What Was Taken
Sleep did not come easily.
The temporary rest pods were identical to standard recovery capsules, but everyone noticed the difference. The seals closed slower. The hum was lower. Even the internal light felt dimmer, as if conserving something it hadn't needed to before.
Raghu lay still, eyes open.
The pod recognized wakefulness and adjusted temperature by half a degree. He felt it immediately. Not because it was uncomfortable, but because he hadn't asked for it.
That was new.
He flexed his fingers. The motion was normal. Strength intact. No tremor. No pain. By all visible metrics, he was fine.
So he reached inward.
The Verdant Pulse answered.
Not as it once had.
Before Sector Nine, it had felt like breath moving through leaves. Natural. Immediate. Now it hesitated, gathering itself as if checking boundaries before flowing.
Raghu placed his palm against the pod's inner surface.
"Easy," he murmured, unsure who he was speaking to.
The pulse responded cautiously. Green light flickered, faint and controlled, spreading into the metal in thin veins. The pod stabilized around his hand, systems adjusting micro-pressure to accommodate the resonance.
It worked.
But the effort left a hollow ache behind his sternum, like something had been spent and not returned.
Raghu withdrew his hand slowly. The light faded.
He frowned.
This wasn't fatigue. It wasn't depletion. It was more precise than that.
Something had been… claimed.
Across the compartment, Ayush sat upright in his pod, eyes closed, posture immaculate even in rest. His Halo Watch displayed a cascade of diagnostic readouts only he had permission to see.
Erosion Beam: Active.
Stability: Confirmed.
Precision Drift: 0.03%
Ayush opened his eyes.
"Unacceptable," he muttered.
He raised two fingers, focusing. The air between them shimmered faintly, decay manifesting with surgical restraint. A thin line formed, cutting cleanly through a micro-fiber filament suspended by the pod's internal systems.
Perfect.
And yet.
The beam dissipated a fraction of a second later than expected.
Ayush stared at his hand, then repeated the action. Same result. Consistent delay. Minuscule, but measurable.
Precision demanded predictability.
This was not predictability.
He canceled the beam and leaned back, jaw tightening.
Across the aisle, Gudi lay sprawled sideways in her pod, one leg hooked over the edge, ignoring the posture warnings flashing on her display. A translucent bubble floated lazily above her palm, wobbling as it reflected the dim pod lights.
She poked it.
It burst silently.
Gudi blinked. "Huh."
She formed another. This one lasted longer, shimmering with layered membranes. She tapped it twice, smiling faintly.
"Still got it," she whispered.
Then the bubble folded inward on itself, collapsing into a tight knot of energy before snapping out of existence. The recoil stung her palm.
Gudi hissed and shook her hand. "Okay. Still got it. Just… moodier."
She sat up, grin fading as she noticed her Halo Watch.
No error messages.
No warnings.
Just a new line she hadn't seen before:
Adaptive Variance: Elevated
"That's vague," she muttered. "I hate vague."
In the pod two rows down, Mira Len curled in on herself, knees pulled tight to her chest. Her breathing was steady now, but shallow. She stared at the pod wall, eyes unfocused.
She wasn't using her ability.
She wasn't trying to.
Every time she thought about stepping into the green basin again, her chest tightened and her vision blurred. The memory didn't replay as images. It came as sensation. Weight. Pressure. The feeling of holding still while the world tried to peel her apart.
A soft knock came against her pod wall.
She flinched.
Raghu stood outside, his reflection faint in the translucent surface. He didn't speak. Just waited.
After a moment, Mira reached out and tapped the release.
The pod opened with a hiss.
"I'm fine," she said immediately, the words too quick, too rehearsed.
Raghu nodded. "I know."
That answer unsettled her more than concern would have.
They stood in silence for a few seconds, the low hum of the train filling the gap.
"Does it feel… quieter to you?" Mira asked finally.
Raghu considered. "No," he said. "Closer."
She swallowed. "That's worse."
"Yes," he agreed.
Neither of them laughed.
Further down the compartment, a candidate Raghu didn't know well sat with his head in his hands, rocking slightly. His Halo Watch pulsed red, then yellow, then settled back to neutral.
"I can't remember her face," the man whispered to no one. "I know she was there. I know she stood next to me. But every time I try to—"
His voice broke.
No system alert triggered.
No medical response deployed.
The train did not intervene.
Raghu felt the Verdant Pulse stir again, unbidden this time. He forced it down, jaw clenched. Helping now would cost him something he didn't yet understand.
The thought tasted bitter.
At the far end of the compartment, Supervisor Harry stood with his back to the wall, pretending to review routine data while quietly watching everything at once.
He saw the signs.
Micro-delays. Emotional flattening. Behavioral drift.
All within acceptable margins.
That was the problem.
Sector Nine had not broken the candidates.
It had refined the tolerances.
Harry opened a private diagnostic channel, running a comparative analysis between pre-descent and post-descent data. The system responded promptly, efficiently.
Too efficiently.
Loss markers appeared where none should exist.
Not damage.
Not injury.
Subtraction.
Harry closed the channel.
Some things, once seen, could not be unseen.
The intercom chimed softly.
"Normalization ongoing. Please remain in assigned pods."
The message was calm. Reassuring.
It helped no one.
Raghu returned to his pod reluctantly. As it sealed around him, he rested a hand against the inner wall again, not to activate the Pulse, but to feel the train.
The response came immediately.
A subtle pressure. A recognition.
Not approval.
Acknowledgment.
His sword, secured beside him, hummed faintly. The fragments within resonated in low harmony, neither active nor dormant. Waiting.
Raghu closed his eyes.
He thought of the corridor. Of Lucien's hesitation. Of the moment he had chosen to help Mira, knowing it would cost him something.
He had not regretted it.
He still didn't.
But now he understood the price was not paid all at once.
It was taken slowly.
Measured.
Outside the pods, the Doom Train continued its quiet realignment. Systems recalibrated. Routes adjusted. Records updated.
And deep within its core, something ancient logged the outcome with indifferent precision.
Thirty-six survived.
Something else was lost.
The train did not explain what.
It never did.