Chapter 15 Auction Zero

Dawn brought a heavy mist that shrouded the village in ghostly white, as if the world beyond our immediate surroundings had ceased to exist. Perhaps it was fitting—a visual representation of the liminality we occupied, suspended between what had been and what might yet be.

"Are you certain about this?" Rowan asked as we dressed in the simple clothes Dr. Voss had provided—loose-fitting garments designed to accommodate the sensors that would monitor our vital signs during the procedure.

I met his gaze in the mirror as I fastened my hair away from my face. "Are you trying to talk me out of it?"

"Just making sure you understand what you're risking." He approached, hands settling on my shoulders. "Neural linking isn't like physical intimacy. There's nowhere to hide, no way to shield the parts of yourself you'd rather keep private."

"I've spent three years hiding from truths I didn't want to face," I replied, covering his hands with mine. "I'm done with secrets."

A knock at the front door interrupted us—Mrs. Thorne arriving with breakfast and news.

"Strangers in the village," she reported as she set out warm bread and fresh fruit. "Two men asking questions at the inn. Showed photographs of you both."

Rowan's posture shifted instantly, the vigilant operative replacing the contemplative man of moments before. "Description?"

"City types. Expensive suits despite trying to dress casual." She shook her head disapprovingly. "Offered money for information. Nobody talked, of course. St. Augustine's protects its own."

"How did they find us?" I wondered aloud.

"They haven't—not yet," Rowan said. "They're casting a wide net, checking remote locations. Standard search protocol."

Mrs. Thorne nodded in agreement. "Sheriff Blackwood sent them on their way, told them this village has been empty of visitors for months. But they'll be back, with more men next time."

After she left, we ate quickly, the peaceful sanctuary of the village suddenly feeling more tenuous.

"We need to accelerate our timeline," Rowan said, checking the perimeter security system he'd installed. "If they're already searching nearby areas, we have hours at most before they narrow it down."

Dr. Voss was already preparing when we arrived at her cottage, additional equipment set up in what had previously been her living room.

"You've heard about our visitors," she noted, gesturing for us to sit in two reclined chairs positioned side by side.

"How long will the procedure take?" Rowan asked as she attached sensors to his temples and chest.

"Four hours for the full integration. Once we begin, it cannot be interrupted without significant neurological risk to you both." She moved to attach similar sensors to me. "If your father's recovery team arrives before we finish—"

"They won't get in," Rowan assured her. "The village has its own security measures."

Dr. Voss raised an eyebrow. "You've prepared for this eventuality."

"I've prepared for every eventuality," he replied grimly.

As she continued setting up the equipment, a soft chime sounded from a device on her desk. Her expression tightened as she checked it.

"Perimeter alert," she explained. "Someone's entered the forest boundary. We need to begin now."

The neural interface she placed on my head was lighter than it appeared, conforming to my skull with surprising comfort. Beside me, Rowan received a more complex version—designed to interact with his existing implants rather than simply facilitate connection.

"The procedure occurs in three phases," Dr. Voss explained, initiating the system. "First, establishing the neural bridge between you. Second, identifying and isolating the control nodes in Rowan's neural architecture. Third, integration and sovereignty establishment."

Screens around us displayed our brain activity in real-time—mine a relatively simple pattern of blues and greens, Rowan's a complex matrix of colors indicating the multiple systems operating within his modified mind.

"During the bridge phase, you'll experience shared consciousness," she continued. "Memories, sensations, emotions flowing between you. It may be disorienting at first. Focus on each other—your connection will anchor you through the process."

I reached out, finding Rowan's hand between our chairs. His fingers interlaced with mine, warm and solid.

"Ready?" Dr. Voss asked.

We nodded in unison.

"Neural bridge initiating in three, two, one..."

The world dissolved.

I was falling, floating, expanding—all at once. Colors and sounds rushed past me, fragments of memories not my own flickering like film reels on fast-forward. Then suddenly, clarity—but I wasn't myself anymore.

*I was Rowan, standing before Alexander Rothschild in his office three days before our wedding.*

*"Leave her," Alexander was saying, sliding photographs across the desk. "Fabricated evidence of financial crimes, enough to put you away for decades. Unless you disappear before the ceremony."*

*Rage and fear battled within me. "I won't leave her."*

*Alexander's smile was cold. "Then perhaps we'll try a more direct approach."*

*The memory shifted, fragmented—pain, confusion, waking in a white room with restraints on my wrists and ankles, voices discussing "neural architecture" and "memory suppression protocols."*

*Days or weeks of torment followed—injections that burned through my veins, electrical currents mapping my brain, voices instructing me to forget Cassia Rothschild, to become someone new, someone obedient.*

*Then resistance—finding ways to hide core memories behind walls of manufactured compliance, protecting the essence of who I was and what I felt for her.*

The scene changed again. Now I was seeing myself through Rowan's eyes—the moment he first saw me at the auction house, the shock and complex emotion that had surged through him when I raised my paddle.

*Ten million. She's buying me.*

*Relief that she had found him, anger at being objectified, hope that she might help him escape, fear that she was part of her father's plan—all these emotions had crashed through him simultaneously as our eyes met across that crowded room.*

The memories accelerated, showing me our interactions through his perspective—my coldness in the glass chamber, his calculated responses designed to provoke emotional reactions, testing whether I was complicit or ignorant of what had been done to him.

Then deeper memories emerged—the original Rowan's thoughts, feelings, plans. His genuine love for me, his excitement about our future, his secret preparation of the village as our private sanctuary. The devastating moment when he realized Alexander would destroy him rather than allow our marriage.

Suddenly the perspective shifted—I was myself again, but Rowan was inside my mind, witnessing my memories of the abandoned wedding, the humiliation and heartbreak, the years of searching followed by bitter resignation. My evolution into the cold, controlled woman who would purchase a human being at auction.

He saw my shock of recognition when I first spotted him on the auction block, the instant decision to buy him regardless of cost, the confused mixture of vengeance and protection that had driven me since.

*We're seeing each other truly,* his voice echoed in my mind. *No masks, no defenses.*

The intimacy of it was overwhelming—more naked than any physical exposure could ever be. Every secret thought, every private fear, every unspoken desire laid bare between us.

Then new memories appeared—ones neither of us recognized. A laboratory. Equipment more advanced than anything in my father's facilities. A woman who looked remarkably like me, but older, more weathered by life and work.

*My mother,* I realized. *These are her memories.*

We watched through her eyes as she developed the original Project Lazarus—a beautiful, compassionate vision of preserving consciousness for those losing themselves to dementia or brain injury. We felt her horror as Alexander began redirecting the research toward control rather than preservation, her determination to protect her work's true purpose.

The final memory fragment showed her recording something in this very cottage, speaking to Dr. Voss: *"If Alexander succeeds, if he creates his controlled subjects, this protocol will be their salvation. Neural sovereignty—the right of every consciousness to self-determination."*

As suddenly as it had begun, the first phase ended. I gasped, returning to awareness of my physical body while retaining the connection to Rowan's mind. Beside me, he was breathing heavily, eyes wide with the shock of shared consciousness.

"Phase one complete," Dr. Voss announced, checking our vital signs. "Neural bridge established and stable. Proceeding to phase two—control node isolation."

This phase was focused entirely on Rowan's neural architecture. I remained connected but as an observer, watching as Dr. Voss's procedure systematically identified and isolated each control node my father had implanted. There were dozens—affecting everything from memory access to emotional responses, physical capabilities to pain thresholds.

Through our link, I felt Rowan's growing sense of violation as the full extent of the manipulation became clear. Each node represented a way he had been controlled, a function of his mind or body that had been subject to external command.

*I'm sorry,* I projected through our connection. *I'm so sorry for what he did to you.*

*You didn't know,* came his response, tinged with grim determination. *But now we both do.*

Phase two completed after what felt like hours, though Dr. Voss's monitors showed only forty minutes had passed.

"Final phase initiating," she announced. "Integration and sovereignty establishment."

This was the most dangerous part—where Rowan's fragmented self would be reunited and sealed against further external control. Through our connection, I could feel his apprehension, his fear that the person who emerged might not be anyone either of us recognized.

*Stay with me,* I urged, focusing all my strength on our connection. *Remember who you are. Who we are together.*

The process began as a gentle reorganization, neural pathways realigning, memories finding their proper context. Then suddenly—pain. Excruciating, overwhelming pain that flooded through our connection from Rowan's mind to mine.

His body arched in the chair beside me, a strangled cry escaping his throat as the control nodes fought against isolation, triggered failsafe protocols designed to prevent exactly this kind of liberation.

Through our neural bridge, I could see what was happening—his enhanced systems attempting to shut down rather than accept sovereignty, his brain caught in a catastrophic feedback loop.

"His vital signs are critical," Dr. Voss warned, fingers flying over her controls. "The failsafes are more extensive than anticipated."

I fought through the shared pain, focusing my consciousness toward his. *Rowan, listen to me. Focus on my voice, on our connection.*

His mind was fracturing, memories scattering like leaves in a storm. I reached for them, gathering the fragments, holding them together through sheer force of will.

*Remember the village,* I projected desperately. *Remember the church tower, the rings, your letter. Remember what you planned for us.*

Through the chaos, I felt him responding—reaching back, clinging to the memories I offered, using them as anchors against the dissolution.

*The roses,* he managed. *You always loved roses.*

*Yes,* I encouraged. *Stay with that. Stay with me.*

Dr. Voss's voice seemed distant: "I'm activating the final integration sequence. This will either stabilize him or—"

"Do it," I ordered, never breaking my focus on Rowan's consciousness.

A surge of energy flowed through the neural bridge—not physical electricity but something more fundamental, a reorganization of consciousness itself. For a moment, I felt myself losing cohesion, my identity blurring into his, boundaries dissolving.

Then clarity—sudden, brilliant clarity as our separate selves reasserted, the bridge between us transforming from chaotic merger to structured connection. I could still feel Rowan's mind, but distinct from my own, whole and integrated in a way it hadn't been before.

"Neural sovereignty established," Dr. Voss announced, relief evident in her voice. "Control nodes neutralized and repurposed. Bridge stability at optimal levels."

I opened my eyes to find Rowan already watching me, his gaze clear and focused in a way I'd never seen before—not the calculated observation of the enhanced operative nor the affectionate warmth of my former fiancé, but something entirely new. Entirely his.

"How do you feel?" I asked aloud, though our neural bridge would have communicated the question just as effectively.

"Complete," he replied, voice rough with emotion. "For the first time since I woke in that facility... I feel like myself. All aspects, all memories, integrated and under my control."

Dr. Voss began removing our sensors, her movements efficient but gentle. "The neural bridge will fade gradually over the next few hours. You may experience lingering connectivity—shared sensations, emotional echoes."

A sudden banging at the front door interrupted her explanation. Mrs. Thorne's voice called urgently from outside:

"They're here! Black vehicles entering the village square!"

Dr. Voss moved quickly to a security monitor. "Four tactical vans. Armed personnel deploying."

Rowan was already on his feet, the neural integration having apparently enhanced rather than diminished his physical capabilities. "How long until the bridge dissolves completely?"

"Two hours minimum," she replied. "You're still connected at a fundamental level."

"Then we stay together," I said, standing beside him. "Whatever happens next, we face it united."

He nodded, decision made. "Dr. Voss, take the escape tunnel behind your clinic. It leads to a secondary exit beyond the village boundary."

"And you?"

A grim smile crossed his face. "We're going to end this. Once and for all."

As Dr. Voss gathered essential equipment and research materials, Rowan led me to a concealed panel in her cottage. Behind it lay weapons, tactical gear, and communication devices.

"You planned for this too?" I asked as he handed me a sleek pistol.

"I told you—every eventuality." He checked his own weapon with practiced efficiency. "The neural bridge gives us an advantage. We'll know each other's movements, intentions, without needing to communicate verbally."

Through our connection, I could feel his strategic mind working—assessing options, calculating risks, mapping escape routes. But beneath that tactical analysis ran a deeper current—fierce protectiveness, determination, and something else... a clarity of purpose that transcended mere survival.

"What's the plan?" I asked, following him to the rear exit of the cottage.

"We make it to the church," he replied. "The bell tower has a direct line of sight to the entire village. From there, we can assess their numbers and deployment pattern."

As we slipped out into the misty morning, staying low and using the cottages for cover, I felt Rowan's consciousness brushing against mine—not invasive but reassuring, a constant reminder that I wasn't alone.

Halfway to the church, a voice boomed through a megaphone, echoing across the village square:

"Attention! This is a federal security operation. All residents are ordered to remain indoors. We are searching for two fugitives considered armed and dangerous."

Through our connection, Rowan's thoughts came clearly: *Not federal. Private contractors. Your father's cleanup team.*

We reached the church unseen, slipping through a side entrance into the cool, dim interior. The ancient stone walls muffled the sounds of the search outside—boots on cobblestones, orders being shouted, vehicles repositioning.

"Up," Rowan directed, leading the way to the bell tower stairs.

From the tower's vantage point, the situation became clear—twelve operatives in tactical gear, methodically searching buildings around the square, working their way outward. Their movements were coordinated, professional, but there was something off about their approach.

*They're not just looking for us,* Rowan's thoughts came to me. *They're searching for something else too.*

I focused on the command vehicle parked at the center of the square, where a familiar figure stood consulting a tablet.

*Miranda,* I realized with a surge of betrayal. *She led them here.*

Rowan's mind touched mine, sharing a deeper insight: *Not willingly. Look at her posture, the guard beside her. She's a prisoner too.*

He was right—Miranda's wrists were bound, a tactical officer standing too close behind her, weapon visible against her back. She was being forced to cooperate.

*They must have captured her after the safe house raid,* Rowan concluded. *Used her to track our potential locations.*

A new vehicle entered the square—sleek, black, with tinted windows. When the rear door opened, my blood ran cold.

My father emerged, arm in a sling from Miranda's bullet wound, but otherwise looking remarkably composed for a man who had been arrested for human experimentation less than 48 hours earlier.

*How is he free?* I wondered.

*Connections,* Rowan's thoughts replied. *Money. Power. The same forces that let him create Project Lazarus in the first place.*

Through our neural link, I felt Rowan's tactical assessment shifting, plans reformulating as he processed this new development.

*We need to end this,* his thoughts came clearly. *Not just escape. End it permanently.*

I understood immediately what he meant. As long as my father remained free, with access to his resources and connections, we would never truly be safe. The pursuit would continue, the threat would remain.

*How?* I asked silently.

In answer, Rowan shared not words but a plan—images, tactics, timing. The neural bridge allowed him to transfer complex strategic thinking in an instant, more efficiently than any verbal explanation could achieve.

It was dangerous. Possibly suicidal. But it might work.

*Together,* I agreed.

He smiled, a fierce expression that matched the determined resolve flowing through our connection. Then, reaching into his pocket, he withdrew something I hadn't seen him take from the rectory—the gold rings from the wooden chest.

*Whatever happens next,* his thoughts came as he slipped one ring onto my finger, *we are bound by choice, not control.*

I took the second ring, placing it on his finger in echo of our earlier, private vow. *No matter what comes, we choose our path. Together.*

From the village square below, my father's voice carried up to our position:

"Cassia! I know you can hear me. This doesn't need to end in violence. Come out, bring Subject 1037X, and I promise you'll both be treated humanely."

Rowan and I exchanged a glance, our neural connection humming with shared purpose and determination.

"Ready?" he asked aloud.

"Ready," I confirmed.

Together, we began our descent from the bell tower, moving not away from danger but directly toward it—toward the final confrontation that would determine, once and for all, whether we would live as prisoners of my father's ambition or forge a new path entirely our own.