Page 88 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

“We’ll hit up Mitzy after this,” Gabe promises. “Her team can work miracles.”

“Speaking of,” Hank says, checking his phone with a frown. “My battery’s almost dead too.”

Gabe pulls out his phone. “Same here. Funny, I charged it last night.”

Ethan calls the team back to attention with a clap of his hands. “One more drill, then showers,” he announces. “Combat circuit, full team.”

Hank squeezes my shoulder. “This won’t take long.”

Chapter 26

The combat circuit is impressive—asequence of tactical challenges that the team navigated with seamless coordination. Ethan had them moving through obstacles, engaging targets, and executing complex maneuvers with the precision of a Swiss watch.

“Alright, hit the showers,” Ethan calls out once they’re done.

As the team heads toward the locker rooms, Hank approaches me, towel slung around his neck. “We’ll be quick,” he says, wiping sweat from his brow. “Then we’ll get your laptop sorted.”

I gather my things. My laptop sits uselessly in my bag now.

Gabe appears at my side. “We can’t take you into the team bullpen. Mind waiting in one of the briefing rooms again?”

“I can manage being alone for a few minutes,” I say with a small smile.

Hank’s expression softens slightly. “We’ll be right back.”

This time, they lead me to the central part of the operations building, where several glass-walled rooms branch off from a main corridor. Each is equipped with a large table, chairs, and various displays mounted on the walls. They usher me into one marked “Briefing 3.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” Gabe says, setting my bag on the table. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

The door clicks shut behind them, leaving me alone. The silence feels strange after the constant activity of the training floor. I take the opportunity to examine the room more closely.

Maps and satellite images line one wall, showing various terrain types—urban centers, mountain regions, and coastal areas. Each is marked with what appear to be tactical notations. Another wall holds screens displaying news feeds, though they’re currently muted. A third wall is dominated by a large digital display currently showing the Guardian Shield rotating slowly against a black background.

As I approach the digital display, the image stutters, freezing momentarily before resuming its rotation at a slower pace. Strange. I take a step closer, curious, and the screen pixelates briefly, colors fragmenting before snapping back to normal.

My fingers itch to explore and better understand this organization, which saved my life twice now, but I remember Hank’s warning about secured areas. Instead, I settle for examining the materials already visible.

On the table lies a tablet, its screen dark. I don’t touch it, but as I pass by, the screen flashes to life before going dark again.

The chairs are surprisingly comfortable for a tactical setting—ergonomic, adjustable, and clearly designed for people who might spend hours reviewing mission details.

After days of tension and hours of pure terror, a childish impulse hits me without warning. I grab the back of one chair and spin it, watching it rotate smoothly. Something about the simple physics of it—momentum, angular velocity—makes me smile.

For a brief moment, I’m not a kidnapped physicist or a traumatized survivor. I’m just someone who appreciates a well-made chair.

What the hell? No one’s watching.

I plop down into the nearest chair, adjusting my weight as I push off against the conference table. The wheels glide effortlessly across the polished floor, carrying me to the far wall. Igrin, feeling a ridiculous flutter of joy at this small freedom. When was the last time I did something this pointless, this fun?

Before Malfor, before Kazakhstan—maybe years.

Emboldened, I push off harder from the wall, propelling myself back toward the table. The chair spins slightly as it slides, and I let out a quiet laugh, surprised by how good it feels to be silly for just a moment. I make one more circuit, pushing off with enough force to spin entirely around as I travel.

As I complete my rotation, my knee bumps the table—right next to the tablet. The dark screen suddenly flickers to life, displaying what looks like security camera feeds before quickly going dark again.

I freeze, mid-spin, my moment of childish abandon caught in the act as the door swings open. Hank and Gabe stand in the doorway, both wearing amused expressions as they watch me—renowned physicist and recent hostage—acting like a kid in an office supply store.

“Don’t stop on our account,” Gabe says, a grin on his face. “That’s some impressive chair technique.”

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