“I understand both.”
“ Nu sharak .” The response comes out in their language before I can stop it.
He nods, already turning away. “Prep room. Last door.”
The prep room is white walls, white floor, drain in the center that makes my stomach clench. Clinical. Sterile. A room designed for transformation.
The tonic arrives in a sealed vial. The liquid inside moves wrong, too thick, opalescent sheen shifting like oil on water. When the tech opens it, the smell hits immediately. Copper and ozone and something musky that makes my body respond before my mind catches up.
“Drink it all at once.”
The taste burns. Not heat but something alive, spreading through my system like invasive vine. My skin prickles immediately, every nerve suddenly aware of everything touching it. The rough fabric of my tactical pants. The sports bra that's suddenly too tight. The air itself moving across exposed skin.
Heat pools low in my belly, insistent and demanding. My nipples harden into painful points, the fabric torture against oversensitive flesh. Between my legs, warmth spreads and wetness begins. Not normal arousal but something aggressive, something hungry.
“Normal response,” the tech says, already backing toward the door. “Portal room in two minutes.”
My legs shake when I stand. Every step creates friction that shoots straight to my core. The seam of my tactical pants presses against flesh that's suddenly swollen, sensitive. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, using pain to focus through the chemical storm in my veins.
The portal room is industrial concrete and alien technology. The portal itself shimmers like heat distortion, a perfect circle of elsewhere. Through it, I can see jungle. Green so dense it looks black in places. Steam rising from vegetation. Trees taller than buildings draped in vines thick as my arms.
Vorthak.
Two other women stand at their own portals. One strips off her shirt before stepping through, already lost to the tonic's demands. The other falls to her knees, dry heaving from intensity.
I force myself to assess. Dense canopy means limited visibility. Undergrowth will slow movement. The humidity visible in the air means temperatures over ninety degrees. My body is already compromised by the tonic, systems diverted to reproduction instead of survival.
But I've operated in worse conditions. Afghanistan in summer. Somalia during the rains. This is just another mission. Survive thirty days. Make it back to the portal. Clear my record and secure the benefits.
Something moves in the shadows beyond the portal. Large. Patient. Already watching.
My hand goes to the knife at my belt, muscle memory from a hundred missions. Then I step through.
The humidity is a physical weight. Ninety degrees at least, air so thick with moisture my lungs struggle to process it. My clothes soak through instantly, clinging to skin that's already too sensitive. The wet fabric drags across my nipples, sending signals that convert directly to need.
The portal snaps shut behind me. No sound, just suddenly gone. I'm alone in alien jungle with a body that's betraying me more with each second.
First priority: establish position.
The ground squishes underfoot. Not mud but moss that releases spores when disturbed. They smell sweet, almost floral, but underneath is something else. Male. Musk. Territory marked so thoroughly the scent has soaked into the earth itself.
My body responds instantly. A fresh flood of wetness joins what's already soaking through my pants. Internal musclesclench on nothing, seeking something to grip. My hips roll involuntarily, seeking pressure that won't be enough.
Stop. Compartmentalize. Mission focus.
I force myself to move, scanning for immediate threats. The “gifts” are exactly where the briefing said they'd be. Water in a gourd that looks grown rather than made. Fruit with purple-black skin. Cooked meat wrapped in leaves. And most interesting, a blade knapped from volcanic glass.
I circle them twice. No tripwires. No pressure plates. But that doesn't mean safe. These are tests. Everything here is a test.
The smart move is to leave them, but dehydration will kill me faster than any hunter. I take the water, leaving the rest. Let him know I'm not stupid enough to trust completely.
The jungle presses in from all sides. Every surface drips with moisture. The canopy blocks most light, creating perpetual twilight at ground level. Things move in the shadows. Some small, scurrying. Others large enough to shake branches thirty feet up.
I need shelter before dark. Defensive position. Sight lines.
There's a game trail. Too convenient, probably deliberately maintained. But staying in the open is worse. I follow it, marking trees with my knife every ten meters. Basic navigation that also serves as communication. I'm methodical. Disciplined.
The trail leads upward to a cluster of massive trees. Their roots create natural hollows large enough to shelter in. I choose one with three exits and clear firing lines.
