Chapter Text
The cell had no windows.
Subject 521-M had learned to stop counting days after the first hundred. Time became meaningless in the dark—just the drip of water from somewhere above, the cold seep of damp through the stone floor, and the slow erosion of everything that had once made him him.
He was a dryad. He knew this the way he knew he had hands, had roots that should have been touching soil, had leaves that should have felt sunlight. But he had been captured young—so young that the memory of trees was more dream than fact. The laboratory had been his entire world for as long as he could remember.
Now he was a young adult, by whatever measure they used in this place.
He was also dehydrated, his body kept alive only by the oppressive dampness of the cell. The air was thick with moisture, but none of it was clean enough to drink. His bark-like skin had grown pale, peeling in places where the experiments had left scars. His leaves—what few remained—were brown and brittle.
He had stopped hoping a long time ago.
Then the explosion hit.
The shockwave vibrated through the walls, through the floor, through the very marrow of his bones. 521-M's head snapped up, his dull eyes widening as the cell trembled around him. Dust rained from the ceiling.
What—
Alarms blared above. The red lights that flickered in the hallway began to strobe, casting everything in hellish flashes. Then came the screams—scientists shouting, guards barking orders, the unmistakable crack of gunfire and the wet thud of bodies hitting the floor.
One body. Two. Five.
521-M pressed himself deeper into the corner of his cell, his thin arms wrapping around his knees. This had happened before—not this exactly, but violence. The laboratory was no stranger to pain. He had learned that hope was just another tool the scientists used to break you.
But something was different this time.
The screams weren't coming from the cells.
They were coming from above.
Footsteps pounded through the hallway outside—not the measured stride of guards, but something faster. More purposeful. The sound of metal bars snapping echoed from every direction, followed by confused, terrified voices.
"Come on—"
"Move, move!"
"We're getting you out—"
521-M didn't believe it. He couldn't. The last time someone had come to the cells with promises of freedom, it had been a trap. A test. They had wanted to see who would run, who would fight, who would break.
He stayed in his corner.
The footsteps grew closer. Closer. Then—
CRUNCH.
The massive metal door at the end of the cell block didn't just break. It imploded, folding inward like paper before being crushed into a crumpled ball of scrap. The force of it sent a shockwave down the hallway, and 521-M flinched, raising his arms to shield his face.
Through his fingers, he saw a figure step through the smoke.
It was a mannequin. The wooden kind from shops, this one moved with purpose, its synthetic skin cracked in places, revealing something darker beneath. It carried a plasmic bomb in one hand, still glowing with residual energy from the door breach.
The mannequin—Maine, the dryad would later learn—ran down the hallway, checking each cell. When he reached 521-M's bars, he didn't hesitate. Another plasmic charge, smaller this time, and the metal melted like butter.
He stepped inside.
The cell was barely large enough for both of them. The mannequin crouched down, bringing himself to the dryad's level. His face—empty by design—somehow conveyed urgency and gentleness in equal measure.
"My name is Maine," he said, his voice quiet beneath the alarms. "And we're here to help you escape this laboratory."
He held out a wooden hand.
521-M stared at it.
His mind was a blank wall. Years of conditioning, of torture, of watching other experiments die on tables while scientists took notes—all of it screamed trap. But there was something in Maine's posture. The way he didn't rush. The way he didn't demand.
And then Maine's hand reached out anyway, and before the dryad could react, strong arms lifted him from the floor.
"No time to waste, sorry." Maine settled him over one shoulder, careful despite the haste. "But I still need to help the others."
The world became motion.
521-M clung to Maine's head—the only stable anchor—as they ran. The hallway blurred past: broken cells, freed experiments stumbling toward exits, the bodies of guards crumpled in doorways. The alarms seemed to grow louder, but so did the sound of his own heartbeat.
He hadn't known his heart could still beat that fast.
---
Three floors above, Viast K'nul-Ferein wiped dust from his face and checked his communicator.
The operation had gone smoother than expected. TRUE and FALSE teams had moved through the facility like ghosts, neutralizing key personnel, securing the experiment wing, and planting charges in every data storage room. His people knew their roles. They had trained for this.
He opened the channel.
"Team Phobia, status."
"All files deleted. Logs copied. Storage rooms rigged."
"Extraction Team."
"Experiments are out. Maine's crew has them. No casualties on our side."
"Medical Team."
Static. Then—"Seventy-two experiments total. Seventeen need immediate medical attention. We're loading them onto the transports now."
Viast nodded to himself, a sharp, satisfied motion. "Good. Everyone to extraction points. I'm finishing up here."
The channel went quiet.
Viast walked through the main research room, his footsteps echoing on blood-slicked tile. The scientists who had worked here—who had tortured here—were either unconscious or dead. He didn't check which. It didn't matter.
What mattered were the machines.
Rows of them: surgical rigs, neural interfaces, containment chambers designed to hold living beings while they were cut apart and studied. Viast had seen their like before. He had been inside them.
He pulled a small incendiary device from his belt, primed it, and dropped it onto the nearest console.
The fire caught quickly.
Flames spread across the room, licking at papers, climbing the walls, consuming everything that had been used to destroy so many lives. Viast watched for a moment—just a moment—watching the orange glow reflect off the chrome.
Then he closed the door and walked away.
---
Outside, Maine had set the dryad down near the transports.
The night air was cold—colder than anything 521-M had felt in years. He gasped, his damaged lungs seizing, and someone wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. A rough wool thing that smelled of smoke and dust.
It was the softest thing he had ever touched.
Maine's team moved around him—other mannequins, a few humans, a xenomorph with a whip coiled at her hip. They spoke in low voices, guiding the rescued experiments onto vehicles, checking vitals, murmuring reassurances.
Maine himself stood apart, his communicator open. A hologram flickered above it—the image of a deer, calm and watchful.
"Maine, tell Viast that he has ten minutes left until Verdanelle notices the commotion and investigates."
"Don't worry, we're done here." Maine's voice was steady.
The deer—Frisp, the mannequin had called him—nodded. Then his expression shifted, something darker passing behind his eyes.
"Make sure to destroy the equipment. It's quite a horrendous thing, and I don't want Limmel to know of its existence, lest he ends up becoming a more unhinged Einreyn."
Maine's jaw tightened. "Understood."
The call ended.
Maine immediately dialed another contact—this one answered before the first ring completed. Viast's face appeared on the hologram, dust-covered and grinning.
"Already ahead of you," Viast said. "Bombs are in the storage wing. Give me sixty seconds."
"Make it thirty."
"Someone's impatient." Viast's grin widened. Then he winked—quick, almost playful—and the hologram vanished.
Maine's expression softened for just a fraction of a second. Then he turned to the transports, raising his voice over the alarms.
"Everyone—heads down! We have an incoming plasmic detonation. Cover your ears and close your eyes!"
521-M didn't understand what that meant. But he obeyed—pulling the wool blanket over his head, pressing his hands to his ears, squeezing his eyes shut.
He felt the explosion before he heard it.
A wave of heat rolled across the clearing, followed by a light so bright it turned the inside of his eyelids red. Then the sound hit—a thunderous CRACK that shook the ground and rattled his teeth. He screamed, but the explosion swallowed it.
When he opened his eyes, the laboratory was gone.
In its place was a crater, glowing with residual plasmic energy. And standing at the edge of that crater, silhouetted against the flames—
Viast.
He was launched from the blast, tumbling through the air in an arc that should have broken every bone in his body. But he landed perfectly beside Maine, knees bent, one hand braced against the ground. Dust exploded outward from the impact.
He straightened, shook himself vigorously—
And coated Maine in a cloud of gray debris.
Maine stood there, expressionless, now covered head to toe in dust. He slowly turned his head to look at Viast.
Viast grinned, unrepentant.
"Worth it."
Behind them, the first transport engine roared to life. The rescued experiments huddled together, blinking in the sudden silence. The alarms had stopped. The screams had stopped.
All that remained was the crackle of flames and the quiet sound of someone—521-M, maybe—beginning to cry.
Maine placed a hand on Viast's shoulder. Just for a moment. Just long enough.
Then they both turned to the transports and began the work of taking everyone home.