Page 17 of Broken Sentinel

With that heartwarming welcome, he departs, the door sliding shut behind him and leaving Trent and me alone in our new "home."

Trent's arm remains around my waist for three additional seconds—I count them in my suddenly thundering heartbeat—before he steps away to check the quarters for surveillance devices. Standard procedure, but the sudden absence of his warmth leaves me momentarily off-balance.

"Clear," he announces after a thorough sweep. "Basic environmental monitoring only. No audio or visual feeds."

I release the breath I've been holding. "Small mercies."

I inspect our living space more carefully now that we have privacy. The quarters are worn but functional, clearly designed for workers who spend most of their time on shift rather than at home. The walls bear the faded outline of previous occupants' personal effects, since removed, a reminder that nothing here is permanent.

"Cozy," Trent comments, examining the sleeping platform with what might be concealed alarm.

"That's one word for it." I open the small storage compartment beneath the food prep surface, finding basic cooking implements. "How exactly is this going to work for two weeks?"

"Like any other mission," he answers, but there's a tightness in his voice that betrays his awareness of our situation. "We maintain cover, establish routines, identify targets, gather intelligence."

"I meant the sleeping arrangements," I clarify, gesturing to the narrow platform. "That thing barely qualifies as a single."

Trent's eyes flick to the bed and back to me so quickly I might have missed it without enhanced perception. "I'll take the floor."

"Don't be ridiculous. We're supposed to be a bondedcouple." The words come out rushed. "Besides, that floor looks like it hasn't been properly sanitized since the climate collapse."

"We'll manage," he says, turning away to inspect the sanitization cubicle, effectively ending the conversation.

Right. Manage. Because sharing a bed with Trent Vanguard is absolutely something I can manage without losing my mind.

We spend the next hour establishing our cover, unpacking the sparse belongings provided for our identities—Mira and Elias Davis, newish transfers from Eastern Arcology with unremarkable service records and equally unremarkable personal histories. The names send a strange chill through me; they're too similar to what I know about my parents to be coincidence. Another of Marlow's little tests?

When the assigned maintenance tablets activate, we review tomorrow's work assignments. We've been placed on connected systems—Trent on primary filtration, me on chemical balancing—giving us access to multiple sectors while maintaining a logical work partnership.

"The suspected sympathizer network operates primarily through Recycling Junction 7," Trent notes, studying the schematics. "Our assigned sections give us legitimate access to observation points here, here, and here."

I nod, forcing myself to focus on the mission rather than the way his brow furrows in concentration or how his fingers trace the digital pathways with precise movements that make my stomach tighten inexplicably.

"The supply diversion pattern suggests they're gathering resources for multiple external contacts," I observe. "Possibly preparing for more infiltrations."

"Or supporting individuals already inside," Trent adds. "The timing correlates with?—"

He stops suddenly, and I know what he's thinking: the timing correlates with my enhancement irregularities and thereports of spontaneous genetic anomalies in the maintenance population.

"Do you think there's a connection?" I ask quietly.

Trent sets down the tablet, his expression carefully neutral. "Between the sympathizer activity and what's happening to you? I don't know. How could there be?"

"But you suspect something." I sit on the edge of the sleeping platform, suddenly tired. "You've been tracking my 'irregularities' longer than I've been aware of them."

He's silent for a long moment, weighing his words with typical Sentinel precision. "I've observed patterns that suggest your condition isn't simply an enhancement reaction."

"What kind of patterns?"

"Adaptive responses that exceed standard parameters. Cellular regeneration rates that fluctuate based on environmental conditions. Neural pathways that reconfigure themselves after each enhancement treatment." He pauses. "None of which should be possible under Unity's genetic stability protocols."

The implications hang in the air between us. What he's describing sounds uncomfortably close to what Unity propaganda describes as Splinter traits, genetic modifications designed to adapt to changing conditions.

"You think I'm...what? Contaminated somehow?" The word tastes bitter.

"I think," he says carefully, "that there's more to your situation than Medical is acknowledging."

Before I can respond, a harsh buzz emanates from the environmental control panel, followed by a sudden drop in temperature. The lights flicker, then stabilize at half their previous brightness.

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