A Whisper Between Storms

The mess area had fallen quiet, save for the low electric hum of overhead lights and the occasional creak of the compound settling into the night. Most of the squad had drifted off — some to showers, some to sleep, and some to bury themselves in training routines they hoped would outpace the creeping unease.

Flare remained at the back table, hunched over a protein shake that had long gone warm. He wasn't drinking it. Just turning the bottle slowly in his hands, the rhythmic motion giving his mind something to focus on other than the memory of ash and blood and the thundercrack echo of a kamikaze Ashen.

His shield had held. But just barely, will need to get it repaired soon.

The chair across from him scraped back. Marcos dropped into it like a man too used to bone-deep exhaustion. He placed a cracked tablet down between them and slid a bottle of water across the table without a word.

"You look like hell," Marcos muttered.

Flare didn't answer.

"You should be resting."

"I tried," Flare said. "Anira tried harder. Still didn't take."

Marcos snorted faintly. "Kid's more stubborn than either of us."

They sat in silence a few moments more. Eventually, Marcos powered on the tablet and pulled up a grainy map of city districts, pulse zones, and Slayer route assignments. But he didn't really look at it.

"You ever think about that day?" Flare asked suddenly, voice low. "The day Sylvia changed."

Marcos' hand froze. His eyes shifted, guarded.

"She wasn't like the others," Flare continued. "Not just strong. Not just fast. She used the terrain. Predicted your moves. Forced you into chokepoints."

Marcos leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

"The way she moved," he said. "It was calculated. Like she remembered being a Slayer."

"But they don't remember."

"No." Marcos' voice was flat. "They don't. But they're growing."

Flare finally looked up.

Marcos continued, eyes narrowed. "Not

smarter. Not aware. But there's something underneath it. Something pushing them. Evolving under pressure. Becoming desperate. Tactical."

"A directive," Flare murmured.

"Exactly."

The table fell into silence again, but it wasn't the kind that brought peace.

"I saw something," Flare said quietly. "Back at the med-bay. After I woke up."

Marcos looked over, suddenly focused.

"Guy I didn't recognize. Middle-aged, kind of wiry, but in shape. Scraggly beard. Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses — like he wandered out of a beach party and into a war zone."

Marcos blinked. "What?"

"He said he had clearance. Talked like he was just passing through. Friendly, weirdly casual. Said we'd probably be seeing each other again. Left before anyone else came around."

"That's not possible," Marcos said immediately. "You don't just walk into this compound. Clearance, codes, checkpoints — it'd all flag."

"I know."

"You check the feeds?"

Flare nodded. "Nothing. Not a single trace. And no one else saw him."

The pause that followed felt like a heartbeat stretching out of time.

"You think he's Ashen?"

"One that talks? Doesn't attack?"

"I'm not about to put anything off the table at this point."

But Flare shook his head. "Didn't feel like one. Didn't feel like anything, really. Just… wrong. Like a smile that doesn't reach the eyes, but… he felt oddly familiar, even though I know he's not."

Marcos leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "And you didn't think to bring this up earlier?"

"What was I supposed to say?" Flare asked. "That a ghost in beachwear paid me a visit and made small talk?"

"You tell me, Flare." Marcos' voice was harder now. Not angry — just bracing. "Because we're not in a place to ignore anything out of the ordinary."

Flare ran a hand through his hair, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease.

"I wasn't hiding it," he muttered. "I just… don't know what it means yet."

"Neither do I. But the fact that it happened after the kamikaze Ashen? After that coordinated ambush?" Marcos shook

his head. "Something's circling us. Watching."

Flare nodded slowly. "We need to prepare. Harder. Smarter. If we're not training for what's coming…"

"We're dead before it gets here."

Silence again. Only now, it was filled with quiet resolve.

Marcos grabbed the tablet and stood.

"I'm going to draft new training rotations. If the Ashen are thinking tactically, then we train like we're facing former Slayers every time we suit up."

Flare watched him go, a flicker of pain ghosting behind his eyes.

"Marcos."

The captain paused.

"If this all goes to hell… I want you to make sure Jess and Anira are safe. Really safe. Off-grid, if you have to."

Marcos turned, his expression grim but steady. "You know I will. But we're not there yet."

"I know," Flare said. "Still."

Marcos gave a short nod and left without another word.

Flare leaned back and closed his eyes, the faint hum of the lights above his only company. But in that hum, just beneath it —

A whisper.

"Soon."

His eyes snapped open.

Nothing.

Just silence and stale protein in his mouth.

But the whisper remained like frost on the edges of his thoughts.