The alert tone cut off mid-note.
Silence rushed in so fast it felt louder than the alarm itself.
Jones froze, one foot still half-lifted. His internal diagnostics paused, as if waiting for permission to resume. Lines of code that usually scrolled in the background locked in place.
*System hesitation detected.*
Derick's hand was already moving across the control console. "That's not a standard drill alert," he muttered. "They didn't tell me about this."
The chamber lights pulsed red once—then stabilized into a dim crimson glow that washed the room in warning.
Jones slowly set his foot down. The restraints around his limbs tightened by a fraction.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to remind him who was in control.
"Derick," Jones said, keeping his voice level, "my system just flagged an override channel."
Derick stiffened. "Say that again."
"Override channel," Jones repeated. "Restricted access. External authority."
Derick swore under his breath. "They're testing remote influence."
Before Jones could respond, a new presence slid into his head—not a voice, but pressure. Like someone placing their hand over his thoughts and pressing gently, experimentally.
*Manual compliance protocol initializing.*
"No," Jones said instantly. His fingers twitched against the restraints, muscles responding before permission could be granted.
Warning symbols bloomed across his vision.
*Resistance logged.*
Derick turned toward the cameras, his voice sharp. "Cut it. This isn't what we agreed to."
No answer.
Jones felt it then—the subtle shift. His balance recalibrated without his consent. His posture straightened, movements aligning not with instinct, but with imposed parameters.
Someone else was steering.
*So this is what they want,* he thought. *Not a soldier. A tool.*
"Jones," Derick said, more quietly now. "Listen to me. Don't fight it head-on."
Jones clenched his jaw. "They're inside my system."
"I know," Derick replied. "And if you push too hard, they'll justify locking you down permanently."
The pressure increased.
Jones took a step forward—clean, efficient, lifeless.
It scared him more than collapsing ever had.
Inside, something burned. A memory flashed—Steve Jones, flesh and blood, laughing with his team over comms. Delta's jokes. Stealth's calm reports. The moment he gave the order that led them all into hell.
*I didn't survive just to become this.*
Jones slowed the movement—not stopping it, but bending it. Introducing imperfection. A fraction of delay. A hint of choice.
His system screamed warnings.
Derick noticed immediately. A faint, dangerous smile tugged at his mouth. "Good," he murmured. "You found the gap."
The red lights flickered.
Whoever was watching noticed too.
A new message burned itself across Jones's vision:
**SUBJECT 16 — ANOMALOUS RESPONSE DETECTED.**
Jones lifted his head, eyes glowing faintly.
*Let them detect it,* he thought. *I'm done being quiet.*
And for the first time since waking up in metal, Jones pushed back—not with force, but with will.
The override stalled.
Just for a second.
But that second was enough to prove one thing:
He wasn't fully theirs.
And they knew it.