Soren woke slowly.
Not with the sharp return of clarity he'd been hoping for, nor with the crushing weight that had kept him pinned to the bunk the previous cycles, but somewhere between the two—consciousness seeping back in layers, each one carrying its own minor discomfort.
The ceiling above him came into focus first. The light panels were dimmed to their early-cycle setting, a soft, even glow meant to encourage rest rather than signal activity. The Aurelius hummed beneath it all, a steady vibration that traveled through the frame of the bunk and into his bones.
That sound, at least, was familiar.
He lay still for a long moment, cataloguing sensations the way he always did when something felt off. The ache behind his eyes was still there, dull and persistent, like pressure rather than pain. His throat felt thick, raw in a way that suggested he'd been breathing through his mouth for too long. His chest rose without effort, but each breath felt warmer than it should have.
When he shifted slightly, a wave of cold swept up along his calves, sharp enough to draw a quiet breath from him. He frowned faintly, flexing his feet beneath the blanket until the sensation dulled.
Temperature lag again.
He sat up carefully, waiting for the room to tilt.
It didn't.
That alone felt like a small victory, though he was careful not to read too much into it. Recovery, he reminded himself, wasn't a clean ascent. It moved in uneven increments, advances followed by plateaus that felt suspiciously like regression.
He swung his legs over the side of the bunk and rested his hands on his knees, shoulders slightly hunched as he waited for his body to catch up to the movement. His muscles felt heavy, as though they'd been left idle too long. Not weak—just slow to answer.
When he stood, the chill returned immediately, crawling up his legs and settling uncomfortably at his lower back. He glanced toward the environmental panel on the wall. The readings were normal. Within tolerance.
He layered his clothes more carefully than usual, choosing fabrics he could shed or add as needed. The balance felt delicate now, his body slower to regulate itself than it had been before the rain, before the fever. He noted the sensation, filed it away mentally, and moved on.
_________________________
The door chimed.
"Come in," he said, his voice rough but steady.
Nell stepped inside, carrying a small tray. Her gaze went straight to his posture.
"You're upright," she said.
"Yes."
"That's new."
He gave a faint, noncommittal shrug.
She set the tray on the desk and crossed her arms. "Rysen says you can move around today."
Soren looked up. "Move around?"
"Restricted," she added immediately. "Short intervals. No stairs unless accompanied. No work."
"I can walk."
"I know," she said. "That's not the same thing."
He didn't argue. He ate slowly, grateful that the food stayed down this time. His appetite was still muted, but the nausea had retreated enough to make eating tolerable rather than punishing.
"People are covering," Nell said, as if anticipating the question before he could ask it. "You don't need to worry."
"I wasn't," Soren replied automatically.
She studied him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. "Good."
When she left, the room felt quieter.
Soren finished dressing and stepped into the corridor.
The ship greeted him with its usual low hum and steady lighting. Crew moved past him at an even pace, nodding briefly as they passed. No one stopped. No one altered their route to accommodate him.
That struck him—not as alarming, just as noticeable. He had been absent from the corridors for several cycles, and yet his reappearance did not disrupt their rhythm.
He moved slowly, mindful of both Nell's instructions and his own limits. The cold sensation lingered along the outer edges of his skin longer than it should have, only easing once he'd been walking for several minutes. When he paused near a junction to let a cluster of crew pass, warmth pooled uncomfortably in his chest and neck, prompting him to loosen his collar.
He adjusted, waited for the sensation to even out, then continued.
At the overlook above the lower deck, he stopped and rested his hands lightly against the railing.
Below, Everett stood speaking with two crew members. In his hands was the ledger.
Soren watched without thinking much of it.
Everett flipped a page, scanned it, and spoke—short, precise instructions delivered in a calm, unhurried tone. The crew members nodded, asked a brief clarifying question, then moved on. Everett made a small notation and closed the book.
Efficient.
Soren waited for the familiar impulse to annotate the exchange mentally, to flag it for later reference.
It didn't come.
Not because he couldn't—but because the context no longer belonged to him.
Everett looked up and noticed him. "Morning," he said easily. "You're cleared to move, then."
"Yes."
"Good." Everett tucked the ledger under his arm. "We adjusted a few minor rotations."
Soren nodded. "Everything stable?"
"Of course," Everett replied, a faint smile touching his mouth. "That's the point."
He didn't linger. Neither did Soren.
As he moved on, Soren became aware—without discomfort—that no one redirected their attention toward him. No one deferred. No one waited for him to weigh in.
It made sense. He was on restricted duty. Temporary absence always required redistribution. This was how systems functioned.
On the mid-deck, Cassian passed him, slowing just long enough to speak. "You look less awful."
"Encouraging," Soren replied.
"Don't get ambitious," Cassian added, already moving on.
Soren didn't.
He took a side corridor instead, one that curved gently away from the main traffic flow. The air felt cooler here, the chill settling more sharply along his arms. He adjusted his pace, aware that even small changes in environment seemed to affect him more than they used to.
The sensation wasn't painful. Just persistent.
By the time he reached the next junction, the walk had taken more out of him than he'd expected. Not exhaustion—something closer to depletion. He paused, resting one hand against the wall while the other pressed lightly to his sternum, breathing slowly until the faint tremor in his muscles eased.
The ship continued around him.
Uninterrupted.
He straightened and resumed walking, angling toward the upper deck access corridor. He wasn't headed anywhere in particular. Just moving. Testing the limits he'd been given.
As he walked, he became aware of how easily the ship absorbed his absence. Tasks flowed through channels that felt familiar, if slightly rearranged. Requests were answered promptly. Responsibilities were referenced by function rather than name.
He registered it without concern.
Coverage, he thought. That was all.
When he reached the bend where the corridor narrowed briefly before opening out again, he slowed, adjusting his pace to the subtle shift in footing. The warmth returned, spreading uncomfortably beneath his skin. He tugged his sleeve up, then down again, trying to find equilibrium.
It would pass, he told himself.
He took another step forward.
The floor plates changed texture beneath his boots as the corridor opened into the next stretch, and Soren moved into it without breaking stride—
_________________________
Soren's foot came down on the new stretch of corridor without hesitation.
The floor plates here were slightly warmer beneath his boots, the faint vibration of the Aurelius more pronounced through the soles. The corridor widened just enough to let light spill in from a high-set panel to his left, illuminating the curve of the wall ahead.
He adjusted his stride automatically, compensating for the change in footing, and continued forward.
The warmth lingered longer than he expected.
Not unpleasant—just persistent. It settled beneath his skin, spreading slowly across his shoulders and upper chest, as though his body had overshot its attempt at regulation and hadn't yet corrected. He tugged at the collar of his shirt again, then let his hand fall back to his side.
It would even out. It always did. Eventually.
The corridor ahead was quieter than the main thoroughfares he'd passed earlier. Not empty—never that—but less trafficked, the kind of space designed to connect rather than host. Sound carried differently here, footsteps softer, voices traveling a little farther before being absorbed by the ship's constant hum.
He was halfway down the stretch when he heard voices approaching from the opposite direction.
Measured. Unhurried.
He didn't need to look up immediately to know one of them was Atticus.
The cadence gave him away—precise, economical, each word placed with intention. The other voice was lower, steadier, familiar in a different way.
Rysen.
Soren slowed instinctively, not to avoid them, but to give himself time to adjust. The warmth in his chest flared again as he paused, then began to ebb as he resumed walking at a more deliberate pace.
Atticus and Rysen rounded the corner ahead, already deep in conversation.
"…still elevated, but not spiking," Rysen was saying. "It's odd. He's not deteriorating, but he's not improving either."
Atticus nodded once. "Plateau."
"Yes," Rysen agreed. "Exactly."
They noticed Soren at the same time.
Atticus's gaze flicked to him immediately, assessing without being obvious. Rysen's expression shifted more openly, brows drawing together slightly as he took in Soren's posture.
"You're out," Rysen said.
"Restricted," Soren replied.
"That's what 'out' looks like," Rysen said mildly.
Atticus stopped a few paces away, hands clasped behind his back. "You shouldn't be pushing your range."
"I'm not," Soren said. "I'm within limits."
"That may be," Atticus replied, "but limits are not targets."
Soren inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I'm aware."
Rysen studied him for a moment longer. "How do you feel?"
Soren considered the question carefully. Not because the answer was complicated, but because it was imprecise.
"Functional," he said at last.
Rysen grimaced faintly. "I was afraid you'd say that."
Atticus glanced at Rysen. "Define."
Rysen exhaled. "Vitals are stable. Fever hasn't broken, but it hasn't worsened. He's lucid. Oriented. But his system's not resolving the way it should."
Atticus returned his attention to Soren. "And you?"
Soren shifted his weight slightly, the warmth along his spine flaring again before settling. "I don't feel worse."
"That's not the same as feeling better," Atticus said.
"No," Soren agreed.
There was a brief pause, the kind that didn't demand filling.
Crew passed at the far end of the corridor, their voices low, their movement unremarkable. The Aurelius hummed steadily around them, indifferent to the small cluster of people standing in its passageway.
Atticus broke the silence. "You've done enough for today."
Soren opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. He could argue. He could point out that he hadn't actually done anything. That he'd only walked, observed, reacquainted himself with the ship's rhythms.
None of that would change Atticus's mind.
"I wasn't planning on—" he began instead, then stopped. "I understand."
Atticus's expression didn't change, but something in his posture eased slightly. "Good."
Rysen nodded in approval. "You need rest that isn't interrupted by motion."
Soren glanced down the corridor behind them, then back the way he'd come. He could feel the walk in his legs now—not pain, but a heaviness that suggested he'd reached the outer edge of what he could manage without consequence.
"Quarters," Rysen added, as if reading his thoughts. "Lie down. Don't try to sleep if you can't. Just stop moving."
Soren gave a faint smile. "That sounds achievable."
Atticus turned, already angling back toward the junction they'd come from. "I'll expect a report later," he said to Rysen.
"Yes, sir."
Atticus paused, then looked back at Soren. "If anything changes, you inform Rysen immediately."
"Yes, Captain."
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Atticus nodded once and continued on, his footsteps receding into the corridor's quiet.
Rysen lingered.
"I'll walk you back," he said.
"I can manage," Soren replied.
"I know," Rysen said. "I'm still walking."
They fell into step together, Rysen matching Soren's slower pace without comment. The warmth along Soren's shoulders faded as they moved, replaced by a faint chill that crept in through the fabric of his clothes.
He resisted the urge to comment on it.
"How long?" Soren asked after a moment.
Rysen tilted his head. "Before what?"
"This," Soren said, gesturing vaguely to himself.
Rysen considered. "Hard to say."
"That's not encouraging."
"It's honest," Rysen replied. "You're not following a standard trajectory. Which doesn't mean you're in danger. It just means your body's doing something… particular."
Soren absorbed that. "Does it concern you?"
Rysen shrugged. "I'd prefer clearer data."
Soren almost smiled.
They reached the junction near Soren's quarters, the corridor narrowing again before opening out into the familiar stretch that led to his door. The air felt cooler here, the chill more pronounced, and he found himself drawing his arms closer to his sides without consciously deciding to.
Rysen noticed. "Still sensitive?"
"Yes."
"It should pass."
Soren nodded. "Eventually."
Rysen stopped just short of the door. "I'll check on you later."
"I'll be here."
"I know," Rysen said.
He hesitated, then added, "Try not to think about work."
Soren's expression flickered. "I wasn't."
Rysen gave him a look.
"…Much," Soren amended.
Rysen snorted softly and turned away.
Soren keyed his door open and stepped inside.
The room sealed behind him with a quiet hiss, cutting off the corridor's ambient noise. Inside, the air felt still, warm in a way that immediately registered as too much. He removed his outer layer and set it aside, then leaned briefly against the wall, letting the residual motion drain from his limbs.
He crossed to the bunk and sat, hands resting loosely in his lap.
The ship's hum was softer here, filtered through layers of structure and insulation. It wrapped around him, steady and familiar.
He lay back slowly, staring up at the ceiling.
The warmth lingered. The ache behind his eyes remained. His body did not feel worse—but it did not feel better either.
A plateau, Rysen had called it.
He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to rest—to give his body permission to exist without input, without observation, without the constant, low-level work of calibration.
Outside, the Aurelius continued on its course.
Systems redistributed. Coverage maintained. Nothing requiring his immediate attention.
Soren remained still, suspended in the quiet space between exertion and recovery, aware only of his breathing and the steady, untroubled rhythm of the ship carrying him forward.
_________________________