Soren stepped out of the supply storage and into the corridor.
The door sealed behind him with a muted hiss, and the shift was immediate—not abrupt, not jarring, but perceptible all the same. The denser air of the storage space gave way to something cleaner, lighter, the corridor's circulation flowing in smooth, regulated streams along the inner route of the Aurelius. He adjusted without thinking, shoulders settling as his pace slowed to something unhurried, almost deliberate.
This time, he didn't walk along the side-draw of the ship.
He turned inward instead, following the inner corridor that curved gently through the lower deck, away from the exterior panels and observation strips. The lighting here was softer, more evenly diffused, designed for continuity rather than awareness. Fewer visual anchors. Fewer interruptions. A route meant for transit, not reflection—though Soren found that his thoughts followed him regardless.
His stride remained steady. Slow, but even. Each step landed with quiet certainty against the floor, the sound absorbed quickly into the ship's constant hum.
The Aurelius felt settled.
That, too, he noted.
As he walked, his mind drifted—unbidden, but not uncontrolled—back to the crew rest bay. To the moment, days ago now, when he had stood near the threshold and asked Tamsin about Bram. The question itself had been simple. Casual, even. Framed to avoid attention.
It was the response that lingered.
Not Tamsin's words exactly, but the list she had checked. The way her eyes had moved across the slate, scanning names with professional ease. The absence of hesitation when she reached the end. The lack of correction, of pause, of reconsideration.
Bram had not been there.
Soren had accepted that at the time. Or rather, he had chosen not to challenge it. The Aurelius was large. Crew rotations were complex. Transfers happened quietly, efficiently, without ceremony.
Still.
As he passed the open archway leading into the crew rest bay now, his gaze shifted without conscious intent.
The space was active, though not crowded. A handful of crew occupied the tables scattered throughout the room, some eating, others talking softly over slates or simply sitting in shared quiet. The rest bay had always carried a different quality of noise—not the layered hum of systems or the precise cadence of work, but something looser. Human.
Near the far corner, partially shielded by a support column, Carden Konoa sat at one of the tables.
He was relaxed in a way that didn't read as careless. One arm rested along the back of the bench, posture open, attention divided between the slate in his other hand and the activity around him. When he looked up, their eyes met easily, without surprise.
Carden smiled.
It wasn't wide. Not performative. Just a casual lift at the corner of his mouth, accompanied by a brief wave of his hand—an invitation rather than a summons.
Soren slowed, then altered his course.
As he approached, Carden straightened slightly, setting his slate aside and angling his body to make space. The gesture was smooth, practiced, the kind that suggested social awareness without calculation.
"May I?" Soren asked, already half-paused beside the table.
"Of course," Carden replied, nodding. "Looks like you could use some company."
Something in the ease of the exchange softened Soren by a fraction. Not enough to be visible, perhaps, but enough that he noticed the change internally—the subtle release of tension he hadn't fully acknowledged until it eased.
He took the seat opposite Carden, resting his hands loosely on the table's surface.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The silence wasn't awkward. It settled naturally, shaped by the ambient sounds of the rest bay—the low murmur of conversation, the faint clink of utensils, the distant resonance of the ship's systems moving beneath it all.
Carden was the one to break it.
"It's unusual for you to route through this section of the lower deck at this hour," he said lightly, tone conversational rather than probing. "You're usually already halfway back to the mid-deck by now."
Soren considered his response, eyes drifting briefly toward the corridor he'd come from before returning to Carden.
"That's true," he said. He paused, then added, more thoughtfully, "I suppose I'm letting my feet decide today."
Carden hummed in acknowledgment, nodding once. "Fair enough. Sometimes they know better than the rest of us."
He leaned back slightly, gaze shifting toward one of the narrow view panels set high along the wall. Light filtered through it at an angle, pale and diffused.
"It's nice to feel the afternoon sun," Carden continued. "I've grown too accustomed to the night shift. Being awake as the sun rises—or at least knowing it's there—feels… refreshing."
Soren followed his line of sight. "You took the morning rotation today?"
"Mm," Carden replied. "Operations have been adjusting schedules more frequently. Still settling, I think. I don't mind the change." He shrugged lightly. "Keeps things from going stale."
They spoke for a while after that—about the shift rotations, about how the Aurelius seemed to be adapting smoothly despite the changes. Carden mentioned a rerouted system check he'd overseen earlier, his explanation concise, efficient, offered without embellishment.
Soren listened, contributing when appropriate. The conversation flowed easily, neither of them pressing for more than the other offered. There was a rhythm to it that felt… balanced.
At some point, Carden tilted his head slightly, as if remembering something.
"So," he said, tone unchanged, "did you ever find the person you were looking for?"
Soren's fingers stilled against the table.
The question wasn't sudden. It wasn't intrusive. It followed naturally from conversations they'd had before—small, passing mentions that Carden had clearly filed away without making a point of it.
"I'm still looking," Soren replied after a moment. "Or perhaps… still accounting."
Carden studied him briefly, expression thoughtful rather than skeptical. "Lower deck, right?"
"Yes."
"Hm." Carden tapped once against the tabletop, then let his hand rest again. "Crew movements have been odd lately. Not alarming—just… busier. Names shift around more than people realize."
Soren nodded, filing the comment away.
There was something else he could ask. He felt it hover at the edge of his awareness—the idea of requesting a crew list, of cross-referencing names, of formalizing what had so far remained observational.
He didn't voice it.
Instead, he let the thought settle, tucking it carefully into place. Something to revisit later. Something to approach with intention, rather than impulse.
The conversation drifted back to neutral ground after that. A comment about the rest bay's lighting. An observation about how the ship felt calmer in the afternoons. Small things. Human things.
Eventually, they both stood.
"Back to it, then," Carden said, collecting his slate. "Duty calls."
"Yes," Soren agreed. "Thank you—for the company."
"Anytime," Carden replied easily. "Take care of yourself, Soren."
They left the crew rest bay together, walking side by side for a short distance before the corridor branched.
"Until next time," Carden said, already angling toward his route.
"Until then."
Soren watched him go for a brief moment before turning away, continuing down the corridor alone.
The hum of the Aurelius surrounded him once more, steady and familiar.
And with it, the quiet sense that the day was still unfolding.
_________________________
The stairwell carried him upward in a steady, unremarkable ascent.
By the time Soren reached the mid-deck, the shift was unmistakable. The air felt lighter here—not thinner, not cleaner, but less weighted. The hum of the Aurelius softened into a familiar register, the layered resonance easing into something he had learned to recognize as balance. His shoulders loosened without his noticing the moment it happened.
He slowed his pace.
The corridor stretched ahead in a long, gently lit run, panels catching the ambient glow in muted bands. He let his hand trail briefly along the wall as he walked, fingertips brushing the cool surface before falling back to his side. The wind followed him, present but unobtrusive, no longer pressing insistently at his ankles. It moved the way it was meant to—circulating, sustaining, passing on.
From one of the recessed window frames, the sky came into view.
The color had begun to shift. The pale brightness of earlier hours had drained away, replaced by layered greys and a deepening blue that pooled along the edges of distant cloud cover. It wasn't night yet, but it was no longer afternoon either. The transition settled slowly, as if the sky itself were pausing between states.
Soren stopped for a moment longer than necessary.
He watched the way the Aurelius cut through the atmosphere beyond the glass, smooth and unbothered. No visible strain. No turbulence that reached this far inward. Just forward motion, uninterrupted.
A clock panel glowed softly on the wall nearby. He glanced at it, registering the time without urgency. Early for the evening cycle. Early enough that the mess would still be easing into its rhythm.
He turned away from the window and chose the longer route.
The corridor curved gently, leading him past familiar junctions—paths that branched toward operations, toward quarters, toward systems he had learned to navigate without thought. Foot traffic increased gradually as he went, the quiet punctuated by passing crew, low conversation, the muted clatter of equipment being moved into place.
At the junction leading toward the medical bay, he hesitated.
For the briefest fraction of a second, he thought he saw movement down the adjoining corridor—a tall silhouette, the edge of a white coat disappearing around the corner. Cassian, perhaps. Or someone else entirely. The impression was gone almost as soon as it formed.
Soren didn't follow it.
He continued on, steps unhurried, letting the thought pass without pursuit. The corridor carried him forward toward warmer light, toward the low, steady murmur that marked the entrance to the mess.
The doors parted with a familiar sigh.
Inside, the atmosphere had already begun to shift. The room wasn't full—not yet—but it was no longer sparse. Crews gathered in small clusters, some seated, others lingering near the counters. Soft laughter drifted between tables, conversations overlapping without clashing. The air carried the scent of food, richer than it had been earlier in the day.
Something new caught his attention almost immediately.
At the counter, a pair of large platters had been set out—broader than the usual service trays, lids resting loosely beside them. Their presence felt tentative, experimental. As if someone had placed them there to see what might happen.
Soren approached, curiosity drawing him closer.
Darrick looked up as he did, recognition settling easily into his expression. "Evening," he said, tone relaxed.
"Evening," Soren replied.
Darrick gestured toward the platters. "We're trying something different. Light fare. Easy to grab if you don't want to sit down for a full meal."
He lifted one of the lids. Inside, neatly arranged sandwiches rested in tidy rows, bread still warm. The second platter revealed omelettes folded around mushrooms, steam rising faintly as the lid was removed.
Soren considered them, interest sparking despite himself.
"Just starting to implement it," Darrick added. "Figured it might suit those coming off rotation early. Or late."
"That seems… practical," Soren said.
Darrick smiled, satisfied. "That's the hope."
Soren took a plate from the stack beside the counter and served himself—one sandwich, one portion of omelette. The simplicity of the choice felt grounding. He thanked Darrick with a nod and moved away, scanning the room for a place to sit.
He chose a spot near the corner.
From there, he could see most of the mess without being in the center of it. Tables filled gradually as he settled in, the room warming with presence and sound. He ate slowly, attentive to the unfamiliar balance of flavors. The food tasted different—subtly so. Adjusted.
Maybe the recipe changed, he thought, and let it go.
The wind curled faintly around his ankles as he shifted in his seat, a passing sensation that lingered just long enough to be noticed before moving on. He ate in measured silence, watching the ebb and flow of the room—the way crews drifted in and out, how conversations overlapped without colliding.
When he finished, he returned the plate and accepted a cup of tea from the counter, the warmth seeping into his palm immediately. He lingered for a moment longer, then stepped back into the corridor.
________________________
Soren stepped out of the mess with the warmth of the interior still clinging faintly to him.
The door sealed behind him with a soft, familiar hiss, and the change was immediate. The air cooled against his skin, carrying the steady movement of wind that had become a constant presence throughout the day. It wasn't forceful. It didn't tug or press. It simply moved—consistent, unbroken, as though the Aurelius had settled into a rhythm it intended to keep.
He adjusted his grip on the cup of tea in his hand, feeling the heat through the ceramic. The contrast grounded him as he made his way toward the exterior hatch.
The passageway leading out was quiet, foot traffic sparse at this hour. When he keyed the panel, the hatch opened smoothly, and the wind greeted him again, curling around his legs before lifting gently along his coat sleeves.
The sky had deepened further since earlier.
Grey gave way to layered blue now, darker at the edges, clouds stretched thin across the expanse above. There was no sharp boundary between light and dark—only a gradual settling, as if the sky itself were easing into rest.
Soren moved toward the rail and lowered himself into a seated position, folding his legs beneath him with practiced ease. The metal beneath him was cool but not uncomfortable. He set the cup of tea down carefully at his side, making sure it was stable before letting his hands fall briefly to his knees.
The wind brushed past him, steady as before.
It felt the same as it had that morning.
That constancy lingered in his awareness—not as concern, not as comfort, but as something to be noted. He closed his eyes for a moment and drew in a slow breath.
The migraine made itself known again.
Not suddenly. Not sharply. It surfaced as a dull pressure behind his eyes, spreading gradually until it settled into a familiar, manageable weight. Soren acknowledged it without reaction, adjusting his posture slightly until the sensation dulled into the background.
When he opened his eyes again, the sky had darkened by another subtle degree.
He reached for his ledger.
The cover was warm from the day, the spine fitting naturally into his palm as he opened it. He flipped past earlier entries, the pages whispering softly beneath his fingers, until he reached a blank sheet. He smoothed it once with his thumb and positioned the pen.
For a brief moment, he remained still.
Not uncertain—just attentive. Aware that what he recorded next would diverge, if only slightly, from his usual approach.
He began to write.
|| Wind sustained throughout operational hours. Directional flow consistent across mid- and lower-deck corridors. No fluctuation beyond projected variance.
His handwriting was steady, measured. Each line placed with deliberate spacing, the cadence of his script unchanged.
|| Exterior hull exposure indicates stable atmospheric conditions. No turbulence detected. Aurelius response remains balanced.
He paused, lifting the pen only long enough to draw a controlled breath. He ponders for a moment long enough to settle, and continues.
|| Anomaly noted: Aerostatic Control Passage—wheel-lock door found improperly sealed. Gap observed along seal edge allowing pressure bleed-through. Occurrence noted twice within a single operational cycle.
He continued without embellishment, detailing the precise conditions. The sound of the creak. The directional flow of air. The immediate normalization following manual closure.
|| Manual intervention applied. Seal restored without resistance. System response immediate. No residual instability detected.
Soren stopped again.
The wind moved past him, brushing lightly against his sleeve. He listened to it for a moment before returning his attention to the page.
|| Secondary note: tool displacement observed within mid-deck corridor earlier in the cycle. Single screwdriver recovered and returned to lower-deck supply storage.
The words sat plainly on the page.
|| No identifying markings. Condition worn but serviceable. Placement error consistent with routine oversight.
He hesitated.
Not because the entry felt wrong—but because it felt unusually specific. He reread the lines once, then once more, ensuring the language remained neutral, observational.
|| No further irregularities observed in relation to tool placement.
The pen hovered for a moment before he set it down.
Soren leaned back slightly, gaze lifting from the page to the sky beyond the rail. The migraine pressed faintly again, a reminder rather than a warning. He let his breathing steady, counting the rhythm of the Aurelius beneath him—the subtle vibration through the deck, the quiet assurance of forward motion.
The wind remained unchanged.
After a moment, he returned his attention to the ledger, scanning the entries from top to bottom. Nothing stood out. Nothing demanded revision. The anomalies were recorded. The observations complete.
With a subtle sigh, he closed the ledger.
The sound was soft but decisive.
Soren rested his hand atop the cover for a brief moment longer, feeling the warmth seep into his palm, before letting it fall back to his side.
The wind continued to move around him as the Aurelius carried on.
_________________________