The audit began not with questions, but with observation. Valerie was a creature of pragmatism, her leadership forged in the brutal calculus of survival. She distrusted words. She trusted results. For the next twelve hours, Leo's team endured a trial.
Their quarantine cage became an interview room. Valerie and her lieutenants—a large, bearded man with a crossbow named Marcus, and the wiry, intense doctor, Elias—watched from the other side of the fence, their expressions unreadable.
Ben faced the first test. Valerie's own tech lead, a young woman with oil-stained hands and a skeptical frown named Anya, brought him a dead generator and a box of scavenged parts. "Fix it," was all she said.
For the next three hours, Ben became a whirlwind of focused energy. He laid the components out on a dirty tarp, his hands moving with a surgeon's precision. He muttered to himself, a constant stream of technical jargon. His [Component Analysis] skill allowed him to see the broken, rusted pieces not for what they were, but for what they could be. He didn't just fix the generator; he optimized it, rerouting the power flow and cannibalizing a server's cooling fan to improve its efficiency. When he finished, he wiped his hands on his pants and flipped a switch. The generator sputtered to life with a low, steady hum, quieter and more stable than the Junction's main power source.
Anya stared at it, her skepticism melting into a look of pure, unadulterated awe. Ben had passed his audit.
Chloe's test proved more subtle. Valerie watched as she organized the survivors. She saw how Chloe delegated tasks, her voice calm and steady, transforming a terrified mob into a functioning unit. She observed Chloe rationing their meager supplies, her pragmatic, no-nonsense approach quelling any arguments before they could begin. But her new skill truly set her apart.
A dispute broke out between two survivors over a stolen blanket. Tempers flared. A fist was raised. Before anyone could move, Chloe stepped between them. "He didn't take it," she said, her voice quiet but firm, her eyes locked on the accuser. "You misplaced it. It's under your cot." The man, surprised by her certainty, looked and found it. He stammered an apology. Chloe hadn't seen him misplace it. She had felt his anger, his frustration, and the underlying, mistaken certainty of his accusation. She hadn't just resolved a conflict; she had read the intent behind it. Valerie watched, her expression unreadable, and made a note. Chloe had passed her audit.
Maya had no test. She was her own test. She spent hours by the gate, her ear pressed to the cold steel, listening. She would pace the perimeter of their quarantine cage, her eyes constantly scanning the upper levels of the Junction, her movements a silent, deadly dance. A weapon didn't need to prove its sharpness. Her readiness, her focus, her sheer, coiled potential—it was a language Valerie understood perfectly.
Leo's audit was the longest. He spent most of it on the cot, the world a shimmering, corrupted mess, the pain in his head a dull, constant throb. Elias would check on him, his examinations a series of brisk, impersonal pokes and prods. But Valerie conducted the real test.
She would stand on the other side of the curtain, a silent, intimidating presence. "The Ogres," she would say, her voice a low rumble. "They're using rebar-enforced concrete slabs as shields. Our crossbows are useless."
Leo, his eyes closed, would retreat into the one place he was still an Admin: his own mind. He visualized the problem. The rebar. The concrete. The physics of it. "Not the center," he rasped, his voice a dry whisper. "Aim for the bottom corners. The aggregate is weaker there. A high-velocity impact will cause it to fracture."
Another time. "The Hounds. They're too fast. We can't get a clean shot."
"They hunt by scent," Leo murmured, the memory of their first encounter a cold, hard fact in his mind. "They're blind in the dark. Use chemical agents. Bleach. Ammonia. Anything to mask your scent and overwhelm theirs. They'll be disoriented."
He was a helpdesk tech troubleshooting a siege. He didn't give orders; he provided documentation, submitted bug reports. And Valerie, a cynical, pragmatic system manager, listened.
On the second day, she entered his alcove and dropped a tablet on his cot. It was wired to their local network. "Anya says your tech-priest wants this," she said, her voice flat. "She also says you can 'see the code'. Prove it."
The screen displayed a live feed of the main gate. The Ogres stood there, their massive forms a wall of brute force. The Hounds prowled restlessly. But overlaid on the feed shimmered something new, an almost invisible web of blue energy. The Junction's network.
Leo focused, his headache sharpening. He saw it. The data packets flowing. The security protocols. The user accounts. And he saw the flaw.
"Your network," he said, his voice a dry croak. "It's running on a closed loop. Secure. But it's broadcasting a low-level, unencrypted handshake protocol. A diagnostic signal."
Valerie's eyes narrowed. "So?"
"So," Leo said, his voice gaining a cold, hard certainty, "the System can't read your data. But it can see your network. It knows you're here. It knows you're organized. And it's learning." He looked up at her, his glitched, shimmering vision making her face a terrifying, fragmented thing. "You have a spy in your system. A piece of malware you installed yourself. And it's telling the enemy everything they need to know."
The silence in the med-bay was absolute. Valerie stared at him, her hard, cynical face a mask of dawning, horrified understanding.
Leo had passed his audit. And he had just become the most important, and the most dangerous, person in the entire Junction.