The hiss was soft.
Then the cryofoam melted.
Then came the breath—a harsh, ragged gasp, like someone who had drowned long ago and only now remembered to breathe.
Toren stepped back as the pod opened fully. The clone inside didn't sit up right away. His eyes twitched beneath closed lids, and for a moment, he was motionless—trapped somewhere between memory and the now.
Then—like a switch flipping—he moved.
Up. Weapon-ready posture. Legs shaky, hands empty, but stance perfect.
Toren didn't flinch.
Mira did—half a step forward, hand near her sidearm.
The man's eyes snapped to her.
And stilled.
"I…" he rasped. "CT-1992. 'Tarn.' 7th Sky Corps. Medical evac unit."
His voice was gravel dragged through static.
"You're safe," Toren said calmly. "You're not on a battlefield."
Tarn blinked hard.
Then looked around.
"Is General Koon…? Where's… the others?"
No one answered.
Not at first.
Then Wess said quietly, "The war ended. A long time ago."
Tarn's face didn't change.
But something in his shoulders sank—just slightly.
"…Order Sixty-Six?" he asked.
Toren nodded once.
Tarn's fists clenched.
"I didn't fire," he said. "I saw it. But I didn't."
Silence.
"I didn't fire," he said again. Quieter.
Mira stepped forward.
She didn't speak.
But she didn't look away.
Toren's voice was even. "You're not under command anymore, Tarn. You're free."
The clone stared.
Then exhaled.
And for the first time since waking, looked like a man—not a weapon.