Page 3 of Broken Sentinel

The extraction team leaves with our captive, who gives me one last, strange look over his shoulder before the door seals behind them.

Trent waits exactly three seconds—the standard time for monitoring systems to reset between protocols—before speaking.

"That was weird," he says, voice low enough that only enhanced Sentinel hearing would catch it.

"Which part?" I move toward the door, careful to maintain proper professional distance.

"The way he looked at you. Like he recognized you."

I shrug. "I have one of those faces. Generically intimidating."

"There's nothing generic about your face, Thorne."

My step falters for just a moment, my heart skipping a beat. Was that a compliment? From Trent Vanguard, the most protocol-obsessed Sentinel in the division? I glance at him, but his expression reveals nothing beyond standard professional concern.

I swallow the feeling down. I’m used to it by now.

The corridor is empty as we exit, the artificial daylight cycle shifting toward evening mode. Upper Level residentswill be making their way to one of the designated dining centers or perhaps attending a Unity-approved cultural event. All perfectly scheduled, perfectly controlled.

We walk in professional silence until we reach the Sentinel residential block, an austere section tucked discreetly between Upper Level's gleaming residential towers and the utilitarian Mid-Level. Our quarters are adjacent but separate, one of the few concessions to privacy in Unity's all-seeing system.

"Any plans for your recovery period?" Trent asks as we reach my door.

I consider my options. Sleep. Nutrition. Physical maintenance. The thrilling variety of a Sentinel's off-duty hours.

"I might indulge in a full six hours of sleep instead of five," I say with mock excitement. "You?"

Something flickers across his face, so quickly I almost miss it. "Records review. There's a pattern to these Splinter incursions I want to analyze."

Of course. Trent would use unscheduled free time to work. I ignore the stab of disappointment. What was I expecting? An invitation to spend our recovery hours together? Unity regulations strictly prohibit fraternization between Sentinel partners. For good reason since emotional attachments compromise judgment, create vulnerabilities that could be exploited.

"Always the perfect Sentinel," I say, keeping my tone light. "Don't let Command catch you working off-cycle. They'll start to expect it from the rest of us."

His mouth quirks into that half-smile that does completely unprofessional things to my pulse rate. "Your secret is safe with me, Thorne. I've never reported your contraband caffeine stash, have I?"

"Mutually assured destruction," I agree. "I know about your unauthorized security protocol workarounds."

"Fair enough." He hesitates, looking like he might say something else. For a breathless moment, I imagine himstepping closer, breaching the careful distance we've always maintained.

Instead, he gives a crisp nod. "See you at 0600. Sleep well."

"You too."

My quarters are standard Sentinel accommodation: minimal, functional, and utterly impersonal. Exactly one chair, one small table, one single bed. The door seals behind me with a soft hiss, and I release the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"Privacy mode engaged," announces the room's system in its flat, artificial voice. "Duration: twenty-four hours."

The silence is deafening. I move through my evening routine with mechanical efficiency—nutrition supplement, physical maintenance exercises, hygiene protocols. All the while trying not to think about Trent in his identical quarters next door, probably already deep in his records review.

I wonder if he ever thinks about me when we're off-duty. If he ever looks at the wall that separates our living spaces and considers what it would be like if that barrier didn't exist.

Ridiculous thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. Sentinel partners are matched for operational compatibility, nothing more. The fact that Trent and I have the highest neural synchronization ratings in Unity history is a testament to our professional alignment, not whatever my treacherous mind keeps suggesting when I'm alone.

Later, as I lie in my regulation bed staring at the ceiling, the persistent throb behind my eyes worsens. I try to ignore it, just as I try to ignore the memory of Trent's voice in my ear, the momentary warmth in his eyes when he looked at me outside my quarters.

When I finally drift off, my dreams are strange, filled with open skies instead of arcology ceilings, wild wind instead of regulated air currents, and a woman's voice calling a name I almost recognize.

I wake with a gasp, heart racing, the dream already fadinglike smoke. But the feeling lingers, a certainty that I've forgotten something important, something fundamental.

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