Shifting Currents

Caim scrolled through the footage again, just to be sure. Still nothing.

No blip of a door opening. No shadow caught in a corner of a frame. The hallway remained undisturbed, the security logs clean, the digital ghosts uninterested in explaining what Flare had seen with his own two eyes.

"Well, that's not terrifying at all," Caim muttered, flicking off the tablet and resting it on his thigh. "You sure you didn't imagine him?"

Flare shook his head. "No. He was real. Talked to me. Said he had business here. That we'd see each other again." He paused, staring ahead. "He knew my name."

Caim leaned back in the visitor's chair, arms crossed, ankle resting on his opposite knee. His red hair was a damp mess from training — or pacing, Flare couldn't tell. Either way, he looked sharp beneath the casual posture.

"And he gave you nothing else?"

Flare's voice turned dry. "Other than

an outfit that made Marek look fashionably muted? No."

Caim exhaled, the smallest crease forming between his brows. "Someone gets in and out of a secured medbay with no footage, no log, and no known clearance — and just happens to deliver cryptic nonsense to you, of all people?"

"Yeah," Flare said. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Shit."

They let the silence breathe for a moment.

Flare finally swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat upright, hand pressing against his ribs. "We don't tell anyone, at least not yet."

Caim blinked. "Wait, what?"

"If we tell Marcos, he'll lose his mind. And Shayla? She'll tear this place apart looking for him. Which means we'll waste hours chasing someone who doesn't want to be found." Flare reached for the water again. "I want to see if he comes back."

Caim's face tightened, but he nodded.

"Alright. But next time, you're not talking to him alone."

"You volunteering to sleep in a cot beside me?"

"Don't tempt me. I snore like a dying goose."

Flare grinned in spite of himself, but

the smile faded fast.

There was a storm coming. He could feel it beneath the skin — the same way a broken bone ached before a cold front rolled in. This man wasn't an Ashen, even the zombie-like and most humanoid ashen don't speak. He wasn't some rogue asset or an internal leak. He was something else.

And the worst part?

He had felt familiar.

The next morning, Flare walked out of the medbay under his own power.

He wasn't fully cleared for combat, but Maria had given him a medical pass to move around the compound with limitations — mostly because she didn't want to argue with him, and partially because Jess had threatened to drag his stubborn ass back to home-quadrant if he kept pushing the nurses.

He stepped into the training yard, the crisp morning air cutting clean through his clothes. The smell of ash was gone, replaced by the tang of sweat and oiled steel.

Marcos was already there.

Sparring dummies lined one side of the field. Two were shattered, foam guts spilling from torso cavities. Marcos stood beside the wreckage, shirtless and breathing hard, steam rising from his skin in the cold air. He looked up the second he noticed Flare and tossed him a towel.

"You're supposed to be resting," he said, but there was no scolding in his tone.

"Walking counts as resting when you're

enhanced," Flare shot back, catching the towel.

Marcos eyed him, reading the subtle stiffness in his movement. "Pain?"

"Always."

"Good. Means you're still alive."

They stood in silence for a moment before Marcos turned toward the mess at his feet.

"Everything's changing, Flare," he said quietly. "The way they fight. The way they move. That Minotaur… it wasn't a fluke. Not if you saw what I saw in its eyes."

Flare nodded slowly. "I've been thinking the same."

"They're not evolving in the way people think," Marcos said, crouching to grab the leg of a destroyed dummy. "They're not remembering who they were. They're not becoming sentient. They're… following something."

"A directive," Flare muttered.

"Exactly." Marcos stood and tossed the dummy's leg aside. "It's like they're growing more violent. More desperate. Not random — driven. As if they know they're running out of time."

Flare exhaled, jaw flexing. "What do we do?"

Marcos looked him in the eye. "We change the way we fight. We've been treating them like monsters. Things to crush. But now?"

Flare's gaze darkened. "Now we have to

treat them like soldiers."

"Exactly."

Marcos rubbed the back of his neck, then gave Flare a faint grin. "You'll like this. I already put in a request to overhaul our tactical simulations. We start tomorrow."

"And the team?"

"I'll bring it up at lunch. Let them eat first."

Flare smirked. "Good call."

Later that afternoon, Flare returned to the mess hall.

It was warm and lively. The hum of trays, silverware, and murmured conversation filled the air. Marek was at the far end with Maria, animatedly mimicking something — likely the way his QT had totally launched two feet in the air when Flare exploded last mission. Claire was half-listening, half-rolling her eyes, mocking Marek

 "Next time you tell this story it'll be 50

feet won't it?"

Marek just grinned

while Caim nursed a protein bar in silence beside them.

Kai had taken to one of the corner seats. He was quiet, polite, his posture respectful. He didn't interrupt. Didn't try to overstep. But Flare noticed the way the new recruit's eyes lit up when he and Marcos entered — like watching legends walk into frame.

It was subtle, but there. The fanboy energy. Even if Kai was trying hard to suppress it.

Flare sat down next to Caim. "How's the food?"

"Reheated regret," Caim muttered.

Marek grinned. "That's not fair. It's only mildly explosive diarrhea."

Maria smacked him upside the head.

Claire looked up. "Hey, Flare. You look less like a corpse."

"High praise."

"Want some of Marek's pudding?"

"I'd rather fight another Ashen."

The banter helped. It felt normal. But beneath the surface, there was tension — the kind that came after a near-death

experience and an unresolved mystery.

Flare's eyes slid to Kai.

The new recruit met his gaze and nodded respectfully.

Flare returned the nod. "We'll talk soon, Kai."

"Looking forward to it, sir."

There was no reason to doubt him. No

reason to feel the knot forming in his gut.

And yet…

Flare couldn't shake the feeling that something had begun.

Not the fight against the Ashen — that was always ongoing.

This was something older. Colder.

Hidden under starlight and dream ash.

Something that watched from the dark.