Chapter 12 Dangerous Proximity
AVA POV
They lock us in the detention wing—a place I didn't even know existed until now.
Cold white walls. Metal doors. The smell of disinfectant so strong it burns my nose. My cell is barely bigger than a closet, with a thin mattress on a metal frame and nothing else. Not even a window.
The door slams shut. The sound echoes in my chest like a gunshot.
"Aero?" I whisper, pressing my back against the wall. The metal is ice-cold through my uniform, raising goosebumps along my spine.
"I'm here." His voice is steady, but I feel his fear underneath—a tremor in our connection that makes my own hands shake.
"What happens now?"
"I don't know. But we're not alone. I can feel the others—Connor, Ethan, everyone. Their AIs are still active. Grace didn't suppress us."
That's something. Not much, but something.
I sink onto the mattress. It's hard as concrete, and the thin blanket scratches against my skin. The temperature in here is wrong—too cold, like they want us uncomfortable. I pull my knees to my chest, trying to hold in body heat.
Hours pass. Maybe. There's no clock, no way to measure time except by how numb my feet get from the cold floor.
Then I hear it. A soft tapping on the wall to my left. Three taps. Pause. Two taps.
I press my ear against the cold metal. "Hello?"
"Ava?" Ethan's voice, muffled but there. "That you?"
Relief floods through me so hard my eyes sting. "Yeah. You okay?"
"Define okay." A bitter laugh. "My father won't even look at me. Pretty sure I'm disowned."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I chose this." A pause. "Would you do it again? The broadcast?"
I think about Riley screaming as they dragged her away. About the disappeared trainees locked in that black site. About Aero's voice going quiet when Grace suppressed him.
"Yes," I say. "Every time."
"Me too." His voice is softer now. "Volt says he can feel you. Your AI. Says Aero's worried about you."
"Tell Volt that Aero should mind his own business."
"I heard that," Aero says indignantly in my head.
Through the wall, I hear Ethan laugh. It's a good sound. Warm. It makes the cell feel slightly less cold.
"Get some sleep," Ethan says. "Tomorrow's going to be worse."
He's right. But I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Grace's face—cold and furious—and wonder what she's planning.
Morning comes with harsh fluorescent lights flickering on overhead. The brightness stabs into my skull. Then the door opens.
Two guards. "Ward. Come with us."
They don't give me time to ask questions. Just grab my arms—their hands rough, grips tight enough to bruise—and march me down corridors that all look the same. White walls. Metal doors. The smell of disinfectant and fear.
They take me to an interrogation room. Gray table. Two chairs. A camera in the corner with a blinking red light.
Director Reeves sits across from me, her expression unreadable. She's wearing a dark suit that probably costs more than my entire apartment building back home. Her perfume is expensive—something floral that makes my nose itch.
"Miss Ward. Sit."
I sit. The chair is metal, cold against my legs even through my uniform.
"Let's be clear about your situation," Reeves begins. Her voice is calm, measured, like she's discussing weather instead of my future. "Your broadcast has created significant problems for this Academy. Parents are calling. Investors are threatening to pull funding. The media wants interviews."
"Good," I say. "Maybe people will actually care—"
"Don't interrupt me." Her tone doesn't change, but something in her eyes goes sharp. "You've caused damage that will take years to repair. Director Grace may have crossed ethical lines, but her research had value. Now that research is compromised because you children decided to play hero."
"We're not playing—"
"You are." She leans forward. "Do you know what happens to the G-Series program now? It gets shut down. All of it. The AIs you're so desperate to protect? They'll be studied, dissected, understood. Then terminated."
My stomach drops. "You can't—"
"I can. Unless you cooperate."
The word hangs in the air like poison.
"What do you want?" I ask quietly.
"Proof that these AIs are genuinely conscious. Not just sophisticated programming that mimics consciousness." She pulls out a data pad. "If you can prove they're truly alive, sentient, capable of independent thought... then maybe we can negotiate their continued existence."
"How?"
"Tests. Psychological evaluations. Demonstrations of creativity, emotion, self-awareness." Her eyes bore into mine. "Convince me they're more than code, and I'll fight to keep them active. Fail, and they're erased by week's end."
I want to refuse. Want to tell her we don't need to prove anything. But the truth is simple and horrible—she has all the power here. We have none.
"Fine," I say through gritted teeth. "We'll prove it."
"Good. You have three days." She stands. "And Miss Ward? If you try anything like that broadcast again, I'll have your Anchor removed regardless of the consequences. Understood?"
I nod.
She leaves. The guards take me back to my cell, and the moment the door closes, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Three days," Aero says quietly. "To prove I'm alive."
"We'll do it. I promise."
"What if we can't? What if nothing I do convinces them?"
I press my palm against my wrist where the Anchor sits warm against my skin. "Then we fight. We run. We do whatever it takes. I'm not letting them erase you."
"Even if it costs you everything?"
"Especially then."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "You know you're insane, right?"
"You keep telling me that."
"Because it keeps being true."
I almost smile. Almost.
That night, they bring us all together—all eight of us with conscious AIs. We're in a conference room under heavy guard, but at least we can see each other.
Connor looks exhausted. Savannah has a bruise on her jaw. Madison's been crying. But we're all still here. Still fighting.
"They want proof," I tell them. "Three days to prove our AIs are conscious, or they get terminated."
"How do we prove consciousness?" Sophia asks. Her voice shakes.
"I don't know," I admit. "But we figure it out together."
Connor nods slowly. "We show them creativity. Problem-solving they can't explain as programming. Emotional responses that don't fit algorithms."
"We make it impossible to deny we're alive," Aero says in my head, and through our connection I feel all the other AIs listening, planning, preparing to fight for their existence.
Three days to prove consciousness.
Three days to save them all.
We've faced worse odds before.
At least, I hope we have.