The next morning arrived with a sky that looked almost innocent.
Soft cloud strata spread in pale layers, the light diffused into a gentle, colourless glow. No sharp lines, no obvious threats—just a vast, still expanse the Aurelius moved through like a thought drifting across a blank page.
Soren stood on the upper deck, ledger tucked against his side, the chill air combing through his hair. The wind here was mild, its edges rounded. It should have felt ordinary.
It didn't.
There was a subtle depth to it now, a slight density in the way the air brushed against his skin—as if there were more layers stacked invisibly between him and the horizon. Not hostile. Not even tense.
Just… aware.
Footsteps came up the stairs behind him.
He didn't turn.
He already knew the rhythm.
"Morning, Ensign," Atticus said.
"Morning, Captain."
Atticus came to stand beside him at the rail, not quite touching, not quite distant. Soren was suddenly too aware of every inch of space between them—of how his own body seemed to adjust around it, like the ship made room for the captain without needing to be told.
They stood in silence for a while.
Below, crew moved through familiar patterns. Elion adjusted a set of waypoints. Marcell checked the rigging, shouting occasional corrections. Nell and Bram carried a crate together, arguing cheerfully about whether it was actually heavier than the last one.
It all looked normal.
It all felt slightly tilted.
Atticus was the one to break the quiet.
"Any echoes?" he asked.
Soren listened. To the wind. To the ship. To the place inside his ribs where the hum had begun to live.
"…No," he said. "Nothing I can isolate."
Atticus nodded.
"Good. Keep monitoring. Tell me the moment that changes."
Soren glanced at him. "Even if it feels small?"
"Especially then."
Something in his tone made Soren's chest tighten. There was a steadiness there that wasn't just command—it was commitment.
He looked down at his ledger.
Atticus noticed. "Updating?"
"I should," Soren said. "I'm behind on non-event days."
Atticus's mouth twitched faintly. "Yesterday was not a non-event day."
"True," Soren admitted.
He opened the ledger, the worn paper settling beneath his fingers. Ink met the page with a quiet scratch.
|| Date: Aurelius cycle 18.
|| Course: adjusted marginally to accommodate gradient curvature; no deviation from primary trajectory.
|| Crew: stable. Visible tension reduced but present.
His pen hesitated.
Atticus didn't speak, but Soren could feel him watching.
|| Personal note: Proximity assignment implemented. Initial effect—
He stopped.
Struck a line cleanly through the last words.
|| Strike. Reassess later.
He closed the ledger with more force than necessary.
Atticus's voice came low.
"You don't have to cross it out every time you start to write something personal."
Soren blinked. "I thought the ledger was meant to remain objective."
"It is," Atticus said. "But you're part of the record, too."
Soren wasn't sure what to do with that.
He settled for a neutral, "I'll calibrate," and rested his hands back on the rail.
A pause.
"Cassian will want you in the observatory after second bell," Atticus said. "He's recalibrating the axis recorder based on yesterday's readings."
Soren grimaced before he could stop himself.
Atticus caught it.
"If he becomes overzealous," he said dryly, "you are allowed to remind him I outrank him."
"That seems… dangerous," Soren murmured.
"For him, perhaps."
Soren startled into a soft laugh he didn't mean to let out. The sound seemed to surprise them both. The ship's hum brightened a fraction, as if pleased.
Atticus's gaze lingered on him a heartbeat longer than necessary before he turned.
"Walk with me," he said.
___________________________
The observatory sat near the top of the Aurelius' superstructure, a circular room ringed with reinforced glass panels and instrument arrays. It always felt to Soren like standing in the space between the ship and the sky—a liminal layer where neither fully owned him.
Cassian was already there when they arrived, sleeves rolled, hair slightly disordered in that way that meant he'd either slept badly or not at all.
Rysen stood beside one of the consoles, arms folded, watching Cassian with the patience of someone ensuring a volatile experiment didn't decide to explode.
"You're late," Cassian said without looking up.
"We're on time," Atticus replied. "You're early."
Cassian considered this and let it pass. "Good. We can start."
Soren hovered near the entrance, unsure where exactly he fit.
Rysen caught his eye and gave a small nod toward a nearby seat. "You're not under a microscope," he said. "Just… present."
"That's not reassuring," Soren muttered, but he moved further inside.
The observatory's wide windows revealed endless cloud-fields, pale and distant. The Aurelius cut through them like a single, deliberate stroke of ink across a blank canvas.
Cassian adjusted a set of lenses, then stepped back.
"Yesterday," he began, "the convergence axis tracked directly with Soren's movement patterns while he was alone."
"We've established that," Atticus said. "What's changed?"
Cassian glanced toward him, then toward Soren—then, carefully, at the slight closeness between them.
"Today," he said, "I want to see what happens when he isn't."
Soren shifted in place.
"You said no experiments," he reminded Atticus under his breath.
"This isn't an experiment," Cassian said. "It's observation."
"That's what researchers always say before things explode," Rysen murmured.
Cassian ignored him.
"We'll run three intervals," he continued. "Baseline drift. Proximity shift. And…" His gaze flicked to Soren again. "…emotional perturbation."
Soren choked. "I'm sorry—what?"
Rysen pinched the bridge of his nose. "Cassian, for once in your life, phrase it like a human."
Cassian sighed. "Fine. We see how the sky reacts when you feel different things, Ensign."
Soren stared. "…You want me to mood-swing on purpose?"
"In a controlled environment."
"That doesn't make it better."
Atticus cut in.
"Define the boundaries," he said to Cassian. His tone carried a warning.
Cassian lifted his hands in surrender.
"Nothing extreme," he said. "No trauma recall. No panic. Just mild shifts. Curiosity, focus, calm, mild agitation. Rysen will monitor physiological responses. I'll track the sky. The captain will glower at us if we overstep. Everyone plays their part."
Atticus did not deny this.
Soren exhaled slowly, weighing it.
"If the sky responds," he said carefully, "what then?"
"Then we know proximity is a stabilizing factor," Cassian said. "And we know how much it takes to disrupt that stability."
"And if it doesn't respond?"
Cassian's eyes warmed, faintly.
"Then we consider the possibility that the ship is already doing more work than we thought."
The Aurelius hummed under their feet.
Whether in agreement or in warning, Soren couldn't tell.
Atticus looked at him. The question in his eyes was quiet but clear.
Do you want to do this?
Soren held the gaze.
He was tired of being the only one not looking directly at what was happening to him.
"…I'll try," he said.
Atticus nodded once. Not pleased, not displeased—just accepting. But a hint of pride moved through his expression, quick and restrained.
Cassian gestured.
"Good. Baseline first. Stand by the central pane, there."
Soren crossed to the indicated spot—near a tall, curved panel of glass that faced the vast stretch of sky to starboard. Atticus moved with him, coming to stand just within his peripheral vision.
Rysen checked a set of monitors, fingers resting near a series of sliding controls but not touching them.
"Heart rate normal," he said. "Respiration steady. Don't force anything."
Soren snorted. "Very reassuring, Doctor."
"Just breathe," Rysen repeated.
He did.
Clouds drifted slowly past, distant and soft. The sky's colour held that washed, in-between shade—neither bright nor dim.
Soren opened his senses, the way he'd done before without meaning to. This time, he did it on purpose.
The air grew more textured.
The hum of the ship rose.
He could feel the gentle, constant adjustments of the Aurelius's frame around them—minuscule shifts in tension, angle, balance.
He listened for something else.
An edge.
A pull.
A subtle lean in pressure.
Nothing came.
"Baseline clear," Cassian murmured, watching a cluster of lines scroll across his monitors. "No active convergence. Good."
Rysen gave a small approving grunt. "Body's relaxed enough. Next?"
Cassian looked at Atticus.
"Proximity shift," he said. "Captain?"
Atticus didn't move for a heartbeat.
Then he stepped closer to Soren.
Not much. Just enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, their shared reflection faint in the glass. Soren felt the warmth of him more than the heat of the ambient air—felt the steady, controlled rhythm of his breathing.
"Any discomfort?" Rysen asked.
Soren's answer came out embarrassingly honest.
"Just awareness," he said.
Atticus's mouth twitched slightly.
Cassian's gaze flicked between them and the readings. His eyebrows lifted.
"Interesting," he murmured.
Soren tried not to look.
"What does 'interesting' mean?" Atticus asked.
"The axis isn't narrowing," Cassian said. "It's… blurring. Not in a bad way. Like the convergence can't find a precise lock."
"So staying near the Captain confuses it?" Rysen said.
Cassian's lips thinned. "In crude terms, yes."
Soren swallowed.
He looked out at the sky again.
Somewhere beyond the visible cloud-line, he felt it—a faint, questioning pressure. Like fingertips trailing along glass, searching for a shape.
It brushed against him—
and then slid off.
Not away.
Around.
As though it couldn't tell where he began and the space beside him ended.
His pulse stuttered.
Atticus's voice came low. "Soren?"
"I'm alright," Soren said quickly. "It just… tried to look."
"Tried to—?"
"Not into me," Soren said. "Just… at. But it's not sure where to focus."
The ship's hum deepened—solid, grounding.
Cassian's hands flew over the controls. "Readings confirm. Alignment is weaker. The sky's attention is dispersed."
Rysen let out a slow breath. "That's something, at least."
Soren exhaled.
He'd expected to feel invaded. Disturbed.
Instead, standing there with Atticus at his side and the Aurelius humming beneath his boots, he felt… shielded.
The sky could push at the glass all it wanted.
It didn't know where to find him.
Not clearly.
Not anymore.
"Alright," Cassian said. "Last interval—"
Rysen cut in sharply. "Remember the limit."
Cassian rolled his eyes. "Mild agitation, I said. No one is traumatizing the ensign. Everyone relax."
He turned back to Soren.
"On a scale of calm to irritated," he said, "where would you say you are now?"
Soren considered. "…Anxious, but not panicking."
"Perfect," Cassian said. "Now we nudge it. Think of something that annoys you."
Soren blinked. "Annoys me?"
"Yes. A minor frustration. Nothing more. We don't need you to relive your worst memories. Just something that pricks."
Atticus began, "If this proves unnecessary—"
Soren held up a hand—more to himself than to anyone else.
"It's alright," he said. "I can handle minor frustration."
He thought.
Of the researchers who had spoken over him.
Of the way people had used the phrase "just the memoirist" like a limiting cage.
Of pages of careful work dismissed with a glance.
The memory didn't burn.
It itched.
He let it itch.
The hum in his chest shifted.
Something in the sky tightened in response, like a line being pulled a notch tauter.
Lines spiked on Cassian's display.
"There," he said. "Localized response. Not enough to re-establish convergence, but definitely a tug."
Rysen monitored the vitals. "Breath is elevated but manageable. No signs of overload."
Soren clenched his fingers on the rail, then released them.
He let the irritation go.
Thought of Atticus's earlier words instead—
You are not a malfunction.
You are a factor. One I am willing to work with.
Warmth moved through his chest, different from anger, different from fear.
The tension in the sky loosened—
not fully, but distinctly.
Cassian made a soft sound of surprise.
"Well," he said. "Now that is new."
_________________________
The room felt different.
Not visibly. Not structurally.
But something in the air had changed texture, like the Aurelius had inhaled and was holding the breath.
Cassian stared at his readouts.
Rysen stared at Cassian.
Soren stared at the glass, trying to figure out when exactly his own chest had stopped feeling like it belonged exclusively to him.
Atticus didn't stare.
He watched.
That was worse.
Cassian broke the silence first.
"That—" he said, tapping the slate where the lines had curved together, "—is not ordinary affective variance."
"Use smaller words," Nell's voice drifted faintly from the hatch where she'd lingered, halfway in, halfway out. Apparently she'd found a reason to "just check the upper deck instruments" and then never left.
Cassian obliged. Barely.
"He felt one thing. The sky leaned," he said. "He changed what he felt. The sky backed off."
He pointed at another section. "And that change happened the moment his field shifted toward—"
He paused.
Soren really didn't like that pause.
"Toward what?" Atticus asked.
Cassian looked between the two of them.
"…Stability."
"That's wonderfully vague," Rysen muttered.
"No," Cassian said. "It's precise. The moment his emotional state moved from irritation to grounded calm, the ship's resonance deepened and the external pressure lost clarity."
Soren shifted his grip on the rail.
"So I just… have to stay calm?" he tried.
"That's not sustainable," Rysen said immediately. "No one stays calm forever. And I'm not prescribing you an emotional lobotomy."
"Thank you," Soren said dryly.
Cassian shook his head.
"It's not just calm," he said. "It's relational calm."
Soren frowned. "What does that mean?"
Cassian checked his slate, then lifted his gaze, voice turning almost annoyingly academic.
"When you thought about isolation and being dismissed," he said, "your field spiked. The sky attempted to re-engage. When you shifted your focus to—"
his eyes flicked to Atticus for a pointed second,
"—support and cooperation, it retracted."
Soren froze.
Rysen looked up, suddenly very interested.
Nell's eyes flicked comically between Soren and Atticus like she was watching a card game where she didn't know the rules but could sense the stakes.
Atticus's expression barely changed.
Barely.
"That doesn't mean anything," Soren said quickly. "It could be coincidence."
"It could," Cassian agreed. "But it repeated twice during that last interval. That's data."
"Coincidence with repetition is still coincidence," Soren tried again.
Cassian smiled faintly. "That's not how probability works."
Soren opened his mouth, then closed it again. "…I hate this room."
The ship's hum gave a subtle, sympathetic thrum beneath his feet.
_________________________
Another small gust whispered against the glass.
It wasn't strong. It wasn't cold.
But Soren felt something riding inside it.
Not the flat, clinical curiosity from the earlier pulses.
Not the blunt tug of the convergence.
Something narrower.
Focused.
He stiffened.
Atticus caught it instantly. "Soren?"
"It's looking again," Soren said quietly. "But not at me."
Cassian checked his panels. "No convergence spike. Where, then?"
Soren frowned.
"It's… testing the hull," he murmured. "It keeps brushing the same panel. Like it's tracing where the ship ends."
The Aurelius answered with a low, warning vibration that ran through the frame.
Rysen glanced up. "I feel that."
The wind brushed again.
The hum deepened.
Soren focused, carefully, in that halfway-open way he was still learning to manage. Not too much. Not letting it in—just listening for the shape of it.
"It's trying to find the gap," he whispered. "The boundary between her and us."
"Can it see you?" Atticus asked.
Soren shook his head slowly.
"No," he said. "Not clearly. It's—confused."
Cassian's eyes narrowed at the readings.
"The alignment pattern is diffused," he confirmed. "It doesn't know where to anchor."
"Good," Atticus said.
The wind seemed to disagree.
It pressed once—sharp and concentrated—against the glass pane they stood before. The impact was small enough not to rattle it, but strong enough that Soren felt the hit in his teeth.
He flinched, fingers tightening on the rail.
The ship reacted instantly.
The hum surged—not outward, but inward. A deep, dense resonance that folded around Soren's chest and spine like a brace.
He caught his breath.
"I'm fine," he said automatically. "It just surprised—"
Rysen was already moving toward him. "You've gone pale again."
"That's normal," Soren managed. "You say that all the time."
"Yes," Rysen said, "but today it's medically relevant."
Atticus shifted closer by a fraction.
Only a fraction.
It was enough.
The pressure outside eased. The wind slid away from the glass, wandering to a less contested surface. The hum beneath Soren's feet remained firm, but no longer braced.
Cassian watched the monitors as all of that happened.
His voice, when it came, was unusually quiet.
"That," he said, "is what I would call attunement."
Soren didn't like the weight on that word.
"Between who and what?" Rysen asked.
Cassian didn't take his eyes off the displays.
"The ship and the memoirist," he said. "The sky… and the space around him. And the captain," he added after a beat, "sitting directly in the interference pattern."
They all turned slightly at that.
Soren recovered first.
"I don't understand," he said. "Is that supposed to make me feel safer, or more targeted?"
"Yes," Cassian said.
Nell groaned softly from the hatch. "He means both."
_________________________
The monitoring session wound down only after Cassian had captured another two intervals of readings and Rysen had decided Soren's pulse had stopped doing "that thing."
Soren stepped back from the glass, feeling taller and smaller at the same time.
He wanted to go somewhere quiet.
He wanted a wall at his back.
He wanted to stand where he could feel the entire hull under him and pretend the sky was just weather.
Atticus seemed to sense it.
"We're done for today," he said. "That's enough."
Cassian opened his mouth. "If we just extended the proximity set by another—"
"No," Atticus said.
It was not loud.
It didn't need to be.
Cassian considered him.
"You're limiting our data."
"I'm protecting my crew," Atticus replied.
They held each other's gaze like they were standing on opposite sides of a line drawn on the deck.
Rysen stepped in before it escalated.
"We have more than we did," he said. "That's still progress. Let the data breathe."
Cassian looked like he wanted to argue—and then didn't.
"Fine," he said. "We pause." He glanced at Soren, and for once, his gaze held something that wasn't purely forensic.
"You did well, Ensign."
Soren didn't quite know how to respond to that, so he settled for a slight nod.
"Try not to think too hard," Cassian added. "You'll overinterpret it."
"That is a rich statement coming from you," Soren said faintly.
Cassian almost smiled.
Almost.
_________________________
Later, when the observatory cleared out—Cassian to his instruments, Rysen to his notes, Nell back to whatever task she'd abandoned—Soren remained. Atticus did too.
Neither commented on it.
The sky outside shifted slowly, the clouds thinning. A pale, almost colourless light spilled across the floorboards.
Soren rested his palm lightly against the glass.
He expected to feel the faint coolness of it.
He didn't expect to feel anything else.
But something brushed back.
Not physically. Not against his hand.
Somewhere just behind his sternum.
He inhaled sharply.
The ship hummed, low and warning—
and whatever had reached toward him pulled away.
"It really doesn't like being ignored," Soren murmured.
Atticus, standing just behind his shoulder, spoke quietly.
"Who?"
Soren gave a small, humorless huff.
"Take your pick."
Atticus didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
They both knew which "who" lingered beyond the glass.
Soren lowered his hand.
"Captain," he said, "what happens when the sky realizes it can't get a clean reading from me anymore?"
Atticus was silent for a heartbeat.
Then: "It will try something else."
"And if that fails?"
"Then it tries again."
Soren frowned. "That doesn't sound very optimistic."
Atticus stepped closer—not enough to crowd, just enough that the world stopped feeling like a two-way conversation between Soren and a vast, unkind horizon.
"It also means," Atticus said quietly, "that as long as it is trying, it hasn't decided it understands you yet."
Soren considered that.
Somehow, that did make him feel a little safer.
Not much.
Just enough.
Enough for today.
_________________________