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Nothing makes your palms sweat quite like sitting across from someone whose entire job is figuring out when you're lying.

"Let's review your observations again, Sentinel Thorne," Intelligence Officer Reyes says, her stylus tapping rhythmically against her tablet.

"You reported no direct contact with the sympathizer network, yet surveillance shows you interacting with Supervisor Kaplan outside standard work assignments. "

We're in a makeshift interrogation room, a repurposed storage unit in Lower Arcology's administrative sector.

The suppression injection Trent gave me is still working, thankfully, keeping my unpredictable symptoms under control.

But it can't suppress the hammering of my heart as Reyes methodically picks apart our mission reports.

"Kaplan assigned me additional chemical balancing shifts," I respond with practiced calm. "Standard procedure for new transfers. Testing our capabilities before full integration into the maintenance team."

Reyes studies me, her enhanced eyes—mechanically augmented with targeting scopes that catalog micro-expressions— scanning my face for tells.

The irony isn't lost on me. Unity condemns genetic modifications as abominations while celebrating mechanical augmentations as progress.

Same destination, different road, but one is heresy and the other is advancement.

Somehow changing your genes to see in the dark is an offense against humanity, but implanting metal and circuits into your skull to do the same thing is the pinnacle of human achievement.

"And Sentinel Vanguard was unaware of these additional assignments?" Reyes continues.

"I informed him they were routine maintenance tasks. Given our mission parameters, we decided splitting coverage would maximize surveillance opportunities."

Another lie. Another sin against Unity's most sacred virtue: absolute transparency. The words taste sour in my mouth, but I deliver them with conviction.

Reyes makes a note, her implants whirring softly as they track my vital signs. "Your partnership with Sentinel Vanguard has produced exceptional results historically. Your neural synchronization ratings remain the highest on record."

It's not a question, so I don't respond.

The mention of our synchronization sends a flutter of anxiety through me.

After what we experienced during our last sync session—that moment of complete transparency when each of us glimpsed the other's deepest feelings—any scrutiny of our neural patterns feels dangerously intimate.

"Yet your most recent field reports show discrepancies in observation times and locations," Reyes continues. "Care to explain?"

"The nature of undercover work in Lower Arcology requires adaptability," I say smoothly. "Maintenance schedules change frequently, creating surveillance opportunities we couldn't anticipate in our standard reporting templates."

God, I sound like a Unity propaganda broadcast. All the right buzzwords, all the proper deference to protocol, while underneath I'm planning to betray everything I've sworn to uphold.

Reyes leans forward slightly. "Sentinel Thorne, are you aware that three maintenance workers from your assigned sector have been taken for processing in the past week?"

My blood runs cold, but I keep my expression neutral. "No. Our cover necessitates limited access to Sentinel communications."

"All three exhibited signs of genetic anomalies consistent with Splinter modification attempts." Reyes watches me carefully. "All three worked shifts with Supervisor Kaplan."

So they're closing in on the sympathizer network. The question is whether they've connected it to Eden yet.

Or to us.

"I've observed nothing unusual about Kaplan beyond standard Lower Arcology inefficiency," I respond. "If you suspect him of sympathizer activities, perhaps more direct surveillance would be appropriate."

Reyes' cybernetic eye whirs as it adjusts focus. "Direct surveillance has limitations. Sympathizers have developed countermeasures. Which is why we rely on field operatives like you to identify suspicious behaviors that automated systems might miss."

Translation: They don't trust their machines to catch everything, so they need humans to do the dirty work. The great Unity paradox—technology worship alongside deep suspicion of anything that might grant too much autonomy, whether to machines or people.

As Reyes continues her methodical questioning, something shifts in my hearing. The suppression injection must be wearing off early. Suddenly I can detect conversations beyond the sealed room from maintenance workers in the corridor, administrative staff in adjacent offices, and something else.

Something more interesting.

"—shouldn't be here," a male voice whispers urgently from somewhere outside. "Director Voss ordered the extraction tonight."

"Too risky with Intelligence already in the sector," responds another voice, barely audible even to my enhanced hearing. "Thorne's showing symptoms. If they get her to Medical?—"

"They won't. Vanguard has contingencies in place."

The voices move away, fading beyond even my enhanced range, but I've heard enough to send adrenaline surging through my system.

They know about me. They're planning to take me in tonight.

And somehow, Trent has anticipated this too.

"Sentinel Thorne?" Reyes' sharp voice pulls me back. "I asked about your observations regarding resource allocation discrepancies in Sector 19."

I refocus, fighting to keep my expression neutral despite the bombshell I've just overheard. "Standard inefficiency. Materials requisitioned often don't match actual needs due to outdated projections from Upper Administration."

Nice touch , I think. Blame the bureaucracy. Everyone in Unity understands bureaucratic inefficiency, even while pretending their system is perfect.

Reyes makes another note, seemingly unconvinced but unable to disprove without more evidence. "One final question. Have you observed any unusual physical or behavioral changes in your partner during this assignment?"

The question catches me off guard. They're watching Trent too.

"None beyond standard adaptation to cover requirements," I say, perhaps too quickly. "Sentinel Vanguard maintains optimal performance metrics even in suboptimal conditions."

"And yourself? Any unusual symptoms or sensory experiences? "

Here it is, the trap carefully laid throughout this seemingly routine debriefing. They're fishing for confirmation of what they already suspect: that something is happening to me, something that shouldn't be possible within Unity's carefully controlled parameters.

"Nothing beyond standard enhancement fluctuation during extended undercover operations," I reply, reciting the explanation Trent had prepared. "My upcoming medical evaluation should resolve any temporary irregularities."

Reyes studies me for a long moment, her augmented eye making that subtle whirring sound again. Then she nods once and closes her tablet.

"That will be all for now, Sentinel Thorne. Return to your assigned duties. Intelligence may have additional questions as we continue monitoring the sympathizer situation."

I rise, maintaining the perfect posture expected of a Sentinel despite the churning anxiety in my gut. "For Unity's continued security, Officer Reyes."

"Indeed," she responds, the ritual acknowledgment sounding hollow in the sterile interrogation room. "For Unity."

As I exit into the corridor, I spot Trent waiting at the junction point, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert. He's positioned himself perfectly, visible enough to explain his presence if questioned, but with clear sightlines to all approach vectors.

"Maintenance cycle complete?" he asks as I approach, the casual question carrying our coded check-in protocol.

"System functioning within parameters," I respond, confirming I haven't been compromised. "Though efficiency could be improved with updated components."

His eyes flick to mine, understanding my warning immediately. We continue walking, maintaining the casual pace of maintenance workers headed back to their assigned section .

"Officer Reyes has interesting perspectives on resource allocation," I say once we're alone in the transport tube.

"I imagine she would," Trent responds neutrally, aware of potential surveillance even here.

"She mentioned three workers taken for processing. All from Kaplan's shifts."

Trent's expression doesn't change, but I notice the slight tension in his jaw. "Unfortunate. Maintenance division is chronically understaffed already."

The transport tube opens into a crowded junction where dozens of maintenance corridors intersect. Perfect for what I need to tell him.

"My hearing activated during the interrogation," I murmur, leaning close as if checking his work tablet. "They're planning an extraction tonight. Me specifically. Something about symptoms and Medical."

Trent's eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second, intense and focused. "Expected timetable?"

"Unknown. But they mentioned Voss directly authorized it."

He processes this with his usual efficiency, already adapting our plans. "We need to move up our timeline. The sympathizer transport won't wait if security protocols escalate."

We turn into a less traveled maintenance shaft, used primarily for environmental system access. The narrow corridor forces us to walk closer together, shoulders occasionally brushing in a way that sends electricity through my nerve endings despite the dire circumstances.

"They asked about you too," I tell him. "Whether I'd noticed any unusual changes in your behavior."

"Standard counterintelligence," Trent says dismissively, but I catch the slight hesitation before he responds.

"Is there something I should know?" I ask, stopping and turning to face him directly .

Trent glances around, confirming we're temporarily free from surveillance, then meets my eyes with unusual intensity.