Soren was already outside the hull when the morning settled into place.
The Aurelius cut forward through the sustained wind with the same quiet persistence it had held for days now. The air pressed along the ship's exterior in layered currents—neither erratic nor forceful enough to demand attention, simply present. Soren stood near the rail, boots planted firmly against the deck, one hand resting loosely against the cold metal.
He did not lean. He did not sit.
Standing felt right this morning.
The sky was pale, washed in muted light that suggested the day's progression rather than announced it. The clouds were thinner here, stretched into long bands that drifted without urgency. Wind moved across his coat and along the exposed structure of the Aurelius, threading itself through seams and frames, carrying with it a low, constant sound—more pressure than noise.
Soren breathed evenly and took it in.
This was not assessment. Not exactly. It was closer to alignment—allowing the environment to register itself without organizing it into conclusions. The wind felt familiar now. Its persistence no longer required deliberate notation; its presence had folded itself into the baseline of the expedition.
After a while, he turned.
As he stepped back toward the access point leading inside, a figure moved into his path too quickly, momentum carrying them forward before either could fully adjust.
They collided lightly—enough to jolt, enough to send a small bundle of items slipping from grasp.
Cords spilled first, followed by a few handheld tools that clattered softly against the deck. A coil of wiring unfurled in a loose arc near Soren's feet.
"Oh—sorry," Kara said at the same time Soren spoke.
She looked tired.
Not unwell, not distressed—just worn in the way of someone who had been working through sustained conditions without pause. Her hair was tied back hastily, a few strands slipping loose, her shoulders carrying the weight of tasks not yet finished.
"It's fine," Soren said, already crouching.
He gathered the cords first, looping them back into manageable coils while Kara reached for the tools, collecting them with quick, practiced movements. Neither rushed. The moment carried no embarrassment, only the shared instinct to correct what had gone awry.
"Didn't see you there," Kara added, her voice steady but edged with mild fatigue.
Soren handed her the coiled wiring. "Wind's loud today."
She huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. "Everything's loud lately."
They finished gathering the fallen items and stood. Kara adjusted her grip, redistributing the weight more securely this time.
"You headed in?" she asked.
"Yes."
She nodded. "Good. I'll—" She gestured vaguely down the deck. "I've got a few more things to drop off."
"Take care," Soren said.
"You too."
They parted naturally, Kara moving off with renewed focus, Soren stepping through the access point and back into the interior of the Aurelius.
The corridor received him with a slight shift in temperature. Cooler than the exterior-facing space, but not by much. The lighting adjusted subtly as he passed, panels responding to his movement with muted precision.
His head pulsed once.
A dull pressure, familiar enough that it didn't register as concern. It lingered behind his eyes, not sharp, not debilitating—just present. Soren slowed his pace by a fraction, letting the sensation settle rather than resist it.
He continued down the corridor, noting the state of the passage without consciously cataloging it. The floor panels were secure, their surfaces unmarred. Wall fixtures hummed softly, their vibrations even. Crew moved past him in small clusters, their exchanges brief and purposeful.
The Aurelius felt steady.
________________________
By the time he reached the medical bay, the pressure behind his eyes had neither worsened nor faded. It simply remained.
Rysen looked up from his station as Soren entered.
"Morning," Rysen said, expression easy. "Or whatever passes for it today."
"Morning," Soren replied. He paused near the entrance, posture relaxed. "Do you have something for headaches?"
Rysen's brow lifted slightly—not in alarm, but in acknowledgment. "Dull or sharp?"
"Dull."
"How long?"
"On and off."
Rysen nodded and turned toward one of the storage units, retrieving a small container. "Anything else?"
Soren considered, then shook his head. "No."
Rysen handed him the medication, then leaned back against the counter, arms loosely crossed. "Hydration?"
"Yes."
"Sleep?"
Soren gave a brief nod. "Enough."
Rysen studied him for a moment—not intrusively, but with the quiet attentiveness that had become habitual over the course of the expedition. "Any dizziness?"
"No."
"Visual disturbances?"
"No."
Rysen hummed softly, satisfied. "Then this should do. Take it with food if you can."
Soren accepted the container. "Thank you."
Rysen's tone shifted, lightening just a touch. "You've been outside a lot."
"I have."
"Wind's persistent," Rysen said, not as a question.
"Yes."
A pause settled between them, comfortable rather than weighted.
"Let me know if the headaches change," Rysen added. "Or if they stop responding."
"I will."
Rysen nodded once, already turning back toward his work. "Don't push yourself."
Soren smiled faintly. "I don't think I am."
"Good," Rysen said. "Let's keep it that way."
Soren left the medical bay moments later, the container secure in his pocket. The corridor beyond felt no different than before—steady, composed, responsive to movement in small, precise ways.
The headache remained dull, contained.
He moved on, his pace unhurried, the Aurelius continuing around him as it always did.
_________________________
Soren took the medication in his quarters with a mouthful of water, swallowing it without ceremony.
The room was quiet in the way it always was—contained, insulated from the ship's broader movement while still threaded through with its hum. The Aurelius' vibration reached him through the floor and the walls alike, steady and familiar. He set the container back in its place, washed his hands, and paused briefly at the basin, palms resting against the edge.
The dull pressure behind his eyes lingered for a moment longer, then eased—not disappearing entirely, but settling into something manageable. Not absent. Just… quieter.
He changed his coat and stepped back into the corridor.
The lighting had shifted slightly since morning. Not dimmer, exactly, but warmer in tone, calibrated to the gradual progression of the day. The mid-afternoon hour carried with it a different rhythm—less hurried than the morning, less diffuse than evening.
Soren moved without a fixed destination at first, letting his steps set their own pace. The corridor opened into a junction where a scheduling panel was mounted along the wall, its surface illuminated with layered blocks of text and color.
He slowed.
Two entries had changed position.
Nothing dramatic—just a swap in rotation order, the kind of adjustment that happened daily aboard the Aurelius. Soren studied it briefly, noting the names and time markers, then moved on without lingering. The change did not require comment, only acknowledgment.
Further down the corridor, Marcell stood near a structural support, reviewing a handheld display. He looked up as Soren approached, expression composed, posture rigid in the way that suggested attention rather than tension.
"Soren," Marcell said, acknowledging him with a brief nod.
"Vice-Captain," Soren replied, returning the gesture.
They paused opposite one another, the corridor quiet enough that their voices carried without effort.
Marcell let his gaze travel briefly down the junction behind Soren, then back again—an automatic assessment rather than scrutiny.
"Traffic's been heavier along the lower deck today," he said, as if noting the corridor itself.
Soren inclined his head slightly. "I've noticed."
"There's been a minor adjustment to lower-deck rotations," Marcell continued, tone unchanged. "Nothing disruptive—just a redistribution to ease reported fatigue."
"I see."
Marcell's attention was already shifting, his focus aligning with his next task. "It's been logged internally. No action required on your end."
"Understood."
Marcell gave a final nod—procedural, contained—and continued on toward the upper levels, leaving Soren to resume his course in the opposite direction.
__
The descent toward the lower deck felt slightly different this afternoon.
Not heavier, precisely—but denser. The air seemed to gather closer to the floor, cooler against his boots. As Soren moved downward, the wind's influence became more pronounced—not in force, but in presence. It pressed low, settling along surfaces, shaping the atmosphere without stirring it.
He adjusted his pace, aware of the way his body responded to the change without conscious instruction.
The lower deck greeted him with its usual configuration: stacked crates, secured equipment, narrow passageways lined with reinforced panels. Crew moved through the space with quiet efficiency, their voices low, their gestures economical.
Soren walked through it all with ease, guided less by intention than by familiarity. His feet carried him along routes he had taken countless times before, turns anticipated before they arrived.
Then he heard it.
A creak.
It was subtle—brief and low, like metal adjusting under pressure. Not sharp enough to startle, not loud enough to draw attention. It sounded near the northern section of the lower deck, close enough that Soren stopped without thinking.
The dull pressure behind his eyes pulsed once.
Twice.
Then settled again.
He turned toward the sound, steps measured, posture relaxed. There was no urgency in his movement, no expectation that he would find anything amiss. The Aurelius was full of sounds—most of them benign, the natural result of sustained operation under variable conditions.
Still, he walked toward it.
The area was empty.
No crew nearby, no equipment out of place. Panels were flush, crates secured, the floor unmarred. Soren scanned the space methodically, eyes tracing lines of structure and support, noting nothing beyond what he already knew.
The wind pressed against the hull here, its presence more audible in the enclosed space, threading through the ship's framework in a way that translated into sound.
He waited a moment longer.
Nothing repeated.
Satisfied, Soren turned away and retraced his steps, the creak already receding into the background of memory. He moved upward again, the air gradually warming as he ascended, the ship's hum shifting in pitch.
By the time he reached the mess, the space had settled into a subdued dinner rhythm.
It was quieter than usual for this hour. Not empty—just thinned. Crew occupied scattered tables, conversations subdued, movements unhurried. The scent of food lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the ever-present undertone of recycled atmosphere.
Soren selected a seat near the edge of the room and waited.
When his meal arrived, he ate slowly, attention divided between the food and the ambient activity around him. The Aurelius continued to function smoothly, systems compensating as designed, crew adapting without complaint.
After finishing, he removed his ledger from his coat and opened it.
The page lay blank for a moment.
Then he began to write.
|| Wind sustained. Direction stable.
His pen moved steadily.
|| Lower deck conditions unchanged. Sound registered near north section—metal adjustment consistent with pressure variation.
He paused, considering his wording, then continued.
|| Schedule rotation updated to account for crew fatigue. No impact on operational flow observed.
The pen hovered briefly, then settled again.
|| Minor environmental variance noted. No intervention required.
He closed the ledger carefully and returned it to his coat, leaving the mess without lingering.
The walk back to his quarters felt routine, the corridors responding to his presence with quiet precision. The walk back to his quarters felt routine, the corridors responding to his presence with quiet precision. The night-shift rotation has begun to intertwine with the day-shift, and it is done so efficiently, imperceptibly. The exchange between crews smooth in cadence, he notes the procedural interchange as he always did.
A slow gush of wind subtly flowed through the corridor along his feet. Very close to ground. Soren placed his hand against the wall of the Aurelius, feeling the hum through vibration, noting. Something quiet. Something constant.
He removed his hand that was placed on the wall and continued through the corridor.
Inside his room, Soren washed up, the cool water grounding, unremarkable. He lay down moments later, the hum of the Aurelius enveloping him once more.
As he closed his eyes, the memory of the creak surfaced briefly—not as concern, but as data.
A sound.
A moment.
Recorded.
_________________________