Jorak
The static of Redbrook is still crawling under my skin, a thousand tiny needles of corrupted power that refuse to settle, the city's sickness clinging to me. The mission was a success, if everyone listens to the suits at the ESA, but successes usually don't involve two Guides being hauled off on gurneys.
I watch them go, my chest heaving. One is limp, head lolling like a broken doll. The other is vibrating so hard I can hear their teeth clicking together, the sharp, sour tang of burnout flooding the hallway. It's the smell of failure. It's the smell of me.
Nobody looks at me, though. They look at the floor, the walls, their clipboards, anywhere but at the S-Class Enigma who just fried two of their best assets. They treat me like a natural disaster that just happens to wear boots.
Granted, it’s not my fucking fault that they keep putting me out there to fix a problem without the right support. What’s worse is that the leftover corruption from the suppression node running through me isn’t the only problem. It's my rut. It'shitting early, sparked by the adrenaline and the friction of too much power with nowhere to go.
"Into the wing, Jorak," Mercer says, standing there in his tailored suit, the human face of my cage, watching as the orderlies start stripping my field gear away. “It’s time to medicate and diagnose this past mission.”
"The medication won't work," I rasp. My throat is dry, tasting of black cedar and the metallic bite of theBlack Currentenergy of my Esper humming in my marrow. "The pressure is too high. I need to bleed it off."
Dr. Rue doesn't even look up from the tablet. "We're adjusting the dosage, Jorak. The suppression levels will be sufficient once the sedative peaks. Secure the restraints."
They lead me into the containment room, a space of brushed steel and reinforced glass that I know better than the back of my own hand. The air here is filtered, lacking the grit of the city, replaced by the sterile hum of the suppression grid built into the walls. Every time I step inside, the Black Current inside me snarls, recognizing its predator.
The orderlies work in a frantic, rehearsed silence. They strap my wrists into the magnetic locks, the cold metal biting into skin that already feels feverish. I don't resist because that’s just more energy for them to measure and more data for Rue to log in a file that is already thick with my transgressions.
I focus on a small scratch on the far wall, a tiny imperfection in the ESA's perfect control. Heat bleeds hotter through me, pulsing in my gut as my cock throbs in my pants, demanding something I can't have. It wants a Guide who won't break, an Omega that can bend to my Enigma. My energy wants a scent that doesn't smell like fear and burnt circuits.
"Vitals are spiking," a technician says from the observation booth, their voice tinny over the intercom. "Black Current output is at thirty percent and climbing. He's resisting the intake."
"He's not resisting," Rue says, finally stepping toward the glass. "His body is rejecting the stabilization. Increase the sedative flow."
I feel the cold rush of the drugs entering my system through the IV, a heavy, synthetic blanket that tries to smother the fire in my veins. For a second, the world blurs, the edges of the room softening into a gray haze. I want to let it take me. I want to disappear into the numbness where the Black Current can't find me.
But the corruption from the Redbrook node is still there, reacting to the sedative as the pressure continues to build.
"Stop," I choke out. "You're trapping it. If you don't let it out, the feedback will—"
"We are aware of the risks, Jorak," Mercer interrupts, the Alpha standing right against the glass now, his eyes tracking the flicker of black energy dancing across my knuckles. "This is for your safety. And for the safety of the staff."
Safety. It's the lie they use to keep me in chains. He doesn't care about my safety; he cares about his weapon staying functional. He cares about the reports he has to file when I break a Guide's mind. He doesn't see the person strapped to the table. He sees a failing battery that needs a jumpstart.
The second dose hits and my vision snaps into terrifyingly sharp focus. The Black Current isn't just humming now; it's screaming. I can see the energy in the room, the flow of electricity in the overhead lights, the magnetic pulse of the locks, the bio-rhythms of the people behind the glass. It's all too much. It's all noise.
The restraints begin to hum as a thin wisp of black smoke curls from the magnetic lock on my left wrist. I can smell the ozone, sharper than before, mixed with the scent of my own arousal. The rut is twisting, turning from a need into a weapon.
"Get them out," I growl. I'm not looking at the scratch on the wall anymore. I'm looking at Mercer. "Get everyone out of the room.Now."
Rue hesitates. I see his hand hover over the override button. He's a scientist; he knows when a reaction is going critical. But Mercer places a hand on his shoulder, a silent command to stay the course. Mercer believes in his systems. He believes the ESA has accounted for every variable.
He's wrong.
The Black Current erupts, the locks around my wrists disintegrating as the metal turns to fine gray dust in a heartbeat. The monitors in the booth explode in a shower of sparks, plunging the room into a strobing, chaotic darkness.
I hear the screams, the sound of bodies hitting the floor as the shockwave of my power rolls through the room. I control it just enough to push, feeling the resistance of their fear, a physical barrier I have to shove through to get to the door.
The emergency lights kick in, casting everything in a sick, pulsing red. I'm off the table before the orderlies can even reach for their suppression batons, the rut-heat fueling the energy until I can feel the very molecules of the air vibrating around me.
I don't look back at Mercer. I don't want to see the expression on his face, the calculation, the lack of surprise. He'll have a contingency for this. He always does. But he won't expect me to run into the city. He expects me to stay here and be the monster.
Rushing toward the stairs, my skin slick with a sweat that smells like cedar and whiskey and desperation, I focus on one thing:getting out.
The facility guards scramble to keep up, but they're too slow. I burst through the final security gate, the cold night air of Redbrook hitting me all at once. It's raining now, a fine, misty drizzle that tastes of soot and failing magic. The city is alive withthe same static that's under my skin, the suppression nodes in the distance glowing with a sickly amber light.
I stumble into an alleyway, my breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. The Black Current is still coiled inside me, restless and hungry, but for the first time in years, the walls around me aren't made of ESA steel. I lean against the brick wall, the rough texture grounding me. I need to move. I need to find somewhere to hide before the recovery teams find my scent. But my body is failing me, the rut-heat turning my blood to lead. I can feel the pull of the city, the invisible threads of power that connect every failing node, every desperate soul.
