There’s a moment in every command decision where authority either asserts itself or defers to something less tangible. Carrick studied my face for just long enough to make it clear he was weighing the situation, not dismissing it. Whatever he saw there—whether it was certainty, urgency, or something harder to define—was enough.
He turned to his aides. “Clear it.”
Everything that followed moved quickly but quietly. No shouting, no sirens, just controlled redirection. Personnel were guided out under the pretense of a routine inspection. Trays were left behind, conversations cut short, exits opened and monitored. Within minutes, the room that had been filled with nearly two hundred people was nearly empty.
I moved toward the service station and crouched near an abandoned tray. A bowl of broth had been spilled, the liquid spreading slowly across the surface. From the bottom of my med kit, I pulled out a test strip—unofficial, not standard issue, the kind of thing you carry when you don’t entirely trust that official channels will move fast enough.
I dipped it into the liquid.
Three seconds later, it turned a deep, unmistakable blue.
Neurotoxin.
Not enough to kill outright. Not in most cases. But enough to incapacitate, to slow response times, to create confusion and vulnerability across a base that relied on coordination to function effectively.
That’s when General Carrick stopped seeing me as just a medic.
And that’s when Titan did something that changed everything.
