Rhodes Island's relief camp sat on the edge of a ruined coastal town. Rows of white tents, the smell of salt and medicine, and the sound of people trying to live again.
Florence walked through it with a tablet in one hand, her coat tied at the waist. The camp was running, but barely.
"Tent C's generator's whining again," a nurse called.
"Give it a kick and tell it I'll replace it when the world stops ending," Florence said, glancing over. "And don't let it bite you."
That earned a tired laugh. It was enough.
She moved from patient to patient — a broken arm here, a mild infection there. Every fix mattered.
A Schicksal liaison approached, visor up, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else."Doctor Florence, we appreciate your cooperation with recovery protocol."
Florence didn't look up from the chart. "You're welcome. Don't stand in the red zone — radiation scan's still warm."
The Valkyrie blinked and stepped back. Florence handed off the chart and walked on.
Hours later, the sun dipped behind the clouds. Florence leaned against a supply crate, scrolling through inventory logs. Most were fine: food, saline, field kits.Then she spotted a cluster of duplicate entries — perfect on paper, too perfect. Same routes, same timestamps, same operator code.
It wasn't normal. And she'd written that code herself.
"Alright," she murmured. "Who's playing delivery games on my network?"
She marked the entries and closed the tablet.
Elsewhere…
Deep inside an encrypted channel, a voice came through — calm, filtered, genderless.
"Convoy Theta-Seven confirmed. Maintain course adjustment. Non-lethal engagement. Preserve cargo integrity."
Three replies followed in sequence.
Lira: "Copy."
Fen: "Signal scrubbed."
Kallias: "Ready to intercept."
Aria: "Logs secured."
The figure in the command seat nodded once. Their coat reflected dim blue light from the console; the mask's visor hid their eyes.
"Proceed," the voice said.
The channel closed.