Monday, May 28

  Fordross Base

  Mission: N/A

  20:11

  “Hey… hey…”

  I jolted awake like I’d been shot out of a cannon, every nerve screaming danger—only to realize it was just September standing over me.

  She looked… cleaned up. Like she’d washed the stadium off her skin and replaced it with something calmer. Her face almost glowed.

  Or maybe I’d just gotten flashbanged by the overhead light turning on.

  “Jesus—what—huh…?” I slurred, blinking hard.

  September watched me with a cautious look, like she was deciding whether I was about to pass out again or start panicking.

  “You alright?” she asked. “You’ve been asleep for ten hours.”

  “Oh.” I swallowed. “Wow.”

  She exhaled and rubbed her eyes like she was the one who’d been hit with ten hours of exhaustion. Then again, she probably had—at some point today.

  “Anyways,” she said, voice firm again. “Come. Figured now was the best time.”

  “Best time to do what?” I asked, sitting up and immediately noticing my reflection in the mirror sheen of the metal locker across the room.

  Dirty. Blood-dried shirt. Shorts and cleats like I’d never left the field. My knees looked like someone had flung brown paint down my legs and let it harden.

  September’s gaze flicked over me like she’d already clocked every detail. “Come on,” she repeated. “You can take a shower or somethin’ afterwards.”

  I groaned—not from pain, just from the way my body felt confused and heavy, like it hadn’t fully rebooted yet. Light still didn’t make sense to my eyes.

  September reached down and took my hand. Her fingers were warm—soft, steady—and for a second it grounded me more than any pep talk could’ve.

  She led me out of the room, down the hall, and into the elevator.

  As we crossed the break floor, everything was dim. Most of it sat in shadow, with only a few areas lit like islands—pool tables and counters half-visible, shapes of chairs looming like watchful silhouettes.

  And that’s when it clicked.

  September was taking me to the theater.

  She headed left, pushed open the wide doors, and the room unfolded like a hidden pocket of quiet. A large screen at the front. Seats stacked in rows like a lecture hall.

  Not huge—this wasn’t a commercial theater. Seventy-five seats, maybe. Enough for a break shift, not an army.

  “Have you ever watched any old movies?” September asked, climbing the steps toward a small enclosed booth above the seating. A speaker sat in the bottom right corner of the window like a little guardian.

  “Old—how old?” I asked, rubbing the back of my neck, still trying to wake up.

  She hummed like she was scrolling through a mental library. “Let’s see… Casablanca, Citizen Kane, The Philadelphia Story, Rear Window, North by Northwest, My Fair Lady—”

  I blinked. “That old? I didn’t even know you were that type of person.”

  From inside the booth, she shot me a look of pure superiority, like I’d insulted her bloodline.

  “I’m still cultured, Connor,” she said. “You can’t grade movies if you don’t have a standard to start from.”

  “I don’t know a single person around our age who even knows those movies exist,” I said.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Did they tell you that?”

  I glanced down at my shoes. “…No.”

  September smiled—small, amused. “What do you wanna watch?” she asked, leaning on the booth’s counter, eyes bright like she’d been waiting to ask me this all day.

  I looked up at her. Something about the way she was smiling made my brain short-circuit and reorganize into nonsense.

  So I asked the safe question instead.

  “What’s your favorite out of them?” I said.

  “My favorite?” she echoed. “What’s yours?”

  “Your favorite is my favorite,” I replied.

  She sighed like she was disappointed in my lack of spine, but entertained anyway. “Of course it is.”

  She turned to the computer, clicked around, and the big screen lit up white. After a few quiet taps—sounds too soft to place—the movie began.

  “You planning on watching standing up or…?” she called down.

  “Oh—yeah.” I cleared my throat, like the theater had caught me doing something embarrassing.

  I walked down into the seating, found the middle column, then the middle row, then the middle seat—like I was trying to make myself invisible by choosing the most normal option possible.

  The lights dimmed further. The screen became the brightest thing in the room, turning everything else into soft darkness.

  And then I jumpscared when September’s silhouette sat down beside me like she’d teleported.

  “Hmm—” I made a noise that wasn’t even a word. More like my soul slipping on a wet floor.

  September froze, instantly alert. “You good?”

  “Sorry,” I chuckled, but it came out more like I’d just exhaled my entire life. “It’s just dark.”

  She relaxed, just a little, and turned back toward the screen.

  The title appeared.

  Casablanca.

  I glanced at September. Her eyes were locked on the screen like it was a mission briefing, not a movie.

  It took her a moment to notice me staring.

  “Your favorite?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess you could say that.”

  Then I squinted. “I expected Rear Window or Vertigo or something. I didn’t expect… this.”

  “Depends on the way you watch it,” September said, quiet.

  She watched the screen for a few beats, then spoke like she’d rehearsed the thought a thousand times.

  “It’s a classic. Love. Pain. Sacrifice. Hope. A message. There are so many angles to it, and it’s crafted to hold all of them without falling apart.”

  Then she turned her head toward me.

  The screen’s light cast a shadow across the left side of her face, making her eyes look brighter. Her expression wasn’t the cold, distant September I’d gotten used to—it was softer. Real.

  A presence I didn’t think she showed anyone on purpose.

  “Is that what you see in certain people?” I asked. “Multiple layers?”

  “It’s what I try to see,” she answered. “Most of the time you only see someone as the image they wear in that environment. Circumstance. Heat of the moment.” Her voice stayed calm, almost tranquil. “But I can watch this movie a dozen times and still feel like it’s the first.”

  She paused, like she was deciding whether to say the next part out loud.

  “It’s best to know all sides of a person,” she continued. “So you can love who they truly are—not just love how they are with you.”

  I nodded slowly, letting that sit in my chest like something heavier than it looked.

  “How do you plan on watching it now?” I asked.

  She tilted her head. “As everything,” she said simply.

  I looked back to the screen as the film rolled. Maybe I couldn’t see it as everything right now.

  But I could experience it for the first time with someone close enough that the quiet didn’t feel empty.

  That counted.

  A minute later, I felt a weight settle gently on my shoulder.

  I looked down.

  September had rested her head against me.

  My heart didn’t rocket into chaos like I expected. Instead, it… steadied. Like it recognized the warmth and decided to stop fighting it.

  Time blurred into something softer.

  Like the world had paused outside the theater doors.

  Tuesday

  I couldn’t even tell you how good the movie was.

  Did I finish it? Yeah.

  But I was more focused on the moment itself—on the fact that, somehow, after everything, I was sitting here at all. Safe. Breathing. In the dark beside someone who didn’t feel like a stranger anymore.

  I doubted Malachi had ever felt pressure like this, even with all his smug little smiles and confidence.

  And still—none of that stopped me from falling asleep.

  I only woke to a sharp, repeated shake on my shoulder.

  My eyelids felt glued shut. Like someone had poured cement between them and dared me to open my eyes.

  I forced them apart.

  The screen was dark now, but the theater lights were fully on, making the room look painfully normal.

  From my right, a voice whispered, “Hey.”

  “Hmmm?” I groaned, turning toward it.

  Stephanie stood there, dressed like she’d stepped out of a magazine—white blazer so clean it looked illegal, hair done, posture sharp, eyes tired in the way only competent people get.

  “I told you guys we had rooms,” she hissed.

  I blinked at her, then looked at September.

  She was slumped in her seat, completely out.

  Stephanie leaned over and patted September’s shoulder—hard.

  September’s eyes snapped open like someone had jabbed a needle into her spine.

  “Oh, hey,” September said instantly, voice somehow clear despite the fact she’d been asleep. “What time is it…?”

  “Seven,” Stephanie replied.

  “AM?” September asked.

  Stephanie stared at her.

  “September,” she said, slow and deadly, “military time.”

  September made a tiny gesture with widened eyes like she’d just discovered fire. “Fair,” she muttered. “Fair.”

  Stephanie sighed. “Director Chavez wants to see you both. We received new orders.”

  “Orders?” I repeated, half awake. “Orders from where?”

  “Sonic,” Stephanie said flatly.

  “Oh.”

  Her glare sharpened. “From the YMPA Headquarters,” she snapped, and September snorted like she was trying not to laugh.

  Stephanie pointed between us. “Stretch, wake up, whatever—but you need to be fully present for this. Alright?”

  Even through the fog in my skull, the weight of it dropped onto my shoulders.