The hum of generators fills the research bay — a low, steady vibration beneath the clang of tools and the murmur of voices. Floodlights hang overhead, painting the concrete walls in harsh white. On one side, Virgil looms like a sleeping beast — her titanium hull gleaming under sheets of condensation, wires running from her panels into rows of humming computers.
Josh Keyes stands near the center console, sleeves rolled to the elbow, shirt untucked, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he reads a string of data scrolling across the monitor. There’s coffee — black, bitter, forgotten — cooling beside his elbow. He’s been awake for thirty hours, give or take, but the way his brain runs, sleep’s just a luxury he’s never been good at.
“Pressure test came back within tolerance,” Serge calls from the catwalk above, voice thick with his accent. “Hull is stable up to nine hundred atmospheres.”
Josh nods, not looking up. “That’s good news.”
“Good?” Serge laughs. “It’s miraculous. You Americans don’t know how to celebrate small victories.”
Josh’s lips twitch into something like a smile. “Trust me, Serge. I’ll celebrate when we’re not all in molten metal soup.”
Behind him, Rat is sprawled in an office chair, feet propped on a nearby console, typing lazily with one hand. “I just hacked into the Pentagon again,” he says, grinning. “They still don’t know how to lock me out.”
Josh doesn’t glance up. “That’s because they think you’re still in juvenile detention.”
“Ouch,” Rat mutters. “You’re getting meaner, professor.”
“Sleep deprivation,” Josh answers, still typing. “Makes me honest.”
Across the bay, Commander Rachel Beck steps down from Virgil’s entry ramp, helmet under one arm. She’s sharp, commanding, her posture straight even after hours in the simulator. There’s that same quiet intensity in her — the pilot’s edge.
“Status report?” she asks, walking over.
Josh straightens slightly. “We’re at ninety-eight percent integration on the navigation array. Serge wants to run another stress test before we lock in the seismic dampeners.”
Rachel crosses her arms. “And you?”
He meets her eyes — tired but steady. “I want to make sure it doesn’t implode halfway to the core.”
Her mouth twitches into the faintest smirk. “Always the optimist.”
“Realist,” he corrects softly. “Optimists die early.”
Zimsky’s voice cuts through from across the room, sharp and smug. “And pessimists make everyone else miserable until they do.”
Josh looks over his shoulder. “Nice of you to join us, Dr. Zimsky. I thought you only came down here to take credit.”
Zimsky bristles. “Someone’s got to make sure you don’t destroy half the planet with your amateur engineering.”
“Right,” Josh says evenly. “Because your ego could survive another disaster.”
Rat lets out a low whistle. “God, I love it when Mom and Dad fight.”
Rachel gives them both a warning glance. “Enough.” She turns to Josh again, voice firm but not unkind. “Keyes, you’ve been at that console all day. Get some air.”
He gestures toward the metal walls. “Air’s recycled down here. Smells like burnt coffee and despair.”
Her brow arches. “That’s an order, professor.”
He hesitates — just long enough to make her smirk again — then sets his tablet down. “Fine. Five minutes.”
As he heads toward the break area, Rat calls after him. “Bring back snacks!”
Josh waves him off without turning. “You want snacks, hack the vending machine.”
He walks past the glass observation bay, pausing for a moment. Virgil sits under the harsh lights — elegant and terrifying, like something out of a fever dream. His design. His calculations. His responsibility. Somewhere behind the glass, Rachel joins him, watching the machine in silence.