Cassidy and Jax moved deeper into Sunslope.
The settlement hadn't changed in shape.
That was the problem.
Stalls still lined the narrow paths. Canvas roofs hung where they always had. Wooden carts sat in their familiar places, wheels half-sunk into the sand. From a distance, it looked preserved—like a memory held too carefully.
Up close, the details unraveled.
Vendors stood behind their carts, hands resting on produce that had begun to rot. Fruit slumped inward on itself, skins split and darkened. Sweet fermentation clung to the air, heavy and sour, but no one swatted at the flies gathering in lazy spirals.
No voices rose.
No bargaining.
No idle complaints about the heat.
Just work.
A child knelt near the edge of the square, arranging dead plant pots into a perfect line. Each placement was exact—measured by eye, corrected by millimeters. When one pot leaned, the child adjusted it without hesitation, fingers precise, expression placid.
Cassidy slowed.
Her voice dropped instinctively, humor arriving late and thin.
"He moved those like a computer running a placement program," she murmured. "Version… creepy."
Jax didn't answer.
He was watching the vendors.
One in particular.
The man behind the apple cart.
Jax didn't know why his attention lingered there—only that something about the stillness felt practiced. The vendor's hands moved methodically, lifting apples one by one, turning them so the rotted side faced down, hidden from view. Juice leaked through the wood slats and dripped into the sand.
Jax stepped closer.
He reached out and tapped the man's shoulder.
Nothing.
No flinch.
No pause.
No tightening of muscle.
The vendor continued sorting apples like the touch hadn't occurred.
Cassidy's breath caught.
Jax cleared his throat, grounding himself in procedure, in tone, in command.
"Excuse me, sir," he said evenly. "Can we speak with you?"
The vendor did not turn immediately.
There was a delay.
Not confusion.
Not fear.
A delay measured with precision—like a system waiting for permission to switch tasks.
Cassidy felt it in her spine before she saw it.
The man's hands stopped.
Exactly together.
Then—slowly—his head lifted.
His eyes met Jax's.
No surprise.
No recognition.
Just certainty.
The vendor spoke softly, as if continuing a conversation that had started long before Jax arrived.
"It'll be fine," he said.
Cassidy swallowed.
The man smiled.
Not wide.
Not forced.
Perfectly appropriate.
"It will be done soon."
Then his gaze dropped.
His hands resumed their work.
The apples squelched faintly as he realigned them.
Cassidy stepped back without meaning to.
Her voice came out too quiet.
"You know," she said, staring at the leaking fruit, "I was expecting off."
She shook her head once.
"That was just… terrifying."
Around them, a sound began to spread.
Not a chant.
Not synchronized.
Just whispers—uneven, overlapping, leaking through the settlement like a thought that couldn't stay contained.
"Soon."
"Soon."
"Sooo-on."
Different voices. Different pitches.
Same word.
Cassidy's scanner stayed flat.
Dead.
She checked it again anyway.
Nothing.
She looked at Jax, eyes wide now—jokes gone, mask cracked.
"Did anything read from that?" she asked.
Jax shook his head.
"No."
Cassidy laughed once.
Too sharp.
Too fast.
"Cool," she said. "Cool, cool, cool. Because this is exactly how a horror movie starts. We split up, someone says 'soon,' there's a creepy thing just off-screen, and then—"
She stopped herself.
Jax turned on her, not angry—but firm.
"This isn't a movie," he said. "These are people."
Cassidy flinched.
He gestured around them.
"They're trapped," he continued. "Enough with the jokes."
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
"…Right," she said quietly.
Jax looked out over Sunslope again, jaw tight.
"We need to confirm their well-being," he said. "Stabilize what we can."
Cassidy nodded, forcing herself to breathe evenly.
"We can collect data," she said. "At least that way, when we get back, we have something to fight with."
Jax exhaled slowly.
"We don't get breaks like this," he muttered. "One moment of peace and Central thinks it's because of them."
He stopped himself.
Shook his head.
"Sorry. Too much in my head."
Cassidy jogged a step to keep pace with him.
"Hey," she said lightly—too lightly. "That was the most human thing I've seen you do in years."
Jax didn't smile.
"It won't happen again."
She stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop.
"I don't like Hawk either," she said. "And for what it's worth—you're still our commander."
Jax stepped around her without responding.
Mission first.
They moved deeper into the settlement, Cassidy planting a frequency stake near the vendor stalls. The device sank into the sand with a soft click.
"Even if we pull out," she said, "we'll have twenty-four hours of readout."
They turned the corner—
—and Jax froze.
A voice crackled through the comm.
"Jax. Jax, can you hear me?"
Cassidy looked up sharply.
Jax raised a hand.
"Quiet."
He keyed the channel.
"Jax here," he said. "Interference is heavy. Identify."
The reply came after a beat.
"It's Thane, Commander."
Jax blinked.
Then smiled—just a little.
"Thane," he said. "What are you doing on comms?"
A dry laugh came through.
"Can't walk," Thane replied, "but I can still help. Feeding Nina and Central the data you're pulling."
Jax nodded once.
"Good work," he said. "I'll keep you posted."
"Good luck, Commander."
The channel closed.
Cassidy let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"You'd think a hole in the leg would slow someone down," she said. "But Thane treats it like a Monday."
Jax almost smiled.
Almost.
They continued planting stakes, methodical, careful, determined to leave something behind that could still see when they couldn't.
Around them, Sunslope worked.
Silent.
Perfect.
Waiting.
And everywhere they went, the whispers followed—
soft, patient, certain—
"Soon."