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"Distinguished citizens and honored Sentinels," Chief Administrator Keller begins, her amplified voice filling the hall. "We gather today to recognize exceptional service in defense of Unity's continued prosperity."

I stifle a yawn. I've heard variations of this speech at least a dozen times in my six years as a Sentinel. The words change slightly, but the message remains the same: Unity good, outside bad, Sentinels necessary to maintain the boundary between.

My mind drifts as she continues, remembering the first ceremony I attended as a newly minted Sentinel. I'd been soproud, so certain of my place in the grand Unity machine. Orphaned at age four when my parents died in an environmental systems failure, I'd been raised by the Unity childcare collective with one purpose zto serve the system that saved me.

Or so they told me. The official records of my childhood are sparse, clinical entries noting my "exceptional adaptability" and "above-average physical resilience." No holo-images of my parents, no personal effects to connect me to them. Just their names—Elias and Mira Thorne—and their assigned functions: Environmental Systems Engineer and Nutrition Distribution Coordinator.

Sometimes I try to imagine their faces, create some sense of connection to them. But it's like reaching for smoke. I was too young when they died to have clear memories, just fragments that might be real or might be fabricated from the sparse details provided in my file.

A subtle shift in the room's energy pulls me back to the present. Director Voss has taken the podium, her severe features arranged in what passes for pride in Unity's leadership.

"The Sentinel program represents Unity's first line of defense against external contamination and internal disruption," she announces. "Today we honor those teams whose exceptional service has maintained the purity and security of our arcology system."

One by one, she calls forward the elite teams for recognition. Each pair steps up, accepts their commendation, and returns to formation with machinelike precision.

"Sentinel Team Vanguard-Thorne," Voss finally calls.

My spine straightens automatically as we move forward in perfect sync. Trent's face is a mask of professional pride, revealing nothing of the man I glimpsed during synchronization. In this moment, he is exactly what Unity designed him to be—the perfect soldier, the ultimate protector.

He looks good doing it too, damn him.

"Sentinel Vanguard," Voss addresses him first, as protocol dictates. "Your team has achieved the highest success rate in Sentinel history, with twenty-seven successful Splinter identifications and neutralizations in the past year alone."

"For Unity's continued security, Director," Trent responds, the ritual words flowing smoothly.

"Your dedication to maintaining genetic purity within our walls sets the standard for all Sentinels," Voss continues, then turns to me. "Sentinel Thorne, your tactical innovations in the Eastern Sector infiltration have been incorporated into standard training protocols."

"Unity benefits from adaptation of successful strategies, Director," I respond, the irony of my words not lost on me. Unity preaches stability but quietly adopts change when convenient to those in power.

"In recognition of your exceptional service," Voss says, lifting a small metallic insignia from the presentation tray, "you are awarded the Mark of Elite Service, First Class."

She affixes the insignia to Trent's uniform first, then mine, a physical reminder of all the Splinters we've identified, captured, and "processed" in Unity's name.

How many of them were actually threats? How many were simply seeking safety or resources? Questions I never allowed myself to ask before the synchronization, before I felt Trent's own buried doubts mirroring mine.

We return to our position in formation, standing at perfect attention as the ceremony continues. From the corner of my eye, I study Trent's profile—the strong jaw, the slight crease between his brows that betrays his concentration. I've spent three years memorizing every detail of his face under the guise of professional observation. Though now he must know it was just a ruse.

In the gleaming silver wall panels behind the platform, I catch our reflection. As always, we make the perfect Unitypicture, the ideal Sentinel team. No one looking at us would guess the turmoil beneath the surface, the questions growing in our minds, or the way my heart beats a little faster when he stands this close to me.

But he knows that now, doesn’t he?

"Distinguished guests," Commander Reed begins, right on cue with his infamous speech. "The unwavering duty of every Unity citizen..."

Trent's eyebrow raises a fraction of a millimeter, our private joke acknowledged. I swallow a smile and return my attention to the commander, forcing my expression into proper Sentinel blankness.

After what feels like several lifetimes, the ceremony concludes. The assembled Sentinels disperse in ordered groups, following their assigned exit protocols. Just as Trent and I reach the main corridor, a junior communications officer intercepts us.

"Sentinels Vanguard and Thorne," he says crisply. "Your presence is requested in Briefing Room Seven immediately."

Trent and I exchange a glance. New assignments typically come through the standard channels, not personal summons directly after ceremonies.

"Acknowledged," Trent responds.

The officer nods and departs, leaving us to make our way to the briefing sector. As we walk, I notice the subtle shift in Trent's posture, a slight tension in his shoulders that most wouldn't detect.

"What do you think?" I ask quietly.

"Could be related to our sync results," he replies, keeping his voice low. "Or your enhancement reaction."