The mess hall always felt smaller when a whole team walked in together.
Plastic trays, stainless steel counters, the eternal smell of coffee and something trying very hard to be food. Conversation dipped as TEAM 1 pushed through the double doors—then resumed at a different pitch, the way it always did when people remembered the ones walking in were the ones who went out at night.
FULCRUM let the others fan out ahead of him.
HARROW and RATCHET made a beeline for the hot line, arguing about whether the eggs were a controlled substance. BASTION headed for the corner table that could bear his weight without complaint. VANTAGE split off toward the coffee urns like a guided weapon.
At the drink station, PATCH$1 stood with a tray in her hands, hesitating between two massive metal urns.
"Left is the one that tastes like chemicals," FUSE said from beside her, reaching over to flip one tap. "Right is the one that tastes like regret. Choose wisely."
She smiled up at him. "And which one are you getting?"
"Both," he said. "I make my own blend. Tactical self-harm."
"Doc is going to write you up for that," she said.
"I'd like to see her try," he replied.
He took her tray from her without asking and slid it down the counter, freeing her hands to pour. His knuckles brushed hers, lingered a fraction too long. No one else in the hall seemed to notice, but the warmth of it stayed.
Across the room, FULCRUM picked up a tray and joined the line. KESTREL fell into step beside him, hair still damp from a hurried shower.
"You ever get tired of eggs?" she asked.
"I get tired of pretending they're eggs," he said.
She huffed a quiet laugh, tension easing from her shoulders.
"Good run today," she said. "In the clinic."
"Everyone did their job," he answered.
"Yeah," she said. "But you're the one who thought to turn the room sideways."
He shrugged. "Straight lines get you killed in crooked places."
There was a beat where she seemed like she might say more. Instead, she just nodded and reached for a bowl of fruit, fingers brushing the same piece he was aiming for.
"Sorry," she said, pulling back.
"Take it," he said.
She did.
At a corner table, GLASSBELL sat with a laptop open, headphones around her neck. The screen showed freeze-frames from the training run—TEAM 1 in motion, shield angled, weapons up. Her pencil danced, sketching over a blank page beside the keyboard.
As FULCRUM walked past with his tray, her gaze lifted for just a second too long.
He felt it. The way she studied the line of his shoulders, the angle of his grip on the tray as if it were a reference pose.
He gave her a small nod—acknowledgment without invitation.
She blushed, just slightly, and pretended to adjust something on her screen.
At the far table, BASTION took up most of a bench. HARROW slid in opposite, dropping his tray with a clatter.
"Three drills, two live runs, and now they want us to write essays about our feelings," HARROW grumbled.
"That's what DOCSTRING is for," BASTION said.
"She wants us to use words," HARROW said. "I'm more of a punching-it-until-it-makes-sense kind of guy."
"Maybe don't put that in your AAR," BASTION replied.
By the time FULCRUM sat down, the table had already formed concentric orbits—PATCH$1 next to FUSE, their shoulders touching whenever one of them reached for something; KESTREL on his other side, sitting just close enough that their elbows almost brushed but not quite; RATCHET across from him, sketchbook pushed aside in favor of shoveling food.
"What's the plan for the rest of the day?" VANTAGE asked between sips of coffee.
"AARs," RATCHET said. "Nap. Laundry. Existential dread. Not necessarily in that order."
"Doc's orders were 'think about something that isn't breach patterns,'" PATCH$1 reminded them.
"I can think about you," FUSE said lightly.
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her.
"That doesn't count as rest," she said.
"Disagree," he replied.
FULCRUM let the chatter wash over him. This, more than anything, felt like the thin layer between him and the places they went. The ordinary clatter of utensils, the low hum of jokes that didn't matter.
He caught KESTREL glancing sideways at him, then away.
"You good?" he asked her quietly.
"Yeah," she said quickly. "Just... thinking about the kid in the drill."
"It was a training sim," he said.
"Training's still real practice," she replied. "The muscles don't know the difference."
He nodded once. "If you want to run it again in the VR bay," he said, "we can. Walk the same corridors without the noise."
Her eyes flicked to his face, surprised.
"You'd do that?" she asked.
"Better to trip in a fake hallway than a real one," he said.
She smiled, small and quick. "I'll... think about it."
FUSE's gaze flicked between them for a second, reflexive, then settled back on PATCH$1 as she nudged his coffee away.
"That's enough tactical self-harm for one day," she said.
He huffed. "You're bossy."
"Occupational hazard," she replied.
From the doorway, OWL surveyed the room for a moment, then moved on, satisfied that his wolves were at least pretending to be human for an hour.
Later, three levels up and half a building away, the light was softer.
PRIORESS's office didn't look like anyone else's. Most command spaces were all steel and glass; hers had a worn chair by the window, a low table with an untouched plant, a shelf with a handful of redacted files and a single, carefully placed photograph whose faces were turned away from the camera.
She stood by the window now, the Site's outer lights casting long shadows across her desk.
Behind her, the door clicked shut.
"You left the channel open for three extra minutes," the man said.
His voice didn't have the distortion here. It was just a voice—low, roughened at the edges, familiar to her in a way nothing else was.
"Occupational hazard," she said without turning.
FOXHAMMER crossed the room, footsteps quiet on the floor. He dropped a small encrypted drive onto her desk, then leaned back against it.
"His AAR matches the footage," FOXHAMMER said. "No self-aggrandizing, no omissions. He logs the compulsion at the door and calls it ego."
"It was," she said. "He recognized the temptation to rush. That matters."
He watched her for a moment.
"You like him," FOXHAMMER said.
"I value him," she corrected.
"That's not what I asked," he said.
She turned then, meeting his eyes. In here, with the door shut and no cameras officially running, there was a looseness to her expression no one else ever saw.
"I like what he represents," she said. "Proof that the system hasn't shaved every edge off every operator. There's still room for judgment."
He huffed a soft laugh. "That's your way of saying yes," he said.
"If you're looking for jealousy, you're wasting your time," she said.
"I'm not jealous," he said. "I'm... interested. There aren't many people they run through this kind of pattern."
She took a step closer, reaching past him to the desk. Her fingers brushed his, just once, as she picked up the drive.
"How did you feel watching him?" she asked.
He considered that honestly. She would know if he lied.
"Strange," he admitted. "Like watching an old op with a different face. I kept wanting to tell him where the corners were."
"You didn't," she said.
"That's your rule," he replied. "Observation, not interference."
"And you follow my rules?" she asked.
He tilted his head, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth.
"Most of them," he said.
She set the drive down, closer to his hand than to the terminal.
"I need your read," she said. "Off-book."
"You already know mine," he said.
"Say it anyway," she replied.
He exhaled, looking past her briefly—toward the vague reflection of the Site lights in the window.
"He's ready for more," FOXHAMMER said. "If they don't break him by overusing him. If they give him a team that knows how to carry their own weight."
"That sounds like criticism," she said.
"That's experience," he replied.
Her hand found the edge of the desk beside his hip, fingers curling over it.
"Would you take him?" she asked.
He looked at her fully now.
"As what?" he asked.
"As a breacher. As a partner. As something like what you were before ALPHA-1 took you," she said.
Silence stretched between them, filled with the hum of the building and the faint thrum of the servers a level below.
"Yeah," he said at last. "I would."
There was something like relief in the way her shoulders lowered—not much, just a millimeter.
"Then I'll keep pushing," she said.
He reached out, finally, and let his fingers rest lightly against her wrist.
"Careful," he said quietly. "You're not supposed to care this much about one operator."
"You're one to talk," she replied.
He smiled—really smiled, the expression softening his whole face.
"Occupational hazard," he said.
She stepped into him then, the movement small but decisive, her forehead finding the familiar place against his collarbone. His arms came up around her without thought, bracketing her in.
For a few stolen seconds, there were no files, no feeds, no operators walking knife-edges at her request.
Just two people sharing a quiet room and the weight of too many choices.
"Stay," she murmured.
"As long as I can," he said.
Later, when he left by the unsecured hallway that didn't officially connect ALPHA-1's suites to anything, the cameras he passed recorded only a shadow moving where no one should be.
In her office, PRIORESS sat back at her desk, the ghost of his warmth still on her skin.
She opened FULCRUM's file again.
The fracture lines in the Site were spreading—between units, between command and field, between what they were supposed to feel and what they actually did.
She traced one with her gaze.
Then she started typing a recommendation that would, eventually, move FULCRUM closer to the place where shadows like FOXHAMMER lived.
Off the record, of course.