Marcus stared at Thompson across the desk. The Master Chief waited, patient as a predator.
The silence stretched between them like a tripwire.
"Master Chief, I need to ask you something first."
Thompson's eyes narrowed. "You're not in a position to ask anything, Marine."
"This room secure?"
"What?"
"Electronic surveillance. Recording equipment. Is this conversation being monitored?"
Thompson leaned back slightly. "No. Why?"
Marcus made his choice. The biggest gamble of his new life.
"Because what I'm about to tell you is classified above your clearance level."
The words hit Thompson like a physical blow. His expression shifted from interrogation to confusion to something approaching caution.
"Classified how?"
"Special Access Program. I can't discuss details without authorization from Alliance Intelligence."
"Bullshit."
"Master Chief, you've been documenting my performance changes for a week. Night vision, navigation skills, marksmanship improvement. You think that happened by accident?"
Thompson studied him. "You're saying Alliance Intelligence is responsible for your... abilities?"
"I'm saying I volunteered for something during my leave. Something that's still classified."
Marcus kept his voice steady. "And until I get clearance to discuss it, I can't answer your questions."
"What kind of program?"
"The kind that requires security clearances you don't have."
Thompson stood and paced behind his desk. "If that's true, why wasn't I briefed? Why isn't it in your service record?"
"Because that's how Special Access Programs work. Need-to-know basis only."
"And I don't need to know?"
"Apparently not."
Thompson stopped pacing. "Give me a name. Someone I can contact to verify this."
Marcus felt sweat building under his collar. He needed a name that sounded official but couldn't be immediately verified.
"Commander Patricia Singh. Alliance Intelligence Division, Special Projects."
"Where?"
"I can't tell you that without authorization."
"Convenient."
"Master Chief, you know how this works. You've dealt with classified programs before."
Thompson had. Marcus could see it in his expression.
The frustration of hitting a security wall. The professional obligation to respect classification levels.
"How do I know you're not lying?"
"Because lying about involvement in a classified program is treason. Court martial, prison, dishonorable discharge."
Marcus met his stare. "You think I'm stupid enough to risk that?"
"I think you're desperate enough to try anything."
The accusation hung between them. Marcus waited.
Thompson sat down heavily. "If this is legitimate, why all the secrecy? Why not just tell me you were involved in classified training?"
"Because the program is ongoing. My participation isn't finished."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I report to people other than you. People who don't want their work discussed with anyone who doesn't have clearance."
Thompson pulled out his phone. "I'm calling this Commander Singh."
"You won't reach her through normal channels."
"Why not?"
"Because Special Access Programs don't advertise their personnel rosters."
Thompson's finger hovered over his phone. Marcus could see him calculating.
The risk of pursuing an investigation that might violate security protocols. Versus letting a potential security breach continue unchallenged.
"Master Chief?"
Both men turned. Garcia stood in the doorway, his expression urgent.
"Sorry to interrupt, but we've got a situation. Training accident on Range D. Multiple casualties."
Thompson shoved his phone back in his pocket. "What kind of accident?"
"Ammunition malfunction. Three Marines down, one serious. Colonel Martinez wants all senior NCOs on scene immediately."
Thompson looked at Marcus, then back at Garcia. "How serious?"
"Corpsman called for medevac. They're airlifting someone to the base hospital."
"Shit." Thompson grabbed his hat. "This conversation isn't over, Thorne. We'll pick this up after I deal with the emergency."
He headed for the door, then stopped.
"If you're lying to me about classified involvement, I will find out. And when I do, you'll face charges for both the original deception and this one."
Thompson left. Garcia lingered in the doorway.
"You okay, man? You look like death."
"I'm fine. Just tired."
"What was that about? Classified programs?"
Marcus felt another spike of alarm. Garcia had overheard enough to ask dangerous questions.
"Nothing important. Training issues."
Garcia studied his face. "Training issues don't usually involve classified programs."
"Garciaโ"
"Look, I know something's going on with you. Have been since you got back. If you're in some kind of trouble, maybe I can help."
The offer was genuine. Garcia was risking his own career by even suggesting he'd help cover for Marcus.
But accepting that help would drag an innocent person into his deception.
"I'm handling it."
"Are you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're drowning."
Garcia was right. Marcus was drowning.
Flailing from one crisis to the next. Each lie spawning three new problems.
"The accident. How bad is it really?"
"Bad enough. Johnson took shrapnel in the chest. Williams got hit in the leg. Third guy I don't know his name."
Real Marines, hurt because of defective ammunition or equipment failures.
While Marcus worried about hiding his supernatural abilities, other people were bleeding.
"I should help."
"Thompson said to stay put until he gets back."
"He's gone. Emergency takes priority."
Marcus headed for the door. Garcia fell into step beside him.
"You sure about this? Thompson was pretty clear about continuing your conversation."
"The conversation can wait. People are hurt."
They jogged across base toward Range D. Emergency vehicles crowded the area.
Ambulances, fire trucks, medical personnel. The organized chaos of military crisis response.
Marcus spotted Thompson coordinating with the medics. Colonel Martinez was directing the investigation.
Dr. Vasquez knelt beside one of the wounded Marines.
"Thorne!" Thompson's voice cut across the noise. "I thought I told you to wait."
"Came to help, Master Chief."
"We've got it handled. Get back toโ"
"Master Chief." One of the medics approached. "We need someone to ride with Johnson to the hospital. Keep pressure on the wound during transport."
Thompson looked around. Most of the senior personnel were needed for the investigation and scene management.
"Thorne, you're with the medic. Keep that Marine alive."
Marcus climbed into the ambulance. Johnson was unconscious, his face pale from blood loss.
The medic worked with professional efficiency while the vehicle screamed toward the base hospital.
"Apply pressure here." The medic guided Marcus's hands to a compress over Johnson's chest wound. "Don't let up, no matter what."
Marcus pressed down, feeling Johnson's life pulse beneath his fingers.
This was real. This mattered. A person's survival depended on his actions.
The medic checked Johnson's vitals. "He's stable but we're losing him. Need to get more pressure on that wound."
Marcus could see the bleeding better than the medic could in the ambulance's dim lighting.
His enhanced vision showed him exactly where the pressure needed to be applied. How much force was required. Which angle would be most effective.
"Try moving your hands two inches left," Marcus suggested.
"What?"
"The bleeding's worst on the left side of the wound. If you shift the pressureโ"
The medic followed Marcus's suggestion. The bleeding slowed noticeably.
"How the hell did you see that? The lighting in here is shit."
Marcus realized his mistake. He'd used his supernatural vision to guide medical treatment.
Demonstrating impossible perception in low-light conditions.
"Lucky guess."
The medic studied him while maintaining pressure on Johnson's wound. "That wasn't luck. You could see exactly where the bleeding was worst."
Another witness. Another person noticing his impossible capabilities.
The ambulance reached the hospital. Medical personnel swarmed the vehicle.
Taking over Johnson's care with practiced efficiency. Marcus and the medic were relegated to observers as the trauma team worked.
"Nice catch back there," the medic said. "Johnson owes his life to your eyes."
"Team effort."
"Maybe. But I've been doing this for eight years. Never seen anyone spot wound details that clearly in the dark."
Marcus said nothing.
"You've got the best low-light vision I've encountered outside of enhancement programs."
The words sent ice through Marcus's veins. "Enhancement programs?"
"Yeah. Some of the Special Forces guys get vision modifications. Surgical improvements, genetic treatments, that kind of thing."
The medic studied Marcus's face. "You ever been involved in anything like that?"
"No."
"Huh. Well, whatever you've got going on with your eyes, it saved a life tonight."
The medic walked away. Marcus was left alone with the growing certainty that his problems were multiplying faster than he could solve them.
He'd bought time with Thompson by claiming classified program involvement. But that lie would eventually be investigated by people with the resources to expose it.
Now he'd demonstrated supernatural vision to a medic who was already connecting it to military enhancement programs.
Each solution created three new problems. Each escape route led to a bigger trap.
Marcus's phone buzzed. A text message from an unknown number:
๐๐ฆ ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ต๐ข๐ญ๐ฌ. ๐๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฎ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐๐ช๐ฏ๐จ๐ฉ, ๐๐ญ๐ญ๐ช๐ข๐ฏ๐ค๐ฆ ๐๐ฏ๐ต๐ฆ๐ญ๐ญ๐ช๐จ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ค๐ฆ. ๐๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ธ, 0800, ๐๐ถ๐ช๐ญ๐ฅ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ 347.
Marcus stared at the message. Either someone was calling his bluff about classified programs.
Or the fictional Commander Singh he'd invented actually existed.
Both possibilities terrified him.