I eat my morning nutrition paste at CDC-4, still bland despite the addition of Iris's herb supplement.

  "You look thoughtful," says Volt, sliding into the seat across from me with her own container of nutrition paste. Small electrical currents dance between her fingers as she stirs the gray sludge.

  "Just planning my day," I reply noncommittally. "Agricultural assignment might be more interesting than waste processing."

  She nods. "Better smells, at least. Supervisor there is reasonable compared to most." Her eyes study me carefully. "How'd you find Marcus's meeting last night?"

  "Informative," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "The new monitoring systems are concerning."

  "Especially for telekinetics," she agrees. "Your ability type is getting special attention lately. Three telekinetics disappeared from independent status last week, supposedly 'reconsidered' sponsorship offers."

  That's new information, and potentially significant. "Voluntarily?"

  Volt's expression darkens, electricity crackling briefly around her hands. "Doubtful. More likely the aliens are collecting specific power types for something. Telekinetics, chronomanipulators, and phase-shifters seem to be the primary targets."

  I finish my paste, considering the implications. "Thanks for the heads-up."

  As I head toward Training Facility 9, I extend my telekinetic awareness through the facility, searching for routes that might lead to Null sections. Most facility maps don't show these areas in detail, they're considered infrastructure rather than operational sectors.

  Training passes quickly, basic exercises to maintain my abilities while carefully avoiding any display of molecular manipulation or other advanced techniques. I keep my power signature within expected parameters, mindful of Volt's warning about telekinetics receiving special attention.

  I reach Agricultural Sector 2 with minutes to spare. The entrance requires a simple palm scan that registers my independent status and labor assignment. The door slides open to reveal an expansive hydroponics facility, rows of plants growing in nutrient solution under specialized lighting that mimics solar radiation patterns.

  The space is massive, stretching at least a hundred meters in each direction with multiple levels of growing platforms. The air feels different here, humid, oxygen-rich, carrying the scent of vegetation and nutrient compounds. After the sterile corridors and waste processing levels, it's almost refreshing.

  Workers of various classifications move efficiently between growing stations, monitoring equipment and tending to the plants. I notice the distinction in uniforms, facility staff in gray, independents in standard issue beige like mine, and several workers in brown coveralls with designation numbers rather than names. The Nulls, those whose enhancements failed or who were deemed unsuitable for further development.

  A stocky man with cybernetic enhancements visible along his jawline approaches, tablet in hand. "Independent Asset 7249?" he asks, checking my palm against his records.

  "Yes," I confirm.

  "I'm Supervisor Trell. You're assigned to nutrient system maintenance, Hydroponics Grid 17 through 24." He gestures toward the eastern section of the facility. "Work with N-4186. Standard four-hour shift."

  I nod and head toward the designated section, where a figure in brown coveralls is checking readings on a nutrient distribution panel. N-4186 turns out to be a woman perhaps in her late twenties, with shoulder-length hair and a wiry build. When she notices my approach, her expression remains neutral, neither welcoming nor hostile.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  "Independent," she acknowledges with a slight nod. "I'm running diagnostics on distribution nodes 17 through 20. You can start with 21."

  "I'm Gary," I offer, deliberately using my name rather than my designation number.

  She hesitates briefly before responding. "Desta," she says quietly, glancing around to ensure no supervisors are within earshot.

  I move to nutrient distribution node 21 and begin the maintenance routine. The work is straightforward, checking flow rates, cleaning filters, adjusting mineral balances. As I work, I casually extend my telekinetic awareness, a habit I've developed for mapping my surroundings.

  What I sense in Desta surprises me. Her neural architecture shows evidence of enhancement procedures similar to my own, but with significant damage throughout the primary pathways. Whatever ability she was meant to develop has been effectively compromised by these neural disruptions. Not a failed enhancement, but an injured one.

  We work in comfortable silence for nearly an hour, gradually moving closer as we complete adjacent sections. When we're both working on the same distribution node, I decide to break the ice.

  "How long have you been in Agricultural?" I ask, keeping my voice conversational.

  "Two years," she replies. "Better than most assignments."

  I nod, noticing how efficiently she works with the nutrient system's control panel, her fingers moving with practiced precision across the interface. "You're good with the systems," I observe.

  "I understand machines," she says simply, then catches herself, as if she's revealed too much.

  I pretend not to notice her sudden guardedness. "Lucky for me. I'm still learning these agricultural systems after waste processing yesterday."

  "Waste processing on your first day? They really make independents earn their status," she comments with a hint of sympathy.

  We continue working, and I notice something peculiar. Whenever Desta touches the control interfaces, they seem to respond more quickly, displays clearing of error messages without her entering full correction codes. It's subtle, something most people wouldn't notice, but my enhanced perception catches it.

  When a supervisor passes by on rounds, Desta's demeanor shifts instantly to practiced invisibility, the hallmark of someone who's learned that being noticed is rarely beneficial in her position.

  After he's gone, I take a risk. "The system responds differently to you," I say quietly. "Like it recognizes your touch."

  Desta freezes, then slowly turns to me, wariness in her eyes. "Don't know what you mean."

  "It's okay," I assure her. "I'm not reporting anything. Just... I can sense things about people. Neural patterns, energy signatures. Yours is... unusual for a Null."

  She studies me for a long moment, deciding whether to trust me. "Technokinetic," she finally whispers. "Or I was supposed to be. Interface with and manipulate electronic systems. Then there was an accident during enhancement stabilization. Neural pathways damaged. Ability deemed unrecoverable."

  I nod, understanding now. "But you still have some connection to technology."

  "Fragments," she confirms, turning back to her work. "Enough to make this job marginally less tedious. Not enough to matter." There's a bitter edge to her voice. "Just another failed asset in their experiments."

  We continue working side by side, and I find myself increasingly bothered by her situation. The neural damage I sensed isn't irreparable, complex, certainly, but with the right approach...

  "I think your pathways could be repaired," I say suddenly, surprised by my own impulse to help.

  Desta gives me a skeptical look. "Facility medical already tried. They declared it permanent."

  "They have different methods. Different priorities," I counter. "My telekinesis works at the molecular level. Neural pathways are just specialized cells with specific energy patterns."

  Hope flickers across her face before skepticism returns. "Why would you help me? We just met."

  "Maybe I don't like seeing potential wasted," I finally say. "Or maybe I just want to see if I can."

  She considers this, then asks, "And what would you want in return? Nothing comes free here."

  "An ally," I admit honestly. "Someone who understands systems in ways I never will. Independence is... challenging on your own."

  The idea solidifies in my mind as I say it. A Null ally could be exactly what I need, someone without prior faction ties or political entanglements pulling me in different directions. Just mutual survival, a connection built on necessity rather than ideology.

  Desta's expression softens slightly. "That's at least honest."