Date: 3:30 AM, April 1, 2025

  Location: Fairchild Air Force Base, Eastern Washington

  The barracks smelled of damp canvas and stale coffee, a low hum of voices and creaking cots filling the dim space. Sarah slumped onto a bunk near the west wall, her body screaming for rest, though her mind refused to quiet. Kessler sat across, peeling off her blood-crusted jacket, wincing as she stretched her bruised frame. The tent’s canvas rippled in the wind, Fairchild’s floodlights casting jagged shadows through the slits.

  “Get some shut-eye,” Kessler said, voice low. “Two hours ‘til takeoff. You look like hell.”

  “You too,” Sarah shot back, managing a weak smirk. She kicked off her muddy boots, the ache in her legs settling into a dull throb. Her hands were empty—no recorder, no weapon—just her, raw and worn. Jake’s psychic echo lingered, a faint buzz beneath the base’s noise, tugging at her resolve.

  Kessler leaned back, eyes half-closed. “Seen worse nights, believe it or not. Iraq, ‘08—IED took half my squad. This? Different beast, but same grind. Survive, move on.”

  “Move on,” Sarah murmured. “Not leaving him behind.”

  “Your brother?” Kessler’s gaze sharpened. “If he’s hybrid, he’s not Jake anymore. Cult’s got claws deep—seen it twist people. Friend of mine turned in Tacoma—shot him myself.”

  Sarah flinched, staring at her hands. “I’d know if he was gone. I’d feel it.”

  “Maybe.” Kessler shrugged, unconvinced. “Rest anyway. Dead on your feet’s no good to him.”

  Sarah nodded, lying back, the cot’s springs groaning. Sleep pulled at her, but the barracks buzzed—soldiers whispering, a civilian coughing, someone pacing near the entrance. Her eyes drifted shut, images flickering—Rodriguez’s last shots, the Tyrant’s claws, Jake’s warped face. The psychic hum pulsed, a thread she couldn’t cut.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  A shadow crossed her bunk, snapping her awake. A soldier stood there—tall, gaunt, his face half-lit by a lantern. His tag read Sgt. Carter. “Thompson?” he asked, voice soft, too soft.

  “Yeah,” she sat up, wary. “What?”

  “Major Ellis sent me. Needs you back—new intel on Seattle.” His eyes flicked to Kessler, who snored lightly, then back to Sarah. “Now.”

  Something was off—his stare lingered, unblinking, and his hands stayed stiff at his sides. The hum in her head sharpened, a warning. “Middle of the night for intel?” she said, stalling.

  “Urgent,” Carter replied, stepping closer. “Come on.”

  She slid off the bunk, keeping distance, her gut screaming. “Let me grab my boots.” She bent, watching him from the corner of her eye. His head tilted—too far, unnatural—and a glint caught her: four pupils in his left eye, flickering under the light.

  Hybrid. Her breath caught. She lunged, grabbing Kessler’s discarded knife from the cot, slashing at his arm. He hissed, recoiling, blood—dark, wrong—dripping as he lunged back, claws sprouting from his fingers.

  “Help!” Sarah yelled, dodging as he swiped. Kessler jolted awake, grabbing her pistol from under the pillow, firing—two shots, chest and head. Carter dropped, twitching, his face twisting into something inhuman before stilling.

  The barracks erupted—soldiers leaping up, weapons drawn, civilians screaming. Kessler panted, staring at the body. “Son of a—how’d he get in?”

  “Cult,” Sarah said, trembling, knife slick in her hand. “They’re here.”

  A lieutenant burst in—Ramirez again—rifle raised. “What the hell?” He saw Carter, cursed. “Perimeter’s clean—how’d this bastard slip through?”

  “Inside job,” Kessler growled, standing. “Screened too fast—some turned quiet.”

  Ramirez radioed, “Command, we’ve got a hybrid breach—barracks west. Lock it down!” He turned to Sarah. “You okay?”

  “No,” she said, dropping the knife. “But alive.” The hum buzzed louder—Jake’s voice, faint, “Sarah…” She shook it off, anger flaring. “They’re not stopping.”

  “Neither are we,” Ramirez said, grim. “Ellis needs this—move to the command tent, both of you. Evac’s bumped—thirty minutes.”

  Sarah nodded, grabbing her boots. The barracks wasn’t safe—nowhere was. Fairchild’s walls held, but the enemy was already inside, wearing familiar faces. She glanced at Carter’s corpse, his four eyes dull now, and steeled herself.

  The fight wasn’t just out there. It was here, too.