Soren woke without the sense of interruption that had marked his mornings earlier in the week.
There was no sharp return to awareness, no moment of disorientation. Instead, consciousness arrived gradually, like a tide that had already decided where it would stop. He lay still for a while, eyes open, letting his body announce itself in the quiet.
Warmth, first—familiar, low, centered beneath his sternum. Not rising. Not receding. Just there.
He waited until the sensation stabilized before sitting up.
The movement took effort, but not strain. He paused at the edge of the bunk, feet flat against the floor, hands resting loosely on his thighs. The room was slightly warmer than he preferred, so he reached out and adjusted the environmental panel down by a fraction, then waited again until his body registered the change.
This had become routine.
Not in the sense of resignation, but in the sense of competence. He knew what his body needed now, or at least what it tolerated. The knowledge felt earned rather than imposed, a set of small calibrations learned through repetition.
When he stood, the heaviness came and went as expected. He steadied himself, then moved to dress, choosing layers he could adjust easily. Nothing tight. Nothing heavy. He left the outer jacket behind, opting instead for a lighter overlayer he could remove without stopping if the warmth built too quickly.
By the time he keyed his door open, he felt balanced enough to move.
The corridor outside was quiet, the early ship hum settling into its mid-morning cadence. Crew passed him at intervals, some nodding in greeting, others absorbed in their own movement. No one stopped him. No one redirected him.
That, too, felt normal.
He chose the interior route toward the mess, not because he needed the cooler airflow immediately, but because it was the most direct. His pace was unhurried, measured to match the way his body responded to motion now. When the warmth threatened to rise, he shortened his stride. When it receded, he lengthened it again.
The adjustments were automatic.
As he walked, he became aware of how little effort it took to remain aware. There was no sense of vigilance, no scanning for symptoms. His attention moved outward easily, registering the ship around him without friction.
The Aurelius felt steady beneath his feet.
He reached the mess without pause.
Inside, the space was already active, though not crowded. Conversations layered gently over one another, punctuated by the clink of cutlery and the soft hiss of the dispensers along the far wall. The smell of food was warm but not overpowering.
Soren entered and oriented himself without thinking, eyes already finding the bench near the outer wall. He sat carefully, letting the cooler airflow from the vent above settle the warmth before it could build too far.
A tray appeared in front of him moments later.
"Morning," the crew member said, setting it down. "Same."
"Thank you," Soren replied.
The food was exactly what he expected—light, filling enough to sustain him without demanding more from his body than it could comfortably give. He ate slowly, attentive but not cautious, allowing himself time to register when he was finished rather than pushing to clear the tray.
Around him, the mess moved with practiced ease.
"…you're sure that was already logged?"
"Yes. Everett closed it out yesterday."
"Alright. Then we're good."
Soren listened without turning, the exchange registering only as confirmation that things were proceeding. He did not feel the need to insert himself. There was no gap waiting for his input.
That absence felt appropriate.
He finished eating and set the tray aside. He remained seated for a moment longer, hands resting loosely in his lap, letting the warmth ebb before standing. No one hurried him. No one needed the space immediately.
When he rose, it was with the same careful economy of movement he'd adopted as habit. He took the longer route out of the mess, choosing the corridor that curved away from the central hub.
The corridor was clear.
He walked without interruption, the hum of the Aurelius steady beneath his feet. The warmth remained present but contained, settling into a level that no longer required conscious management.
As he moved, he noticed something else—not a change, exactly, but a continuation.
People acted with confidence.
A crew member consulted a display, nodded, and moved on without waiting for confirmation. Another adjusted a piece of equipment and marked the task complete without seeking a second opinion. Information flowed, decisions made and carried out without hesitation.
Nothing felt rushed.
Nothing felt stalled.
He reached a junction near one of the mid-deck workspaces and slowed as a familiar voice drifted toward him.
"…no, that interpretation doesn't quite fit," Cassian was saying, his tone thoughtful rather than argumentative. "The margin's broader than that."
Soren paused at the edge of the space, not because he intended to join the conversation, but because the path ahead narrowed briefly around the group.
Cassian stood near a display, one hand braced against the wall as he gestured toward a set of figures. Another crew member stood opposite him, slate in hand, listening intently.
"I thought so too," the crew member replied, "but Everett already reconciled the discrepancy."
Cassian blinked. "He did?"
"Yes. Late last night."
Cassian leaned closer to the display, scanning it quickly. "Then why is this still flagged?"
The crew member checked their slate. "It shouldn't be—ah. There. It just cleared."
Cassian straightened. "Alright. Then that's settled."
He turned and caught sight of Soren waiting nearby.
"Oh," Cassian said, surprise flickering briefly across his expression before smoothing into something easier. "Sorry. Didn't realize you were there."
"No trouble," Soren replied. "I was passing through."
Cassian glanced back at the display, then at Soren. "We're good here. Everett handled most of it."
"I see," Soren said.
Cassian nodded, seeming to consider something, then added, "You weren't needed."
The statement was not dismissive. It was factual.
Soren inclined his head. "Good."
Cassian smiled faintly at that, then stepped aside to clear the path. "Take care."
"You too," Soren replied.
He moved past them, the exchange dissolving behind him without leaving any sense of incompletion. The warmth began to build again as he left the cooler air of the workspace, and he adjusted his pace accordingly.
The corridor beyond was quieter, its lighting softer. He walked without interruption, his attention drifting outward again, registering the ship's steady movement.
He passed the alcove on the upper hallway and did not slow.
Not because he avoided it, but because there was no reason to stop. The bench was empty, the space quiet, and his momentum carried him onward.
He continued toward the observation window near the outer hull, drawn by habit rather than intent. He paused there briefly, resting his hand against the cool glass and letting the contrast ground him.
Outside, the sky stretched wide and pale, layers of cloud sliding past with unhurried indifference.
The warmth retreated.
He stood there for a moment longer, breathing evenly, then turned away and resumed his walk.
As he moved back toward the quieter corridors near his quarters, he became aware of how little effort the day had required so far. There had been no strain, no confusion, no need for correction. Tasks were completed. Conversations resolved themselves. The ship functioned as it always had.
If anything, it felt smoother.
Not sharper, but broader—more forgiving of pauses, more tolerant of overlap. That quality did not register as a problem. It felt like a natural extension of the ship's design, its systems accommodating the people who lived and worked within them.
Soren reached his quarters and paused, resting his hand briefly against the door as the familiar heaviness passed through his limbs. It faded quickly, leaving him steady enough to continue.
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Soren did not return to his quarters immediately.
Not because he was avoiding rest, but because the momentum of the day had not yet settled into something that required interruption. His body felt balanced enough to continue moving, the warmth beneath his skin present but contained, and he followed that assessment without overthinking it.
The corridor ahead curved gently downward toward one of the mid-level access routes, the air cooling as he moved away from the ship's interior systems. He adjusted his pace automatically, letting the cooler air do its work before the warmth could rise again.
The Aurelius remained steady beneath him.
He passed a small maintenance bay where the doors stood open, revealing neatly arranged equipment and a pair of crew engaged in quiet conversation. One of them looked up as Soren passed and lifted a hand in greeting.
"Morning," they said.
"Morning," Soren replied, returning the gesture.
The exchange required nothing more from either of them, and he continued on, the voices behind him fading back into the ambient hum of the ship.
Further along, the corridor widened into a shared workspace that served several adjacent departments. The space was active but orderly, people moving with purpose between stations, conversations forming and dissolving without friction.
Soren slowed slightly as he entered, not because he needed to stop, but because the path ahead narrowed briefly around a cluster of worktables.
"—Marcell?"
The voice reached him before the person did, and Soren turned his head just enough to orient toward it.
Marcell stood near one of the tables, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands resting lightly on the surface as he listened to someone off to his right. He looked up as Soren approached, recognition flickering across his face.
"Soren," Marcell said, his expression easing into a familiar, easy smile. "Didn't expect to see you up here."
"I was passing through," Soren replied.
Marcell nodded, glancing briefly at the table before stepping back to clear space. "Everything holding?"
"Yes," Soren said. "You?"
"Same," Marcell replied. "Nothing exciting, which I'll take."
Soren allowed himself a faint smile at that.
They stood together for a moment, neither of them in a hurry to move on. Around them, the workspace continued its quiet activity, people navigating around the brief pause without comment.
"You look steadier," Marcell said, not as an observation requiring response, but as a simple acknowledgment.
Soren inclined his head. "I am."
Marcell seemed satisfied with that answer. He did not press further, did not ask questions that might require elaboration. Instead, he gestured toward the corridor beyond the workspace.
"Heading anywhere specific?"
"No," Soren said. "Just… moving."
Marcell nodded. "Fair enough."
There was a comfortable pause, the kind that did not need to be filled.
"I'll be here a while if you need anything," Marcell added. "But it sounds like you don't."
"I don't," Soren agreed.
Marcell smiled again, then turned back toward the table as someone addressed him from the other side. Soren stepped around them and continued on, the interaction settling easily into the background of his day.
It had been uncomplicated.
He moved into the adjacent corridor, the air cooler here, the lighting dimmer. The warmth beneath his skin receded slightly, and he loosened his collar without breaking stride.
As he walked, he noticed how little effort it took to maintain his awareness. The ship no longer demanded constant recalibration from him; instead, it seemed to meet him where he was, its rhythms accommodating his pace without resistance.
He passed a wall display cycling through routine updates. He glanced at it briefly, registering nothing that required his attention, then moved on.
Someone else would handle it.
That understanding felt neither dismissive nor relieving. It was simply accurate.
The corridor sloped gently upward, and Soren adjusted his pace to match. The familiar heaviness settled into his limbs, lingered for a few steps, then eased as he reached the top of the incline.
He paused there briefly, resting one hand against the wall, not because he needed to stop, but because the pause fit naturally into the rhythm of his movement.
The ship continued on around him.
He resumed walking, choosing a route that brought him near the outer hull again. The air cooled noticeably, and he felt the warmth retreat further, leaving him clearer-headed than he'd been earlier.
He reached another observation window and slowed, drawn by the open stretch of sky beyond it. The clouds outside had shifted subtly, their layers thinning just enough to allow more light through.
He rested his hand against the glass and stood there for a moment, breathing evenly.
There was no sense of urgency pressing in on him. No task waiting to be completed. No responsibility that required immediate attention.
The day felt… intact.
He turned away from the window and continued on, the corridor ahead leading back toward the quieter sections of the ship. As he walked, he became aware of how smoothly the hours had passed.
There had been no strain.
No confusion.
No need for correction.
People had done their work. Conversations had resolved themselves. Tasks had been completed without requiring his involvement.
The system held.
He reached the junction near his quarters and slowed, considering whether to stop. The warmth beneath his skin remained steady, and his body did not signal the need for rest yet.
He chose to continue.
The corridor beyond was empty, its lighting subdued. He walked its length at an unhurried pace, his footsteps soft against the floor.
At the far end, he paused again, resting his hand against the wall as the familiar heaviness passed through him. It lingered briefly, then faded.
He exhaled slowly and adjusted his layers.
Nothing felt wrong.
Nothing felt strained.
If anything, the day had unfolded with an ease he had not expected, given the assessment that had taken place earlier. The knowledge that his condition had been formally noted did not weigh on him now. It existed as information, not burden.
The Aurelius continued on its course, steady and composed, its systems accommodating the people within it without comment.
Soren turned back toward his quarters at last, his pace measured, his awareness outward rather than inward. He reached his door and paused, hand resting briefly against the cool metal before keying it open.
Inside, the room greeted him with familiar warmth. He adjusted the environmental panel down by a fraction, then stepped inside and sealed the door behind him.
He did not sit immediately.
Instead, he stood for a moment, letting the day settle around him, the steady hum of the ship filtering through the walls.
The day had held.
And for now, that was enough.
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