Adventure of Devin Halbolt 1

The hangar lights hum over the secured skiff, just as before. Mina Voss and the tech team keep prying at the salvaged cockpit, and the last trace of tapping dies mid-pattern. In its place comes a low, bone-deep resonance that rolls through the deck plating.

The interface shell finally opens. Inside, the pilot slumps motionless in the cradle, eyes unfocused, body locked by overload and conditioning. The readouts spike with suppressed psychic activity, not dead, not gone, just buried under damage and control.

Harada steadies the frame while Reese starts logging the resonance. Across the bay, the carrier feels suddenly bigger, as if the whole ship is listening. The Queen's route on the display stays green, holding, because this hidden threat is no longer steering it.

Devin reaches into the open cradle and works the helmet seals free. The latch gives with a harsh click, and the pilot's head tilts forward into the light.

The helmet comes off. A young face is revealed, slack with exhaustion and abuse, eyes half-lidded and unfocused beneath the glare.

A narrow line of blood shows where the collar seal had bitten into the skin. Mina freezes, then lowers her tool a fraction, as if the sight lands harder than the readings did.

Harada shifts his grip on the frame, jaw tight, while Reese glances up from her slate and keeps logging. The open helmet lies in Devin's hand, warm from the pilot's head, and the carrier's deck hum seems louder for it.

On the console, the Queens route stays green, but the relief feels thin now, bought with a shaking hand and a fresh scar on the pilot's neck.

Devin checks the pulse at the exposed throat, then slides both arms under the pilot’s shoulders and pulls him clear of the cradle.

Harada releases the frame and shifts aside to make room, watching the extraction like he expects the deck itself to protest.

The pilot sags against Devin’s hold, limp and unresisting, his head lolling once before Devin gets a firmer grip. The open cockpit hangs behind them like a shed skin.

The hangar noise returns in pieces, deck fans, cable hiss, the carrier’s low pulse. Out on the route display, Queens still glows green, and the Black Sheep waits beyond the frame.

Devin lowers the pilot onto the stretcher, careful with the weak weight in his arms. The straps click shut, and the support rig takes over.

He gives the pilot a brief shake at the shoulder. The young man’s eyes flutter, unfocused at first, then start to track.

Harada leans in over the stretcher, his posture easing as the pilot’s hand twitches once against the blanket.

The pilot blinks hard, throat working around a dry swallow. For a moment, the empty cockpit and the route display fade behind the plain, human fact of him breathing.

The pilot’s gaze finds Devin, slow and uncertain. His shoulders sag against the stretcher straps, but he stays present.

The young man wets his lips, then draws a shaky breath. His fingers curl once into the blanket, a reflex more than a grip.

Harada exhales through his nose, relief cutting through the hard line of his face as the stretcher’s display stays steady.

Toma’s eyes drift over the stretcher lights, then settle again on Devin, calmer by a fraction. The open cockpit behind them sits empty and quiet, while the others keep their voices low.

Devin searches Toma's gaze for a sign of allegiance or hidden intent, but the pilot's expression remains a hollow, unreadable mask of exhaustion. There is no flicker of ideology or lingering malice, only the blank, terrifying void of a mind wiped clean by its captors.

Devin eases back from the stretcher, giving the medics room as they wheel Toma toward the infirmary bay. The harbor noise returns in pieces, engine whine, clipped orders, the rattle of gurney locks.

Toma’s hand twitches once against the blanket, a faint, reflexive tap, then stills as the medics cover him. The sound is small, but it lands harder than the firefight.

The stretcher turns toward the Black Sheep’s open bay, and the squad’s formation subtly shifts with it. What they recover now is not salvage, but a living witness.

Devin gives a single nod and falls in behind the stretcher as it rolls through the Black Sheep’s open bay. The infirmary lights swallow the harbor noise, and the carrier doors begin sealing the world outside.

Inside, the medic team takes over cleanly, and the squad keeps moving with the patient, no longer hunting a signal, only carrying someone home.

The infirmary corridor hums soft and clean as Devin leaves the stretcher behind. Through the glass, Toma lies under steady scanner lights while medics work in practiced silence.

Devin reaches the waiting room and finally stops. The carrier sways around him, but here it is only a low vibration under the floor and a chair waiting in the corner.

Beyond the bulkhead, the bay doors finish sealing shut. The Black Sheep locks the harbor outside, and the clinic block lane stays green on the nearby display.