Page 12

He hesitates, clearly evaluating whether to trust me further. "We have someone coming. A doctor who understands special cases. But not for another two days. We've been taking turns watching her, administering basic care."

I make a split-second decision that could either solidify our cover or expose us completely. "I can help. My mother was a medical tech at Eastern. I picked up a few things."

Kaplan looks relieved. "Could use the extra hands. Not many we can trust with this."

"What about my partner?" I ask, testing the waters.

Kaplan's expression closes immediately. "The fewer people involved, the better. You said yourself he's by-the-book."

Good. If they're keeping Trent out of the loop, it gives us separate access points to the network. I nod in understanding. "I'll make an excuse for extra shifts. He won't question it if I say Supervisor Kaplan assigned me."

As we discuss logistics, I remain acutely aware of the child watching me, her impossible eyes seemingly peering straight through my Sentinel training to something more fundamental.

You're like me inside.

What does she see?

What am I becoming?

Before I can consider it further, the chamber door slides open, and Trent steps in, his expression shifting from concern to surprise to carefully crafted neutrality in the span of half a second .

"Davis," Kaplan says sharply. "This area is restricted."

"Apologies, Supervisor," Trent responds smoothly. "When my partner didn't return to our section, I checked the maintenance logs and saw she'd been reassigned here. Came to see if assistance was needed."

His eyes take in the makeshift medical facility, lingering on the child for just a moment too long before returning to Kaplan. I can almost see him processing the situation, calculating risks and responses.

The girl stares at Trent with the same intensity she directed at me, but her reaction is entirely different. She shrinks back, pulling her knees to her chest in a defensive posture.

"Sentinel," she whispers, the word barely audible.

My blood freezes. One word—one single word—that could blow our cover completely.

Trent doesn't react visibly, but I know him well enough to see the slight tension in his jaw, the fractional shift in his stance. He's preparing for potential conflict, evaluating escape routes and tactical options.

But Kaplan doesn't seem to have heard the child's whisper, his attention focused on Trent's unexpected appearance. "No assistance needed, Davis. Return to your section immediately."

"Of course, Supervisor." Trent's eyes meet mine briefly. "Everything alright, Mira?"

"Fine," I say, injecting warmth into my voice. "Just helping out with a special project. I'll tell you about it later."

He nods once, then turns to leave. Before he reaches the door, the child suddenly speaks again, her voice stronger.

"Wait."

Everyone freezes. The girl slides off the bed, her movements careful and deliberate, and approaches Trent. Kaplan makes a movement to stop her, but I subtly shift to block him, sensing something important unfolding .

The child stands before Trent, looking up at him with those eerie amber eyes. She shouldn't be able to identify him as a Sentinel—we've been meticulous with our cover—yet something about him triggered her recognition.

"You're not like her," she says, glancing back at me before returning her attention to Trent. "But you protect her anyway. Why?"

The question hangs in the air, layered with meanings that stretch far beyond our current mission. I hold my breath, waiting for Trent's response, knowing that whatever he says could either solidify our cover or destroy it completely.

Trent does something that surprises me. He kneels, bringing himself to the child's eye level just as I had done.

"Because that's what people should do," he says simply. "Protect each other. Even when they're different."

The sincerity in his voice strikes me to the core. This isn't part of our cover story; this is Trent—real Trent—speaking a truth I've never heard him articulate before.

The girl studies him for a long moment, then nods as if confirming something to herself. "You don't believe what they taught you anymore."

Trent doesn't answer directly, but something passes between them, an understanding that transcends words. Then he stands, resuming his maintenance worker persona with seamless efficiency.

"I should return to my section," he says to Kaplan. "Manifold pressure needs constant monitoring."

Kaplan seems torn between suspicion and the need for additional allies. "Your partner has volunteered to help with our project here. I assume you understand the need for discretion."

"Of course," Trent responds. "What happens in maintenance stays in maintenance."

After Trent leaves, Kaplan turns to me. "Your bonded has interesting perspectives for someone from Eastern. They tend to be stricter about Unity protocols there and you did say he was by the book.”

"Elias has always had a soft spot for children," I say, which isn't exactly a lie. I've never actually seen Trent interact with a child before today. "Regardless of protocols."

Kaplan accepts this with a nod. "You'll take first watch tonight? I need to arrange the medical transport."

"Happy to help," I agree, hoping this will give me access to more information about the sympathizer network.

Once Kaplan leaves, it's just me and the child in the repurposed purification chamber. She returns to her bed, watching me with those unsettling amber eyes.

"What's your name?" I try again.

After a moment's consideration, she answers. "Eden."

"That's a beautiful name," I say, pulling up a chair near her bed but not too close. "Where are you from, Eden?"

She shrugs one thin shoulder. "Outside."

"The wasteland?" I clarify.

Eden's expression suggests my terminology is amusing. "It's not waste. It's just different. Like you're different inside."

There it is again—that insistence that she sees something in me, something hidden. I decide to take a risk.

"Why do you think I'm different?" I ask quietly.

She tilts her head, considering me. "I can smell it. You have the same patterns, but they're sleeping. Mine are awake."

"Patterns?"

She gestures vaguely at herself. "The changes. The things they put in us to make us better."

A chill runs through me. "Who put them in you, Eden?"

"The doctors. The ones who help us survive outside." She frowns slightly. "Didn't they tell you about yours?"

I struggle to maintain my composure. "No, they didn't. Can you tell me more?"

Eden studies me for a long moment, then sighs with a weariness no child should possess. "There are different kinds. Mine help me see in the dark and climb the cliffs where we live. Yours..." She sniffs again. "Yours are deeper. They're still waking up."

My heart pounds so loudly I'm sure she can hear it. This child—this Splinter child—is confirming suspicions I've barely allowed myself to consider: that the anomalies appearing in my system might be deliberate modifications, not malfunctions.

"Why are you here, Eden? Inside the arcology?"

Her expression clouds. "They said I needed to find someone. That I'd know them when I found them." She looks at me intently. "But it's not you. You're like me, but you're not who I'm looking for."

Before I can ask more questions, Eden's attention shifts to something beyond me. I turn to see what she's looking at, but there's nothing there, just the blank wall of the chamber.

"They're coming back soon," she says with certainty. "I need to rest."

With that, she lies down and closes her eyes, effectively ending our conversation.

I sit beside her bed, mind racing with implications and possibilities.

If she's right—if I do have some kind of genetic modifications that are "waking up"—then everything I thought I knew about myself, about my role as a Sentinel, about Unity itself, is built on lies.

And what about Trent? His interaction with Eden revealed a side of him I'd glimpsed but never fully seen—compassion and a moral framework that exists independent of Unity's protocols. His words to her weren't just cover; they carried the weight of genuine belief.

Because that's what people should do. Protect each other. Even when they're different.

Hours pass as I watch over Eden, who sleeps with the deep exhaustion of someone who has endured too much for her young age.

I try to imagine the world outside as she sees it—not a wasteland but simply "different," a place where her modifications aren't aberrations but adaptations, gifts that help her survive.

Everything Unity has taught us about the Splinters—that they're monstrous, unstable, a threat to human purity—seems impossible to reconcile with this small, vulnerable child sleeping before me.

The chamber door slides open quietly, and Trent slips in, his movements silent and efficient. He checks the corridor before sealing the door behind him.

"Kaplan?" I ask quietly.

"Coordinating with the other sympathizers. We have approximately twenty minutes." He moves to my side, eyes on the sleeping child. "She identified me as a Sentinel."

"She identified me as a Splinter," I counter, my voice barely above a whisper. "Or something like it."

Trent's eyes shift to mine, intense and focused. "Explain."

I recount my conversation with Eden, her insistence that I have "sleeping patterns" similar to hers, the implication that my genetic anomalies might be deliberate modifications rather than random mutations.

"You believe her?" Trent asks, his voice carefully neutral.

"I don't know what to believe anymore." I look down at my hands, half-expecting to see some visible sign of the changes occurring within me. "But it would explain the enhancement reactions, the sensory fluctuations, the abnormal neural patterns."

Trent is silent for a long moment, processing this information with his usual thoroughness. "If you do have adaptive modifications, and they're only now activating..."