The barracks clock read 0347 hours.
Marcus stared at the ceiling tiles, counting the water stains. Twenty-three Marines breathed in synchronized rhythm around him.
Garcia snored like a broken air conditioner two bunks away. Someone muttered in their sleep about home.
He couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, Thompson's words echoed: ๐๐ฆ๐ค๐ณ๐ฆ๐ต๐ด ๐ฎ๐ข๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ค๐ถ๐ณ๐ช๐ฐ๐ถ๐ด.
Marcus slipped from his bunk. The floor was cold against his bare feet.
He crept to his footlocker, wincing when the hinges squeaked. Garcia's snoring never faltered.
Inside the locker sat Marcus Thorne's life. A life he'd supposedly lived but couldn't remember.
He pulled out a manila folder marked PERSONAL RECORDS. His hands shook slightly as he opened it.
The documents inside might as well have been written about a stranger.
Service record. Marcus Edward Thorne, born Mindoir Colony, 2161.
Parents: Robert Thorne (deceased), Sarah Chen-Thorne (deceased). Cause of death: Batarian slaver raid, 2170.
Next of kin: None listed.
A photograph slipped from the folder. Two adults and a child standing in front of a farmhouse.
The woman had Asian featuresโChen-Thorne, according to the record. The man looked weathered, hands stained from honest work.
The boy between them grinned at the camera, gap-toothed and innocent.
Marcus studied the child's face. His face, supposedly.
The bone structure matched, but the eyes were different. This kid had never spent years hunched over academic texts.
Never questioned whether he belonged anywhere.
More documents. Basic training scores: Expert in marksmanship, Outstanding in physical fitness, Above Average in leadership potential.
Psychological evaluation: "Subject shows exceptional focus and emotional stability. Recommended for advanced training programs."
None of it felt real. Marcus had no memory of basic training, no recollection of the drill instructors who'd apparently shaped him into a Marine.
But his body carried the evidenceโcalluses on his palms, scars on his knuckles, muscle memory that responded to commands he'd never learned.
A letter fell from the stack. The paper was worn, creased from repeated handling.
๐๐ข๐ณ๐ค๐ถ๐ดโ๐๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ด ๐ง๐ช๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ด ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ธ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ญ. ๐๐ฐ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐บ'๐ด ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฃ๐ถ๐ช๐ญ๐ฅ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ง๐ข๐ด๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ฏ ๐ฆ๐น๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ค๐ต๐ฆ๐ฅ. ๐๐ต๐ช๐ญ๐ญ ๐ฎ๐ช๐ด๐ด ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐ฑ๐ข๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต๐ด, ๐ฃ๐ถ๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐บ'๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ฅ. ๐ ๐ฐ๐ถ'๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐๐ฐ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ต ๐ข๐ญ๐ธ๐ข๐บ๐ด ๐ด๐ข๐ช๐ฅ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ธ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ญ๐ฅโ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฆ๐ค๐ต๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ญ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฐ ๐ค๐ข๐ฏ'๐ต ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฆ๐ค๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ด๐ฆ๐ญ๐ท๐ฆ๐ด. ๐๐ต๐ข๐บ ๐ด๐ข๐ง๐ฆ ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ. โ๐๐ข๐บ๐ฐ๐ณ ๐๐ช๐ญ๐ญ๐ช๐ข๐ฎ๐ด
The letter was dated six months ago. Marcus Thorne had apparently maintained contact with his home colony.
People expected him to remember them, to care about their lives and struggles.
Garcia rolled over in his sleep. "Thorne? That you?"
Marcus froze. "Yeah."
"Christ, man. It's almost 0400." Garcia sat up, rubbing his eyes. "What're you doing?"
"Couldn't sleep."
Garcia swung his legs off his bunk. "Yeah? What's eating you?"
Marcus closed the folder carefully. "Just thinking about today. The qual course."
"Shit, don't worry about that. You shot circles around everyone." Garcia padded over, keeping his voice low. "Thompson's just busting your balls. He does that with all the good shooters."
"Is that right?"
"Hell yeah. Remember when we were on Luna? He rode your ass for two weeks straight after you nailed that impossible shot during night exercises."
Garcia grinned. "What was it, like 800 meters in zero-G? Even the instructors were impressed."
Luna. Night exercises. 800-meter shots in zero gravity.
Marcus had no memory of any of it.
"Right," he said. "Luna."
Garcia's grin faded. "You okay, man? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine. Just tired."
"Tired, my ass. You've been acting weird all day." Garcia studied his face in the dim light filtering through the windows.
"Ever since you got back from medical leave. What happened down there on Mindoir anyway? You never talked about it."
Medical leave. Mindoir. More gaps in Marcus Thorne's history that Marcus Chen couldn't fill.
"Nothing happened. Just routine family stuff."
"Family stuff?" Garcia's eyebrows shot up. "Dude, your family's been dead for fifteen years. What family stuff?"
The silence stretched between them. Marcus felt sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air.
"Memorial service," he said finally. "Annual thing. Colony honors the dead."
Garcia nodded slowly. "Yeah, okay. That makes sense. Must be rough, going back to all that."
"It was."
"Is that why you're going through your records? Stirring up old memories?"
Marcus glanced at the folder in his hands. "Something like that."
"Look, if you need to talkโ"
Boot steps echoed in the corridor outside. Heavy, measured, professional.
Both men turned toward the sound.
The footsteps stopped outside their door.
Garcia dove for his bunk. Marcus shoved the folder back into his locker and closed it as quietly as possible.
He was three steps from his own bunk when the door opened.
Master Chief Thompson stood silhouetted in the doorway. His uniform was perfectly pressed despite the hour.
His eyes swept the barracks, cataloging every detail.
"Evening, ladies."
"Master Chief." Garcia's voice was muffled by his pillow.
Thompson's gaze settled on Marcus, who stood frozen halfway between his locker and his bunk.
"Trouble sleeping, Thorne?"
"No, Master Chief. Just getting some water."
Thompson stepped into the room. The door swung shut behind him with a soft click.
"Water's in the other direction. Your locker ain't on the way to the head."
Marcus felt the weight of twenty sleeping Marines around them. Any one could wake up and witness whatever was about to happen.
"Had to check something in my records, Master Chief."
"At 0400 hours?"
"Couldn't sleep anyway."
Thompson moved closer. His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "What kind of something, Marine?"
Marcus met his stare. "Personal matter, Master Chief."
"Personal matter." Thompson nodded slowly.
"You know what I find interesting, Thorne? Most Marines know their own service history by heart. Don't need to check records in the middle of the night to remember where they've been."
The words hit like a punch. Thompson suspected.
Somehow, the Master Chief had seen through the facade.
"Sometimes a man needs to remind himself where he's been to figure out where he's going, Master Chief."
Thompson studied him for long seconds. The clock ticked toward 0400.
"Sometimes," Thompson said finally. "And sometimes a man's got things on his mind that don't quite add up. Things that make him restless. Things that make him question what he knows about himself."
He turned toward the door, then paused.
"Get some sleep, Thorne. Tomorrow's another day. Another chance to show me who you really are."
The door closed behind him with barely a whisper.
Marcus stood alone in the darkness, surrounded by sleeping Marines who belonged here in ways he never would.
Garcia's breathing had already returned to its normal rhythm.
He climbed into his bunk and stared at the ceiling until dawn crept through the windows.
Tomorrow would bring new tests, new questions, new opportunities to expose himself as an imposter wearing a dead man's name.
But tonight, he'd learned something crucial: Master Chief Thompson wasn't just suspicious.
He was hunting.