Page 32 of Naga's Mate

"You're developing weapons specifically designed to cause maximum suffering," I counter, gesturing toward his work. "How does that make you any better?"

"We're fighting for humanity's survival." Reed's voice takes on the rehearsed quality of someone reciting doctrine. "Every naga eliminated improves our species' chances. Every hybrid prevented preserves human genetic purity."

"Genetic purity," I repeat, the words bitter on my tongue. "That sounds disturbingly similar to ideologies that justified atrocities before the Conquest."

Reed's expression hardens. "Your perspective has been compromised by prolonged venom exposure. Once your system is fully purged, you'll recognize the necessity of our methods."

"And the necessity of killing my child?"

"That was no child." His voice drops to something cold and final. "It was a biological invasion that would have consumed you from within. We saved you, Lyra. Eventually, you'll be grateful."

The realization crystallizes with devastating clarity: I haven't been rescued but merely transferred between captors with different motivations. At least Nezzar valued my research and never disguised his intentions behind false morality. His claiming was honest in its predatory nature; Reed's "rescue" is wrapped in self-righteous human supremacy that somehow feels more violating.

I retreat into apparent acceptance, nodding appropriately as Reed outlines plans to use my botanical knowledge for developing more effective anti-naga bioweapons. "Your understanding of their physiology is unprecedented," he explains, excitement entering his voice. "Combined with your chemical expertise, we could develop compounds that would eliminate their reproductive capacity entirely."

Genocide, in other words. Disguised as resistance.

As I lie awake that night, my body still fighting the withdrawal that Reed's treatments barely address, I find myself recalculating my situation with the same analytical detachment I once applied to complex botanical formulations. The venom dependency remains the most immediate challenge—a connection to Nezzar that weakens daily but persists. The resistance compound's security patterns become increasingly familiar, its vulnerabilities apparent to my trained observational skills.

Most crucial is Reed's fundamental misunderstanding of my nature. He sees me as a victim requiring rescue, then rehabilitation. He fails to recognize that the same adaptability that allowed my body to embrace Nezzar's venom might now be applied to surviving—and eventually escaping—this new captivity.

I place my hand over my empty abdomen, mourning what was lost while assessing what might still be possible. The world remains frustratingly dull without enhanced senses, but my thoughts grow clearer. And in this emerging clarity, one truth stands out: neither Primes nor Purists offer true freedom. The only path forward lies in my own hands.

Whatever comes next, I will no longer remain passive in my own story.

CHAPTER16

RECAPTURE

Two weeks into my imprisonment—correction,my "rescue"—and I've mastered the art of smiling while scheming. It's remarkable how readily the resistance accepts my facade of gratitude, as if being transferred from one captor to another should inspire genuine appreciation. Stockholm syndrome inverted. Is there a clinical term for that? Perhaps Reed could devise one while lecturing me on appropriate emotional responses.

"Your contributions will save countless human lives," he tells me this morning, observing my work in the assigned laboratory. A sterile enclosure of harsh lighting and unyielding surfaces, worlds apart from the living laboratory Nezzar and I cultivated together.

"Of course," I reply, the picture of dutiful compliance. I carefully measure compounds that could theoretically disrupt naga neural pathways, deliberately introducing subtle molecular flaws that would render them ineffective. A minor rebellion, but not insignificant.

Without venom-enhanced perception, the work frustrates me constantly. Colors appear lifeless, scents convey only their primary notes, and my hands lack the precision I'd grown accustomed to. The resistance celebrates these changes as "returning to proper human functioning," conveniently disregarding how they've diminished my research capabilities.

The withdrawal symptoms have stabilized into something almost bearable—persistent low-grade fever, intermittent tremors, and a hollow ache deep within my marrow that resembles homesickness for a biochemistry no longer mine. Restful sleep remains elusive. I lie awake nightly, my body instinctively seeking the serpentine embrace that once surrounded me, the venom that transformed my nervous system into something remarkable.

My quarters—effectively a cell, despite the desk and private bathroom—remain under constant surveillance. The camera mounted in the corner doesn't attempt discretion. "For your protection," Reed explained when I questioned it. Protection from what, he never clarified. Probably from my own "compromised judgment," as they see it.

Tonight marks my fourteenth night of captivity. The clock reads 3:17 AM when I first notice something different. Not a sound or a sight, but an absence—the background electrical hum of security systems has ceased. I sit up cautiously, wondering whether it's merely a power fluctuation or something more significant.

The air feels different. Heavier. More humid.

A distant splash reaches my ears, followed by another, then silence. Not the ambient sounds of surrounding wetlands—these are deliberate movements. Calculated. Precise.

My heart accelerates against my ribcage in a rhythm that feels foreign after weeks of dull resignation. I move to the door, pressing my ear against it. The guards who typically patrol the corridor have gone silent. No footsteps, no conversation, nothing.

Minutes stretch endlessly. Then, unmistakably, comes a sound that sends electricity through my veins—the soft, distinctive whisper of scales gliding across dampened surfaces. Not random wetland creatures, but the synchronized movement of predators with clear purpose.

The first alarm wails at 3:42 AM, already too late to matter.

By the time second and third alarms join the cacophony, the compound has descended into chaos. Shouts echo through corridors, followed by unmistakable combat sounds—human cries abruptly silenced, the cracking impact of powerful tails against bone, the hissing commands of naga warriors executing their mission with lethal precision.

I retreat from the door, uncertain how to proceed. Escape seems impossible with nagas flooding the compound, yet remaining locked in my room makes me vulnerable to either side. The resistance might determine a valuable asset is better eliminated than recaptured; the nagas might strike first and recognize too late.

The fighting approaches, distinctive sounds of naga combat techniques—the whip-crack of powerful tails, the liquid hiss of venom deployed as weapon rather than pleasure-inducer—now just beyond my corridor. The overhead lights flicker repeatedly before failing completely, plunging the room into darkness broken only by crimson emergency illumination.

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