Adventure of Devin Halbolt 1

The infirmary glows under pale scanner light, all soft beeps and filtered air. Devin steps up beside Toma Sera’s cot as the Black Sheep settles into a rare, steady hum.

Reese’s eyes stay on the monitor, one hand resting near the data panel as if she is afraid the numbers might change if she looks away.

Toma’s eyelids flutter. His shoulders remain slack against the cot, but the tension in his jaw loosens by a fraction.

A tray of meds sits between them, untouched. Beyond the infirmary glass, the corridor lights pass in slow, even pulses, and for once nobody is shouting over comms.

Devin gives Toma’s shoulder a light shake, careful not to jostle the cot. The medic light washes over Toma’s face as his eyes snap toward Devin, unfocused but present.

The answer comes in fragments. Toma swallows hard, then grips the blanket with stiff fingers as if bracing against something only he can hear.

Reese looks up from the monitor, her relief sharpening into attention. One of the scanner strips flickers as Devin’s hand withdraws, and the motion makes Toma flinch.

He exhales in a shaky burst, still awake now, still tangled in the memory. Reese lowers her stylus and waits, silent, while the room holds for Devin’s next question.

Devin keeps his hand there, steady and warm, not pressing for anything. The medbay stays quiet except for the soft monitor tones and Toma’s uneven breathing.

Toma’s shoulders loosen by a fraction. His eyes search Devin’s face, then the blanket, as if checking whether the room is real.

Reese sets her stylus down beside the monitor and watches him with careful stillness. Toma’s grip on the blanket eases, and his breathing finally starts to slow.

Devin’s cheeks color, but he keeps his hand closed around Toma’s, steady as a rail. The medbay light washes soft over the cot.

Toma blinks at the question like it has to travel a long way back to him. Reese stills beside the monitor, watching his face instead of the numbers.

His free hand lifts, then falters in midair, fingers twitching with a faint remembered rhythm against the blanket.

Reese’s expression softens, and she reaches to steady the scanner strap without interrupting. Toma keeps hold of Devin’s hand, as if it is the one thing that still belongs to the room.

The question settles over the medbay like a hand on a fevered brow. Toma swallows, eyes unfocusing, then locks back on Devin as if following a rope in fog.

His fingers twitch once against the blanket, a tiny remembered tap, then stop when Devin keeps speaking. Reese watches the rhythm fade and does not interrupt.

Devin keeps his voice low and steady, and the medbay seems to answer by going quieter still. Toma’s shoulders ease a fraction, his stare staying on Devin instead of drifting back into the dark.

He squeezes Devin’s hand once, not to pull away, but to stay anchored. Reese lowers her gaze to the vitals readout, her posture softening as the numbers hold steady.

For a moment, the hollow exhaustion on Toma’s face gives way to something clearer, like a name trying to surface. The room stays calm, waiting with him.

Devin tries to steer the conversation toward lighter topics, but Toma’s gaze remains fixed on the sterile ceiling, his mind unable to break free from the rhythmic echo of the clinic block. The attempt to distract him fails to penetrate the fog of his conditioning.

Devin squeezes Toma’s hand again, and the cot’s rail creaks under the pressure. His voice stays gentle, asking Toma to say whatever will ease the pressure.

Toma’s fingers jerk once against the sheet, then settle into that same tiny rhythm. Ilyana glances up from the monitor, her concern sharpening as the numbers hold steady.

The confession breaks out of him in fragments, and with it comes a small shiver through the room. Devin’s grip slips a little as Toma exhales, exhausted but finally speaking.

Devin eases his arm in a slow, soothing rub, careful not to jostle the cot. The medbay stays hushed, all pale light and soft monitor hum.

Toma swallows hard, then keeps going, as if the words hurt to hold back. His fingers start that faint tapping again against the sheet, not quite steady, not quite random.

Toma turns his face toward Devin, exhausted and raw, but he does not pull away this time. The rhythm in his hand slows, and the next sentence catches in his throat, waiting.

Devin keeps his hand there, steady and patient, until Toma’s breathing evens out. The tapping stops. For a moment, the medbay only holds the soft glow of monitors and the ship’s distant hush.

Toma’s shoulders loosen by a fraction. The strain in his face shifts into something quieter, like a door finally unlatching inside him.

Devin stays close as Toma swallows, then exhales in a long, shaky release. One hand curls against the blanket, the other rests still at last.

The words land crooked, but they land. Toma’s expression remains hollow, yet the panic drains from it, leaving exhausted clarity. Devin’s sleeve catches on the bed rail as he leans in, and the fabric pulls a little thread loose.

Toma blinks slowly, then turns his gaze toward Devin like he is measuring how much of the room is real. The loosened thread on Devin’s sleeve hangs between them, a tiny snag from the bed rail.

The medbay stays hushed, all pale light and monitor hum. Toma wets his lips and keeps talking, like the words are a handhold. Devin’s sleeve still snags on the loose thread, a tiny tether in the silence.

Toma gives a shaky nod, eyes unfocused, then fixes on Devin again as if his face is the only stable thing in the room.

At that, Toma’s shoulders ease a fraction. He draws in a careful breath, and the thread on Devin’s sleeve hangs between them without pulling tighter.

Toma's gaze drifts away from Devin, his eyes glazing over as the clarity he just found begins to fracture. He starts to tap his fingers against the mattress in the same rhythmic, hollow cadence that echoed from the cockpit module.

Devin rubs his arm, then leans in a little closer, keeping his voice low and steady. The motion is small, but it gives Toma something simple to hold onto.

His hands lift off the sheets, then hover, as if waiting for a rhythm that is no longer there. Ilyana watches the monitor and says nothing, letting the silence do its work.

Toma’s fingers curl hard into the blanket, then loosen with a shaky breath. The monitor stays calm, its green line steady while Ilyana glances from the display to his face.

The loose thread on Devin’s sleeve catches as he shifts closer, a tiny snag that tugs once and goes still. Toma turns his head toward Devin, exhausted but present.

Toma swallows and looks away, then back again, like Devin is the only fixed point in the room. The monitor hums softly, green and calm.

The silence holds after that, not empty now, just careful.

Devin eases back beside the bunk and keeps his voice low, his steadying presence doing most of the work. Toma watches him for a beat, then his shoulders drop as if something finally lets go.

Toma’s eyes flutter shut. His breathing evens out, thin at first, then deeper, the tension in his jaw loosening into exhaustion.

Devin leaves the bunk rail and crosses to Ilyana’s station, keeping his steps light in the hush. The monitor glow washes over her face as she looks up from Toma’s vitals.

Ilyana taps a small readout and tilts the screen toward Devin, the line steady but thin. In the bunk behind them, Toma stirs once, then settles again without waking.

The room stays quiet except for the soft monitor tone. Ilyana folds her hands near the console and waits, giving Devin room to answer or simply keep standing there.

The words leave Devin quietly, almost apologetic, and the tension in his shoulders eases with them. Ilyana’s expression softens as she studies him over the glow of the monitor.

On the bunk, Toma’s fingers twitch once against the blanket, then still. His breathing stays even, but his brow tightens like the memory is trying to climb back up.

Devin leaves the infirmary alcove without making a scene, following the narrow ship corridor toward the hangar deck. The quiet of the Black Sheep feels different here, all humming bulkheads and distant footfalls.

The hangar lights spill over the salvaged relay hardware on its cradle, stripped shell and cable harnesses marked for analysis. Devin reaches the workstation and sees the relay plates still carry the same faint pulse he noticed in combat.

He leans in and checks the markings, the signal traces, the scorch lines around the housing. Whatever this thing was doing in the field, it was built to carry more than a simple broadcast.

A clipped cough crackles over the intercom, then cuts off. Somewhere aft, a tool cart rattles once and goes still.

Devin’s fingers pause on a warped connector. Inside the relay casing, a secondary layer of circuitry peels into view, tagged with Queens route coordinates and a clinic block checksum.