Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Spensa woke in the middle of the night again, her chest heaving. Her skin was slick with sweat beneath her sleep shirt, her breathing ragged and shallow, like she’d just run from something she didn’t know.
But she didn’t remember running.
She didn’t remember anything.
Only static. And the dark.
The same dream again—if it even *was* a dream.
She didn’t even sleep much these days.
It wasn’t just the usual restlessness—too many thoughts buzzing, too much energy, the need to pace until her bones turned to dust. No, this was different. This was *wrong*.
Jorgen’s quarters were quiet—too quiet, save the slight hum coming from the glow of the bedside lamp and his soft, rhythmic breathing coming from beside her. She sat up slowly, her muscles stiff, her heart racing, her mind fuzzy.
Doomslug shifted beside her, pressed against her side like she was trying to burrow into her skin. Her little body trembled slightly, her spikes slicked back. That was… strange. Spensa reached down with shaking fingers and ran them across her soft back. “It’s okay,” she whispered, though she didn’t believe it. “You’re okay.”
Jorgen shifted slightly at the sound of her voice. He’d fallen asleep a few hours ago—exhausted after a late night briefing and mountains of paperwork from a recent mission. And Spensa had fallen asleep with him.
But, of course, she’d waken up because of the dream. The same one she’d been having for days. She’d dream of static and shadows, of a red (eventually green) glow illuminating the walls, of distorted whispers curling around her ears, seeping into her thoughts like smoke. And sometimes… she heard her name.
Spensa ran a hand through her hair, glancing toward the closed door as if something might be watching, waiting behind it. Doomslug tensed beside her—spikes twitching, and the hairs at the back of her neck stood on end.
There it was again.
That feeling.
Like the air had thickened.
She clenched her jaw and reached for her datapad, switching it open with a small swipe of her finger. Blank screen. No alerts. No messages.
Until the static came.
Just a small, almost unnoticeable flicker. Barely a glitch. A warbling buzz of white light across the dark screen.
A single second of unreadable text.
Then it was gone. Like it never existed in the first place.
She stared, heart beating so fast against her sternum it might ad well leap out of her chest.
Her fingers shook as she reopened the logs.
Nothing. They were empty.
Except… there. At the bottom of the screen, blinking in soft gray staticky lines:
> `UNR34D S1GN4L: 00:03:41`
> `PLAYBACK? > Y/N`
She didn’t even remember recording anything. She couldn’t breathe.
Her thumb hovered over ‘Y’ as countless thought clamored for space in her mind.
Its alright, she told herself, repeating the words inside her head like a mantra. It’s gone. It’s not here. It’s just a scudding glitch. Devices glitch all the time. You’ve escaped. You’ve escaped. You’ve escaped. You’ve left it behind in that platform. You’re safe now. He’s safe now. Nothing is going to happen—
But even those repeated, reassuring words didn’t help. Her heart still didn’t cease its restless thrumming, and her breathing still came in quick, shallow bursts. She couldn’t even think straight.
Until behind her, she heard movement—sheets rustling, the soft intake of breath of a sleepy Jorgen turning over.
“Spin?” He said, his voice hoarse and heavy with sleep. “What time is it?”
“Too early,” she whispered, trying to sound normal. “Go back to sleep.”
But Jorgen sat up anyways, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Why are you awake again?” he whispered, brushing the sheets aside. His eyes finally focused on her, and he frowned. “You’re shaking.”
She looked down at her hands. Stars, he was right. Her fingers were trembling.
Spensa swallowed hard. “It’s nothing. Just… a weird dream.”
He didn’t believe her. He never did when she said that.
Jorgen stood, the mattress shifting as it became absent of his weight. He walked over, kneeling in front of her slowly as if she might break if her moved too fast.
His hands were warm and grounding when they covered both of hers.
“You’ve had the same weird dream every night for the past week,” he said softly, meeting her gaze. “And I know you’re lying when you say it’s nothing. So tell me what’s wrong. Please.”
She wanted too. She really did. But how was she supposed to tell him that she’d started hearing a voice in her mind that wasn’t her own just a month after the mission? That her datapad glitched at 2:47 AM every night exactly? That Doomslug, a literal hyperjumping slug, tensed whenever she did? How was she supposed to tell him that she was simply just.. broken?
She couldn’t tell him. Not yet.
Not when she was still trying to convince herself she wasn’t losing her mind.
Spensa forced a smile, but it was a small, strained thing. “It’s just leftover nerves. That mission was… a lot. Very overwhelming.”
Jorgen didn’t speak for a long moment.
Then he reached out and cupped her face with one hand, his thumb brushing dog,y against the skin of her cheekbone.
“Don’t shut me out again,” he said gently.
Her smile (if it could even be called that) faltered.
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. “I’m trying. But it’s just… I don’t know how to stop.”
He nodded, and they just sat there like that for a moment—her hands in his, their breaths synced, Spensa’s heart eventually ceasing its restless throb.
“We’ll figure it out together,” Jorgen whispered, his voice tethering her back to reality. “Whatever it is.”
Spensa let out a small breath, nodding. Then, she looked back at the datapad.
The signal log was gone.
Her screen had gone blank again.
> `NO RECENT ACTIVITY`
But she knew what she saw.
And she wouldn’t be forgetting it.

Chapter Text

The mess hall had no rights to be this loud at 0700 in the morning.
It was already buzzing with activity when Spensa walked in, the smell of algae pancakes and rehydrated sludge thick in the cool air. Fluorescent overhead lights flickered overhead in their usual, annoying way—stuttering like they might go out any second. The low hum of different conversations, utensils scraping plates, and the occasional thud or clink of a dropped tray or fork filled the space. It should’ve been normal. It looked normal.
But Spensa wasn’t.
She stepped in like a ghost. Silent. Pale. Eyes shadowed with insomnia, dark smudges of recent sleepless nights beneath her eyes. Her hair looked hastily combed and her flight suit was wrinkled in a way that looked like she hadn’t bothered to change before crashing into the night, even though she did. Jorgen had held her close after she woke up—hoping that if he did, she might sleep through the night. But she didn’t. Not since the datapad ‘glitch’ did she get a single damn minute of sleep.
She scanned the room slowly, like she wasn’t really seeing it. Like she was somewhere else entirely. Then she walked towards their usual table—where Jorgen, Nedd, FM, Arturo, Rig and Kimmalyn were already gathered, halfway through their breakfast.
“Stars,” Nedd muttered through another mouthful of pancake. “You look like you got run over by a starfighter and then reverse launched through the Nowhere.”
Kimmalyn elbowed him sharply in the arm. “Nedd.”
“What?” He said, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “It’s true.”
Spensa sat down without a single word. She didn’t even touch her tray—just sat there with her arms folded together, eyes fixed just past the center of the table like it might shift or start warping. Jorgen, sitting beside her, tilted his head and leaned in closer.
“You alright?” He whispered, low enough so that only she could hear.
Spensa blinked slowly. “Didn’t sleep after I woke up,” she replied, voice hoarse.
Jorgen’s expression shifted from confusion to concern. “You never sleep lately.”
Spensa sighed almost inaudibly. “I know.”
Before Jorgen could respond, the doors slid open again.
Alanik stepped in.
Everyone at the table looked up from their meal.
If Spensa looked sleep-deprived, Alanik looked haunted.
The normally composed UrDail walked like her body wasn’t connected to her mind—movements stilted, shoulders high and tight. Her eyes, normally sharp and calculating, were bloodshot and distant. There were dark circles beneath them, and a deep, almost imperceptible tension in her posture. The same kind Spensa now wore like a second skin.
Alanik just walked past the food counter without stopping, ignored the tray station entirely, and came to a halt at the edge of the table.
No one said anything.
Then she sat beside Arturo without looking at anyone—not even him.
A long beat of silence passed through the table.
Arturo slowly set down his fork, eyes flicking back and forth between Spensa and Alanik like he’d been dropped into the middle of a play with no script.
“Okay,” FM said finally, very carefully. “Am I the only one noticing the extremely specific matching demeanor going on here?”
Kimmalyn raised a hand. “Nope. I noticed it too.”
“Thank you.”
“Wait,” Nedd said, narrowing his eyes at them. “You two have the same expression right now. Like you just had a nightmare and then lived it again in real life.”
Spensa didn’t reply. Neither did Alanik.
Rig frowned. “Did something happen?”
“Are we in danger?” Arturo added, tone laced with a quiet seriousness. “Are your Cytonic senses picking up some signals from the Nowhere?”
Still, silence.
Jorgen was watching Spensa closely now. The same way he’d watched her last night when she woke him up just by breathing too hard.
She knew he’d have questions later—it was simply just inevitable.
But right now… she just didn’t have it in her.
“What?” Spensa said roughly. “Is it a war crime to have a rough night?”
“No,” Kimmalyn said, blinking. “But it *is* a war crime to walk in looking like haunted soldiers and then pretend nothing’s wrong.”
“We’re not pretending,” Alanik said, finally opening her mouth—and her voice sounded like it had been ripped out of her throat and then been dragged through gravel until it was scraped raw.
“Oh stars,” FM muttered. “You too?”
“Nothing happened,” Spensa added quickly. Too quickly.
Everyone stared at her.
“I just… couldn’t sleep.” Her fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles turning white. “That’s all.”
Alanik’s exhausted eyes flicked towards hers for a moment. Just a fleeting glance.
And Spensa realized at the same time she did.
They were both lying.
Not to hide something from the others. Not exactly.
But because they couldn’t explain it, whatever it was—not yet. Not when they didn’t understand it themselves. But a small, almost completely delusional part of Spensa was relieved that she wasn’t the only one getting the strange dreams and the signals of a Cytonic presence that just wasn’t right.
Though the signal hadn’t come back this morning. Not yet. But Spensa could practically still feel the weight of it, buried in the back of her skull like a stone. Something pressed inward, curling around like smoke into her mind, whispering just out of reach. And why was Doomslug was trembling in distress last night? That wasn’t normal. That wasn’t nothing. Doomslug never did that—not unless it was something bad.
Spensa glanced up and locked eyes with Alanik.
Something passed between them.
Recognition. Maybe even fear. Or maybe just the mutual, haunted understanding between two people who had seen too much in a short amount of time and were just done with it.
“Okay,” Jorgen said carefully, breaking the silence like he was treading over glass. “You two don’t want to talk about it right now. That’s perfectly fine.”
He slid a hand beneath the table, gently finding Spensa’s and giving it a firm squeeze.
“But when you do,” he added, eyes meeting hers, “we’ll be here. All of us.”
Spensa didn’t answer, even though she appreciated his words.
She just sat there, silent, her tray untouched, her appetite buried under static, signals, dread, and a lingering unease that just wouldn’t let her go.

The briefing room was aggressively fluorescent—even at 2000 hours. The kind of white light that made everyone look sickly and overexposed, like ghosts wearing flight suits.
Jorgen stood at the front, hand folded across his chest, reciting flight formations and security protocols like he hadn’t already done it twenty scudding times this month.
His voice was calm and steady, a comforting backdrop for those who actually listened.
Spensa, on the other hand, did *not* listen.
Her eyes were glazed over with boredom. Her elbow was propped up on the table, cheeks pressed into her palm, staring blankly at the screen behind him. Her datapad sat on the table in front of her, open and idly flicked through just to keep her hands occupied. She wasn’t even pretending to listen anymore.
Across the table, Nedd had fallen asleep with his head down. Kimmalyn looked deeply focused on a random spot on the wall.
Arturo’s foot was bouncing like he wanted to die of kinetic energy rather than sit still. FM glanced over at Spensa now and then, like she knew something was off. Alanik sat near the edge of the table, completely silent, watching Rig scroll through endless engineering reports like she had nothing better to do.
Spensa’s thumb swiped absentmindedly down her datapad screen.
And froze.
A folder she didn’t recognize was now sitting at the top of her interface.
> `F0R_Y0U`
Spensa just stared at it. Her breath stilled. Her blood froze over, stomach turning to ice. She hadn’t tapped anything. She hadn’t even logged in yet.
Inside the folder… was one thing. A single text document.
No attachments. No signature.
The file opened itself. Automatically. And the screen went blank.
At first she thought it had powered down—but then white text began to bleed in from the shadows, letter by letter, like it was being typed right then.
No name. No source. Just the words.

> Y0U SH0ULDN’T H4V3 C0M3 B4CK.
> BUT Y0U D1D.
> D0 Y0U R3M3MB3R TH3 C0RR1D0RS?
> I D0.
> 1T R3M3MB3RS Y0U T00.
> D0 Y0U TH1NK Y0U ESC4P3D?
> Y0U *L3FT TH3 D00R 0PEN.*
> BUT 1T D0ESN’T M4TTER N0W.
> Y0U L3T *M3* S33 Y0U.
> 4ND I N3V3R F0RG3T A F4CE.
> G00DBY3, N1GHTSH4D3.
> S33 Y0U S00N.

“What the fuck?”
Spensa jerked back so fast her chair scraped across the floor.
Everyone turned. Nedd shot up, suddenly awaken by her sharp movement.
Fuck again.
Jorgen stopped mid sentence. “Spensa?”
She didn’t answer. Her datapad sat on the table like it had never betrayed her—like it had never displayed those words in the first place. The screen was blank. The file was gone. But she could still feel the words burned into her skull.
FM leaned towards her. “Spin… you okay?”
Spensa cleared her though harshly, swallowing hard. Her voice was hoarse when it came out—like she hadn’t spoken in hours.
“Yeah. I—I’m fine. Just… um. Cramps.”
Arturo raised an eyebrow. “Cramps make you fling your entire body backwards?”
Spensa shot him a look that would’ve melted steel and set him on fire. “Yes. Do you *want* to learn more about the biological agony I suffer on a monthly basis, Arturo?”
He shut up immediately. He knew better than to mess with her when she got like this.
Jorgen stepped towards her, brows furrowed. “You sure you’re—“
“I said I’m fine,” she snapped, louder than she originally meant to.
He backed off—not from fear, but from the concern, eyes glazed clear with it.
The room had gone silent. The kind of quiet that pressed into your eardrums like altitude pressure.
Even Nedd, who usually didn’t shut up unless he was asleep or choking on something, was looking at her like she might internally combust.
Spensa forced her spine to straighten. "I said I’m fine." Her voice was colder now. Controlled. The kind of tone she used when she was cramming all her feelings together and didn’t want anyone to notice.
Jorgen nodded slowly, eyes still on her like he was mentally calculating every single possible reason for her reaction—and how worried he was about to look before she shut him out entirely. Again.
From the corner of her vision, she saw Kimmalyn mouth something silently to FM. She didn’t respond—not yet. Alanik’s eyes were on Spensa too—narrowed, but not skeptical. Knowing.
Rig’s gaze flicked up from his reports, sensing the not so subtle shift in the atmosphere like the static electricity that filled the air before a thunderstorm.
Jorgen eventually turned back to the front of the room. “…As I was saying,” he said, slower this time. “Visibility near the ruin perimeter is limited. I want no more than a speed of Mag-5…”
He kept talking. Spensa didn’t hear him. She just stared at her datapad.
The screen was normal now. Bright. Clean. Back to the mindless notation of security routines and whatever tasks were pending. Like the message never happened.
Like it was… gaslighting her. Maybe she should just burn it.
And the worst part?
She couldn’t tell if it was real.
She felt like it was real.
But so did all the other moments before she blacked out in the corridor.
So maybe it was real. She couldn’t tell.
She leaned forward slowly, thumb hovering over the screen of the device.
This time, she logged in manually. Accessed the hidden files. Ran a quick scan for a corruption or virus.
Nothing. No trace of the folder. No abnormal code. No ghosted lines. No backdoor breach.
Nothing.

Nothing.

Not a single fucking thing.
And that? That was so much worse.
Because it meant the thing—whatever it was—didn’t want to be found.
It wanted to be remembered.
Or maybe—she was just losing her mind.

Chapter Text

The moment the briefing ended, Spensa bolted.
She didn’t even wait for Jorgen to finish the briefing notes or for the others to start chatting. She dropped her datapad into her satchel like it was cursed, placed Doomslug on her shoulder in one, swift movement and walked—no, stormed—straight to Jorgen’s quarters.
Spensa didn’t say a word until the door closed behind them and the lock secured with one, sharp click.
Then she turned.
Jorgen had followed her, of course. He always did.
“Spin,” he said carefully, voice gentle but firm. “What happened in there?”
She didn’t answer at first. Just paced nervously. Her movements were agitated, frantic, as if she paced hard enough—she could outrun the static buzzing in her skull.
“Spensa—”
“—I saw another message.”
He blinked, brows creasing. “On your datapad?”
She turned sharply. “Yes. And it wasn’t a glitch. It wasn’t a glitch. It opened itself. Jorgen, it knew things. It knew my name. It said the corridors remember me. It said we left the door open. It said it never forgets a face.”
Silence.
She pressed her hands into her face, exhaling shrarply. “I—I can’t do this again. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’m Cytonic, I know that. I know that sometimes weird crap happens. But this—this feels different. It feels wrong. I keep waking up at night, drenched in sweat, hearing voices, forgetting the dream and remembering the fear. Doomslug’s scared. Alanik looks like she hasn’t slept in a week. And now? Now this? More fucking shit to drive me insane?”
She pulled her datapad out and waved it at him like it might still have the file in its data.
“It said I shouldn’t have come back,” she whispered. “That I shouldn’t have left the platform. And maybe… maybe it’s right.”
Jorgen took a step toward her. “Spin. You’re not crazy.”
“Don’t say that like you’re sure.”
“I am sure.”
She looked up at him, eyes glassy and blown wide. “What if I bought something back with me? What if that rusty platform—did something to me? What if I’m infected or watched or—cytonically tethered to something I can’t escape?!”
His jaw tightened. He hated it when she spiraled like this—because he could do nothing to fix it.
But she wasn’t done. “Jorgen… I think we might have to go back.”
He stared at her like she’d just suggested hyperjumping into a blackhole ‘for science’.
“No,” he said immediately, grabbing her shoulders. “Spensa, absolutely not. That place—it almost killed you. You passed out for hours. You wouldn’t wake up. I thought—” His voice cracked. “I thought I lost you. I’m not letting you go back there.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I do!” he snapped, sharper than he meant to. “I do understand. But going back into something you barely escaped from—willingly—that’s suicide.”
“But if we don’t go back, it might come here. And it’s not just in my head, Jerkface. It’s in Alanik’s too. It’s in my scudding datapad. It’s real. And if we wait… what if it might be the beginning of something too late?”
He looked at her like he wanted to argue. His lips parted slightly, the beginnings of another logical, sensible, rational explanation on the tip of his tongue.
Then he saw her face.
The way the tears sat there, threatening at the corner of her eyes. The way her trembling hands were clenched into fists so hard her knuckles turned white. The way Doomslug sat protectively on her shoulder, spikes slicked back, completely silent.
And then he sighed. Deep. Defeated.
Jorgen stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.
Spensa collapsed into him, burying her face into his shoulder like it might offer peace.
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” she whispered, voice uncharacteristically small. “I’m… confused.”
“I know,” he replied gently. “So am I.”
A long moment passed before he pulled away slightly, eyes steady and grounding.
“If we go back—we do it together. On our terms. With a full flight. Carefully. We investigate. And the moment something feels off, we leave. Understood?”
She nodded slowly.
But in her chest, deep inside her heart, she already knew—
They wouldn’t make it out unchanged. Not a second time.
Even if they stayed there for just a little while.

It was late.
Most of the flight were off-duty now—lounging in the meeting rooms, catching up on some well deserved sleep, or having fun with the simulators. The corridors were dim and empty, bathed in the faint glow of the overhead lights and Spensa, for once, finally felt like she could breathe.
Well—sort of.
She found Alanik alone in the observation corridor, standing by the long window that looked out to the sky. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days—which, to be fair, was probably accurate. Her silhouette was sharp against the greyness beyond the glass, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her posture stiff and alert like she was bracing for an attack like never even came yet.
Spensa stood beside her in silence for a while. They watched a nearby chunk of debris go floating by, its metallic surface gleaming a cold silver as it passed by the dimmed skylights.
Finally, Spensa broke the silence. “You’re feeling it too, aren’t you.”
Alanik didn’t look at her. But her voice was tired when she replied. “I haven’t slept properly in days.”
Spensa swallowed hard.
Alanik finally turned her head. “You’ve been getting the Cytonic signal?”
Spensa nodded. “I have. It just feels… wrong. And I get strange dreams every night. Static. Glitches. Sometimes voices.”
Alanik stared at her, eyes widening slightly. “That’s almost exactly what mine are like.”
They didn’t say anything else for a long moment. Just stood there, staring out at the debris field—two Cytonics connected by mutual understanding and horror.
“I thought I was just broken,” Alanik admitted, voice quiet. “That it was something leftover from the last mission. Residual damage from the things we faced. But it’s getting stronger. Clearer.”
Spensa shivered. “It is. I saw a message today during Jorgen’s flight meeting. It opened by itself. Said the it never forgets a face. Said I shouldn’t have come back here.”
Alanik didn’t flinch “I’ve gotten one too. A day ago. It said we shouldn’t have made it out alive. And that it never lets survivors live.”
Spensa exhaled sharply, like someone had forcefully sucked the breath out of her lungs. “That’s it. That’s the last straw. We have to go back. I think that place—whatever it is—it’s still connected to us. Still bleeding through.”
“Jorgen agrees?”
“Now he does,” Spensa said. “He didn’t at first. But he saw how bad it’s gotten.”
“And the others?”
Spensa hesitated. “I didn’t talk to them yet. But first—I have to tell Arturo.”
Alanik turned her head sharply. “Arturo?”
“He’s logical. He knows how to keep people calm. He’s also the one who figured out the location of the energy source. The one who bought us time. If I can convince him, he’ll help with the others.”
“He won’t like it.”
“I don’t expect him to.”
Alanik narrowed her eyes. “No—I mean, he really won’t like it. He saw what happened to you last time. He blames himself. He always does. He didn’t say it, but I know. He was the one who kept pushing forward. He’ll say this is reckless.”
“I know,” Spensa said again, quieter. “But I have to talk to him. I *need* to. He’s our Flightleader. We can’t go without him. And if we’re going to ask the flight to follow us back in, he has to be part of the decision.”
Alanik was silent for a long time, then gave a slow, reluctant nod. “Alright. But you’ve been warned—he might yell.”
Spensa waved a hand like that didn’t matter. “It’s alright. He’ll fucking shout. But he’ll still come with us. He always does.”
Alanik gave her a look. “You say that like it’s comforting.”
“It kind of is.” She cracked a ghost of a smile. “He’s Arturo. He complains, and he argues, and he sighs dramatically every third sentence, but… he still shows up.”
“We better hope he does this time. Because S0M3TH1NG won’t let us go this time, Spensa.” Alanik’s voice dropped low. “And I don’t think it cares whether we’re ready or not. And maybe you should talk to him tomorrow.”
Spensa let out a dry, humorless laugh, the chill in her bones solidifying. “Stars, we’re so scudding doomed.”
“Completely,” Alanik agreed.
But they didn’t move.
They just stood there a little longer, two Cytonics staring into the void, listening for the signal that never quite went silent.

Spensa decided she had one more, very important thing to do before talking to Arturo. She stood at the corner of her room, datapad in hand, knuckles gripped so hard around the edges they tuned white. . The lights were low—dimmed to night mode, but even the soft lighting made her feel overexposed. Her muscles were tight with unease, her heartbeat stuttering like it had just completely given up on keeping a consistent pace.
She stared down at the datapad in her hands like it was a life grenade with not safety pin. The words during the meeting weren’t fading from her memory, no matter how hard she tried to burn the out. Sure—it was a little more reassuring now that she’d found out Alanik was experiencing the same things as well, but it still didn’t shake off the lingering unease. She just couldn’t stop thinking about the last three lines.

> 4ND I N3V3R F0RG3T A F4CE.
> G00DBY3, N1GHTSH4D3.
> S33 Y0U S00N.

It was just a screen. Just a datapad. Nothing magical. Nothing supernatural.
But her hands were still shaking.
Spensa inhaled sharply, forcing herself to move. She walked over to her desk, opened the manual controls, and powered the datapad down remotely with a few, fast, aggressive taps. The screen blinked off.
Then, for good measure, she crossed the room in three strides and shoved the datapad deep into one of her gear lockers, burying under layers of gloves, flight suits, her helmet, and some of her normal clothing.
She slammed the locker shut.
It was gone. Dead. Cold. Silent. Powered off.
Spensa let out a long breath, the tension draining only slightly from her shoulders.
It was done.
Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was just a fucking glitch happening to datapads and she was reading into things a little more than necessary. But it had to stop nonetheless. The dreams. The signals. The messages. She needed some kind of control, some tiny thread of something to hold onto before the rest of her unraveled completely.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, running her fingers through her hair. Doomslug was asleep in the corner, curled into a fuzzy blue and yellow pile of spikes.
The silence was deep.
Too deep.
Like the air had thickened again. Like something was there just behind her reach.
Spensa blinked. Her vision swam for a second, like the room titled completely and then corrected itself. She braced a hand on the bed frame.
And then the headache hit her.
Hard.
A blinding spike of pain and pressure cracked through her skull like someone had driven a jagged metal rod through both her temples. She doubled over with a stifled groan, hand flying to her forehead, eyes squeezing shut.
She couldn’t breathe. Her pulse screamed in her ears.
The pain wasn’t just in the middle of her head—it was behind her eyes, inside them, around them. A relentless wave of pain that refused to create. Every synapse, every cell was on fire. Spensa tried to ignore the pain, tried to tell herself it was fine—but the way her limbs felt like lead and the pressure radiating through her skull proved anything but.
And then came the words. Something was contacting her cytonically.
They coiled into her thoughts, slithered around her mind, and broadcasted in a voice that sounded like metal scraping against dry bone.
Y0U.
SHU7T1NG TH3 SCR33N D03S N0TH1NG.
I S33 Y0U.
Spensa let out a small noise, hands clutching at the sides of her head. She tried to straighten up, but her breath was coming fast and ragged now, panic surging in her chest like a tidal wave crashing through her ribs.
She tried to focus on anything—anything—that could anchor herself. The wall. The desk. Doomslug’s now trembling body curled in the corner. It was getting to her too.
But even with her eyes closed, she could still see things.
Flickering images exploded behind her lids like static-laced visions:
A hallway of shadows.

A red light bleeding across the floor.

Doomslug.

Jorgen lying on the floor, eyes blank, blood leaking from his ears.

A hand—her own—reaching out and glitching into something else.

And behind it all, eyes. Pitch-black—nothing but a void. Unblinking, watching her from inside her own mind.
D1D Y0U R34LLY TH1NK Y0U C0ULD L34V3 M3 TH3R3?
N0B0DY SURV1V3S TH3 PL4TF0RM
Spensa tried to close her mind—but her powers felt weak, deteriorating with whatever was happening. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.
“No,” Spensa whispered, crumpling to the floor in a panicked heap. “No no no—”
1M N0T L1ST3NING 4NYM0R3.
1M SENDING.
Her heart was going to explode. Her skull was going to split open in half. She clutched the edge of the bed for support, her body trembling uncontrollably.
Y0U SH0ULDN’T H4VE L3FT TH3 PL4TF0RM AL1VE.
The words echoed, bouncing around her bones like they were etched into her marrow. She could feel its presence inside her head—not just broadcasting words, but messing with things. Emotions. Thoughts. Her sanity.
It was poking around in her mind like it was cataloging her fears.
She clenched her hands into fists and gasped for air like she’d just clawed her way out of drowning.
Then, as suddenly as the pain came, it vanished.
The pressure lifted.
The words dissipated.
Silence fell like a weightless void in her head, oppressive in its absence.
Spensa just lay there for several minutes, chest heaving, a thin layer of cold sweat covering her skin. Her limbs trembled like she’d run a marathon, disappointment and despair crashing over her in waves.
She thought she’d have control. She thought she’d be free of it.
Doomslug fluted suddenly, clearly startled awake. She hyoerjumped in a heartbeat, landing on Spensa’s shoulder and pressing her small ‘face’ into her hair.
Spensa didn’t move. She just ran one shaking hand through Doomslug’s spikes and stared at the floor with wide, unblinking eyes.
Because it wasn’t the message that broke her. It wasn’t the words. It wasn’t the pain or pressure. It wasn’t even the visions it had shown her.
It was the *certainty*.
The unmistakable, gut-chilling knowledge:
It was connected to her. It was Cytonic. And it wanted her to go back.

Chapter Text

The doors to her quarters slid open with a soft hiss, faint white light spilling across the tiled floor like a sheet of paper.
“Spensa?”
Jorgen’s voice was quiet. Controlled. But his seemingly calm voice didn’t hide that undertone of worry—that note he only used when something was *wrong*.
She didn’t respond. Of course she didn’t.
He stepped inside slowly, eyes adjusting to the dark. The soft click of his boots cut across the silence like a blade—the amplifying of it being catalyzed by Spensa’s fear.
Then his gaze turned downwards. And he saw her.
Curled on the floor. Barely moving.
Spensa’s face was unusually pale, a thin layer of cold sweat coating her face. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, irregular bursts. Her arms was wrapped protectively around a panicked Doomslug, who was fluting in soft, rhythmic pulses—as if she didn’t know how else to help.
“Spensa.” His voice broke slightly that time.
He dropped to his knees beside her, brushing damp strands of hair away from her face. She flinched violently.
“Hey—hey. It’s me. It’s just me.” His hands hovered above her, like he was afraid to touch too much. “Stars, what happened?”
Spensa blinked, her pupils blown wide. She looked at him like she didn’t recognize him for a second—and then her breath hitched.
“Jorgen,” she whispered. “I—I couldn’t stop it. I shut it down, I shut it down but it—it got in anyway.”
Jorgen’s blood ran cold, stomach twisting. “It?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers dug into her palms. She was shaking hard now, as though the adrenaline had caught up with her body and refused to let go.
“I hid the datapad,” she said, voice unsteady. “I turned it off. I did *everything* I could to escape the signals. But then… it got in my head. Cytonically. Like—like it was just waiting. I tried to block it out—but it didn’t work.”
Jorgen stared at her, heart thudding violently. “You heard it again?”
“No,” she whispered, voice raw. “I felt it. I saw things—horrible things. You—” Her voice cracked. “It showed me you. Dead. Blood everywhere. The corridor. I was—glitching. I wasn’t even me. And its eyes—black voids, watching me from inside my own mind.”
Jorgen’s hand finally settled on her shoulder, grounding her. “Spensa. Breathe. You’re okay. You’re here.”
She laughed, the sound high, bitter and sarcastic. “I’m not okay. I’m not okay, Jorgen. It’s still in me. Whatever it is, it’s watching. It’s using me.”
Her eyes met his. Wild. Scared. Vulnerable in a way that she *never* allowed herself to be. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Jorgen didn’t speak for a long moment. He just pulled her into his arms—warm, steady, tight—always grounding her in ways she refused to admit.
Spensa didn’t resist.
She folded into his arms like she was breaking, her fists tangled in his shirt, her face pressed against his chest. Jorgen held her right there—firm, solid, unshaking even when she was. He smelled like coffee and home. His heartbeat was steady. Real.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered.
“You always say that,” she murmured, voice muffled against him. “I thought I’d finally have some control. But I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how to stop any of this, Jorgen.”
Jorgen exhaled, lips pressed to her temple. “Then we’ll figure it out together. You and me. Like always.”
Spensa choked on a laugh that sounded more like a sob.
“You didn’t see what I saw.”
“Then show me.”
She looked up at him. “What?”
“If you’re strong enough to survive whatever the hell that was—then I’m strong enough to face it too. You’re not alone, Spin. You’re not alone.”
Spensa leaned into him, the back of her eyes burning dangerously. She wasn’t a crier—stars, she’d probably never mention this again—but she finally let herself cry—just a little. Finally let go of the terror that had buried itself so deep into her chest.
And Jorgen—Jerkface, her anchor, her constant calm in the storm—just held her.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Eventually, when she could breathe again, Spensa whispered, “We have to go back. It’s not an option now.”
Jorgen nodded, his hand still in her hair.
“Yeah,” he said. “We do.”

The mess hall was nearly empty at this hour—just the soft hum of the overhead lights and the faint chatter of a few cadets sitting at the back.
Arturo sat at the mess hall table, one boot propped up on the seat beside him, half-laughing at something Alanik just said. His plate was empty except for a few crumbs and what looked like the stale crust of a sandwich.
Alanik leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on the table as she offered him one of her rare, subtle smiles. Her eyes were tired, though. Haunted in the same way Spensa’s were.
Spensa’s boots echoed as she stormed in, her posture stiff.
Alanik saw her first. She straightened, posture tensing like a warning system. Arturo turned, brows raised in curiosity—and then mild confusion.
Spensa didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“We need to go back.”
Arturo blinked. “Back where?”
“You know where.”
Arturo just stared at her, now completely confused. “No… I *don’t* know where.”
Spensa exhaled sharply, mentally preparing herself for the blow.
Alanik opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, but Spensa held up her hand, signaling her to stay quiet. This wasn’t her fight. This was between *them*.
“We have to go back to the Abandoned Platform.”
His face immediately shuttered.
“No,” he said flatly, turning slightly away, as if her words could be swatted aside like an insect. “You can’t be serious. We’re *not going back there*.”
Spensa frowned, taking a small step forward. “That’s not your decision.”
“The fuck it isn’t,” Arturo growled, standing up from his chair so fast it scraped against the floor. His voice was loud—too loud—and Alanik sighed beside him, eyes flicking between the two of them like she was watching a fuse spark towards a bomb.
“Spensa, *no*. We barely got out last time. You almost *died*. You collapsed.”
“And I’m still breathing.” Spensa’s voice was sharp, cutting through the tension in the room like a blade unsheathed. “You don’t understand, Arturo. S0M3TH1NG is still there. And it’s contacting me. It *hasn’t* stopped.”
“You should be talking to Medical,” he snapped, jabbing a finger in her direction. “Not marching in here and spouting some suicide mission like it’s a rational plan!”
“It’s not a mission,” she hissed. “It’s a *warning*.
“Well guess what, Spensa—I don’t take warnings from hallucinations!”
“It’s not a hallucination!” She slammed her hand down on the table hard enough to rattle the empty plates. “I know what I felt. What I saw. You think I want this? You think I want to go back there? To experience that shit all over again? That I enjoy having my mind clawed open by something I don’t understand?!”
He looked at her then—not at her, but *through* her. Like he was trying to find the Spensa he knew buried somewhere deep behind the storm in her eyes.
But he didn’t find her.
“You’ve lost it,” he muttered. “Completely. You’re still shaken up, and instead of dealing with it, you’re charging headfirst into it like you always do. Like everything has to be a fight.”
“Because it is a fight!” She shouted. “You saw what it did to me—to the Flight.
Whatever it is, it’s still out there. Watching. Waiting. It sent me a message last night and called me by name. It told me it would see me soon.”
Arturo’s expression didn’t waver. “It said it would see you soon, huh?” He leaned forward, his voice low and bitter. “That’s not a message, Spensa. That’s a trap.” He laughed, the sound hollow and sarcastic. “This? Whatever you’re trying to prove, Spensa—it’s not bravery. It’s scudding delusion.”
Spensa’s hand curled into fists as her sides, the searing tension spreading through her muscles like wildfire. She’d been holding everything back for so long—the fear, the frustration, the desperation. Now, it was all boiling over, catalyzed by Arturo’s words.
“You think I’m delusional?” She hissed, teeth clenched, voice trembling with barely contained rage. “You think this is some kind of fucking game to me?”
She took a step closer, not caring that the movement made the air between them crackle with tension. Arturo flicked back like she was a bomb about to explode—and, well, maybe she was.
“I’m trying to save all of us, you jerk!” she spat. “You’re too afraid to face the truth, so you hide behind your bravado and your position as flightleader, hoping no one sees how fucking terrified you really are. You won’t go because you *know* you can’t control it. You don’t know what it wants, and it’s eating you alive.”
Arturo clenched his jaw, eyes darkening, but she could see the flickering of uncertainty there, a small, almost unnoticeable flicker of something deeper than just anger.
“Oh, I know what I’m dealing with,” he growled, voice thick with disgust. “I’m dealing with you. You, who gets it into her head that she’s invincible—always charging headfirst into things she doesn’t understand, with no plan, no backup. You’re reckless. And this? This is the last fucking straw, Spensa. I’m not about to lose my whole Flight because of your obsession with playing the hero. The savior. You think you’re the only one who sees danger? You think you’re the only one who’s scared? I broke my arm there! You passed out! I had to send Alanik *away* while I held that scudding nightmare off!”
He shoved a hand through his hair, visibly trying to keep his demeanor and emotions in control, but Spensa wasn’t having any of it.
“You’re scared,” she sneered, her voice low and venomous. “You’re scared that you’re not in control anymore. You’re scared you might actually *lose* this time. You’re scared you might actually be wrong for once and I—“ she jabbed a finger in his direction, voice rising with fury along with every word, “I’m tired of you thinking I’m just some stupid little girl who doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about!”
The silence in the mess hall had thickened, as if the air itself had gone stale. The cadets at the back were now staring at them, whispering to each other in hushed tones. Even Alanik, sitting completely silent at the side, seemed deterred by the force of their argument.
‘You think I don’t know what it feels like?” Arturo’s voice cracked, as if the words themselves were a burden to speak aloud. “I lost people, Spensa. I’ve lost so many damn people, and I’m not about to lose you, too. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going back to the place that nearly killed us. You’re *fucking* out of your mind.”
Spensa’s nostrils flared as she tried to control the anger threatening to consume her. She had to focus, had to make him *see*. But every word that came out of his pretentious mouth, every insult, only pushed her further and further to the breaking point. It was of no use trying to keep calm now. The damage was done.
“You’re a coward, Arturo,” she snarled, the word rolling off her tongue like it was undiluted hydrochloric acid. “A fucking coward! You hide behind your uniform and your rank because you’re too afraid to face what’s actually out there. Too afraid to face your own fears, so you cover them up by calling me crazy. You can’t even stand the thought of being the one to lead us into danger, because deep down, you know you’re not strong enough!”
Arturo gasped, like the words were a physical blow. “Did you just call me a *coward*?”
Spensa nodded, her movement showing no hints of remorse. “As a matter of fact—I did. Because that’s exactly what you are. A scudding, inconsiderate coward.”
Arturo snarled. “Take. That. Back.”
Spensa smiled, like a predator before violently ambushing its prey. “No.”
He took a step toward her, his eyes burning now with fury. “I’m not a coward, Spensa,” he spat, his voice so low and dangerous that even Alanik looked up from poking her sandwich. “I’m a leader. And I’m not going to sacrifice the lives of my Flight—of you—for your obsession with a *fucking* ghost story.”
“Then you’re just as bad as the rest of them,” Spensa bit back, her words cutting like sharpened knives. “You’re no better than the people who just sit back and wait for something to kill us while they just hope it passes us by. You think you can just there, waiting in your little damn bubble of safety because ‘its nothing’?Well, I’m done waiting. I’m not afraid to face the real problem, the one you can’t even see because you’re too busy being a coward to acknowledge it!”
Arturo’s face contorted with frustration, and he swore furiously under his breath, knuckles white on his fists.
“I’m trying to protect you!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “I’m trying to keep you safe, and you keep throwing it in my face. Do you really think I want to watch you charge in recklessly and die?! You’re the one who’s too fucking blind to see it!”
“You’re not protecting me, Arturo!” Spensa screamed, her voice rising dangerously. “You’re suffocating me! You think I can’t handle myself? You think I need you to hold my hand? Well, I don’t! I’ll go without you if I have to. I’ll go alone—but I’m going!”
Arturo’s expression hardened—but there was a crack in his eyes, something that splintered like a bullet shattering through glass.
“You want to die that badly, Spensa?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Fine. Go ahead. But don’t drag me—or the team down with you.”
Spensa didn’t say anything. She just stood there, chest rising and falling with the intensity of her anger, breath coming in short, ragged bursts. She could feel the weight of his words sinking deep into the shallow pit of her heart. But the thing was, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
“You know what I think?” She finally said, her tone eerily calm. “I think I’ll be the one who”ll make the hard decisions after all.” She took a step back, glaring at Arturo with a mixture of disdain and pain. “And I also I think I’m done here. I’m done wasting my scudding time on a scared little boy wearing the title of ‘flightleader’.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the mess hall, her boots clanging against the floor with a finality that made the whole room feel more suffocating. She didn’t look back. And she didn’t care what he said. She would go back to the platform—alone, if she had to. Because the truth was, she was done waiting for him to save her.
She would save herself. With—or more likely—without him.

The mess hall rang with the echo of her boots long after Spensa had vanished down the hallway, the final slam of the doors sealing her rage behind them. The air felt scorched. Heavy. Like the kind of atmospheric contamination that lingers after a fire.
Arturo didn’t move.
He just stood there, fists clenched at his sides, shoulder rigid, eyes locked on the spot where Spensa had stood. His breath was shallow chest rising and falling slowly. But he said nothing. Not for a long moment.
Alanik watched him. Still seated. Still silent.
Eventually she leaned back in her chair, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Well,” she said softly. “That went well.”
Arturo exhaled sharply through his nose. A sound that could have been a laugh if it wasn’t so painfully absent of humor. “Stars. She’s so—” He broke off, lips pressed into a thin line. He reached up and dragged both his hands down his face. “She’s out of her mind.”
“Maybe,” Alanik said carefully. “Or maybe she’s just correct.”
Her turned towards her slowly, resolve crumbled. “Please don’t take her side.”
“I didn’t.”
Arturo looked away, jaw tight. The silence between them stretched. Somewhere across the room, a cadet coughed pathetically. A tray clattered. The overhead lights buzzed. Arturo sighed.
Alanik studied him. “You okay?”
He didn’t answer. Not at first. Then, in the most miserable voice know to humankind he whispered: “She called me a coward.”
“She did.”
His hands balled into fists. “I’m not a coward.”
Alanik tilted her head. “I didn’t say you were.”
“I was there,” he said, more to himself than to her. “I saw what that thing did. To her. To us. I made the call to get us out alive. And she just—”
His voice wavered, barely audible. “She looked at me like I was nothing.”
Alanik didn’t speak. Not to console. Not to argue. She just sat with it.
A beat passed. Then two. Then three.
Arturo finally moved—slowly, deliberately—pulling his boot down from the bench. He didn’t look at Alanik as he moved—just shoved his hand deep into his pockets.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, not glancing back. “I just… need a moment.”
And without another word, he turned and walked out, the doors sliding closed behind him with a soft hiss.
Arturo turned away from the door with an exasperated sigh, grabbing his datapad from its charger and storming toward the hallway, muttering curses under his breath. The doors hissed closed behind him.
A moment passed.
Spensa was wrong. They weren’t in danger. She was just… hallucinating. Leftover nerves. PTSD. It had to be something rational. S0M3T1NG was gone. They’d left it behind at the platform, where it was now residing. …Right?
Then the soft *ping* of a message notification echoed from his datapad.
He glanced down—
—and stopped walking.
Because the message wasn’t from a contact. There was no source. Just:
FROM: ???
And the subject line:
:)
The body of the message was simple. Too simple.

> Y0U SH0LD H4V3 L1ST3NED T0 H3R
> 1’M W4TCH1NG TH3M. SP3NS4 4ND AL4N1K
> BU7 1T’S 4LR1GHT
> L4ST T1M3, 1T W4S Y0UR 4RM TH4T BR0K3
> TH1S T1M3, 1T W1LL B3 Y0UR N3CK
> 1’LL F1ND Y0U, M3NDEZ. 1T’S N0T H4RD F0R M3.
> G00DN1GHT :)

Arturo stared at the screen in pure disbelief, his heart thundering in his chest so loud it might as well explode. His breath caught in his lungs.
“W-who—how—what the fuck—?”
Then the second message arrived. An image.
It was a blurry still from the security cameras in the hall—a screenshot of him.
Taken ten seconds ago.
But behind him—just faintly, through the far doorway at the end of the corridor—something stood.
Something wrong.
Distorted. Humanoid but… off. Like reality hadn’t rendered it correctly.
It had no eyes. Just a black, endless void.
But it was looking straight at him.
Arturo dropped the datapad.
And then he turned around.

Chapter Text

Arturo stood frozen in the hallway, datapad at his feet where it had clattered to the floor. The air felt colder, thicker, like it was pressing against his lungs, trying to stop him from breathing. Or maybe that was just him.
And then he turned around. He turned, so slowly, to look back at the direction the screenshot had shown. There was nothing.
Just an empty corridor, pale lights flickering overhead. The air was still. Silent. He just stared down at the hallway, heart hammering so loudly it drowned out all his thoughts.
“Why?” He gasped, staring at the corners, the ceiling, turning around in a slow, panicked circle. “Where is it?”
But there was no movement. No shadow. No—thing.
But that didn’t calm him. Because he knew what he saw.
He didn’t know how long he stood there. Long enough that his vision had started to blur at the edges from holding his breath for too long.
Eventually, he grabbed the datapad off the floor with shaking hands and bolted.
His boots pounded against the floor, echoing down the corridor as he tore through the base like a man possessed, shoving past a small group of startled cadets, rounding corners too fast and nearly skidding into a wall.
His vision blurred. Adrenaline surged through his veins like a tidal wave.
It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. But it was. It was.
He reached the meeting room and slammed his fist on the panel. The doors hissed open—
—and Jorgen looked up from the reports resting on his desk, startled. “Arturo? What the—”
“I need you to look at this,” Arturo gasped, completely breathless. “Now.”
Jorgen stood up from his chair immediately, eyes narrowing. “What happened?”
Arturo thrust the datapad into his hands.
Jorgen took one glance at the screen—and froze.
He read the message once. Then again. His expression darkened with each line. He didn’t say anything. Not for a long moment.
Then the image loaded.
Jorgen’s mouth parted slightly.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
And then he turned the datapad, silently, toward FM—who had stopped what she was originally doing to stare.
“Stars,” she whispered, going pale. “Is—is that—“
“S0M3TH1NG,” Arturo confirmed, voice wavering slightly. “Ten seconds before I turned around.”
FM frowned. “But that—what—why is it behind you?”
“I don’t know!” Arturo nearly yelled. “I don’t know! It wasn’t there when I looked—there was nothing! I didn’t see anything but—Stars—what even *is* that thing?”
Jorgen’s jaw clenched, a slight concern entering his expression. “Where’s Spensa,” he asked.
Now it was Arturo’s turn to freeze. “Oh… um.”
Jorgen raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean ‘oh?’”
“She… left. After the mess hall. We had a bit of an… incident.”
Jorgen didn’t blink. “What kind of incident.”
Arturo looked away, mortified. “She might’ve… called me a coward and stormed off. After yelling. Loudly.”
Jorgen’s brows rose. Just slightly. Not surprised. Just… vaguely dissatisfied. Like a teacher finding out his student had failed the easiest quiz ever assigned.
“You had an argument, didn’t you? You made her mad *again*?”
“She was being irrational!” Arturo said quickly. “Talking about how we’re still in danger, how I wasn’t doing enough—she called me a coward, Jorgen! I was there! I made the call to save us—okay maybe I yelled too—and she just—snapped. I thought she needed space, so I didn’t follow her and then—then that showed up—” He gestured violently to the datapad. “And I panicked.”
FM slowly turned her back to them, facing the wall, and took a long, quiet sip of her water bottle to hide her facial expression.
Jorgen just stared at Arturo. His jaw was set, his voice calm, controlled and dangerously unimpressed. “And you let her walk off. Alone.”
Arturo frowned. “I didn’t think—“
“No,” Jorgen sat flatly. “You didn’t. You know she’s been holding it together by a thread since the abandoned platform.”
Arturo’s jaw tightened. “I know, but—“
“Because she’s not okay.” Jorgen’s voice cut like a knife. “She can’t sleep. She flinches at shadows. She’s been getting datapad messages just like yours. She’s been getting Cytonic signals. And instead of asking what’s wrong, you called her irrational.”
Arturo’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t find any words.
“She’s not okay,” Jorgen repeated, voice low. “She’s scared out of her mind. But she still showed up for you. For all of us.”
Arturo looked away, the weight of guilt settling like a lead weight on his shoulders.
“I know you made a hard call out there,” Jorgen added, quieter now. “I’m not saying you didn’t. But don’t mistake someone’s fear for weakness. Especially not hers.”
There was a pause. The room was silent.
Then FM cleared her throat delicately. “So. Uh. What’s the plan?”
Jorgen looked away, jaw set, clearly holding his emotions down by sheer force. “I’ll go find her. Now. Arturo—go check the mess hall again. Contact me if she came back.”
Arturo nodded mutely, guilt slamming through his chest, and walked out without another word. The door hissed shut behind him.
Jorgen exhaled shakily and scrubbed a hand through his curls.
FM gave him a sidelong glance. “That was the nicest you’ve ever been while basically verbally eviscerating someone.”
“I’m furious,” Jorgen muttered. “And terrified. And I don’t know if she’s—” His voice caught, barely. He looked down.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
He didn’t look up again. “No.”

Spensa sat on the floor of the old storage hangar, knees drawn up, arms crossed, her head resting against the cold wall. Doomslug lay beside her, fluting softly for comfort, and her hair was a mess from when she’d ran her hands through it multiple times.
She was still shaking. Not from fear. Not from exhaustion. From *rage*.
The light were dimmed. Her anger simmered so hard it could burn through titanium.
The adrenaline from the fight with Arturo hadn’t worn off—it had mutated into something stronger. Her eyes darted around the room, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
She hated being this mad. She hated him for making her mad. And more than anything—she hated that he wasn’t entirely wrong. She was trying to be calmer—but *no*. Of course Arturo had to come ruin it with his fucking cowardice and fucking insults—
—But still. He’d looked her in the eye like she was insane. Like she didn’t matter.
He’d called her delusional. Said she was putting everyone in danger. Treated her like she was some broken thing that needed fixing.
Stars, she wanted to punch something. Or scream. Or go find Arturo, personally install an explosive device into his locker, and watch him cry about it later when his face gets covered in metallic ash.
Spensa clenched her fists until her knuckles ached and turned white. The angry tears she refused to cry burned at the corners of her eyes anyway.
She wasn’t broken.
She wasn’t wrong.
They were in danger.
She repeated the last four words in her head like a mantra.
They were in danger. They were in danger. They were in danger. S0M3TH1NG needed to be stopped. She needed to go back.
The door hissed open behind her.
She didn’t turn around.
“If that’s Arturo again,” she muttered, voice so icy it could’ve frozen water, “I’m going to throat-punch him.”
“It’s not.”
Her entire spine snapped straight. She turned around fast enough to get whiplash.
Jorgen stood in the doorway, breath uneven from sprinting, black curls messed up and falling slightly over his eyes (why was she even noticing that?), shoulders tense like he’s been holding back internal combustion.
“…Hey,” he said quietly.
Spensa’s eyes narrowed into dangerous amethyst slits. “Don’t.”
Jorgen hesitated for half a second, stepping closer. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t give me the ‘are you okay’ speech. I swear to stars, if you say anything even remotely like ‘calm down,’ I will take my boot off and throw it at your annoyingly stupid face.”
He blinked. “...You think my face is stupid?”
She let out a sharp exhale. “That was not the point.”
Jorgen crouched down slowly in front of her, his expression softening. “Arturo told me what happened.”
Spensa let out a bitter, sarcastic laugh. “Great. He probably made me sound like a scudding lunatic, didn’t he?”
“You’re not a lunatic,” he said, his voice softer and grounding now. “You’re Spensa. The girl who towed a lifebuster away from the base alone. The girl who took on a delver. The girl who—despite everything thrown her way—always fights. Especially when it gets scudding hard.”
Spensa looked away. “I’m also the girl everyone thinks is losing her mind.”
Jorgen smiled slightly. “I don’t.”
Her gaze snapped back to him. Jorgen held her stare, war, brown eyes unwavering.
“I never have.”
A small beat passed. The fury in her chest began to flicker, changing toward something far more volatile. Her lip wobbled just slightly. She didn’t speak.
“I got scared,” he said, voice lower now. “When I couldn’t reach you. When Arturo showed me that message. I thought—stars, I thought I was too late.”
She swallowed. “I don’t need saving.”
“I know,” he said. “But I need you.”
Silence.
Then Spensa pushed herself up on her knees, grabbed the collar of his uniform jacket, and pulled him down into a kiss so intense it was basically a battlefield maneuver. His lips crashed against hers, breath hitching as her hands moved to the back of his neck, hanging on like she might fall into the void if she let go.
Jorgen made a startled noise against her lips, but his hands came up to her face instinctively, cupping her jaw like she might slip away if he didn’t anchor her *right* then and there.
She opened her mouth, tasting the air between them—and he responded, groaned, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. It was a sound that always made her knees go weak, no matter how much she hated to admit it.
Her tongue brushed his—hot, electric—and the spark that had always burned between them turned into a flaming wildfire.
Spensa pulled him in impossibly closer, hands now fisting in his hair, as if kissing him harder might force the word to make sense again. Jorgen’s fingers threaded into her hair and found purchase behind her neck, thumb brushing against her cheekbone.
It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t poetic. It was real.
When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, Spensa let out a shuddering breath.
“…I missed you,” she muttered.
“I saw you five hours ago.”
“I still missed you.”
Jorgen smiled, opening his mouth to say something—but that smile immediately faltered when his gaze landed on his datapad resting on the table.
“Okay. Okay. We can’t… I have to tell you something.”
Spensa blinked up at him, dazed. “…Did Arturo throw another emotional tantrum? Did Kimmalyn finally punch someone? Did Nedd say something thoughtful for once?”
Jorgen let out a tiny, incredulous laugh. “No. Well. Not… yet. But…” He swallowed. His hands, still gently resting on her face, felt a little colder.
Spensa picked up on it instantly. Her eyes narrowed, gaze sharp with a sudden alertness. “What happend?”
Jorgen made the mistake of hesitating.
“*What happened*, Jerkface.”
“There was a message,” he said, voice quiet but steady.. “A datapad message. Sent to Arturo, shortly after your argument.”
Spensa froze.
Jorgen held her gaze, eyes no longer soft but serious. “From S0M3TH1NG.”
Her breath caught. Doomslug fluted uneasily.
Jorgen reached for the table at the corner and picked up the datapad. He didn’t say anything else—just handed it to her with a quiet gravity that felt too heavy.
Spensa took it slowly, eyes already scanning the text with a silent dread. He could clearly see the horror slowly creeping its way into her expression—the way her brown furrowed, the way she drew her lips into a thin line, the way her eye twitched almost unnoticeably. Her body stiffened as the words processed. Her pupils constricted.
Then the image loaded.
The blood drained from her face. Her jaw clenched. Her fingers trembled.
Because it was right there. Behind Arturo. In the corridor. Ten seconds before he turned around. Glitching. Watching. Waiting.
Her voice, when it came, was low, shaken, and furious. “He said he didn’t see anything?”
“He didn’t,” Jorgen answered quietly. “It wasn’t there when he looked. But the screenshot—” He gestured to the screen. “It was. Ten seconds earlier. Right there. Behind him. Maybe it was just messing with him. Maybe it was… a warning.”
Spensa stared at the image like she wanted to rip it to shreds it through the screen. Her entire body radiated fury and terror and sheer, silent disbelief.
“I told him,” she muttered. “I *told* him we weren’t done. That it was still out there. And he—he said I was scudding delusional!”
Jorgen didn’t argue. He just stood there in the churning silence, jaw tight, his fingers gently brushing her arm.
“And it used his datapad—just like it used mine!” Spensa spat. “It knows how to reach us. How to mess with us. Stars, what if it’s been watching us the whole time? What if it’s—”
“Hey.” Jorgen’s voice was low, grounding, clearly trying to stop her from spiraling again. He gently tilted her chin up so she would look at him. “Spensa. Look at me. It hasn’t touched you since you escaped. You’re here. You’re okay.”
“For now,” she said bitterly. “Until it decides to stop screwing around and actually do something. It’s toying with us.”
“I know.” His voice was quiet, but laced with steel. “But you’re not alone in this. You never were. We’re going to figure it out. We’re going to stop it.”
Her eyes flicked to his, fury and disbelief still sparkling behind the amethyst. “And… if we can’t?”
He stared at her, gaze hard and brimming with certainty. “Then we make it regret ever coming after you.”
For a moment, the fear crumbled. Her lips twitched upwards, just barely.
“…You’re such a dramatic bastard,” she said.
“And you kissed me like you hadn’t seen me in years,” he countered.
Spensa’s cheeks tinted pink. “That was—emotional compromise. Shut up.”
Jorgen smiled. A real one, just for a second. Spensa smiled at him too.
They both looked down at the datapad.
And then the smiles vanished.
Because below the screenshot… was a new message.
N1C3 SP3ECH, ADM1R4L
Spensa’s blood froze in her veins. Jorgen’s jaw tightened. Doomslug fluted threateningly.
And as the screen flickered once—just once—Spensa realized something.
The game had never ended. It had only just begun.