Page 117 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

Mike appears before me, his expression triumphant. “Did you really think you were safe here?” He advances slowly. “Guardian HQ has already fallen. You just don’t know it yet.”

I back away, stumbling over debris, the taste of metallic fear coating my tongue. The air smells wrong—chemical, antiseptic, like the gas they used when they first took me in Kazakhstan. I can feel it filling my lungs, making my limbs heavy, my thoughts scattered.

As consciousness begins to fade in the dream, Malfor crouches beside me. “Your research and I have much to discuss, Dr. Collins,” he says, his cold smile burning into my memory. “And so do your Guardian friends when they realize what they’ve lost.”

The world fades to black, and I feel myself being lifted, carried away from everything I love.

I wake with a violent jolt, my heart hammering so hard I fear it might break through my ribs. Sweat soaks my clothes, and I’m gasping for air as if the dream’s gas has followed me into wakefulness.

“Ally?” Malia’s concerned voice comes from beside me. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I choke out, struggling to orient myself. “Just a nightmare.”

She switches on the bedside lamp, illuminating her worried face. “That seemed like more than ‘just a nightmare.’ You were thrashing and making these awful sounds.”

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to banish the vivid images. The dream felt different from my usual PTSD episodes—more specific, more immediate, like a warning rather than a memory.

“What time is it?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Almost four.” Malia sits up, studying me with concern. “You want to talk about it?”

I hesitate, uncertain how to explain the specifics of the dream without sounding paranoid.

“It was about Kazakhstan at first, but then… it changed. We were here at Guardian HRS, and the repair technician was hunting us. There was an attack. You, Rebel, Jenna… everyone was being taken.”

Saying it aloud makes it sound absurd, the product of an overactive imagination and too much stress. But the details cling to me—the smell of the gas, the metallic taste in my mouth, the exact words Mike spoke as he stood over me.

“First off, Mike is harmless. He’s like a marshmallow. Second, no one is infiltrating Guardian HQ. This place is tied up tighter than Fort Knox. Have you thought about seeing someone about your trauma?”

“Gabe mentioned it… Skye did, too.”

“Maybe it’s something you should consider. I see a therapist, so does Malikai.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, Walt insisted, and after I started going, I convinced my brother to go. It really does help.”

“I’ll look into it.”

Malia’s hand finds mine in the semi-darkness. “It’s just your brain processing everything that’s happening. The security concerns, Hank and Gabe being away, your thesis stress—it’s a lot for anyone to handle.”

“It felt so real,” I whisper, unable to shake the residual terror. “Like it wasn’t just a dream. Like it was… ”

“A premonition?” Malia suggests gently. “Ally, you’re a scientist. You know that’s not how the world works.”

She’s right, of course. I’ve spent my academic career pursuing quantum physics precisely because I believe in a universe governed by explainable forces, not psychic visions or prophecies. The nightmare was just my subconscious mind’s way of processing anxiety.

But as I lie back down, promising Malia I’ll try to sleep, the chill of premonition lingers.

I don’t dream again that night, but I don’t really sleep either. When morning comes, I’m still turning the nightmare over in my mind, analyzing it like a complex equation. There was something about it—something beyond the normal terror of PTSD—that refuses to let go of me.

“You look like hell,” Jenna observes bluntly when I emerge from the guest room. She’s sitting at the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of coffee while checking something on her tablet. “Didn’t sleep?”

“Not really,” I admit, pouring myself a large mug of coffee. “Bad dreams.”

“Malia mentioned.” Her eyes assess me with uncomfortable precision. “Want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “Just stress.” But even as I say it, my fingers tighten around the mug, betraying my unease.

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