Quiet Rain

The common area had quieted. The mess hall now half-lit and mostly abandoned, the storm outside roaring back to full strength,

playing percussion against the fortress walls. Claire had long since retreated to her room with an overly sarcastic, "Night, nerds," masking the weight still heavy on her shoulders. Caim followed shortly after, muttering something about rerunning combat footage. Maria remained for a while longer, seated cross-legged on the floor while she reviewed some data logs—until she abruptly stood, gave Marek a half-hearted pat on the head, and disappeared behind the corridor's archway.

Flare was left alone.

Or at least he thought he was.

The medbay still tugged at his mind. The moment when everything could've gone wrong. When he could've died. When someone else might've died instead. And yet what stuck harder than pain or blood or the

choking scent of ash was the green glow, that eerie pre-death glimmer in the centibadger's eyes. It hadn't just been fighting.

It had chosen to self-destruct.

He had never seen an Ashen do something like that. The closest he's ever seen is when slayers would try to trap Ashen for experimentation or study. The moment it was truly trapped, it would freak out and result in self-immolation. Making any attempts at contained study worthless. Even blood doesn't last. As soon as it leaves the Ashens body it begins to break down into ash.

He hated that he was even thinking it—but something was changing in the Ashen. Not remembering. No. They weren't reminiscing ghosts of people lost. He had thrown that idea away. But they were evolving. Becoming… deliberate.

They weren't animals anymore. Maybe they never were.

Flare reached the hangar bay door without fully realizing he'd moved. His body had carried him here—quiet steps over worn

steel, boots echoing in the silence. The QT sat dormant under a wide maintenance awning, rain pounding the roof above it in a steady rhythm. Most of the lights were dimmed, save for a single amber glow near the upper catwalks.

He found Marcos there, alone with a bottle of water and a datapad full of diagrams.

"Couldn't sleep?" Flare asked, leaning against the railing next to him.

Marcos didn't look up right away. He ran a hand over the side of his scalp, the stubble rasping against his thick fingers. "Didn't try," he replied eventually, voice low. "Mind's too busy."

Flare nodded. "Same."

They stood like that for a minute, maybe two. Not needing to fill the silence. Just sharing it.

Then Marcos sighed, voice husky.

"I've been going over the way it moved. That

centipede-thing. The combo." He looked down toward the empty bay floor. "The way it waited. Used its antennae like feelers, how it baited you before the charge. And then the choice to explode once it couldn't win?"

Flare exhaled. "I know."

Marcos turned, eyes narrowing slightly. "You think it's random?"

"No," Flare said flatly.

"Good," Marcos replied. "Because I think we're officially behind the curve."

The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, leaders born of necessity, not ego. Scars in different places but carved from the same

years.

"We've got to train differently," Flare muttered. "Not just harder—smarter. We've been preparing for beasts. But these… they're beginning to behave like soldiers, I was looking into cross section reports, the enhanced fighting, the more aware fighting… it's happening elsewhere. I even heard about a couple slayer deaths from it over in Germany."

Marcos gave a grim chuckle. "Wouldn't that be the damn punchline? All this time thinking they're mindless. Turns out, they're better tacticians than most humans, what type took out the Germans?"

Flare looked into nothingness for a time before answering, with just one word. "Basic."

Marcos had no rebuttal for that. Only cold shock

Flare leaned over the railing. "They're not

remembering. They're growing, the real question is… how much are they going to grow?"

Marcos looked at him, shaken, but thoughtful. "And fast, it's so sudden. It's like they know time's against them, I just wish we

knew what the goal was, what time is ticking out on them for."

That part made Flare's stomach twist.

Because that thought—it felt right.

Like the Ashen were desperate. Not in pain, but in purpose. They weren't just reacting. They were executing. Following some unspoken, unknowable drive. A directive that made each encounter more deadly than the last.

"We adapt," Marcos said firmly. "Faster than they do. We evolve our tactics before they evolve their instincts."

Flare turned his head. "Even if it means rewriting everything?"

"Everything," Marcos confirmed. "The entire

doctrine. Once Shayla gets back to us."

There was another silence then. A long one.

The rain faded from a downpour to a soft mist against the roof.

Marcos looked at him with something unspoken behind his eyes. Not quite fear. Not quite awe. Maybe just understanding.

"You know…" he said, "I used to think Ground Zero was a tragedy. A single bad moment of loss. But now—"

"It was a start," Flare finished.

They said nothing more. The storm passed over. Somewhere in the fortress, the lights flickered. Tomorrow would come. And with

it, the next change.

The quiet didn't last