10-11-2355 | 05:56
HARBOR HQ - Training Dome.
—
The dome runs on a low hum, like a big animal that's not sure it likes you yet. Grav plates under the mat. Wind cannons in their housings. Water emitters primed. Around the floor, eight sim pylons glow a patient white, ready to hard-light whatever nightmare the operators tell them to.
Dax walks in with a K-6 tablet tucked against his ribs and a headache he's decided to ignore. Ryn's already on the mat, gloves on, ring port exposed, platinum blonde hair pulled back, bouncing on his toes like he wants a problem to solve.
"Rules," Dax says, stepping to the edge. "We run the set. You follow the call. No improv."
Ryn shakes his wrists out. "I hear you. I'm not a drone, though."
"You don't have to be a drone to follow a plan."
"Plans break," Ryn says. "I fix them."
"You break them first," Dax says, his gaze locked on Ryn.
Ryn's mouth does the small, charged smile that means he's two seconds from saying something that cuts. "You do love a leash."
"Yeah," Dax says, his voice low. "I love people not dying on my watch."
The glass booth above the floor lights up. Noa leans on the rail with a slate and a mouthful of something that looks like a pretzel and might be a nutrient bar cosplaying. He taps a line and the dome speakers wake.
"Morning, gremlins," Noa says. "Vitals are live. Dax, your blood pressure says you miss me. Let's not blow a plate before breakfast."
Behind Noa, Dr. Ilyas Morrel stands with his hands behind his back, clean suit, clean shoes, that careful warmth he uses like a tool. He keeps his face off the glass to avoid glare, but he doesn't miss anything.
Dax glances up at them, then back to Ryn. "Load Simset Rend-31," he calls. "One body, baseline intelligence plus one. No civilians."
The pylons flare. A Rendling resolves, a training body that makes the room's temperature lie.
Dax calls the shots, controlled and deliberate. "Anchor left. Ryn, you hold the center. Don't chase. Make it come to you."
They run it three times. On the fourth, Ryn starts to deviate, chasing the high note. Dax sees it, closing the distance to make sure Ryn feels the intensity of his focus.
"Don't hunt it," Dax says, his voice a low vibration that only Ryn should hear. "Make it hunt you. Off-beat cadence. No hero moves."
Ryn's eyes flick up, meeting Dax's stare. The air between them is suddenly tight, buzzing with mutual defiance. "You think I'm a risk, Commander? Say it. I'm faster than your plan. I've always been faster than your plan."
"I think you run too hot, Kestra," Dax says, his jaw working. "You chase the high note and forget about the landing. That's how people get left behind."
Ryn laughs once, sharp and joyless, the sound echoing their history. "You should know all about people getting left behind, shouldn't you? Ask your last team."
The sentence lands like a dropped wrench. Noa swears softly in the booth. Dax's jaw locks, his eyes turning to iron. For one second the dome feels smaller than the argument inside it.
Morrel steps down the stairs, his voice cutting across the tension. "Enough. Mr. Kestra, you will follow the parameters. Lieutenant Mercer, you will keep your tone out of the gutter."
"Then keep your asset on a leash," Dax says, not bothering to soften the word.
"Leashes break," Ryn says, but he throws the training blade back into scrap and goes to the rail. He doesn't sit.
Morrel turns to Dax. "Walk with me."
They cross to the equipment rack. Morrel stops. "You left HQ last night. Your slate came back to Security with a cracked housing and a dead board. Your log says 'Forty-K market squabble.' No details. Want to tell me what smashed a government slate in the middle of a squabble?"
"Got between two idiots with a debt and more friends than sense," Dax says, bland. "Someone grabbed the slate. It hit a pillar. My mistake."
"You tried to break up a fight," Morrel says, tasting the lie.
"Yeah," Dax says.
Morrel studies his face. "You're sure you don't want to add color?"
"Nope," Dax says. "Next time I'll keep the slate in the locker."
"Good idea," Morrel says. He glances toward Ryn. "You will keep him inside his parameters. He is not a solo act."
"He's not a lab rat either," Dax says.
"Neither are you," Morrel says pleasantly. "And yet here we are."
Noa's voice snaps over the speaker, all sugar gone. "Heads up. Ops feed just flagged a 10-53 at Bay Two containment. Transport failure."
Dax is moving instantly. "Pull the cam feed."
Noa switches the dome's main screen to a split holo. The left shows the dark interior of Bay Two, where a panicked creature made of multi-limbed gray sludge thrashes against a containment field.
"Ryn," Dax says, flatly. "Analysis."
Ryn, who has walked over to the edge of the mat, doesn't hesitate. "Stop. That's an animal rendling. Canine, maybe feline. Definitely not bipedal. It's scared, not hungry."
Dax turns to him, surprised by the certainty. "How do you know that, Kestra? It looks like melted trash."
"It's the conductive frequency," Ryn says simply, as if explaining why water is wet. "The decay pattern is lateral, showing structural breakdown based on rapid four-limb movement. And the core's frequency is panicked, not predatory. I recognize the sound of its core."
Noa interjects. "He's right, Commander. He's literally better at reading these things than our scanners are. The thing's terrified. It's a mess."
"K-6 assemble," Dax calls. "Sera, Bishop, Irie, Kaito, gear and go. Ryn, you're on lead containment. We do this my way. Non-lethal only. This is an asset recovery."
They jog toward the exit. As they pass the doors leading to the mezz, the low hum of the dome is suddenly met by a strained, metallic screech from the floor below.
They arrive on the mezzanine overlooking a heavily fortified annex. The gray creature is now thrashing inside a massive, reinforced cage, the impact spheres bouncing off the walls. It's whimpering, its corrupted mass shedding flakes onto the floor.
"Ryn, dampening field, full radius!" Dax snaps. "Keep it contained!"
Ryn doesn't obey the combat order. He sees the creature's distress. He drops his hands to his sides. He moves not to fight, but to kneel directly by the cage wall.
He lifts both hands, palms open, projecting a warm, quiet hum. The sound is too low for human ears, but the Rendling hears it. It stops thrashing.
Ryn speaks, his voice soft, almost a lullaby. "It's okay. I know. You're scared. You're hurt. I can fix that. You're just a good dog under all that noise."
He projects an ambient wave of conductive energy toward the cage. Not force, but pure, soothing current, aimed at the anomaly in its core. The frayed material on the Rendling's hide begins to smooth. The gray, scabbed skin starts to dissolve like mist.
The size compacts, the frantic, panicked shape refining itself into something recognizable and beautiful. The Rendling gives a small, happy woof. When the light clears, a magnificent, white German Shepherd sits panting inside the cage. It looks up at Ryn with large, gold-flecked eyes, bounds forward to the bars, and whines.
The mezzanine echoes with a slow, appreciative applause from the technicians watching from the perimeter.
Ryn laughs, a clean, genuine sound, and scratches the dog's snout through the bars. He looks up at Dax. "Commander, can we keep him? I'll name him Pylon."
Morrel steps into the annex, his face a mask of professional fascination. "Mr. Kestra. That was an astonishing display of conductive reversal. We need to isolate the life-form immediately. We must test it for residual corrupted code and, more importantly, find its owner. That animal was clearly a pet, not feral. A highly valuable one, at that."
Dax stares at Ryn, then at the dog. The dog tilts its head and gives Dax a quick, friendly wag.
"K-6, stand down," Dax says, a slight smile touching his lips. "New mission: Dog logistics. Ryn, you and the dog go with Morrel. Don't let him put a tracking chip in without my sign-off."
Ryn beams, finally happy. "Copy that, Commander. Operation Fluffy is a go."
The dog bounds up to Ryn's side, bumping its head affectionately against his hand as they walk off the mat, Morrel trailing close behind, his gaze fixed on Ryn's hands.
Noa meets Morrel's eyes through the glass and doesn't pretend to like what he sees.
"Don't break him," Noa says into Morrel's private feed. "You do that, I start breaking equipment."
"Then we should both be careful," Morrel says, and cuts the line.
10-11-2355 | 06:59
HARBOR HQ — Containment Veterinary Clinic, Bay C.
—
The clinic is stainless steel and low-light, smelling of sterile gel and ozone. The reformed canine, a beautiful albino German Shepherd, is on a wide, padded exam table, tethered loosely for safety. He is exquisitely calm, occasionally nudging his wet nose into Ryn's hand, which rests near his head.
Ryn stands with his hair still slightly damp from the dome's exertions, completely smitten. Dr. Morrel stands by the observation window, watching.
The specialist, Dr. Aris Vance, leans over the dog, running a conductive wand over its spine. Vance is sharp, mid-forties, wearing scrubs with a HARBOR emblem. He holds a tablet displaying a complex, shimmering data read.
"Report, Dr. Vance," Morrel says, his voice traveling clearly through the comms.
Vance taps the screen. "The animal is physically sound. Perfect canine morphology. No signs of stress decay, skeletal corruption, or internal organ damage. It's essentially a rescue animal, fully healthy."
"And the rendling residue?" Morrel prompts.
"That's the variable, sir," Vance replies. "The core signature is almost entirely normalized. The chaotic code that governed its feral state has been rewritten, but it's not gone. The conductive signature is now layered, not corrupted."
Ryn runs a hand down Pylon's white fur. Pylon leans into the touch with a happy sigh. "What does that mean, layered?"
Vance glances at Ryn with professional curiosity. "It means the primary identity—the dog—is intact. But the layer of RELIC code that was attempting to rewrite its DNA is still present, quiescent. It's like a piece of software that hasn't been uninstalled, just disabled by a superior command. In this case, your stabilizing field."
"This good boy still possesses the potential for abilities," Morrel concludes, his tone low.
"Yes," Vance confirms. "And since this is the first successful full-body conductive reversal on a non-human asset, we have no baseline. It might manifest some form of subhuman ability. Enhanced speed, localized field projection, or nothing at all. It's an unknown."
Morrel steps away from the glass. "Its identity markers. Any match in the HARBOR database?"
Vance shakes his head. "None. We ran the DNA profile. It's a purebred shepherd, but zero hits in official registries. It does not have a tracking chip. If it was a pet, it was kept off-grid, probably a Downline asset."
Ryn's gaze hardens slightly. Downline asset. A line item. He wraps his arm around the dog, who happily licks his wrist.
"Mr. Kestra's actions saved us a massive amount of cleanup and provided an invaluable data point," Morrel says, now addressing Ryn directly. "The question is what this breakthrough implies for your own abilities, Ryn. You didn't just damp it; you repaired it. You performed a healing function."
Ryn shrugs, still focused on the dog. "I just quieted the pain. It wanted to be a dog again, not a mess."
Vance adds, "That's what I mean, Doctor. It seems the will of the asset plays a role in his projection. That's for behavioral scientists to decipher, not vets."
Morrel nods slowly, his focus now solely on Ryn. He glances at Pylon and reaches a hand toward the dog's shoulder. "I need to confirm its sedation levels before transfer."
Pylon immediately tenses, a low, guttural growl vibrating in its chest. The dog snaps its jaws just short of Morrel's approaching hand, a clear warning.
Ryn instinctively presses his hand against Pylon's head. "Hey. Down, boy. He's fine. Just don't touch."
The dog stops instantly, leaning into Ryn's touch and letting out a soft whine, then enthusiastically licks Ryn's chin.
Morrel retracts his hand, his expression a mixture of surprise and professional annoyance. "As I was saying. This canine asset must remain in a secure, controlled environment, Ryn. You and your team are responsible for its continued stability and its eventual owner identification."
Ryn looks up, a slight, challenging grin touching his lips. "I'll be in charge of its continued stability. I'm thinking field training and maybe a walk. Until an owner comes forward, I'll keep the pup."
Morrel's expression tightens. "Ryn, that is a highly volatile, unknown biological asset. It needs to be quarantined. You cannot simply take it back to your quarters."
"I'll take that under advisement, Doctor," Ryn says smoothly.
He taps his wristband. A tiny, silver wire spools out, a minimalist nano-collar. It snakes down, loops elegantly around the dog's neck, and locks with a soft chime.
Morrel stares at the device. "How in the world did you acquire unauthorized, non-traceable restraint tech that fast?"
Ryn grins, leaning down to clip a lead to the collar. "Oh, that? I designed most of the engine control systems for the last three transport skiffs, Doctor. This little guy? This took me, like, two minutes to whip up while Vance was explaining the scary science. You know."
Ryn pulls the dog off the table. Pylon trots eagerly beside him, his head bumping Ryn's leg affectionately.
"Come on, boy," Ryn says, giving the dog a light tug. "Let's go get you some real food. You look like you could use a steak."
Ryn walks toward the door without waiting for a dismissal.
Morrel watches them go, his hand lifting to rub his temple, a gesture of rare exasperation. He turns back to Vance, shaking his head.
"Mischief," Morrel mutters. "That boy is going to turn this entire facility into a zoo."
10-11-2355 | 07:05
HARBOR HQ — Residential Tower, Ryn's Quarters, Level 34.
—
Ryn steps off the lift, Pylon trotting easily beside him, the new nano-collar glowing faintly at the dog's neck. He reaches his door and stops.
Dax is leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, looking entirely too composed. He wears his HARBOR jacket, but his shirt is slightly rumpled and his dark hair is messy from sleep, giving him a rugged look that Ryn hates to admit is handsome.
Pylon spots Dax. The dog lets out a high, happy yip and breaks away, launching himself at the Lieutenant. Dax instinctively stiffens, his arms flying out to stop the impact.
"Woah, hey," Dax mutters, fighting a battle with a very large, very enthusiastic, furry body. Pylon just wags his tail so hard his whole rear end wiggles, trying to lick Dax's chin.
Ryn watches, biting back a laugh. "He likes you. Congrats, you're the first person he hasn't tried to bite yet today, besides me."
Dax awkwardly pats Pylon's back. "Yeah, well, I feel like I owe him one. How's the code storm look on this one, Kestra? Is he going to try to eat a wall?"
"He's fine," Ryn says, reaching to pull Pylon back and ruffling the dog's ear. "He's stable. Dr. Vance thinks he might still have a residual RELIC signature—the chaotic code is dormant, not gone. He could have subhuman or even conductor-like abilities."
Dax finally manages to push Pylon away slightly, regaining his personal space. "And where is HARBOR placing this... asset?"
"Right here," Ryn says, nodding toward his door. "Until an owner comes forward, he stays with me."
Dax raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You? A pet? Kestra, have you ever even looked after a houseplant before? That's a living, breathing responsibility."
Ryn's smile fades, replaced by something flat. "I have an underlined operation, Lieutenant. That's all you need to know." He taps his ring against the access panel, and the door to his quarters hisses open, revealing a generous space: a small kitchen, a dining nook, a lounge area centered on a huge window overlooking the glittering port at night.
Ryn steps into the threshold, Pylon trotting in immediately. Dax remains fixed in the doorway.
Ryn turns back. "Are you a vampire, Mercer?"
Dax blinks, his brow furrowed. "I don't even know what that means in this context."
"It means," Ryn drawls, leaning against the doorframe, "do I need to invite you in so you can come in and feast on my neck?"
Dax's cheeks instantly flush a deep red. He visibly swallows, fighting the urge to stand at attention. He pushes off the frame and takes a timid step inside, looking around quickly like a soldier entering a hostile structure.
"You're an ass, Kestra," Dax mutters.
"Just trying to be polite," Ryn counters.
Pylon, having scoped out the options, beelines for the most expensive-looking synth-leather armchair in the lounge and curls up on it, looking immensely satisfied.
"Okay, so somebody has already decided he's king of this place," Ryn observes.
Dax eyes the dog warily. "Are you sure that... that thing won't bite? I mean, it was feral forty-five minutes ago."
"He's fine," Ryn says, waving him off. He scratches Pylon behind the ears. "He's the goodest boy."
"'Goodest' isn't a word," Dax says automatically, the grammar correction a comfortable reflex.
"Well," Ryn says, looking from Pylon to Dax. "It fits. Now, come on."
Ryn heads for the kitchen area, Dax following awkwardly, clearly still debating the propriety of standing in Ryn's quarters uninvited. Ryn checks the food unit and finds a stack of sterile tuna protein plates. He sighs, pulls one open, then drops two small, untextured silver spheres onto the counter. He passes his ringed hand over them. In a fluid motion, the spheres dissolve and reform into two clean, metal bowls, each with the stylized name PYLON etched into the side.
Dax raises one skeptical eyebrow at the bowls. "You made up your mind fast about keeping it."
Ryn corrects him, pouring the tuna into one bowl and water into the other. "Him. Also, his name is Pylon, by the way."
Dax inclines his head. "That's commitment... I guess."
Just as Pylon finishes his meal with a satisfied lap, Ryn's wrist console buzzes. Dax pulls his own slate from his inner pocket. A holographic projection of Noa's face blinks into the air between them.
Noa pops up in bright blue, a sly smile already on his face. He takes a long look at the setting: Dax standing awkwardly near the kitchen, Ryn leaning on the counter, and Pylon happily licking his bowl.
"Well, hello there, you two!" Noa says, his voice pitched for a spectacle. "I wasn't expecting a group call, certainly not in... is that Ryn's kitchen? Cozy! Did I interrupt a sudden, passionate discussion about the proper use of conductive alloys, or is this a team-building exercise involving tuna plates?"
Ryn just rolls his eyes and tosses his platinum hair back. Dax, whose cheeks have gone completely crimson, snaps into professional mode.
"Noa. You called for something important. Say it," Dax orders, his voice flat and severe.
Noa makes a mock pout. "Fine, fine. Buzzkill. Forensics just wrapped up their preliminary... analysis of the incident site. We've got coordinates for where the Rendling fled from. Command center, now."
—