7. Kalev
KALEV
The message from Command comes coded in a language meant to soothe. “Performance optimization request,” they call it. “Joint operational continuity.”
What it really means is: We saw what you did. Do it again. But this time, we’re watching closer.
I read the packet three times before burning it. Standard phrasing, sure, but the metadata pings have tripled since yesterday. And now the directive has teeth—daily updates, embedded telemetry, off-record inquiries into personnel profiles. Meaning her.
Leah.
I feel it before I admit it. The shift.
What started as containment—damage management, asset assessment—has moved. Mutated. She's no longer just a question I need to solve. She's a variable I’m adapting to.
I ping her location. Secure line, single-hop proxy. She answers before the second ring.
“Was wondering when the leash would snap,” she says.
I smirk despite myself. “You always this pleasant in the morning?”
“No. I’m worse. Coffee?”
“Already brewed.”
“Give me fifteen.”
The safehouse we use now is technically a condemned outflow depot. Quiet. Off-map. No windows, but I prefer that.
When Leah walks in, she’s dressed in civilian fatigue and defiance. Hair up, neck bare, mouth curved just enough to warn you before she bites.
She tosses a packet on the table.
“Alliance babysitter notes. Thought you’d want a copy.”
I flip it open. Redacted timestamp, inline behavioral flags. Someone's compiling a profile.
Of her.
Of us.
“They’re logging our speech patterns,” I say.
She raises a brow. “So I should stop flirting?”
“You’ve been flirting?”
She grins. “Guess you missed it.”
Gods help me.
I toss the report into the burner.
“We have another assignment.”
She sits, boots up, balancing on two legs of the chair. “Same target type?”
“Different node. Higher clearance. They want to test scalability.”
She snorts. “Translation: ‘If they’re not screwing each other yet, see if we can make it happen under live fire.’”
I don’t laugh. But only because I might if I start.
“They’ve also increased oversight,” I say. “Every file we touch, every breath we take?—”
“—they’ll be watching us. Yeah. I figured.”
I study her.
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. She just takes a sip of the coffee and stares back like I’m the one under interrogation.
“You can walk,” I say finally. “No shame. You’re in deeper than any nonconscript should be.”
She sets her cup down.
“You think I didn’t know that already?”
“Knowing it and hearing it are different.”
She leans forward.
“Are you trying to scare me off?”
“No.”
“Then why the warning?”
“Because the Alliance doesn’t stop. Once you’re in, you’re part of the machine. Even if you think you’re just fixing a gear.”
She’s quiet.
Then, “So are you going to tell me to stay out of it? Or are you going to give me the mission brief?”
I hesitate.
Not because I don’t trust her.
Because I do.
Too much.
“The brief’s on the drive,” I say, sliding it over.
She pockets it without looking.
“I’ll read it over lunch. Unless you want to hold my hand through the big words.”
“I think you can handle yourself.”
“Damn right I can.”
The air shifts again.
Not heavy. Not light.
Just charged. Like we’re two magnets figuring out how close we can get before things start sparking.
Later, at night, I don’t sleep.
I scan the compound layouts three times, check entry schedules, evaluate fallback options. All standard. All efficient.
But my focus keeps drifting—to her.
To what happens if she slips up.
To what they’ll do to her if she becomes inconvenient.
I run contingencies.
New exit points.
Altered ID threads.
If needed, I could frame her extraction as a double-blind misfire. Sell a cover story. Get her out.
But that would mean cutting ties. Burning routes. Losing her.
I’m not ready for that.
Not yet.
The next morning, we train.
Surveillance drills. Comms insertion. Mock intercepts. She absorbs everything with unsettling speed.
When she challenges something in the plan, she does it like a blade—not blunted, not rude, just sharp enough to make me check my footing.
“Blind spot here,” she says, pointing at a vector.
“You think the patrol will cut early?”
“I think if they don’t, the civvie line will. You’ll have a pileup that traps your asset.”
She’s right.
I adjust the sequence. Update the fallback.
“You’re not just showing off, are you?” I ask.
“Would it work?”
“Depends on what you’re after.”
“Maybe I just like being right.”
“You ever not?”
“Once,” she says, brushing past me, close enough that her shoulder brushes mine. “Didn’t like it.”
We move like a unit now.
She syncs to my cues without being told. I lean on her observations without meaning to.
It’s not about authority anymore. Not handler and contact. Not protector and protected.
We’re partners.
And that scares the hell out of me.
Because I know what partnerships cost.
And I know I’d pay it.