The Commander stood in the map room long after the generators dimmed for the night.
The only light came from the dull red glow of his cybernetic eye and the flickering blue of an old terminal displaying the outpost's perimeter feeds.
A half-empty mug of bitter coffee sat beside his elbow, untouched and cold.
He had watched the footage again and again —
grainy images from the canyon mission: Kane and Sara moving through the ruins with surgical precision, too coordinated for wanderers, too composed for mercenaries.
No hesitation.
No waste of motion.
No fear.
He didn't like it.
The door behind him opened quietly.
Lieutenant Halen — the gray-haired woman who had brought the newcomers in — stepped inside, arms folded.
"You've been watching those two for days now," she said.
"If you're trying to make the terminal nervous, it's working."
The Commander didn't look up.
"You've seen the footage?"
"Enough."
"And?"
"They're dangerous. But that doesn't mean they're EGI."
He turned at that, one eyebrow raising.
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because I've fought EGI soldiers. They move like machines.
Kane moves like he's trying not to be one."
The Commander's cybernetic eye flickered faintly at her choice of words.
"You think he's one of ours?"
"I think he's something else," she said. "But not the enemy. Not yet."
The Commander finally turned off the terminal and leaned against the table, folding his arms.
"When I asked about the brand on his neck, he didn't flinch. Just said it means he doesn't belong to anyone.
You ever seen someone with that kind of burn and stay that calm about it?"
"No," Halen admitted. "But calm doesn't always mean safe."
"No," he agreed, voice lowering. "It means he's used to being dangerous."
For a long moment, neither spoke.
The hum of the old ventilation system filled the silence like the outpost's steady heartbeat.
"What about the girl?" Halen asked finally.
"Sara," he said, the name heavy with skepticism. "She barely talks. Always in that mask. Says it hides a scar. You believe that?"
"People wear masks for worse reasons," Halen said. "And she's loyal to him. Never breaks eye contact with him unless he gives the signal.
That's not fear — that's training."
The Commander nodded slowly.
"Then they're not just survivors. They're a unit."
Halen tilted her head.
"So what do we do?"
The Commander exhaled through his nose, eyes flickering red as he turned back to the terminal.
"We do nothing. For now. If they wanted to hurt us, they would've done it already."
"And if they're waiting for the right moment?"
"Then I'll make sure they never get it."
But even as he said it, the uncertainty coiled deeper.
He could feel it — that strange, quiet storm that came with people who carried too much history behind their eyes.
He'd seen it before. Once, long ago, during the first months of the Collapse —
men and women who looked human until the wrong moment,
and then became something else entirely.
The Commander rubbed his temples and turned back to the map.
"Any word from our scouts?" he asked.
Halen hesitated.
"Nothing since last night. We lost signal with the relay near Sector Seven."
He straightened. "Interference?"
"Maybe. Or maybe the EGI finally found our line."
The words hung heavy in the air.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
The Commander's jaw clenched.
"If the EGI's this close, we need to start moving assets."
"And Kane?"
He looked toward the feed again — the grainy image of 24 sitting quietly on his cot, eyes fixed on the wall like a man listening for something no one else could hear.
"Keep watching him," he said finally. "If the EGI comes, I want to know which way he runs."
Halen gave a small nod and turned toward the door.
Just before leaving, she paused.
"You ever think maybe he's not the danger, Commander?"
"Then what is?"
"The fact that he might be the only one who knows what's coming."
When she was gone, the Commander stood alone again.
Outside, the wind howled against the metal walls —
a sound that carried memories of distant engines and marching boots.
He looked down at the map one last time, tracing a line from Outpost Nine to the southern badlands.
His eye flickered red again, scanning, calculating.
"If they're out there," he muttered,
"they'll come for us soon."
He didn't realize that somewhere in the shadows above the command room,
a small surveillance drone — not one of theirs —was already watching.
Recording.
And transmitting.