They recognized something was wrong. Events were not proceeding according to their meticulous script.
For all their precautions—the drugs, the mental conditioning, the trigger phrases—their weapon was increasingly unpredictable. Erratic, even.
So they took her girlfriend.
You know she’s coming to save or avenge you, depending on whether they follow through on their threat.
You hold on to hope that they won’t. If they hurt you, the entire human race will suffer the consequences.
You wonder if they understand that as well as you do.
While they have some understanding of what she’s capable of, it’s clear most of them have no real idea what she is.
Most of them seem to think their organization created her, as if they were capable of such a feat.
No. They just found her—or at least they found what would become her—buried among the bones of the Earth, far deeper underground than this bunker they’re keeping you in.
They made her their weapon, and because they could never quite restrain her for long, they permitted her to enact a simulacrum of human life. It was a compromise that still gave them enough control.
Now she loves you, and they’ve taken you away from her to retain control.
You recognize her approach by the explosions reverberating through the floor.
The men on guard in the room with you are sweating nervously. Even they must recognize the artillery fire is just a formality with her, since even a direct strike would not break her stride.
As their weapon of last resort, her deployment has always meant No Survivors. This time they made themselves the target. How could they think this would go their way?
You hope the man holding the gun to your head doesn’t feel too jumpy to keep his finger off the trigger.
The vibrations stop. She must be inside.
An important-looking man with his back to you runs his fingers through salt-and-pepper hair as he frets at a bank of monitors displaying video feeds throughout the compound.
One by one they flash white and then go dark.
You never see her, but you know that’s your girlfriend flowing through the facility at a rapid pace that must be terrifying to these men.
You know that it must be a deliberate choice of hers to move slow enough for them to watch her procession from room to room.
The last feed winks out in a flash, and you close your eyes to brace yourself for—
A sound like a thunderclap and the screeching of metal as the armored door hurtles inward.
Somehow the trajectory is perfectly calculated, and you hear the sickening wet crunch as it collides with the man threatening you with his gun, followed by the clang when it hits the opposite wall.
Then blinding light fills the room, visible even through your eyelids.
You don’t open them again until you feel arms around you and her reassurance that it’s over.
You won’t be able to return home, but as long as you’re with her, you’ll find a way to begin anew.
And as far as building a new life goes, one survivor is a good start, right?