Patterns In The Static

The next day

The rain had finally broke for a brief respite.

Morning light crept over the compound like a hesitant whisper, dampening the shadows but not dispersing them. The air inside the mess hall was thick with something heavier than fatigue — a silence that didn't belong. Flare leaned against the steel-frame window, arms crossed, watching patchy clouded skies with narrowed eyes. He wasn't looking at the weather.

Maria was hunched over the table behind him, tablet in hand, her long curls pulled into a loose, messy bun as her finger flicked through lines of data at a clipped pace, the investigative report from the apartment complex case. Claire sat beside her, one leg tucked beneath the other, sipping slowly from a tin mug as she peered over Maria's

shoulder. The others had long since filtered out — either tending to duties or simply needing air or to train, hitting things always helped. But Maria wouldn't let it go. Not yet.

"This doesn't make sense," she muttered for the third time.

Claire leaned closer. "The heart rates?"

Maria didn't answer immediately, not sure what Claire meant. Instead, she zoomed in on the chart again — waveform after waveform. Seven victims. Seven perfectly identical cardiac readouts.

Claire's brow furrowed. "That's weird see? They all look the same."

Maria froze.

"What did you say?"

"I said they look the same," Claire repeated, puzzled. "Like, too same. Same rhythm, same spacing. That little hiccup here—" she pointed "—it's in every single one of them."

Maria's eyes widened, breath caught in her throat. She slammed the mug down, hard enough that it cracked against the tabletop. Claire jumped.

"That's it," Maria hissed. "That's what's been bothering me, how could I have missed it."

She expanded each file in succession, scrolling faster now. "It's not just similar… It's identical. Exact same sinus rhythm, down to the millisecond. Same P-wave delay, which is weird on its own and is an issue with atrial conduction, not carbon monoxide poisoning. Same atrial bounce. That hiccup? That's not natural. It's a data artifact. These files were spliced. Someone copied one pattern and stamped it seven times."

Claire blinked. "You mean… their vitals weren't real?"

Maria stood, pacing now. "The monitors reported those people alive when they were already dead, with forged data."

Flare turned from the window, stepping into the room. "That's not a malfunction. That's sabotage."

A beat of silence followed. Then Marek's voice cut in from the doorway, arms folded, tone strangely serious.

"Cultists."

Claire snorted. "You finally gonna explain that creepy crap you hinted at last year?"

Marek didn't smile.

"They're real. I didn't want to believe it either. But there's chatter. The kind of whispers you only hear if you hang around the wrong channels. Back in the city circuits, some of the smuggler types talk about 'The Redeemed.' Nutjobs who think the Ashen are punishment for humanity's arrogance. That we're meant to be wiped out. Cleansed. They don't just worship the Ashen — they try to make more of them, conveniently never just taking themselves out in the process."

Flare's voice was quiet. "You think someone orchestrated the apartment incident?"

Marek nodded. "All the doors sealed. Carbon monoxide leak. Seven people die — 5 separately. One couple together. That's the kind of body count you need for a combo Ashen. Or worse. If we hadn't stopped it when we did… one of those amalgamated monstrosities."

Maria folded her arms. "Even if that's true, faking the monitor data means someone had access to medical infrastructure. Deep access. We're not talking back-alley cultists anymore. This is systemic. Embedded."

Claire gave a low whistle. "Well that's terrifying."

Flare exhaled slowly, eyes darkening. "If this was a test run…"

"Then the next one'll be worse," Maria said grimly.

"Marek… how widespread are these cultists?"

 "Global…" Marek looked deadly serious

They all fell quiet.

For a moment, the hum of the overhead lights felt oppressive. Like even the power in the compound was holding its breath.

Finally, Flare broke the silence. "Forward everything to Shayla. Now. I don't care if it's half-proven. We raise the flag."

Marek nodded and tapped his tablet. "On it."

Claire leaned back, arms behind her head, staring at the ceiling. "Ashen with tactics. Suicide Ashen. Now goddamn cults. I miss the days when the worst thing we had to deal with was rat-sized nightmares and bureaucratic assholes."

Maria snorted. "You're still dealing with bureaucratic assholes."

"Yeah, but now the nightmares have PR reps."

They all cracked a small smile — brief, but needed.

Flare turned toward the hallway, jaw clenched. He paused at the door and looked back at them.

"We're not just fighting monsters anymore," he said, mostly to himself. "We're fighting monsters and people who want monsters to win, just great."

And then he was gone.

Flare walked the hallway like a man pacing the edge of a minefield, each step slow but decisive, eyes heavy with thought. His boots thudded quietly against the polished metal floor, but his mind churned too loud to notice.

Cultists.

It wasn't just the word. It was the implication.

People — actual, breathing humans — had potentially facilitated a mass-death event to create Ashen. Not as an accident. Not from ignorance or fear. But deliberately.

And for what?

To help the world end faster?

He turned a corner, entered the compound's quieter wing, and paused. A moment of stillness. Then, a door hissed open behind him.

"Should've known I'd find you brooding in a hallway," Caim's voice came, casual but tight around the edges.

Flare didn't turn right away. "I wasn't brooding."

"Okay," Caim replied with a half-smirk. "Then you were ominously contemplating mortality. Totally different."

That earned a faint grunt of amusement.

Caim walked up beside him, carrying a wrapped protein bar and a sealed drink pouch. "Maria made me promise to feed you. She said she's too busy unraveling conspiracy theories to babysit."

Flare took the drink but didn't open it. "She's not wrong. We might have something serious on our hands."

"I heard. Marek spilled the beans in the mess right after you left. Cultists? That's insane."

Flare nodded, jaw tight. "And terrifying."

They stood in silence for a beat before Caim added, "So, any idea why someone would go that far?"

Flare finally turned toward him. "You ever hear of the term 'Thanatism'?"

Caim blinked. "Can't say I have."

"It's an old philosophy. Death as liberation. Some twisted religions saw it as transcendence. But this? This feels like something worse. Like there's a goal behind it. A structure. Not just blind worship."

"Do you think they're targeting you?" Caim asked quietly.

That stopped Flare. He didn't answer immediately — didn't want to answer. But the thought had haunted him since the explosion. Since he'd seen the beast's body refuse to break down. Since it detonated like it knew.

Like it wanted to take him out.

He remembered the green glow, the way the thing stared at him before it erupted. Not in hatred. In mission.

"…Maybe, but I wouldn't even begin to know why," he finally said. "Or maybe I'm a byproduct. A bonus. But if they are targeting me…"

"They know exactly how to hit," Caim finished for him.

Flare nodded, eyes dim. "And it means this isn't over. Not by a long shot."