Page 11

Five days into our undercover operation, and I've decided that whoever designed maintenance worker jumpsuits had a personal vendetta against the concept of flattering clothing.

The fabric itches in places I didn't know could itch, and the dull gray color makes everyone look like they're recovering from a terminal illness.

Of course, Trent somehow still manages to look good in his. Physics-defying bastard.

I have to admit, he's good at this. If I didn't know better, I'd think he'd been a maintenance technician his whole life instead of Unity's most decorated Sentinel.

So far, we've identified twelve maintenance workers involved in what appears to be an organized resource diversion operation.

Small amounts of medical supplies, nutrition supplements, and water purification tablets disappear from inventory, transferred through a sequence of carriers so sophisticated it would be impressive if it weren't treasonous.

What we haven't discovered is why.

Or who's coordinating it all.

"Break cycle in ten minutes," Trent says, his voice pitched for nearby workers to overhear. "Want to grab nutrition at the central hub?"

Translation: he's spotted something.

"Sure," I respond casually. "Better than the processed protein bars at the sector station."

We continue our work in companionable silence, the background hum of recycling machinery providing cover for any surveillance.

When the break signal sounds, we join the stream of maintenance workers heading for the central hub—a larger junction where several sectors connect, creating a natural gathering place.

"Third maintenance shaft," Trent murmurs as we walk, not looking at me. "Observed package transfer between Kaplan and unknown recipient. Followed recipient to abandoned processing unit in Sector 21."

My steps don't falter despite my surprise. Kaplan—our grumpy supervisor—is involved? "Timing?"

"Transfer occurred approximately 0200 last night during my monitoring shift. Couldn't follow without breaking cover."

While I slept, Trent had been conducting surveillance. He'd insisted I take the sleeping platform each night since our first evening, himself making do with the uncomfortable floor. The chivalrous idiot was probably running on three hours of sleep.

"Sector 21 is officially decommissioned," I note quietly. "Environmental damage from the purification system failure last year."

"Precisely why it's perfect for clandestine gatherings." Trent glances at me, his gray eyes conveying more than his words. "I think we found their meeting place."

My pulse quickens. After days of watching peripheral activities, we might finally see the core of the operation.

"Tonight?"

He nods slightly. "2300 hours. Observed multiple subjects adjusting schedule requests for late shift or early relief."

The central hub teems with maintenance workers on break, the noise providing perfect cover for our conversation. We collect our nutrition rations—a bland protein composite that Unity insists contains "all essential nutrients for optimal function"—and find seats at one of the crowded tables.

To maintain our cover as a bonded couple, Trent's leg presses against mine beneath the table, his arm occasionally brushing mine as we eat.

These casual points of contact have become both torture and necessity over the past five days.

Each touch sends electricity through my system while remaining completely innocent to outside observers.

I wonder if he feels it too, this constant awareness, or if he's better at compartmentalizing than I am. Since our night huddled together on the sleeping platform, he's been rigidly professional, never mentioning what almost happened, what he almost said.

"Davis!" Kaplan's voice cuts through the hub noise as he approaches our table. "Environmental fluctuation in your sector. Need you back early."

Trent nods, immediately standing. "On my way, Supervisor. "

"Not you," Kaplan clarifies, looking at me. "Her. Chemical balance fluctuations in purification chamber twelve."

Interesting. Purification chamber twelve isn't part of my assigned section. Is this a legitimate work issue, or something else?

"I'll handle it," I say, gathering my half-eaten ration. "See you after shift," I add to Trent, touching his arm in the casual way bonded couples do.

His eyes convey a clear message—be careful—before he nods. "I'll finish your ration for you."

Kaplan leads me through the maintenance corridors, away from the busier sections toward the purification chambers. His silence feels loaded, and I maintain vigilant awareness of our route and surroundings.

"You settling in alright?" he finally asks, an abrupt attempt at conversation that immediately raises my suspicions. Kaplan hasn't shown the slightest interest in our welfare since our arrival.

"Well enough," I answer neutrally. "Quarters are smaller than we're used to, but the work is similar."

He grunts. "Your partner, he always so by-the-book?"

The question feels like a test. "Elias likes things done properly. Gets nervous when protocols aren't followed."

"And you?"

I give him what I hope is a conspiratorial smile. "I'm more flexible. You don't survive in maintenance without knowing which rules matter and which ones don't."

Something in Kaplan's posture relaxes slightly. "Good. Flexibility's important down here. Upper levels don't always understand what it takes to keep things running."

We arrive at purification chamber twelve, but Kaplan doesn't immediately enter the access code. Instead, he glances up and down the corridor, then lowers his voice.

"You ever wonder why we work so hard maintaining systems for people who'll never know our names?" he asks .

This is it, the recruitment test. I consider my response carefully, need to seem receptive without appearing too eager.

"Every day," I say with convincing weariness. "Eastern was the same. We fix the air they breathe, the water they drink, and still get treated like we're disposable."

Kaplan studies me for a long moment, then nods as if coming to a decision. "Chamber twelve doesn't actually need maintenance. But there's something you should see."

He enters a complex access code—significantly longer than standard Unity protocols—and the chamber door slides open.

Instead of the expected purification equipment, the large space has been converted into what appears to be a temporary medical facility.

Portable screening units, supply cabinets, and several makeshift beds line the walls.

And on one of those beds sits a child.

My breath catches. She's young—perhaps seven or eight—with the thin frame common to Lower Arcology children who never receive the optimal nutrition provided to Upper and Mid levels.

But what immediately draws my attention are her eyes—a startling amber color with a reflective quality that catches the light when she turns her head.

Reflective retinas. A Splinter adaptation.

"Found her three days ago," Kaplan explains, his gruff voice softening. "Hidden in a supply crate from outside. Must have been smuggled in."

The child watches us with wary alertness, her unnaturally colored eyes tracking our movements. Despite her obvious exhaustion, she sits perfectly still, evaluating us with an intelligence that seems beyond her years.

"She needs medical treatment," Kaplan continues. "But we can't take her to Unity Medical. They'd?—"

"Process her," I finish for him, understanding immediately.

Unity protocol for Splinter identification is cruel, at best. Captured Splinters are subjected to painful "processing" procedures that extract information and attempt to study/ reverse their modifications, then those who survive are deported, not to the inhabitable parts of the wastelands which they came from but instead deposited in lethal zones they're unlikely to survive, even with adaptations.

I move toward the girl slowly, careful not to appear threatening. Her eyes—those impossible amber eyes—fix on mine with an intensity that feels almost physical.

"Hello," I say softly. "My name's Mira. What's yours?"

The child doesn't respond, continuing to study me with that unsettling focus. Up close, I can see other subtle modifications. Her fingernails have an unusual thickness and slight curve, and there's a barely perceptible pattern to her skin, visible only when the light hits it at certain angles.

These aren't random mutations. They're deliberate adaptations, likely designed for survival in specific wasteland conditions. The reflective retinas would provide superior night vision, the reinforced nails and textured skin suggesting adaptation to harsh terrain or climbing.

"She doesn't speak much," Kaplan says. "Trauma, maybe, or just caution. Can't blame her."

I kneel to bring myself to the child's eye level, maintaining a respectful distance. "You're safe here," I tell her, not entirely sure if that's true but wanting to offer some comfort. "No one's going to hurt you."

The girl tilts her head slightly, nostrils flaring as if...sniffing me. Then her eyes widen with a flash of recognition.

"You're like me inside," she says, her voice small but clear.

The words hit me like a physical blow. My heart stutters, then races. "What do you mean?"

Instead of answering, she reaches out hesitantly, her modified fingers stopping just short of touching my face. "They made you different, but you're hiding. Like I was hiding."

Behind me, I hear Kaplan shift uncomfortably. "What's she talking about? "

"I don't know," I lie, fighting to keep my expression neutral while my mind races. "Children say all sorts of things."

But the girl's amber eyes remain locked on mine, seeing something no one else has detected, something beneath the surface, something I've only recently begun to suspect myself.

"She needs medical attention," I say to Kaplan, desperately trying to redirect the conversation. "What's the plan?"