The service door remains barricaded behind Armorhide, its metal frame shuddering whenever a distant impact rolls through the colony. Inside, dim infirmary lights flicker over overturned supplies and the empty cot.
The orphan stands beside the cot, clutching a torn strip of gauze in one hand. The child points urgently toward a handwritten message lying on the floor.
The Orphan
Armorhide! I found this beside the cot. It has your squad mark on it.
The paper is creased and stained with dust, but the squad designation remains legible. No other survivor answers from the curtained treatment bays or the storage alcove.
The Orphan
I tried asking them where everyone went. They would not wake up. Is this from your squad?
Outside, the alarms continue their mechanical wail. Beyond the damaged fence, distant impacts mark movement through the laboratories, while the infirmary holds its fragile silence.
The Orphan
Please read it. Maybe it says where the others went.
Read the squad message