Soren woke with a blink.
Not the slow return of awareness he usually experienced, not the gradual layering of sensation and thought—but a sudden clarity, as though he had simply stepped from one moment into the next without crossing any distance between.
For a second, he did not understand where he was.
Then the alcove resolved around him.
The narrow recess along the corridor wall, partially shielded by a curved panel, the bench molded seamlessly into the structure of the ship. He was seated upright, spine resting against the cool surface, legs angled slightly outward. His hands lay loosely in his lap, fingers relaxed, as if they had never tensed.
He had been listening.
That was all he could remember. The wind. The hum. The way the ship carried sound differently here, funneling it into a low, resonant pocket that made thought unnecessary.
He glanced down at the chronometer panel embedded into the wall beside him.
Thirty minutes had passed.
Soren registered the fact without surprise. He did not feel groggy. He did not feel rested, either. It was simply… time that had moved while he had not.
He lifted his gaze toward the open stretch of corridor visible from the alcove's edge.
Beyond it, through the long panel windows lining the mid-deck, the sky stretched outward in pale clarity.
Still blue.
Still clean.
But not unchanged.
Where the clouds that morning had drifted lazily apart, now they gathered closer together—white against white, edges soft but overlapping. They spanned wider sections of the sky, their spacing tighter, their presence more deliberate. Not heavy. Not threatening.
Just… more.
Soren watched them for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly.
The wind brushed faintly across his ankles.
Still erratic.
It moved the same way it had when he'd first woken earlier that day—irregular, directionless, passing in brief currents that never quite committed to a single flow. It hadn't strengthened. It hadn't settled.
It had simply stayed.
He reached for his ledger.
The familiar weight of it grounded him immediately. The cover was warm where it had rested against his side, the leather softened by use, the spine flexing easily as he opened it.
The page lay exactly where he had left it before his nap.
Soren read.
|| Wind behavior inconsistent. Directional flow does not stabilize for longer than several minutes at a time. No sustained pressure gradient detected across mid- or lower-deck corridors. Variance persists without escalation.
|| Auditory profile of the Aurelius altered. Core hum increased in amplitude, frequency tightened. Vibration pattern remains regular, but transmission through deck panels sharper than baseline.
|| Exterior observation: Sky conditions remain clear. Cloud density increased since morning hours; formations closer, spacing reduced. No darkening. No visible turbulence.
|| Crew movement within expected parameters. No congestion observed in mid-deck corridors during observation window.
|| No mechanical faults detected. No alarms triggered. All systems respond within expected margins when corrected.
Soren paused.
His eyes lingered on the bottom of the page.
There was a gap.
Not large. Not obvious. But wider than usual—the space between the last written line and the bottom margin extended just a fraction more than his habitual spacing. Enough to catch his attention once noticed. Enough that it could not be unseen.
Had he intended to write more?
He searched his memory, but there was nothing there. No half-formed sentence. No interrupted thought. He had not been called away. He had not stopped abruptly.
The space simply… existed.
It was not an error. It was not even truly irregular.
Just unfamiliar.
Soren considered adding a line. Anything. Even a closing notation.
Instead, he closed the ledger.
The soft sound of leather against paper felt final in a way he did not entirely intend. He rested his hand atop the cover for a moment, thumb pressing lightly against the edge, as if expecting the book to resist being shut.
It did not.
He exhaled and rose from the alcove.
The corridor ahead remained empty.
No footsteps echoed. No voices drifted in from adjoining sections. The mid-deck stretched outward in quiet symmetry, panels gleaming softly under the ambient lighting.
Soren stepped out and began walking.
He moved with unhurried purpose, following the gentle curve of the corridor toward the stairwell that led down. The wind followed him—never pushing, never guiding. Just… present.
As he descended toward the lower deck, the air grew denser. Warmer. The familiar hum of activity layered itself back into the ship's soundscape: distant machinery, muffled conversation, the soft clatter of tools against metal.
He took the final step down—
"HEY!"
The shout cut through the space sharply.
Soren barely had time to register it.
A metallic clatter followed—loud, sudden—and something rolled across the stair landing.
A pipe.
Long, cylindrical, gleaming under the lights as it spun out of control.
Soren's foot came down on it.
The world lurched.
His weight shifted violently as the pipe rolled beneath his boot. Instinct kicked in too late to stop the slip entirely, but enough to prevent a full fall. His elbow slammed into the stair rail with a sharp impact, the jolt traveling up his arm as his leg twisted awkwardly.
Pain flared—
Then dulled.
He sucked in a breath as his left foot caught itself against the stair edge, ankle bending at a dangerous angle before locking in place. His body jerked forward, then back, arms flaring instinctively as he fought for balance.
The rail steadied him.
His heart pounded once, hard.
"Oh no—Soren!"
The voice cracked with panic.
Soren straightened slowly, breath measured, one hand still gripping the rail. His left ankle protested faintly, a muted ache already forming beneath the surface, but it did not demand attention yet.
He turned toward the voice.
Nell stood several steps away.
Her face was pale beneath the deck lights, eyes wide, breath coming fast. She had someone on her back—arms hooked loosely around her shoulders, head lolling against her neck.
A woman.
Young. Dark hair plastered damply against her forehead. Her limbs hung limp, weight shifting unevenly as Nell struggled to hold her upright.
"I'm so sorry," Nell said quickly, words tumbling over one another. "It slipped—just slipped right out of my hands, and I didn't see you coming, and Jennie—"
Soren moved without hesitation.
"It's alright," he said, voice steady. "You're alright."
He stepped toward them, careful now, his injured foot touching down lightly. He reached for the unconscious woman, assessing her weight instinctively as he eased her off Nell's back.
Jennie was lighter than he expected.
Too light.
Her body was warm against his arms as he shifted her onto his back instead, adjusting his grip smoothly, ensuring her legs were supported and her weight balanced. Heat radiated through his coat, unmistakable.
Fever.
Nell sagged slightly as the burden left her, one hand flying to her mouth.
"I was taking her to medical," she said, voice tight. "She just—collapsed. Right down the corridor. She'd been pale all morning, said her lips felt dry even though she kept drinking water. I thought it was just exhaustion but then—"
"You did the right thing," Soren said firmly.
He adjusted Jennie's weight once more, ensuring her head rested securely against his shoulder. Her breathing was shallow but regular.
"Where did she fall?" he asked.
"Just there," Nell gestured shakily down the corridor. "Near the junction. No one else was around. It happened so fast."
Soren nodded, committing the information to memory.
"I'll take her," he said. "Medical's closer from here."
Nell hesitated. "Your leg—"
"I'm steady," he replied. "You should continue with your work. I'll see her there."
Nell swallowed hard, nodding. "Please—tell them everything."
"I will."
He turned toward the stairwell leading back up, adjusting his pace automatically to account for his ankle. It throbbed for a moment before fading and he ignored it.
As he ascended, Jennie's warmth pressed against him, her weight a constant reminder that something was wrong.
Soren set his focus forward.
The medical bay waited on the mid-deck.
And he did not intend to waste another moment.
_________________________
Soren reached the medical bay without breaking stride.
The doors recognized his approach and slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss, releasing a wave of sterile air that cut sharply against the warmth clinging to his back. The contrast made Jennie stir faintly, a quiet sound slipping from her throat as her grip tightened reflexively for a fraction of a second before loosening again.
Inside, the bay was already occupied.
Curtains were drawn around one of the bunks near the far wall, obscuring the patient within, but Rysen's presence was unmistakable. His voice carried clearly through the fabric—low, calm, steady—issuing instructions with practiced efficiency as equipment responded with soft beeps and whirs. His silhouette moved back and forth behind the curtain, shoulders squared, hands busy.
At the opposite end of the room, near the supply station, a younger medic looked up sharply as Soren entered.
"Oh—Soren," she said, already moving. "Set her down there—corner bunk."
Peony.
She crossed the space quickly, pulling back the curtain on the indicated bed and adjusting the height with a practiced flick of her wrist. Soren followed, careful with his footing as he maneuvered Jennie off his back and onto the bunk. He guided her down gently, easing her limbs into a neutral position, one hand steadying her head until Peony slid a thin cushion beneath her neck.
As soon as Jennie was settled, Peony was at work.
She clipped a pulse monitor onto Jennie's finger, fingers brisk but careful, eyes scanning the readout as it stabilized. Another sensor followed at her wrist, then her temple. The numbers flickered, then steadied.
"Can you tell me what happened?" Peony asked, not looking up.
Soren didn't hesitate.
"She collapsed on the lower deck," he said. "According to Nell, she'd been pale for most of the morning. Reported persistent thirst despite adequate fluid intake. No visible injury prior to collapse."
Peony nodded once, already reaching for a scanner. "Any loss of consciousness before?"
"She went down abruptly," Soren replied. "No warning signs beyond fatigue."
Peony swept the scanner along Jennie's torso, then her neck, brow furrowing slightly as the device chimed softly. She pressed two fingers to Jennie's neck, counting silently, then checked her pupils with a small penlight.
"She's warm," Peony murmured. "Not acute fever levels, but elevated."
"Yes," Soren said. "I noticed the heat when carrying her."
"…Alright," she said, and turned back to Jennie. "Pulse is fast. Blood pressure's low-normal. Dehydration markers are inconsistent with reported intake."
She moved to the side station and began prepping an IV with swift efficiency, hands steady despite the pace. Clear fluid filled the line, bubbles expelled with quick taps.
"Likely systemic response," she continued. "I'll start fluids. We'll need bloodwork."
She slid the IV into place smoothly, securing it before adjusting the drip rate. Jennie stirred again, a faint crease forming between her brows, but did not wake.
Peony reached for a small injector, checking the label twice.
"Antipyretic," she said. "And something to stabilize her until Rysen—"
"I'm here."
Rysen stepped out from behind the curtain, already pulling on fresh gloves. His gaze flicked once to the bunk he'd left, then settled on Jennie with immediate focus.
"What do we have?" he asked.
Peony briefed him quickly, voice precise. "Collapse on lower deck. Pale, reported dryness despite hydration. Elevated temperature, tachycardia, mild hypotension. IV started. I was about to administer."
Rysen nodded once. "I'll take that."
He accepted the injector from her hand and checked the readout himself, movements economical. He leaned over Jennie, administering the injection with practiced ease, then adjusted the IV rate slightly.
"Good call on fluids," he said. "Let's draw labs. Full panel."
Peony was already moving. "On it."
Rysen straightened and turned to Soren then, eyes assessing in that quiet, clinical way that missed very little.
"You did well bringing her in quickly," he said. "Thank you."
Soren inclined his head slightly. "Is she stable?"
"For now," Rysen replied. "We'll know more once the labs come back."
He paused, eyes narrowing just a fraction—not at Jennie, but at Soren.
"Sit," he said suddenly.
Soren blinked. "I'm fine."
Rysen ignored that entirely. "Sit anyway."
Soren complied, lowering himself onto the nearby stool without argument. Only then did he feel the dull ache in his left ankle begin to assert itself—subtle, insistent, blooming slowly beneath the surface before fading. He kept his posture composed, hands resting loosely on his thighs.
Rysen studied him for a moment longer than necessary.
"You've been pushing yourself again," he said quietly.
"No," Soren replied. "I haven't."
Rysen hummed, unconvinced, then glanced toward the curtained bunk behind him as a monitor chimed softly.
"Your migraines," he said, returning his attention to Soren. "Have they been returning?"
"No," Soren said promptly.
The word had barely left his mouth when a faint pressure stirred behind his eyes.
Not pain—not yet. Just a subtle tightening, a familiar sensation like a distant echo testing its way forward.
Soren ignored it.
Rysen watched him closely, clearly noticing the half-second delay before Soren's expression smoothed again.
"…Alright," Rysen said at last. "If that changes, you tell me."
"I will," Soren said evenly.
Rysen leaned back against the counter, arms crossing loosely. "We've had more cases like this over the course of days. Not identical—but adjacent. Fatigue, collapse, irregular vitals without clear cause."
Soren's gaze sharpened. "How many?"
"Five, inclusive." Rysen said. "Enough to notice, not enough to panic."
A familiar phrasing.
Soren absorbed that silently.
Rysen pushed off the counter and glanced back at Jennie, checking the IV line once more. "She's in good hands now. We'll keep her here."
He turned back to Soren. "You should take care of yourself too."
The words were simple, but the way Rysen said them carried weight—an assessment beneath the concern, an unspoken acknowledgment of things neither of them named out loud.
Soren rose carefully from the stool.
"I'll update Nell," he said.
Rysen nodded once.
Soren inclined his head in thanks and moved toward the door.
As he stepped out into the corridor, the sterile air gave way to the familiar atmosphere of the Aurelius. The door slid shut behind him, sealing off the quiet urgency of the medical bay.
The hum of the ship met him immediately.
Steady.
Present.
He paused for just a moment, standing there as the faint pressure behind his eyes lingered—then receded, just as quickly as it had come.
Soren exhaled and began walking.
_________________________
Soren lingered at the mid-deck junction for a moment, letting the rhythm of the Aurelius register in his body. The hum beneath the deck was slightly louder than it had been this morning—more insistent, as though it had taken note of the ship's recent activity. He flexed his left foot subtly, testing the ankle. The dull ache had returned, mild, insistent, a reminder of the pipe incident. Not yet demanding attention, but persistent enough to make him walk with a fraction more care.
He started down the stairs toward the lower-deck. Each step required a subtle recalibration: weight forward, heel lifted cautiously, ankle flexing to absorb the gentle vibration of the deck. He kept his gaze ahead, observing the corridor as it opened up below. The air carried the same low currents he'd felt earlier, erratic yet unaggressive, brushing at his coat sleeves as though the ship itself remained conscious of his passage.
Passing the first junction, he noted the flicker of fluorescent panels above, their reflection catching the polished metal rail. The lower-deck stretched forward, unpopulated at this hour. No footfalls. No distant conversation. Just the soft cadence of the Aurelius vibrating quietly through the hull and the irregular drift of air currents threading along the panels.
At the system junction near the midsection, movement emerged abruptly. Marcell stepped into view, rigid, upright, boots clicking firmly against the deck. His presence carried authority without needing a word. The vice-captain's eyes flicked to Soren as their paths converged, pausing for a measured breath.
"Vice-captain," Soren said, inclining his head slightly.
"Soren," Marcell replied, voice curt, attention immediately shifting toward Soren's stance. His eyes flicked down subtly, noting the careful weight distribution on Soren's left leg.
A pause stretched between them. Then Marcell's gaze leveled, assessing. "You ought to be more careful these days, walking the lower-decks," he said. "There's more foot traffic now, and with it… more opportunity for a sprained leg to surface."
Soren adjusted his weight slightly, mindful of the ankle's subtle protest. "Yes, I'll be more careful," he said evenly, letting the tone remain formal, not defensive.
Marcell nodded once, pause calculated. "Have you noticed anything unusual in the corridors? Systems? Crew?" His voice carried that methodical cadence.
Soren considered for a fraction, recalling the lower-deck's recent activity. "Nothing outside expected parameters. Crew output remains steady. The airflow remains erratic, as noted this morning."
Marcell studied him for a moment longer, expression unreadable. Then he inclined his head. "Good. Proceed, then. You should get moving." Without further word, he shifted direction, boots clicking methodically as he moved away. Soren watched the straight-back figure disappear around the next junction before resuming his pace, deliberate, ankle mindful but not yet painful.
_________________________
The corridor stretched out, familiar panels and junctions passing beneath his gaze. Ahead, he saw Nell, carrying a moderately sized supply box. She was moving with steady purpose, but her brow was furrowed, and her pace betrayed a hint of tension.
Nell's head turned just as Soren passed her. Recognition crossed her face, relief flashing briefly. "Soren," she greeted, voice light but measured.
"Nell," he returned the greeting with a nod. His eyes flicked to the box briefly before returning his gaze.
"How's Jennie?" Nell asked, , exhaling with a mixture of residual worry and concentration
"Stable," Soren replied quickly. "Rysen has her under observation. She's resting comfortably now."
Nell adjusted the grip on the box, shifting its weight slightly before nodding. "Good. How's your leg?"
Soren noticed Nell's shift before replying, "I'm fine. Are you moving supplies back to storage?" Pausing for a moment before offering. "Do you need another set of hands?"
She shook her head, half-smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I've got it. It's manageable."
"Alright," he said softly. "Carry on, then."
Nell's lips pressed into a thin line before she nodded, turning her focus back to the corridor ahead. Soren watched her for a moment, then continued along the lower-deck, aware of the hum vibrating beneath his feet, the soft, erratic currents of air brushing at his coat.
A faint thump echoed from the far junction, distant but noticeable. Soren paused mid-step, ears alert, eyes scanning the empty corridor. Nothing. The sound had no source visible, nothing to indicate a hazard. Only the quiet hum, the faint vibration, and the shifting light along panels. He exhaled softly and moved on, careful, deliberate, mindful of the ankle's subtle protest. The hum of the Aurelius remained steady but insistent beneath his feet. It pressed upward through the panels, subtle vibrations reminding him of the earlier strain on his ankle. He flexed the foot cautiously, noting that the dull ache had begun to bloom slightly, teasing at the edges of comfort. He catalogued it mentally, thinking that he should have asked for an ointment from Rysen earlier.
The corridor stretched ahead, leading toward the stairwell back up to the mid-deck. Soren slowed slightly, pacing each step to measure the strain. The Aurelius vibrated steadily beneath him, louder here than it had above, a subtle cadence marking the deep keel of the ship's body. Panels reflected the diffused light overhead, glinting faintly along the railings. Junctions passed with rhythmical regularity, familiar, predictable. And yet the faint thump lingered, echoing in memory more than in sound.
Soren exhaled. He would return to mid-deck. Carefully. With measured steps. The day's observations, the subtle anomalies, the erratic currents, the faint weight of Jennie's fever, all catalogued quietly in his mind, alongside the hum that continued to carry him forward, guiding each deliberate motion.
_________________________