Interlude 3 — Lines in the Glass
The infirmary was quieter after they closed the quarantine curtains.
Outside, the yard still hummed with generators and idling engines, but in here it was just monitor beeps and the low murmur of voices.
FULCRUM stood just inside the threshold, respirator pulled up onto his helmet, letting the cool, filtered air of the ward brush his face. He didn't cross the yellow line on the floor; that was for staff only now.
On the nearest bed, LUIS lay propped up slightly, tubes and lines running from his arms. The crystalline column that had been his legs was hidden behind a curtain of reinforced plastic, a blur of fractured light when viewed through the clear panels.
PATCH$1 sat on a stool at his bedside, one hand resting lightly on the rail, the other scrolling through a tablet. Her armor was gone, replaced by scrub pants and a Foundation T-shirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows.
"Pain?" she asked.
"Less," Luis said, voice thick. "More… nothing."
"That's the block," PATCH$1 said gently. "It's doing its job. You'll feel more later, when it's safer. Right now your nerves get to take a break."
He laughed weakly. "Wish my head got that."
She smiled. "We're working on that too."
DOCSTRING stood on the other side of the bed, mask still on, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. He watched the monitor for a moment, then glanced up at FULCRUM.
"You're clear to go," DOCSTRING said. "No reason for you to haunt the doorway unless you plan to commit to a residency."
"I wanted to see if he made it through initial stabilization," FULCRUM said.
"He did," DOCSTRING said. "The rest is surgery and rehab and a long schedule of counseling sessions with people who get paid to poke at the bits I'm not allowed to touch."
Luis turned his head slightly.
"Hey," he said. "You're the one with the shotgun."
"Guilty," FULCRUM replied.
Luis squinted at him, eyes unfocused but curious.
"You said you wouldn't promise more than you could deliver," he said. "Did you… do what you said?"
"I said we'd do what we could to keep you from breaking," FULCRUM said. "You're here. You're breathing. Maybe not whole, but not shattered."
Luis was silent for a long moment.
"Okay," he said finally. "Okay."
PATCH$1 watched the exchange, something soft in her expression. When FULCRUM stepped back, she caught his eye over the rail.
"You need me to clear you again?" she asked lightly.
"I'm off your table for the night," FULCRUM said. "You've got enough on it as it is."
Her gaze flicked briefly to the half-hidden crystal behind the plastic, then back.
"I've had worse shifts," she said. "At least these patients start with a heartbeat."
He didn't argue with that.
From the far side of the ward, footsteps approached—distinct click of boots that everyone here knew by now.
FUSE stopped at the yellow line beside FULCRUM, tablet tucked under one arm. He looked tired in the way that didn't show up in vitals: shoulders a little too tight, jaw working.
"IMINT gets bored once things stop moving," he said. "Figured I'd come see if MedIntel still had things worth staring at."
"Always," PATCH$1 said without looking up from her tablet.
FUSE's eyes softened when they landed on her. It was a small change—less weight in the brow, less tension at the corners of his mouth—but it was there.
"How is he?" FUSE asked.
"Not dead," PATCH$1 said. "Which is better than the odds said. We'll take it."
"Good," FUSE said quietly.
He lingered at the line for a second, then reached out to tap two fingers against the air just above her shoulder—a ghost of a touch, stopped by the barrier.
She glanced up at him, eyes crinkling.
"Go sit down somewhere," she said. "You sound like you're about to fall over sideways."
"I'll fall over symmetrically, thank you," FUSE replied. "I have standards."
FULCRUM watched the exchange, aware of the warmth threaded through their barbs. The way PATCH$1's attention settled more fully when she was talking to FUSE. The way FUSE's shoulders loosened by degrees as long as he could see her moving.
It was obvious. It was meant to be.
He stepped back another half-pace, giving them that space without making a show of it.
"Get some sleep when you can," PATCH$1 called after him.
"I will," FULCRUM said.
He had no idea if it was true.
He didn't go back to his quarters immediately.
Instead, he ended up on one of the lesser-used external catwalks—a metal spine along the side of the admin block that overlooked the vehicle lot. The air out here was cold, the kind that bit through fatigues and found its way into bone.
He leaned on the railing, helmet hanging from one hand by the chinstrap, and watched the buzz of activity below. Trucks arriving, trucks leaving, containment crews moving like slow, deliberate insects under floodlights.
The door behind him hissed open.
"I thought I'd find you here," VANTAGE said.
FULCRUM didn't turn. "What gave it away?"
"You like high ground and edges," VANTAGE said, coming to stand beside him. "You're predictable."
They stood in companionable silence for a while.
"Doc says we did good," VANTAGE said eventually.
"Doc likes that no one turned into a statue on his watch," FULCRUM replied.
"Well, yeah," VANTAGE said. "I like that too."
He nudged FULCRUM's shoulder lightly.
"I also like that you didn't eat the floor for that stairwell stunt earlier," he added. "Getting a little tired of reading 'Breach Lead: KIA' in other people's files."
FULCRUM breathed out, a quiet huff that might have been a laugh.
"I'm tired of reading 'Breach Lead: KIA' in any file," he said.
"Then keep not dying," VANTAGE said. "You make it look annoying, but I'm getting used to it."
There was a weight behind the joke. The kind that said: we need you; I need you, in the blunt, unromantic, deeply personal way that lived between people who had already shared too many doors.
FULCRUM felt it. Put it in the same mental box as all the other quiet loyalties orbiting him.
"Working on it," he said.
In a part of the Site TEAM 1 didn't see, on a level sealed behind layered access, a different light glowed.
PRIORESS sat in her office, the main room dim. The only illumination came from the multiple monitors on her desk and the small lamp in the corner, aimed at nothing in particular.
On the central screen, FULCRUM's helmet feed replayed silently—the careful placement of the bridge, the extraction of Luis, the way he kept his voice steady even when the situation called for anything but.
On the couch against the wall, a man sat in a posture that said he wasn't used to sitting still. Arms folded loosely, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. Plain dark clothing, no insignia visible.
His face was in shadow, but his eyes were fixed on the screen.
"Second pass?" he asked.
"Third," PRIORESS said.
"You always this obsessive?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, without inflection.
He huffed a quiet breath that might have been amusement.
She reached for her mug, found it empty, and set it back down.
"It's not just the anomaly handling," she said, more to the room than to him. "It's the way he modulates around them. Honest with the civvies. Blunt with my directives. Treats OWL like command, not like an obstacle. That's… rare."
"Mm," the man said.
"Any thoughts?" she asked.
He shrugged slightly.
"He's not you," he said. "But he's closer than most. You could work with that."
She turned her head just enough to give him a sidelong look.
"This isn't about 'working with' anyone," she said. "It's about identifying patterns and mitigating risk."
"Sure," he said. "And the fact that you're watching his feed with the sound off just for the cadence of his movement is… purely academic."
Her jaw tensed for half a second.
"You're not cleared to analyze me," she said.
"Too late," he replied lightly.
For a moment, the mask of PRIORESS—ALPHA-1 Captain, detached observer—cracked at the edges. Not much. Just enough for something softer to show through before she locked it down again.
She leaned back in her chair, rubbing two fingers along the bridge of her nose.
"He is going to be moved," she said. "E-11 will take him. They need someone like that, and we can't keep him in Nu-7 forever without drawing questions."
"And you're going to let them?" the man asked.
"I am going to sign the forms," PRIORESS said. "Letting is not part of the equation."
He watched her for a beat.
"You want me to keep an eye on him when they do?" he asked quietly.
She didn't answer immediately.
When she did, her voice was matter-of-fact.
"Yes," she said. "You'll be in a better position to see if he bends or breaks."
"And if I don't like what I see?" he asked.
"Then you tell me," she said.
Their eyes met, the air between them dense with things they weren't saying in front of the cameras.
"Off-record?" he asked.
"Off-everything," she said.
He nodded.
"Okay," he said. "Then I'll watch."
She reached over, flicked the feed back to the beginning. FULCRUM stepped into the warehouse again, the crystal glittering like a slow explosion around him.
The man shifted on the couch, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, watching with the intent focus of someone who knew exactly what that edge felt like under his own boots.
For a few minutes, they didn't speak.
From the outside, it might have looked like two professionals reviewing an operation.
From the inside, it was something narrower, more personal: a woman who had already chosen the person sitting in her office, and that person agreeing—silently—to extend his circle of vigilance to include a man neither of them had quite decided what to do with yet.
On the screen, FULCRUM reached out a gloved hand toward a man trapped in crystal and made him a promise with carefully limited edges.
In the room, PRIORESS and the man beside her sat close enough that their shoulders almost touched, but not quite, the distance measured in millimeters and habits.
The glow of the monitors painted both their faces in the same cold light.