Veil of Corruption

The Buffer Zone door loomed tall and motionless, its reinforced frame half-exposed to show rows of copper teeth and deep steel grooves—teeth designed to bite shut if things ever went wrong.

The Departure Bay beyond it was unnervingly quiet, the kind of silence that hummed just under the skin. It smelled faintly of machine oil, sterilizing agents, and cold metal—like everything here had been scrubbed clean.

Kneeling by the lock housing, Erin worked in practiced silence. The glow of the console flickered pale-blue against her glasses, casting soft arcs of light on her cheekbones. A thin line of sweat traced behind her ear where her helmet strap had rested earlier. Her gloves were coated with a light dusting of carbon and grime, fingertips moving with quick, decisive gestures—slotting a datachip in, waiting for the response, tapping out the next code string.

To her left, the faint hydraulic hiss of James Muller's mechanical arm underscored the quiet. He hadn't spoken in several minutes. He didn't need to.

Then came the sound of soft, hurried footsteps—rubber soles on steel plating, not heavy enough to belong to anyone with real clearance.

"Quite the setup you've got here," said a voice behind her, cutting through the calm like a knife through sterile gauze.

She didn't turn immediately. The voice was nasal, slightly too loud, with a hint of forced cheerfulness. It carried no weight, no familiarity.

Erin glanced over her shoulder.

A small man stood just outside the hazard line—wiry, underfed-looking, with a lopsided clipboard in one hand and a folder tucked beneath the other arm. His uniform was Supply Corps-issue, though it wore him like an afterthought. His teeth were uneven, catching the harsh light awkwardly as he smiled, and the sweat at his temples looked like it had nothing to do with heat.

He tilted his head toward the exposed lock. "Buffer Zone's getting a facelift?"

Erin stared at him. "Who are you?"

"Briggs. Clerk. Third Division Logistics." He tapped his badge, which dangled on a fraying lanyard and looked like it had been printed three budgets ago. "Just here for paperwork. Routine stuff—signoffs, manifests, a few cross-checks. Nothing serious."

"You're standing near an armed lock installation," she said plainly. "This bay is sealed to technical teams. What part of that sounded like a signoff zone to you?"

Briggs laughed—a weak, breathy sound. "Well, I figured while you're working, I might get a visual confirmation. Helps speed things up later."

"You're in the way."

He blinked. "Ah. Got it. Just… figured I'd help. Or observe. You know, Outpost Ten had a similar system—"

"Step any closer, and this console resets," Erin interrupted, her voice soft but clipped. "I'd have to re-sequence the biometric key. That's an extra ninety-two minutes added to our shift. You want to explain that to Muller?"

Briggs looked past her at James—who hadn't turned around, but had stopped moving.

The mechanical arm, still mid-motion, paused in the air like a mantis waiting for a reason to strike.

Briggs cleared his throat. "Right. My mistake. I'll just, uh… check back later."

Erin said nothing.

He turned slowly, the soles of his boots squeaking faintly on the polished floor. His clipboard knocked once against the steel wall as he passed by, the echo louder than it should've been.

As the heavy side door hissed shut behind him, the sterile quiet returned.

Erin exhaled slowly and muttered, barely audible, "Who the hell was that?"

Mira, crouched nearby with a torque wrench, smirked without looking up. "If you're lucky? No one that matters."

Erin said nothing more. The console beeped quietly as the next sequence unlocked, washing the screen in cold green.

The Buffer Zone stayed closed, but something about the air felt thinner now—like it had been disturbed by something soft, something oily, that left no footprints but still lingered.

...

Monitors glowed cold in the dim of the control room. Jaden Prolev stood still, hands behind his back, eyes fixed on the feed.

Sparks danced from Muller's mechanical arm as he adjusted the Buffer Zone's lock. The metal groaned faintly through the speakers. A girl worked beside him, silent and efficient.

He stared at the sealed door.

Then frowned.

'Why did I order that lock?'

The question drifted through his mind like smoke—dissolving before he could grasp it.

A second later, he forgot he'd even asked.

.........

Lieutenant Carter stood waiting at the Outer Gate Post, just before the reinforced entrance to Greywell proper. Behind him, the blast gate loomed tall—sealed tight, humming faintly with residual charge. A red status light pulsed softly at the biometric panel beside him.

He looked like a ghost under the overhead lamps—face pale, cheekbones sharp, eyes sunken not from illness, but from discipline. The warmth he was known for elsewhere was gone. It had to be.

The Supply Corps team stepped off their vehicle in formation, the clang of boots echoing against the metal. Leading them was Lucas, clean-cut, with a cargo tablet tucked under one arm.

Carter gave a short nod. "Manifest?"

Lucas stepped forward and handed it over without a word.

Carter flipped through the file. "Seventeen crates. Eight refrigerated. Three coded Level 2. You're early."

Lucas allowed a faint smile. "Thought we'd impress someone."

"You didn't," Carter said, eyes never leaving the list.

Behind Lucas, a few of the Corps members shifted their weight uncomfortably. The silence at the gate felt too heavy—thick with the kind of stillness that made people sweat even in cold air.

Carter handed the tablet back. "You'll unload at the staging bay. Stay within your lane. You have nineteen minutes. Do not engage with internal staff."

Lucas nodded, the smile already gone. "Understood."

Carter turned without ceremony, reaching for the panel. His fingers hovered for a beat before pressing the release code. The gate groaned, then slid open with sluggish reluctance, revealing the steel arteries of Greywell beyond.

As the Corps moved past him, Carter stood still, posture exact, face unreadable.

Not a word more.

Not until they were gone.

Then—only then—did his shoulders ease, just a fraction.