“It reads like you’re measuring fault lines,” he says.
“I am,” I reply, turning my attention back to the floor below.
“That’s not a neutral position,” he says.
“It’s not supposed to be,” I answer.
He lets out a short breath, something between a quiet laugh and a warning. “You realize they’re not just adjusting to the system,” he says.
“I know,” I reply. “They’re adjusting to me.”
“That’s the part that breaks things,” he says.
“That’s the part that shows what was already broken,” I counter.
The silence that follows isn’t empty, and I can feel him studying me even without looking.
“You’re getting comfortable standing in that,” he says.
“I’m getting used to not having a choice,” I reply.
His gaze sharpens slightly, something shifting under the surface of his expression.
“You always have a choice,” he says.
I don’t answer him, because the weight of that statement doesn’t hold here, not in a place where every option comes with a cost I didn’t get to set.
The sound hits before the words do, a spike in volume from below that cuts through the layered noise of the base, sharp enough to pull my attention downward. One voice rises above the rest, tight and controlled in a way that means it’s about to slip, and another answers it with equal force.
“That’s not adjustment, that’s hesitation,” someone snaps, his hand striking the console hard enough that the vibration carries up through the railing under my palms.
“I changed timing,” another voice shoots back, pacing in a tight line that keeps bringing him back into the same space like he can’t quite leave the argument behind.
“You broke sequence.”
“I prevented overcommitment.”
Their words overlap, not chaotic, but colliding, each one trying to establish control over the same moment from a different angle.
I’m already moving before I consciously decide to, the metal steps carrying a hollow echo under my boots as I descend, the temperature shifting slightly with each level, warmer as I get closer to the floor, the air thicker with movement and proximity.
By the time I reach them, the argument has drawn a loose perimeter of attention, people pretending not to watch while adjusting their positioning just enough to stay within earshot.
“You’re both right,” I say as I step into the edge of it.
The effect is immediate.
Not resolution.
Interruption.
Both of them turn toward me, tension still locked into their shoulders, but redirected now, attention shifting from each other to me.
“That doesn’t help,” the first one says, his voice still tight, but less explosive.
“It does if you’re willing to look at the whole sequence,” I reply.
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before gesturing at the console. “He hesitated,” he says, like repeating it will make it more solid.
