He'd joined the military to understand the world. To learn the truth about space. About the systems. About what waited beyond the atmosphere. Instead, he'd been fed curated history. Warped missions. Performance-based morality.
I wanted to believe them, he thought, the weight of it thick in his chest.
His fist clenched again.
This time, it responded. The motion was slow—sluggish like thawing ice—but it responded. His knuckles drew inward. Muscle pressed against crystal.
He swung his arm inward, dragging it across his torso with effort.
The edge of his forearm scraped the wall.
A thin trail of blue splintered outward. Dust shimmered, floating briefly before falling in slow spirals to the sterile lab floor. It glittered like powdered glass under the glow of the overhead lights.
Again.
He pulled. Gritted his teeth. Slammed his elbow against the curve of the chamber.
Crack.
Another line snaked outward.
