CHAPTER 10 THE FORCED SYNCHRONIZATION
Alex sat behind the metal desk, his Working Blue shirt still holding its sharp lines despite the late hour. He hunched over a spreadsheet, his pen moving steadily.
Marcus Ward sat beside him, violating the three-foot rule by leaning heavily into Alex’s workspace. Marcus wasn't looking at the data; he was looking at the way Alex’s pulse beat steadily in the hollow of his throat.
The door was pinned open. In the passageway, Patrick stood guard at a loose parade-rest, his ears tuned inside the room.
"You’re accounting for the movement of the company, but you’re ignoring the friction of the individual. You can't program a midshipman like a mainframe."
"The mainframe is the only thing keeping this wing from drifting into chaos, Mr. Ward," Alex replied, his voice a detached monotone.
Marcus tilted his head, a thin, electric smile touching his lips.
"Vous mentez à vous-même (You are lying to yourself)," he whispered, shifting into French, the language of their growing, private orbit.
"Vous aimez la friction. C'est la seule chose qui vous donne l'impression d'être en vie—het geeft je tenminste het gevoel dat je leeft. (You love the friction. It’s the only thing that makes you feel alive - at least it gives you the feeling that you live)."
He ended the sentence in Dutch, the transitions between languages seamless, a linguistic dance designed to leave Patrick stranded in the silence of the hallway.
Marcus leaned closer, his breath brushing against Alex’s ear.
"Patrick is een goede soldaat, maar hij is een standbeeld (Patrick is a good soldier, but he is a statue). Hij ziet de berekening niet. Hij ziet alleen de muur (He doesn't see the calculation. He only sees the wall)."
Alex’s pen paused. He didn't look at Marcus.
"De muur is wat ons beschermt, Marcus (The wall is what protects us, Marcus)," he replied in the same low Dutch, the words vibrating in the small space.
"Zonder de muur is er alleen maar ruis (Without the wall, there is only noise)."
In the hallway, Patrick’s knuckles turned white as he gripped his own forearms behind his back. He didn't know the words, but he knew the tone. It was the sound of a secret being shared in broad daylight.
He could see the way Marcus was draped toward Alex, an intellectual predator finally finding "intellectuele voeding" (intellectual nutrition) in a wasteland of mandates.
Patrick felt a hot, jagged wave of jealousy strike his chest. To the Academy, they were three Midshipmen working on a manual. To Patrick, his sanctuary was being dismantled syllable by syllable.
"Mr. Ward," Patrick’s voice boomed from the hallway, a resonant, professional intrusion that shattered the linguistic bubble.
"The Duty Officer is approaching the rotunda. If the SOP draft isn't ready for initial audit, logic suggests we should focus on the English text."
Marcus straightened up slowly, his icy blue eyes flicking toward the door with a snide, clinical amusement.
"The Squad Leader has such a keen sense of... timing," Marcus drawled, returning to English. He looked back at Alex, his expression softening into something raw and hungry.
"But the logic is already written, isn't it, Alex? Even if the Monolith can't read it yet."
Alex didn't look at either of them. He simply drew a hard, straight line under a row of data, his face returning to its unreadable mask.
"The draft is complete, Mr. Ward. We’ll report to the formation at 0600."
Patrick didn't move until Marcus had gathered his things and stepped into the hall, giving the Squad Leader a mocking, two-finger salute as he passed. Only then did Patrick look at Alex. The room felt smaller, the smell of Marcus lingering in the air like a breach in the hull.
"He's in the room, Alex," Patrick whispered, his voice cracking with the strain of the silence.
"He's not just across the hall anymore. He's in the room."
Alex finally looked up, his dark eyes vacant and cold.
"He's part of the training staff, Patrick. He's supposed to be in the room."
But the rhythmic tapping of Alex’s fingers didn't stop, even after the lights in the training office were cut for the night. The “City of Two” was no longer a fortress; it was a laboratory, and the experiment was spiraling out of control.