte black of the criminal and the iridescent shimmer of the hero.
"I... am... NOT..."
Sloane’s voice cracked. The white in her eyes shattered like glass. Her real, brown eyes flooded back, filled with a primal, agonizing rage and the shame of everything she had been forced to do.
"HAPPY!"
Sloane didn't let go of Rebecca—she retracted. She pulled Rebecca toward her chest to protect her and, in the same movement, whipped her other arm back. It stretched thirty feet, coiling like a massive snake, before snapping forward with the speed of a bullet.
WHIP-CRACK.
Her fist, now the size of a boulder, slammed into Desmond Thorne’s chest. The "Human Mind" was launched through the concrete wall of his own quarters, his psychic grip vanishing instantly.
Sloane collapsed to her knees, still clutching Rebecca. Her suit receded, leaving her exposed and shaking. She began to sob—deep, chest-heaving wails of pure trauma.
"I'm sorry, Becca... I'm so sorry... I couldn't stop... he made me... I'm so sorry..."
"I know," Rebecca whispered, pulling her friend into a tight hug. "I know, Sloane. You’re back. You’re back."
The door to the quarters exploded inward. Victor, Artie, and Leo burst in, ready for war, only to stop dead at the sight of the two girls on the floor.
Victor looked at the hole in the wall where Desmond had gone. "Is he dead?"
"It doesn't matter," Sloane whispered, her eyes hardening as she looked at her hands—the hands that had been forced to touch herself and hurt her friend. She stood up, the obsidian suit flowing over her one last time, darker and more formidable than ever before.
"We’re leaving. And we're burning this place to the ground."
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