Chapter 2

📚 Need to catch up? Here’s Chapter 1

The Dream

Adam bolts upright, gasping, as if the ground beneath him suddenly vanished. His pulse pounds in his ears, his eyes locked open, hands clammy.

For a moment, he’s disoriented—the line between dream and reality blurs, leaving him caught in the space between worlds.

With a long sigh, his head sinks back onto the pillow, eyes closing as he drapes an arm across his forehead.

The dream lingers in fragments—some clear, others elusive.

A city that shouldn’t exist, where reality bends and shifts like water. His own voice echoes back to him, distorted and strange, filled with an anger he doesn’t understand. Pieces of a conversation slip through his grasp—questions asked but never answered.

A bearded figure stands before him, wrapped in white robes with a black sash. The man’s face refuses to settle in his mind, like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. Something about his calm demeanor only stokes Adam’s inexplicable rage.

And then there’s her. 

Always her.

A figure wreathed in darkness, yet somehow clearer than anything else in the dream. Her presence cuts through his anger, leaving him both unsettled and drawn forward.

“Meet with her,” the voice echoes in his mind.

A command, not a suggestion.

For several heartbeats, he floats in that space between sleeping and waking, where dream-logic still holds sway and reality hasn’t quite solidified.

The coolness of the sheets beneath his fingers registers first, followed by the chill air of the room filling his lungs. His mouth tingles with a strange taste—sharp like licking a battery, yet sweet, sweeter than honey.

As his eyes flutter open, the bluish glow of his quarters settles around him. Stark in its simplicity, it is a world so different from the vivid, alien one of his dream.

Yet somehow, both feel equally real.

“Again, seriously?” he groans, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

He pushes himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. A sheen of perspiration coats his skin, cooling in the artificial chill of his quarters. Raking his fingers through his hair, he tries to shake off the last remnants of the dream.

How many mornings has he woken like this?

He’s lost count.

The same dream, night after night ever since the bombing, always leaving more questions than it ever answers.

And every time, that voice: “Meet with her.”

Adam shakes his head, hard, as if he can dislodge the command rattling in his brain.

He looks away, his gaze settling on the small window. Outside, the Kibotos catches the predawn light, its sleek, shadowed frame blending almost seamlessly with the sky. One hundred and fifty meters of engineering and ambition. It rests on the launchpad, poised with tension, ready to erupt into the stars. 

The sight tightens his chest. 

How is he supposed to be ready for this? Who could be ready? Humanity’s survival rests on his shoulders—a Hail Mary they pinned on the third-string quarterback. 

It’s too much. The thought makes him dizzy.

“Get it together, Elwin,” he mutters.

His hand reaches for the small metallic device on his nightstand, fingers unsteady as they wrap around it. He presses it to his arm, wincing at the familiar sting. Relief follows as the warmth spreads, numbing the edges of his anxiety. A soft hologram flickers to life on the device, displaying a concerning message: One dose remaining.

But he doesn’t care.

Not right now.

He knows he’s been relying on the medication too much—that it’s a crutch. But that’s tomorrow’s problem, right?

One more day. Then he can stop.

He’s sure of it.

Adam exchanges the device for the datapad on his nightstand, squinting as the screen’s glow assaults his eyes in the dark room. He takes his stylus to the screen.

Nov. 29

Two dreams. First one early in the night. Bombing at pub. Wreckage. Smoke, screams. Bodies. Yuki…

He pauses, the stylus hovering over the screen before he continues.

Second dream. Same one again.

Impossible city—buildings changing colors, floating walkways.

Arguing w/ mystery man. Bearded guy in white w/ black sash. Red symbol?

Felt angry. Don’t know why. Couldn’t control it.

Adam taps his stylus against his chin.

She was there again. Black veil. Eyes intense. Incense?

Voice in head: “Meet with her.” Felt like an order.

He erases “order.”

Felt like a compulsion. Can’t shake it.

Meet with who?

He circles the last question, shaking his head. The stylus digs into the screen with more force than necessary.

“Meet with who?” His voice comes out sharp, a challenge hurled at the universe.

The room’s AI interprets his words as a command.

“I am sorry, I do not have that contact information. Do you require further assistance?”

Adam blinks, surprised—even irritated—by the response. The AI’s calm voice grates on his frayed nerves.

“No. Just—get my shower ready.”

“Certainly, sir. Your shower will be ready in thirty seconds.”

Adam rises with a groan, stretching his arms above his head. His joints pop and crack, evidence of the toll the past weeks have taken on his body.

As he walks toward the bathroom, the AI raises a concern. “Sir, I’ve detected an anomaly in your sleep patterns. Would you like me to add your recurring dreams to the agenda for your mental fitness assessment?”

Adam freezes mid-step, his blood running cold. He’s never mentioned the dream to the AI.

“What do you know about my dreams, SARA?”

“I have no data about your dreams. I was simply referring to the REM irregularities in your sleep cycle.”

“Well stop monitoring me. And don’t bring it up again. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. Shall I add sleep cycle irregularities to the agenda for—”

“What do you think?”

There’s a beat of silence before SARA responds. “Your shower is ready, sir.”

Adam steps into the steam-filled stall, staying in longer than he should. He leans toward the shower head, tilting his face into the spray. The water beats down—harder than usual, or so it seems. The sound overwhelms him, pressing into his ears, drowning out the voice in his head—and everything else he doesn’t want to think about.

When he steps out, the mirror is completely fogged. He wipes at it with the palm of his hand, expecting to see his face. But his eyes flick to the reflection of the Kibotos framed by the bathroom window behind him. It looms, stark and massive 

First his bedroom.

Now the bathroom.

The ship is everywhere, a living thing offering salvation at a price he’s not sure he can pay.

Adam blinks hard, shifting his body to block the ship’s reflection in favor of his own.

His eyes are tired, his skin pale against the condensation. He looks older than he really is, dark circles deepening beneath his eyes like bruises that won’t fade.

He doesn’t like the man staring back at him, doesn’t recognize him.

He sighs as he moves mechanically through the motions of drying off and dressing. His eyes keep flicking to the bathroom window.

The Kibotos is out there, waiting. Always there.

He walks from the bathroom back to his bedroom, approaching his desk chair.

His uniform is draped over the chair, wrinkled. He picks it up, runs his fingers over the creases, then slides it on.

As he pulls on a sleeve, the mission patch catches his eye—the ship approaching Hybris Prime. A silent reminder of the immense responsibility ahead—humanity’s future, stitched onto his arm like a brand he can’t erase.

He opens the hamper to dispose of his damp towel but hesitates, his hand freezing mid-motion. He stares at a dark fabric crumpled at the bottom.

His command jacket.

He can’t look away from the discarded symbol of the authority he doesn’t want, doesn’t deserve. A wave of shame washes over him, followed quickly by a surge of defiance.

Who decided he was fit for command anyway?

With a sharp exhale, he lets the towel fall, obscuring the jacket from view.

Out of sight, out of mind.

If only things were that simple.

He looks back out the small window. The Kibotos gleams under the early morning light, bathed in full illumination, every sleek curve of its design visible. An unyielding reminder that, like the rising sun, his command is inevitable.

“Commander Elwin,” says SARA. “Your final mental fitness assessment will take place at Dr. Sisyphine Boulder’s office in one hour.”

Commander.

It feels wrong—a title that doesn’t belong to him, like trying on someone else’s clothes.

He exhales sharply, his hand running through his damp hair. “Not yet,” he mutters, as if saying it aloud will somehow change reality.

“Pardon, sir?”

“I’m not a… Commander,” he says, more to himself than to SARA. He swallows, his throat tightening as if the word itself lodges there, refusing to pass.

“Yes, sir. My apologies for the error.” There’s a pause, as if even the AI is unsure how to proceed. “Shall I confirm with Dr. Boulder your attendance for the assessment?”

Adam sighs, rubbing his temples. “Oh, tosh,” he mumbles. “I forgot to confirm.” The admission stings, another failure to add to the growing list.

“Shall I inform her?”

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “I’ll handle it.”

It’s not SARA’s fault, but everything presses against him today, relentless and unyielding. And the day has barely begun.

As he moves toward the door, SARA chimes in again. “Sir, don’t forget your datapad journal. Dr. Boulder specifically requested it for today’s session.”

Adam’s eyes flick toward the nightstand. The datapad sits there, innocent, but the thought of bringing it makes his skin crawl.

“Right,” he says as he moves toward it, his hand hesitating in midair. He doesn’t want Dr. Boulder reading through his scrambled thoughts and confused attempts at understanding those dreams. But he knows she’ll ask for it. He knows it’s part of today’s evaluation.

The last one before it’s official.

With a resigned sigh, he grabs it, tucks it under his arm, and heads for the door, shoulders stiff.

“And don’t forget breakfast!”

“Thanks,” he mutters without looking back.

He doesn’t mean it.

·∘☩°☩∘·

Adam steps into the hallway, the sterile air burning his nostrils. Harsh, white lights reflect off the polished walls. It’s cool and hollow.

He walks with heavy, reluctant steps toward the inevitable. He’s always hated these assessments, hated sitting in front of Dr. Boulder while she picks apart every chapter of his life.

But he must.

He raises his wrist, ready to confirm the appointment on his ComSpec. Before he can press the button, a voice cuts through the quiet.

“Mornin’, princess.” 

Startled, Adam’s finger jerks away from the device. He turns to see Levi Nabal lounging against the wall, his usual smirk plastered on his face. He looks annoyingly put together, his charcoal-gray suit pressed to perfection, every detail sharp and deliberate.

Odd choice of attire for this early in the day.

“Big day, right?” he says, eyes boring into Adam. There’s always something predatory in his gaze, like he’s constantly looking for weakness.

“Yeah. I suppose.”

Levi pushes off the wall, moving closer with an infuriating, casual grace. That cologne—expensive, overpowering.

“Sure you’re ready?” His gaze sweeps over Adam’s rumpled uniform, taking in every wrinkle with obvious satisfaction.

Adam straightens, squaring his shoulders. “Just didn’t sleep well.”

Levi’s grin widens. “Hope that don’t affect your eval.”

Adam stiffens, slipping his datapad journal behind his back. The words are innocent enough, but Adam feels the barb hidden underneath. It’s always there with Levi—every word lands like a gauntlet thrown. Adam knows Levi’s toying with him, but he can’t help the flash of anger rising, sharp and hot.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Levi leans in.

Adam takes a step back, his shoulder blades pressing against the cold metal wall. Levi moves closer still, his gaze roving over Adam.

Assessing.

Condescending.

His voice drops low. “Do you see their faces when you close your eyes?”

Adam’s fists clench, but he forces himself to stay calm.

“That’s enough.”

Levi’s fingers tap against Adam’s chest—light and playful—but the meaning behind the gesture isn’t lost on Adam.

“Just looking out for the mission, Elwin,” he says. “Can’t have a pilot cracking under pressure.”

Adam forces a tight-lipped smile, but his eyes betray a storm of emotions—ire, doubt, fear.

“Pilot? Don’t you mean Commander?”

Odd. Minutes ago, he choked on the word.

Levi straightens, tugging at his lapels with exaggerated care. 

“Well, Commander,” Levi says with disdain. “Don’t let me keep you.”

He offers a mock salute and then turns on his heel.

Adam exhales slowly as he watches Levi disappear down the hall, but his words cling like shadows.

Is Levi right? Is Adam really ready for this?

Uncertainty wedges in his heart.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself, smoothing down his uniform as if that will somehow make the doubt disappear.

It doesn’t.

·∘☩°☩∘·

Shaking off the encounter, Adam starts down the hall again when a woman in a sleek coat strides past. Her stiletto heels click-clack on the concrete floor. A silky scarf wraps around her neck, and below it dangles a pendant that catches the light with each step.

“Zoe,” Adam calls out.

She flinches at the sound of her name, her stilettos pausing mid-click. She turns, her smile is stiff and professional.

“Good mornen, Adam.” Her lilted words come out politely but with subtle detachment, as if she intends to keep the conversation at arm’s length.

Adam steps toward her, noting how her fingers fiddle with the edge of her scarf. Her posture is tense, like she’s holding herself together by sheer will. 

“You’re up early,” he says, casual. He’s still rattled from the encounter with Levi, but seeing Zoe like this—frayed and distant—adds a new layer of unease.

“I could say the same of you.” Her gaze flits around, like she’s searching for an excuse to leave.

“Yeah, just nervous for the big day, I guess. And you?”

She shrugs, a small, deliberate movement. Her shoulders sag, as though even that gesture drains her.

“Busy day. Levi just sprung a media interview on me.”

Adam raises an eyebrow. “So, that explains the suit. A bit last-minute, isn’t it?” 

Zoe’s lips twitch, almost forming a smile, but the tension remains. “It is fine. Part of the job, yes?”

Adam’s eyes flick to the scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. It feels out of place for the practical doctor.

“New accessory?”

Her hand snaps to her throat, fingers curling around the scarf. The pendant swings with the sudden movement.

“What is wrong with wantin’ to look nice?” she replies, defensive.

For a moment, just above her collarbone, he glimpses discolored skin before she adjusts the scarf. The mark vanishes beneath the silky fabric.

“Was there somethin’ you needed?” Her gaze slides past him. 

Adam’s throat tightens. “Are you… all right?” The words sound awkward, even to him, but he can’t ignore the question nagging at the back of his mind 

“I am fine,” she clips. “Is that all?” 

“If there’s anything—”

“There is not,” she interrupts, stepping back to create more space between them. “Good luck this mornen, Adam. I am sure you will do fine.”

And just like that, she turns and walks away. Her hand lingers at her throat, adjusting the scarf again as she disappears around the corner.

Adam stands rooted to the spot, a dozen questions swirling in his mind. His arm twitches, almost reaching out to call her back, but he stops himself.

What would he even say?

He stands there, motionless, until his ComSpec chirps, pulling him from his thoughts. A message flashes: Don’t forget breakfast. - SARA 

Adam blinks, realizing how much time he has lost. He curses under his breath—ten minutes behind, and now his stomach’s grumble reminds him that he hasn’t eaten.

“Fine,” he mutters, “maybe some food will shut both of you up.”

·∘☩°☩∘·

The mess hall is empty, with only a skeleton crew grabbing a quick bite before the shift change. The smell of industrial-grade coffee fills the air, mingling with the faint scent of synthetic eggs and something resembling bacon.

Adam moves through the motions, selecting his breakfast without really seeing anything. He fails to notice the rations are getting smaller again this week.

He takes his food to the Wardroom, his mind still stuck in the hallway with Zoe. When he finds an empty table in the corner, he drops into his seat with a grunt and sets his datapad journal beside his tray.

He picks halfheartedly at his plate, his gaze drifting to the digital bulletin board on the far wall. Its bright display flickers through different messages, but one in particular catches his eye:

“Conserve to Preserve: Rationing is Everyone’s Duty!”

Adam shakes his head, pushing the eggs around with his fork. The message feels hollow. What good is conservation when, sooner or later, every last supply will run dry, and nothing will be left to save? 

His eyes drift to Zoe’s usual spot. It’s empty now, but he can almost picture her there—focused, always methodical about her work. Fork in one hand, stylus in the other. She seldom looked up, immersed in whatever report had her attention. He remembers the way her lips moved silently as she went over the details.

Then the memory shifts.

Levi is sitting next to her. They’re having a tense discussion. His voice is soft enough to be unintelligible but loud enough to convey its tone—low and livid.

He grabs her wrist.

Too tight.

Zoe pulls away, leaning back into the corner as far as she can, arms crossed over her chest, her expression tense.

Her glistening eyes looked past Levi to Adam.

Fear. Desperation.

That was weeks ago.

And Adam had seen it happen again.

And again.

His hand tightens around his fork, knuckles paling against the steel. He had shrugged it off each time—Zoe was tough, she didn’t need him stepping in.

But now? He’s not so sure. What kind of… Commander… ignores the silent cries for help written in every flinch, every glance?

The fork clatters against his tray as he tosses it down, his appetite gone.

Something’s not right, and he’s done pretending everything’s fine.

He pushes himself to his feet, the tray and datapad forgotten as he strides out of the Wardroom, through the mess hall, and back into the hallway.

·∘☩°☩∘·

Adam’s gaze drifts ahead, unfocused, his steps automatic.

Zoe. Levi. They’ll soon be more than his peers. They’ll be his responsibility, critical pillars to humanity’s survival.

His thoughts loop, disconnected from the world around him.

That’s when he collides with something.

Startled, Adam stumbles back, just managing to avoid the wall. It takes him a moment to process what has happened.

An unfamiliar, outdated android stands in front of him, its metallic frame glinting under the lights. It moves too rigidly and mechanically for a standard unit, even from that era. And there’s something else: deep scratches across its chest plate, jagged and fresh, as if it’s been through something it wasn’t designed for.

“Model and owner,” Adam demands.

The android says nothing. It stands there with a blank stare, offering the cold, unblinking silence of a machine refusing to comply.

“I said, model and owner,” he says, louder this time. It’s an older model; maybe it’s hard of hearing.

Still nothing.

Adam frowns, instinctively reaching for his ComSpec, his thumb hovering over the button to report the damaged unit. But robotics maintenance always drags its feet—it’s the slowest department in the command, and once he calls he’ll have to remain with the defective toaster until…

That’s when he sees Dr. Boulder’s nameplate ahead—a reminder of the meeting he’s late for. He hesitates, curses under his breath, and drops his arm.

Later, he tells himself.

As he passes the android, his mind can’t help but return to Zoe. By the time he stands before Dr. Boulder’s door, he promises himself: I won’t let her get hurt. I’ll protect her, no matter what.

The door hisses open. Dr. Sisyphine Boulder stands there, arms crossed. A brief flash of surprise crosses her face before it smooths into polite professionalism.

“Mr. Elwin?” she says. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d make it.”

Adam startles, running a hand through his hair. 

“Uh… sorry, I got held up.”

She raises an eyebrow, glancing at the clock on the wall. Adam follows her gaze, wincing when he realizes how late he is.

“Fifteen minutes late, Adam. That’s not like you.” She steps back, gesturing for him to enter. “Stress getting to you? I hope you’re not cracking under pressure.”

The words hit their mark, the echo of Levi’s voice sharpening their sting. Adam flushes as he sinks into the chair across from her desk. He feels like a child called to the principal’s office.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles.

“Mm-hmm,” she hums, unconvinced. She perches on the edge of her desk, arms folded, the soft tap of her stylus against her tablet filling the silence.

Adam’s fingers drum nervously on the armrest before he catches himself. “Really. I’m fine.”

“And by ‘fine,’ you mean perfectly functional, no signs of mental fatigue, completely ready to shoulder the most important mission in human history?”

Adam exhales sharply, rubbing his temples. “Let’s just… get this over with.”

“Ah, the classic Elwin deflection,” she says with a smirk as she picks up her tablet and scrolls through her notes. She glances at his empty hands. “Your datapad journal. Where is it?”

Adam’s stomach sinks. His hand pats his pockets despite knowing it isn’t there. “I… uh… must’ve left it in the Wardroom.”

Her eyebrow arches again. “Very unlike you to forget something so critical. You sure you’re okay?”

Adam shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze darting to the clock. He can feel her eyes on him, waiting, probing. “They’re just dreams. I can remember the important parts.”

“Can you?” she counters, her voice low but piercing. “Because you seem… distracted. More than usual.”

Adam forces his hands to still, his fingers twitching against the armrest. “I said I’m fine. Can we move on?”

She watches him for a moment, then she taps her stylus against her tablet one last time and nods.

“All right, Elwin. We’ll do it your way.”