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Unity loves a good ceremony. Nothing makes bureaucrats happier than standing around in formal uniforms, congratulating themselves on maintaining perfect order in an imperfect world.

Unfortunately, this particular ceremony requires my attendance.

"Stop fidgeting," Trent murmurs beside me, his eyes fixed forward as Unity's elite gather in Central Arcology's Grand Assembly Hall. "You look like you're planning an escape."

"I am mentally plotting at least three," I whisper back. "Want to hear the one involving the ventilation system and two stolen hydroponic suits?"

The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth is his version of uproarious laughter. "Save it for when Commander Reed starts his 'unwavering duty' speech. I might take you up on it."

It's been three days since our neural synchronization, and we've settled into a strange new normal, professional on the surface with an undercurrent of awareness neither of us acknowledges directly. The memory of that perfect alignment hovers between us like an unspoken promise .

Or threat, depending on how you look at it.

The Assembly Hall gleams with Unity's trademark white-on-silver aesthetic, illuminated by artificial sunlight streaming through the vaulted ceiling panels.

Gathered across the polished floor are Unity's highest-ranking officials and their most effective enforcers, the Sentinel teams responsible for maintaining security both inside and outside the arcology walls.

We stand in formation with the other elite teams, a sea of gray uniforms arranged in perfect rows.

I scan the gathered dignitaries on the raised platform—Chief Administrator Keller, head of the entire Unity government; Security Director Voss, commander of all Sentinel operations; and various department heads whose names and faces blur together in their uniform perfectness.

History lessons taught us that before the Great Division, governments were chaotic systems of competing interests and messy compromises.

Unity fixed that by designing a streamlined, efficient leadership structure where every decision serves the ultimate goal: human survival in controlled environments, untainted by the genetic modifications embraced by the Splinters.

At least, that's what they tell us. I'm starting to have my doubts.

"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 so proud, 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 Unity picture, 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."

"Or both," I mutter. "Nothing says 'congratulations on your commendation' like a surprise investigation."

"Stay positive, Thorne. Could be a promotion."

I snort. "To what? There's nothing above Elite Sentinel except retirement or—" I stop myself before finishing the thought.

Or cybernetic conversion. The rumors about what happens to exceptionally high-performing Sentinels who suddenly disappear from the ranks are just that—rumors. But persistent ones.

Briefing Room Seven is one of the smaller tactical spaces, used for sensitive assignments rather than standard mission distribution.

When we enter, I'm surprised to find only one person waiting, Intelligence Division Chief Marlow, a slender woman with sharp eyes and a reputation for handling Unity's most delicate operations.

"Sentinels," she greets us, activating the privacy protocols with a wave of her hand. The transparency panels frost over, and a subtle hum indicates audio dampening fields.

"Division Chief," Trent acknowledges with perfect respect. "How may we serve Unity today?"

Marlow studies us for a moment before responding, her gaze lingering longer on me than I’d like.

"I've reviewed your synchronization results," she says finally. "Quite remarkable. The highest compatibility ever recorded between non-genetically related partners."

I force myself to maintain a neutral expression despite the unease curling in my stomach. "We've worked together for three years, Chief. Extended partnerships naturally develop stronger neural pathways."

"Naturally," she echoes, her tone suggesting nothing about this is natural. "What's particularly interesting is the way your enhancement reactions coincided with this heightened synchronization."