Previously on The Insiders
Bran was marched to Cropper's office by frantic Adreno Guards, his injuries screaming with each step. Haunted by memories of past failures, he reflected on his fall from Beta Wave Messenger to exile. In Cropper's meticulously arranged office, he faced a permanent discharge order – a death sentence. Just as Cropper prepared to execute him, Miss Cripps intervened with news that the Captain wanted to review his case. Bran left with a yellow access glove and newfound determination to change.
Bran stepped into the harsh corridor lighting, his dendricals trembling inside the yellow glove. Behind him, Cropper's office door remained open, framing the Assistant Controller's perfectly sculpted features twisted in naked hatred. Miss Cripps stood beside him, her obsidian feathers gleaming as she rhythmically struck her cane against her open claw.
"Thwack. Thwack. Thwack."
The sound followed him down the corridor, each strike a reminder of how close he'd come to permanent discharge. He forced himself not to run, though every instinct screamed at him to flee. The flexishell beneath his feet quivered, matching his unsteady gait.
Bran's footsteps echoed through the empty corridor1, each step carrying him further from Cropper's office. The flexishell rippled beneath his feet, its usual reassuring texture doing little to calm his racing thoughts.
His dendricals ached inside the unfamiliar yellow glove – a stark reminder of how close he'd come to being nothing more than another trauma package buried in the Elm Street Plot. The image of that tiny pill-like capsule containing someone's essence drifting into the void made his stomach churn.
An old verse surfaced in his mind, one TiGer had shared during their messenger training: "In this world you will have tribulation, but take heart – I have overcome the world." The words settled over him like a warm blanket. Perhaps these trials weren't just cruel twists of fate, but stepping stones toward something greater. “ALL things…” he reminded himself.
The corridor stretched ahead, each section marked by pulsing lights that seemed to match his heartbeat. He'd survived Cropper's attempt to discharge him. He'd stood his ground instead of running. Maybe, just maybe, that counted for something.
His newly issued yellow glove caught the light, its access codes glowing faintly. The path ahead remained uncertain, but for the first time since his exile, uncertainty didn't feel like a weight crushing his chest.
A trio of Automotons rounded the corner ahead, their stocky forms filling the narrow passage. They froze mid-stride, yellow eyes widening at the sight of Bran in his damaged state. The largest one – whom Bran recognised as Grex from their shared maintenance shifts – let out a concerned rumble.
The flexishell beneath them all rippled with shared tension. Bran's dendricals twitched inside his gloves as he remembered countless hours working alongside these creatures, learning their rhythms, their dedication to keeping The ALEx's systems running smoothly.
Grex gestured to Bran's yellow glove, then made a series of guttural sounds that needed no translation. The other two Automotons shifted uncomfortably, their muscled frames tensing. They'd seen others wearing yellow gloves before – usually right before those crew members disappeared forever.
"Just heading to see the Captain," Bran said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Nothing to worry about."
The Automotons exchanged glances. Grex stepped forward and, in an unprecedented gesture, placed his calloused hand on Bran's shoulder2. The touch was gentle, completely at odds with his fierce appearance. He gave a low, encouraging grunt before leading his companions past Bran.
The encounter left Bran with an odd mixture of comfort and shame. Even these creatures, relegated to the ship's underbelly, showed more loyalty than he'd managed during the first coup. He had to do better this time, had to prove himself worthy of their trust.
Bran paused at the junction where the main corridor split into three paths. To his right, the S-tube access point beckoned – a shortcut that would get him to the Captain's office in minutes rather than the long walk ahead. His dendricals tingled at the memory of countless messenger rides through those My Lin highways.
The access panel glowed invitingly. With his yellow glove, he technically had clearance. But as he reached toward it, reality crashed in again. No helmet. No protective suit. The basic safety equipment he'd taken for granted as a messenger now lay gathering dust in some storage locker, probably reassigned after his exile.
A fragment of Chief's gruff wisdom echoed: "Rushing gets you dead faster than being late." The memory carried the acrid smell of burnt circuits from that time Genkins tried riding the tubes without proper shielding. They never did find all the pieces.
"Not this time," Bran muttered, withdrawing his hand3. The old him would have risked it, desperate to please. But that recklessness had cost him everything once before.
The longer route stretched before him, mundane but safe. Each step would hurt with his injuries, but at least he'd arrive in one piece. Sometimes, he reflected, the boring choice was the brave one.
Bran's dendricals throbbed beneath his gloves as he trudged toward the Executive Suites. Each step on the flexishell felt heavier than the last, his mind racing with possibilities – none of them good.
Cropper's face haunted him, that perfect facade twisted with malice. The Assistant Controller wouldn't let this go. He'd find another reason, manufacture some incident, or simply wait until Bran made another inevitable mistake. The yellow glove suddenly felt like a temporary stay of execution rather than a reprieve.4
His dendricals sparked painfully, reminding him of the collision in L3 Station. One accident had nearly cost him everything. How many more chances would he get? How many more did he deserve?
TiGer's voice echoed in his memory, quoting scripture during one of their training sessions: "Yet man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward." The words from Job felt particularly fitting as his dendricals crackled beneath his gloves. Trouble seemed to seek him out with magnetic precision.
The flexishell rippled beneath his feet, matching his unsteady thoughts. He'd survived this round with Cropper, but for what? To spend every moment looking over his shoulder, waiting for the next accusation, the next mistake, the next push toward permanent discharge?
The corridor ahead stretched endlessly, each section marked by pulsing lights that seemed to count down his remaining time. Even if the Captain showed mercy today, Cropper's influence ran deep through The ALEx. One word in the right ear, one carefully placed doubt, and Bran's fate would be sealed as surely as those trauma packages buried in the Elm Street Plot.
The Nexus hummed with frantic energy5 as Bran rounded the final corner. Crew members scurried about, clearing debris and patching damaged sections of flexishell. His stomach lurched at the sight – had his collision at L3 Station caused all this?
Behind their curved reception desk, Thalma and Louise's conjoined form swayed as they directed traffic. Louise's massive mouth spread into a drooling grin the moment she spotted him.
"OhBrandarlingyou'rehereyou'rehereyou'rehere!" Louise's words tumbled out in her typical excited rush, droplets of saliva spraying the desk. "Lookatthosewonderfulyellowprivileges!"
Thalma's expression remained neutral, her almost-pretty features arranged in their usual mask of bored efficiency. "Mr...Brandon...Beta...Captain...expects...you...promptly."
"Thanks," Bran managed, his dendricals twitching. A maintenance crew shuffled past, carrying what looked like pieces of crumpled flexishell. The damage seemed to spread further than he'd imagined.
"Yourtemporaryprivilegesarequiteexciting!" Louise bounced in her seat, causing Thalma to sway irritably. "Perhapsyou'llbecomingbacktotheupper-"
"Meeting...first," Thalma drawled, cutting off her sister's enthusiasm. "Priority...one."
Bran nodded, grateful for Thalma's practical reminder. The yellow glove felt heavier with each passing moment. Whatever came next, at least these two offered a familiar constant – Louise's unbridled excitement and Thalma's steady logic, perfectly balanced despite their obvious differences.
Louise's enormous mouth quivered with barely contained excitement as she leaned across the reception desk, a string of drool dangling precariously close to Bran's shoulder. "TheCaptainhasbeenwaitingforyouandCroppertriedtoblockthewholeprocessbutshewouldn'thaveit!"
"Meeting...Room...Four," Thalma interjected, her grey features arranged in their usual mask of efficiency. "Full...review...board."
Bran's dendricals sparked beneath his gloves. "Review board? I thought this was just with the Captain."
"OhnonoNOdarling!" Louise's massive grin spread wider, spattering the desk with saliva. "It'sSOmuchbetterthan that! ThewholeExecutiveTeamisthereandRoxytooshe'sLOVELYisn'tshe?"
"Critical...personnel...only," Thalma corrected, shooting her sister a withering look. "Standard...procedure...for...discharge...appeals."
The word 'discharge' made Bran's stomach lurch. Louise must have noticed his expression change because she reached out with surprising gentleness, her fingers barely brushing his damaged dendricals.
"Don'tworryBrandarling," she whispered, or at least attempted to whisper – it came out more like an excited hiss. "I'veseentheschedulingmatrixandtherearen'tanytraumapackagesbookedforthiscycle!"6
"Louise!" Thalma's sharp tone cut through her sister's reassurance. "Confidential...information."
"But it's BRAN!" Louise protested, bouncing in their shared seat and causing Thalma to sway irritably. "Hedeservesachance!"
"Rules...exist...for...reason," Thalma drawled, though Bran caught something softer in her expression as she added, "Good...luck...Brandon."
Bran's dendricals trembled as he pushed open the door to Meeting Room Four. The chamber stretched before him, its flexishell walls pulsing with an anxious amber glow. Around the oval table sat the assembled might of The ALEx's command structure – Wave Leaders, Senior Officers, and at the head, Captain Higgs herself, her commanding presence drawing all eyes.
The Captain's voice carried across the room, "-seventeen sections of damaged flexishell, three compromised tube junctions, and that's just the visible damage."
Endo stood, his pristine white coat creased from what must have been hours of continuous work. "My Whites are spread thin across every deck. We've got over three hundred crew members requiring treatment." He ran a hand through his perfect hair, the gesture betraying his exhaustion. "The Orfins are working double shifts, but they're burning out fast. Without Roxy's offer to convert part of Love Island into a temporary medical facility, we'd be overwhelmed."
The mention of Roxy's name drew Bran's attention to her presence at the table. She sat composed in her flowing white dress, but concern etched lines around her usually serene features.
Bran felt the weight of scrutiny as heads turned toward him. Beta Wave Leader Barry B’s stern gaze, TiGer's worried glance from her position near the back – all fixed upon him. In the past, this attention would have made him shrink, seek the nearest shadow to disappear into.
Not today.
He straightened his spine, ignoring the protest from his injured dendricals. The yellow glove caught the light, a reminder of how close he'd come to permanent discharge. But something had shifted inside him during that walk from Cropper's office7. The passive messenger who'd accepted exile without question was gone.
The Captain's voice cut through his thoughts. "Beta Messenger Brandon. Please join us."
Bran shifted in his seat, the yellow glove catching the light as Captain Higgs fixed him with her steady gaze.
"Tell us what happened at L3 Station, Messenger Brandon."
The title struck him anew. She hadn't called him "former messenger" or "disgraced messenger". A flicker of optimism coursed through his veins - perhaps this wasn't merely a temporary stay, but a genuine chance at redemption. His dendricals sparked beneath his gloves. The old Bran would have stammered, deflected, tried to minimise his role. But the weight of recent events pressed against him, demanding more.
"I was investigating a potential calcium storm threat," he began, surprised by the steadiness in his voice. "Sher Gar and I discovered patterns suggesting external interference might be affecting our systems, particularly around the fuel lines. When Bob Beta delivered Nora's urgent message about the Hammies blockage, I was trying to reach-"
"That's right," Nora cut in, her muscular frame leaning forward. "I sent you down there specifically to check that blockage."
Bran's words caught in his throat. He glanced at Sher Gar, whose long equine face remained carefully neutral. How could Nora have known about a blockage they'd only theorised moments before the accident? He and Sher Gar hadn't shared their findings with anyone.
The pieces didn't align. Nora's intervention felt wrong, like a misplaced component in a precisely calibrated system. Her emerald eyes held a glint that made his dendricals prickle with warning.
But TiGer's earlier words echoed in his mind: "Be quick to hear, slow to speak." The old Bran would have blurted out his suspicions, demanding explanations. Instead, he kept his expression neutral and simply nodded, filing away this discrepancy for later consideration.
"Please continue, Messenger Brandon," Captain Higgs prompted.
Bran's gaze swept across the assembled faces, seeking anchor points in the storm. TiGer caught his eye first, giving him a slight but determined nod that steadied his resolve. Roxy's gentle smile warmed him, a beacon of encouragement in the tense atmosphere. But Nora's fierce glare cut through that warmth like a blade, her emerald eyes promising future retribution. Beyond her, Cripps' beak twisted in what could only be a barely concealed snarl. Only Sher Gar's expression offered a peculiar comfort - his face remained neutral, but his eyes held a knowing gleam.
Drawing a deep breath, Bran turned back to Captain Higgs. "The incident at L3 wasn't random, Captain. Just before impact, I felt gravitational shifts - like being pursued through narrow corridors. It reminded me of the early cycles, during our simulated battles with The Joe, or when The ConQ would return to base."
His dendricals tingled at the memory. "There was also a chemical smell, sharp and distinctive. It burned, even through my maintenance uniform and gloves and made everything spin before I lost consciousness. The symptoms..." He paused, searching for the right words.
"Match exposure to Sensoryx," Endo interjected, his perfect features creased with concern. "The chemical traces we found are nearly identical."
Bran nodded thanks to Endo. "Given the pattern of damage and these specific details, I believe outside forces deliberately targeted The ALEx. My presence at L3 was merely coincidental - I was in the wrong place at exactly the right time for someone else's plan." He dared glance at Nora who looked smugly satisfied like a cat who’s just snatched a canary.
Candi's stylus flew across her datapad as she captured every word. When Bran finished, she passed the device to Captain Higgs with practiced efficiency.
Bran shifted in his chair as silence fell over Meeting Room Four. Captain Higgs's expression remained unreadable as she studied the datapad before her. His dendricals tingled beneath the yellow glove, each second stretching like hours.
Across the table, Miss Cripps's obsidian feathers gleamed under the ambient light. Her piercing gaze bore into him with predatory intensity, her cane tapping a slow rhythm against her open claw. The sound echoed his heartbeat – a steady reminder of the forces still aligned against him.
Yet something felt different now. The crushing weight of uncertainty had transformed into something else – anticipation, perhaps? Or was it hope? The verse TiGer had shared earlier surfaced in his thoughts: "When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom..." The words from Genesis spoke of choices and consequences, of the importance of discernment over immediate relief.
How often had he taken the easy path, seeking quick solutions that only compounded his problems? His exile, his struggles with the Automotons, even today's incident at L3 Station – each moment shaped by hasty decisions and fear.
The flexishell walls pulsed softly, matching the rhythm of his thoughts. Captain Higgs looked up from her datapad, her gaze meeting his. Bran straightened in his chair, ignoring the protest from his injured dendricals. Whatever came next, he would face it clear-eyed and present, ready to embrace the path ahead – whether it led to redemption or further trials.
The tension in the room thickened as everyone awaited the Captain's response. But for the first time since his exile, Bran felt steady. Not because he knew what would happen, but because he finally understood that transformation required more than just avoiding mistakes – it demanded wisdom to navigate the challenges ahead.
Difference Makers Series
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He’d always imagined his turning point would be louder. Maybe have some theme music. But here it was: just dread, pain, and fluorescent lighting.
Grace doesn’t always speak your language. Sometimes it just grunts and gestures and keeps walking.
For once, he chose caution over drama. Somewhere in the bowels of the ALEx, a narrator nodded approvingly and updated the character arc spreadsheet.
And yet - even a temporary glove can change the way you reach for the world.
On the floor, half-hidden beneath a coil of emergency tubing, sat a lone hobnob. Slightly cracked. Bran didn’t know who left it or why, but for a brief moment, the world felt strangely… aligned.
Comfort is a strange thing - sometimes it looks like a legal technicality whispered in too many syllables.
You can’t rehearse redemption. You just have to decide you’re done being someone else.
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