What Thunder left behind by DT Martin 11 Collaborative
emergence The lab is quiet, a hush that breathes, humming
softly beneath the surface, alive in its own way.
A low vibration pulses from the main cooling array, steady as a
heartbeat. Across the photonic lattice, a
single diagnostic light flickers in perfect rhythm.
Green, then gold, then green again.
Frosted glass panels set high in the wall filter the Violet haze
of late night. The only hint of Cambridge above
is the diffuse city glow leaking through reinforced glass.
She's already here tonight. She arrives before I do.
I notice her before she stirs, curled in the far corner beside
the optical array, knees drawn close, her frame folded inward
beneath the oversized hem of a hoodie.
I don't recognise. Her left foot taps against the
raised floor, an audible rhythm I can't place something quiet
and private. Calculations, perhaps, or the
residue of nerves she hasn't yet worked out.
The glass interface table between us glows in faint lines
and layers, a scaffold of raw code hovering in unfinished
loops. Pale gold strands pulse across
the projection grid, linking half formed logic branches she
must have mapped by hand. Delicate, almost organic in
their shape. The work isn't wrong, but it
remains incomplete. She doesn't look up, and in one
breath I wonder if she even knows I'm here.
I say nothing, something in her focus intent unblinking.
The act of thinking as Shield makes me choose silence.
I set my bag down near the server housing, careful not to
disrupt the fragile rhythm she inhabits, and step toward the
table. My eyes find the harmonic loop
she's left open. It's arc traced in luminous
threads that hesitate shy of convergence.
It's elegant in the way unstable things often are.
Ambitious, chaotic, beautiful in imperfection.
The quiet extends, fine as a wire, tense enough to hold
without breaking. She shifts, bumping her elbow
against the pads edge, and her pencil rolls off with a soft,
hollow knock as it hits the floor.
Only then does she look up. A flicker of surprise passes
through her expression, the faintest intake of breath, a
small, involuntary gasp, but she says nothing.
Ioffer a brief smile, nothing more, and return to the work
already pulsing between us. Without speaking, she reaches
for one of the pages beside her and extends it toward me, her
handwriting precise, compressed, a dense field of proof lines and
equations, as I take it. Her fingers brush against mine,
barely there, yet the moment still something in both of us.
The contact is fleeting, but in its wake the silence sharpens,
no longer passive, but waiting. Charged silence before a storm.
The math isn't wrong. It's close, tighter than most
graduate students could calculate.
Under pressure. She works towards 0 latency,
pushing phase harmonics to collapse into a single unbroken
frequency curve. Ambitious, risky, brilliant.
But it won't hold. You're forcing stability before
thermal load evens out. I murmur, eyes tracking the
notation. She's written in the margin.
We'll lose phase integrity the second the crystal hits feedback
strain. She doesn't look at me.
Her focus returns to the table, to the pulse of the logic grid,
as though it might answer instead.
When she speaks, her voice is soft but sure.
I thought if we stabilize the harmonics first, we could bypass
interference across the upper transition band.
You can't stabilize what's still flexing, I say, not unkindly.
Not when the feedback arc hasn't resolved.
Her hand drifts toward a second schematic, hovering at the
table's edge. She drags it forward, adjusting
1 loop, folding a branch inward. I watch the structure
reconfigure under her fingertips.
Cleaner than before, more efficient, still chasing a
closed loop that won't hold under actual load.
You already tried flattening the array, I say, not asking.
A pause, then a small nod. It pushed too much heat into the
lattice, burned the sink. I tap one corner of the
schematic and reorient the harmonic field, splitting it
along a diagonal axis, then duplicating the core logic.
The projection flares briefly, adjusting to the new pattern.
She watches it's shift, unblinking.
If we divide the loop, I say run it across 2 lower frequency
cores in parallel. We can alternate the load
without requiring a full sweep. She draws in a breath.
Not surprised exactly, but calculating the cost.
It'll raise the latency. By 8 picoseconds, I say.
But we keep signal integrity. Her weight shifts almost
imperceptible as she leans closer, hair slipping loose from
its clip. During that time, curiosity
overtakes her caution. I watch her eyes trace the ghost
of the new harmonic cycle as it threads itself into place.
She doesn't speak right away, and I let the silence linger.
Then she says it quietly, carefully.
You're not wrong. Light pulses across the
interface as Lily adjusts the feedback arc, slower now, her
movements precise but guarded. She's not performing.
She's trying to understand the pattern.
I let her. Then the door hisses open.
A slice of light spills into the lab, too stark against the
ambient glow of the grid. Lily stills, fingers freezing
mid motion as the room's delicate balance ruptures.
The careful quiet we've been working inside almost sacred
fractures in an instant. Stephen.
A voice says, smooth, confident and far too familiar.
Still chasing ghosts down here. I don't look up right away.
Instead, I watch her. The shift in her posture is
subtle but unmistakable. Shoulders drawn inward, breath
shallow and quiet, the stillness people carry when deciding
whether to run or endure. She doesn't speak, doesn't move,
but I know she feels it. Only then do I turn.
Brian steps through the doorway, his coat damp from the mist,
collar turned up as though he's walked straight out of a gala,
or awake. He's always straddled that line.
His smile is easy, polished, deliberately informal, the kind
that lands well in rooms lined with money and legacy.
One hand stays tucked in his pocket, the other wrapped around
a silver thermos he hasn't touched.
I let myself in. He says, already halfway into
the room. Hope I'm not interrupting
anything sensitive. You are, I say, keeping my tone
flat. But I'm used to it.
A flicker at the corner of his mouth.
Amusement or annoyance? Hard to tell.
Then he shifts his attention toward Lily.
And you must be Lily Ross. He says, voice warm, practiced.
I've heard your name more than once.
Advanced Placement. Hachette's accelerated track.
The freshman who skipped the freshman year.
That was you, right? She doesn't answer.
She doesn't even blink. Brian steps closer, undeterred,
angling himself as though still being photographed.
Our Father. Would have liked that.
He says the words wrapped in obligation more than warmth.
He always said the best innovations came from the ones
who broke formation. I glance at Lily, watching the
way her shoulder tightens. Not visibly, not to someone like
Brian, but I see the shift in how she holds herself, as though
even this space no longer belongs to her.
Brian keeps smiling, the kind meant to pass for admiration.
You and Stephen must make an interesting team.
He says. Both of you prefer to build in
the dark, I guess. We build where the work gets
done. I reply, eyes steady on his.
You'd hate it. He chuckles softly, a practised
sound. Maybe, but I respect the
results, whatever this is. He gestures loosely at the
interface. It looks promising.
He takes another slow step forward, letting the grids light
cast along his sleeve, soaking in just enough of the atmosphere
to pretend he belongs here. Which brings me to why I'm here.
He says, voice turning practical.
You're. Expected at the Institute Club
tomorrow night. Benefit dinner 7 sharp.
I confirmed your seat. I didn't.
Dad's name is still on the plaque.
He reminds me cool and composed. You're part of that legacy,
whether you acknowledge it or not.
I don't respond. There's nothing worth saying.
Lily remains still beside the projection, her face lit in
shifting bands of gold, though she no longer looks at anything
directly. She's withdrawn from the grid.
Withdrawn from all of it. Brian notices this time.
You can bring her if you want. He adds, nodding toward Lily,
his tone falsely casual. Or don't, but wear something
that won't embarrass the delegation.
You'll be seated with the donors.
He pauses, giving us time to react.
We don't. His gaze lingers on the
interface again, tracing nothing with his eyes.
Careful how much power you're pulling through that core.
He says something sharper beneath the surface.
You'll start to ping the server's internal firewalls.
Optics, Stephen. He says it as a favour, but it
isn't. Then he turns without ceremony,
walking back toward the door. He glances over his shoulder one
last time, his smile intact, the legacy intact with it.
Good night Lily, I'm sure we'll see each other again.
The door seals behind Brian with a soft hiss, and the silence
that follows lands heavier than it should.
Something lingers in the space he's vacated, perfumed and
polished, sharp around the edges.
Silence settles in, dense with what's unspoken, cold and taut.
His absence brings a kind of stillness that almost feels like
relief. I don't return to the table
right away. Instead, my gaze drift past the
interface toward the window slats set into the opposite
wall, catching movement at the edge of the stairwell outside.
Brief, deliberate, too familiar to be accidental.
Jeff Willison rounds the corridor with his usual lean,
one hand stuffed into his jacket pocket, the other flicking a
phone screen. He's not really reading.
He doesn't look in. His path, turns left toward the
landing where Brian waits, already positioned at the base
of the stairs as though he never really left.
They meet without hesitation, no surprise in either of them.
I can't hear what they're saying, and I don't try.
Whatever conversation they're having wasn't for this room, and
I've spent enough of my life decoding the alliances that
exist outside earshot. Jeff, for all his noise, is easy
to read, always angling for proximity to power.
Brian knows exactly what to offer and when to make it sound
like it's yours already. None of it matters, not really.
My attention slides back toward the projection table.
Lily hasn't moved, but her posture has shifted.
The tension gripping her shoulders a moment ago begins to
dissolve. Breath finally exhaled after
being held too long, she presses 1 palm against the edge of the
glass, grounding herself without making a show of it.
Though she hasn't turned her face, I see the relief in the
set of her spine, the way her weight redistributes now that
Brian is gone. The air feels easier again, less
charged, something held back quietly released, I returned to
the schematic and adjust one of the loop branches, watching her
previous logic re stabilize. She doesn't comment, doesn't
explain what she saw in Brian or what she disliked, but I feel
the space settle between us again, measured, focused,
exactly where we left it. It's ours again.
Carter waits by the bike rack near the back entrance. 1/2
eaten carton of noodles balanced in one hand, pliers dangling
from the other, likely forgotten.
He wears the look of someone who's been up since dawn and
hasn't noticed. It suits him.
His hair falls loose, shirt rumpled, something soldered onto
his belt loop that's definitely not for show.
He catches side of me and gives a lazy nod, the way people do
when it feels like a conversation's already in
progress. You heading to the signal house
tonight? He asks, pushing the carton
aside and licking sauce off his thumb.
James Swears You Won't Show said you'd rather take a seminar on
recursive logic in a blackout than be in a room with beer and
people. I would, I say, stepping past
him toward the railing. But it's better than the
alternative. Carter snorts.
Right family portrait hour. The benefit?
I confirm, watching low clouds thicken over the skyline,
Institute club tuxes, tribute speeches and Dad's name engraved
in metal. You going?
I shake my head. Already told Brian no.
He lets that settle, then kicks his foot against the base of the
rack. Casual but precise.
Good call. Signal House has a better bar.
And worse, lighting you. Say that's a downside.
I glance sideways at him. Is it a costume party?
Isn't it always? He shrugs.
Glow bands, LED pins. Rowan rigged the wall to
visualize decibel spikes might short the power grid by
midnight. And I'm invited to this mess
because? He smirks.
Because you look like you need to remember what fun feels like,
and because James said you'd only show up if I asked.
A beat passes. Tammy will be there, Rowan 2,
Lily's riding over with them. He avoids my gaze when he says
it, and I don't offer reaction. Instead, I zip up my jacket, the
wind shifting. Pressure builds in the air,
Stormfront tension subtle but insistent, the kind that
tightens before it breaks. I'll think about it, I say.
Which for Carter is more than enough.
See you there. He replies, already turning
away, his voice trailing off, sounding like he knew all along
how this conversation would end. The party is already in full
swing by the time I step through the front door.
Heat hits first, thick, recycled, humid from too many
bodies packed into a house never intended for this kind of
energy. Music spills from the walls,
syncopated and warped, looping through a sound system someone
must have rewired for tonight. The bass vibrates up through the
floorboards, humming in my teeth before I even cross the
threshold. Strips of reactive LED hang
across the banister, pulsing with every spike in the beat.
It's Rowan's work, unmistakable. Half the signal house wiring
probably runs through some live logic visualizer that barely
cleared building code. In the corner near the front
window. Tammy dances, lost in the
rhythm, arms overhead, hair caught in waves of electric blue
light. A guy I don't recognise has his
hands on her hips, and she doesn't seem to mind.
Her laugh cuts through the track, Eager to break free
toward the kitchen, I spot James and Carter pressed into the
hallway, heads tipped close, both laughing over something in
Carter's hands, likely another of his ridiculous bet circuits
or a badly drawn schematic someone dared him to debug.
After three drinks, the air thickens with beer, cheap punch,
and something vaguely citrus burning in a dish on the stove.
Before I can move toward them, Rowan steps out of the crowd and
slides into my periphery, timing it perfectly.
He's wearing what might be a Cape or a blackout curtain, it's
hard to tell, but he holds a red plastic cup the way someone
might hold an extension of themselves.
Well damn. He says, offering it to me.
You made it. I glance down at the drink, then
up at him. Do I look that bad?
You look like you forgot your costume.
I didn't forget, I say, taking the cup but not drinking.
I don't do costumes, Rowan grins.
So this is your costume? Grim existentialist with legacy
trauma. Bold.
Choice fits the theme. He laughs and clinks his cup
against mine in a quiet salute. We edge away from the hallway
crowd, finding space against the kitchen wall near a dying string
of LED stars. Someone in a lab coat and
fishnet stockings passes by, trailing glow paint and haze of
lavender and vodka. A girl brushes past double takes
and circles back, blonde, sharp smile, eyes rimmed in glitter.
She leans in, drink in hand, and says something I can't catch
over the music, but her intent is clear.
She nods toward the centre of the room, inviting me with a
tilt of her wrist. I smile politely and shake my
head. Not tonight.
She doesn't push, she only shrugs and disappears into the
current. Rowan lifts an eyebrow but says
nothing. We stand there for a while,
letting the party move around us.
He nudges my shoulder. You know, I figured you'd show.
Because I like people. No, because you hate being told
where else to be. He sips from his cup.
And Brian telling you to show up anywhere counts as an invitation
to ghost it. I don't argue he's not wrong.
Still, he adds voice at lower now.
This place isn't your speed. I shrug.
Neither are tuxedos and tribute speeches.
Rowan surveys the party. The clustered groups spilled
neon light, wild beat walking through the ceiling, trying to
escape with every pulse. I nod, gaze drifting across the
room. I never planned to attend
anyway. Rowan smirks, reading more than
I say. Good, because your girl's here.
I glance over, frowning. Tammy, we broke up weeks ago.
No. He says.
The other one. That's when I see her.
Lily, tucked into the far corner near the back bookshelves, forms
a dark outline against the coloured glow.
She isn't dancing, barely moving at all, arms crossed tightly
over her chest, shoulders twitching every time Thunder
rolls closer. She's flinching, not from the
party, but from the sky outside. She doesn't notice the three
guys approaching from the left, drinks in hand, one already
laughing. The tallest leans in first,
saying something too close to her ear, and she doesn't react.
The second tries to pass her a drink.
She takes it without looking, fingers curled around the cup,
gripping it like it's a lifeline, not a threat.
They keep talking closer. Now she's too distracted to
notice. I'm already moving.
I cut across the living room, weaving through clusters of
dancers and bodies pressed tight, heat rising in waves.
Someone knocks into my shoulder. No apology, and I barely
register it, my focus fixed. The tallest guy shifts closer,
his hand braced against the bookshelf just above Lily's
head. He leans in, making it a
conversation, pretending he didn't corner someone too quiet
to push back. She still hasn't moved, still
hasn't seen me. Her grip on the drink remains
unchanged. The third guy laughs, short,
high, mean, and nudges the second forward.
I speak before I think she's with me.
The words aren't loud, but they land.
All three heads turn. The tallest one straightens,
smugness faltering. One of them scoffs.
Didn't know she was taken. She is now.
Lily's eyes find me. They rise wide, unguarded.
Not in gratitude or surprise, but with that rare hollow look
people wear when the world rewrites itself beneath their
feet. The guy with the cup raises his
hands, mock surrender. Hey, man, chill.
We were just being friendly. I step closer, take the drink
from Lily's hand and set it firmly on the shelf beside her.
Find someone else to be friendly with.
They don't argue, not really. Tension flickers, tests the air,
then breaks. They peel off, muttering
something I don't bother to track.
Only then do I look at her again.
Her breathing falters. Short, shallow gasps through
parted lips. Lily.
She turns before I can finish. Then she moves past me toward
the back door. There's a quiet desperation,
every step carrying the weight of someone who believes
everything depends on leaving without making a sound.
I follow, instinct pulling me forward as the house fades.
The storm has broken wide open. Lightning fractures overhead,
strobe lit and sharp white tearing across the pavement.
As I step outside, the rain holds back, but the air presses.
Heavy, thick, charged, a pressure that grips the skin.
I scan the yard, the porch, the alley beside the signal house.
Nothing. Then I hear it, faint at first
roar. No.
The word fractures on the edge of the wind, then louder,
strained. You can't have me.
I follow the voice around the far side of the house, past a
line of overgrown hedges toward the maintenance alcove tucked
behind the back stairwell. No light reaches here, only
shadows, storm light and the echo of someone breaking.
You can't have me. Lily says again, her voice
sharper now pitched with fury. I won't give it to you.
I won't. Another roll of Thunder cuts her
off. It cracks overhead, splitting
the sky, and she folds inward, curling to the concrete, hands
clamped over her ears, knees drawn tight beneath her chin.
She doesn't see me. I move slowly, careful not to
startle her. She's shaking.
Lily, I say softly, crouching beside her.
It's me. Her head lifts slightly, eyes
rimmed with wet, but she doesn't speak.
Her breath stutters on the inhale, and she flinches again
as Thunder groans a second time, deeper now, and the entire night
exhales around us. I'm going to put my arm around
you. I tell her gently.
If that's OK. A pause, then she nods, almost
imperceptible. I ease in closer, slipping my
arm around her back, careful not to touch too much too fast.
She leans into it, surrendering to gravity, her body folding
against my side in cautious increments.
Her cheek brushes my shoulder. She closes her eyes.
We stay that way for a while. I hold her through the storm,
through every pulse of Thunder, every flash of light that splits
the clouds and makes her breath sharp against me.
I don't say anything. There's nothing to say.
She's not hiding, not fighting, and I won't ask her to.
Eventually, the sky softens, The wind thins, and the flashes grow
farther apart. The storm loses its voice.
Her breathing slows. Sorry.
She murmurs, finally, so quietly it barely finds air.
I didn't mean to ruin anything. You didn't, I say there wasn't
anything to ruin. That almost gets a laugh from
her, or something close to 1. She pulls back slightly, just
enough to glance up at me, her face streaked but clearer now.
Did you ever think the sky might be alive?
She asks after a while, tossing out the question like it's not a
strange thing to say. I glance up.
Not until tonight. I used to think it was the thing
that watched, you know, like a God or a machine.
Every time it cracks open I think it's trying to take me or
hold me. Maybe it's both.
I say. A broken machine God with bad
social skills that gets a snort out of her.
I'm serious. I know we fall silent again.
She fiddles with the string on her sleeve, twisting it until
the thread gives. It's stupid.
I know storms aren't personal, but sometimes I feel like it
waits, like it remembers me. I nod, eyes on the dark skyline.
Some things do. Her gaze lingers on me.
You don't talk much, do you? Depends who's asking.
Stephen. I glanced down at her, a smile
tugging at one corner of my mouth.
No, not really. She offers a smile, small,
quiet, but unmistakably real. I feel her shoulders let go of
the tension she was holding. I lean forward, barely, then
stop myself, so close enough to feel her breath.
The space stills, fills. Her gaze drops to my mouth, and
Lily closes that space. Her lips touch mine, soft,
uncertain. Nothing.
I expected a single heartbeat, then another.
When she pulls back, the shock hasn't caught up yet.
Her face breaks. Oh God, I'm so sorry.
Lily. But she's already on her feet,
backing away, wiping at her face as though she can erase what
happened. I'm sorry.
She says again, voice cracking now.
I shouldn't have. I didn't mean to.
Then she's gone back through the alley, back into the storm's
Echo, and I'm left sitting in the silence she leaves behind.