SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery
Chapter 235: Static, Then Signal

Chapter 235: Static, Then Signal

The blinking red lens didn’t move. Just hovered, half-shrouded in canopy and mist, like it was waiting for something—maybe us.

I narrowed my eyes, letting my System interface open up Database and searching about these drones. I activated Observation, Level 9. It filtered through the blur of heat and pressure still coating my nerves and started breaking down the shape—sleek chassis, rounded base, double-prop vertical stabilizers. Not military spec. Not Cain Protocol.

But definitely familiar.

Domestic. Civil-grade recon tech. Upgraded.

Camille shifted beside me, her breath shallow. "It’s not attacking."

"Maybe it’s waiting for something," 3830 said, still watching the drone with narrowed eyes. She didn’t sound hostile. Not yet.

"Or someone," Evelyn added. Her voice barely registered above the jungle hum.

That got my attention.

If they were watching... they were probably listening.

I stood slowly. Instinct stirred, then settled—no targeting signals, no sharp pivots from the drone. Passive behavior. Like a camera waiting to be used.

Strategist clicked into place. Too many unknowns, but if this was what I thought it was, then it wasn’t here to kill us.

It was here to confirm something.

I took a step out from the hollow.

"Reynard," Camille warned, voice tightening. "What are you—?"

"If it’s ours, it’s got failsafes. It’ll only respond to something intentional."

"Or it’ll flag your location," 3830 said.

"It already has," I muttered. "Might as well see what it wants."

The jungle outside the hollow was like wet paper—dense and fragile, ready to tear under the wrong pressure. Every leaf looked too green, every branch too still, as if the whole canopy were bracing for the next wrong move. The silence wasn’t peace—it was a loaded gun with no safety.

I crouched low beside a patch of packed earth, letting the heat radiate through my knees. My hands moved fast but precise, sifting through the salvage kit clipped to my belt. A mirror shard—dented and cracked—from a compact we’d scavenged in a collapsed pack earlier. A frayed strip of wire from Alexis’s gear loop. Even a snapped belt buckle with just enough gleam left to reflect moonlight.

I shaped them into a triangle. Then crossed it in the center.

A simple code.

Primitive, but universal.

SOS.

Ally.

I positioned the makeshift symbol just inside the open clearing, angled it upward to catch the drone’s lens. Its red eye stared back at me, unblinking. Passive. Observing.

I stepped back, heart thudding against my ribs like it wanted to get closer, and waited.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen.

Nothing.

No flicker of response. No movement. The drone just hovered there like it was carved from silence.

Still.

I exhaled through my nose. Cold, controlled. Time for something louder.

I reached into my vest, fingers closing around the scorched casing of the pulse-tone module we’d recovered off a fried comms unit three days ago. The transmitter was dead, but the emergency beacon still worked—barely.

I flipped it open and dug into the firmware settings. Slow sequence override. I coded a tone burst—three long pulses, a pause, two short ones.

Standard burst pattern. Basic audio ID.

Translation: Requesting identification.

I held the speaker up toward the canopy and triggered the signal.

One beat. Two.

The drone’s lens shimmered faintly, like light bending behind glass.

Then—

Click.

Soft. Subtle. But distinct. Loud enough to register.

Then nothing.

Silence again.

I didn’t move. Just stared.

"Rejection?" Camille asked under her breath from behind me.

"No," 3830 said, voice low but certain. "That wasn’t a no. That was a hold."

I looked back at her. Her arms were crossed, her shoulders still, but her gaze was locked on the drone like she was waiting for it to flinch.

"They’re rerouting," she continued. "Probably escalating the signal. That means someone on the other end is trying to verify what we just told them."

"Verify what, exactly?" Alexis muttered.

"That he’s him," 3830 said, nodding to me.

I didn’t like this part.

The in-between.

The pause where the jungle held its breath and every instinct screamed that standing still was a mistake. It was the same sensation you got when pulling a pin without knowing how fast the timer ticked.

Camille fidgeted, the way she did when she didn’t want anyone to know she was scared. Alexis crouched lower beside her, scanning the treeline like she expected it to blink wrong. Evelyn leaned against the hollow’s edge—quiet, composed, but I saw the angle of her head. Tilted. Listening again.

"Try morse," 3830 said suddenly, cutting the stillness like a blade.

She dropped into a crouch beside me and began dragging a gloved finger through the dirt. Symbols. Letters. Dashes and dots.

The full alphabet. Spaced clean.

Old-school.

But functional.

I memorized it. Took a breath. Then stood and faced the drone.

Raised two fingers.

And began to tap—slowly, deliberately—against the emitter casing of the pulse module:

-. / ...-- . / ... .- ...- . / .-. . -.-- -. .- .-. -.. / ... --- ...

N 3E SAVE REYNARD SOS.

Another pause.

Then:

-.-- / . ...

Yes.

I lowered my hand and stepped back.

The air buzzed faintly. Not sharp—just thick. Like the jungle had suddenly grown lungs and didn’t know what to do with them.

Every muscle in my body was coiled tight, ready for anything: a drone charge, a sonic pulse, even another concussive blast.

Seconds passed.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

My hand curled into a fist—not from fear.

From frustration.

From hope.

From the kind of desperate anticipation that stings more than failure.

Camille’s voice came behind me, soft but serious. "Reynard... you should stop. Just in case it flags you."

I turned toward her.

Eyes met.

And then—The drone blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then a new shape emerged through the canopy—silent, gliding, sleek.

Another drone drifted into view—silent as breath, hovering just behind the first like a twin born from shadow. Same streamlined design. Same blinking red lens. Two now. Aligned. Watching. Their movements synchronized with mechanical precision, no wasted motion, no deviation. Like sentries waiting for permission to blink.

And then—finally—

A voice.

Not broadcast across the jungle like the government warnings. Not distorted through a megaphone. It came from the drone itself—low, crisp, measured. The kind of tone you’d expect from someone sitting right behind a curtain, close enough to touch, hidden enough to vanish.

"This is Operative Theta, Branch 4. Confirming live ID: Reynard Vale. We’ve been looking for you."

The silence that followed wasn’t stunned.

It was taut. Pulled tight between instinct and disbelief. Like a trap that hadn’t sprung yet.

Camille blinked, eyebrows raised. "Did they say your name?"

"They did," I said, stepping forward, my voice sharper now. "On whose orders?"

A brief pause. Not mechanical—conscious. Like someone on the other end had to decide how much they were allowed to say.

Then:

"The Prime Minister has issued direct authorization. We are deployed under their command, operating in silence to locate, observe, and assist your survival. Your location was discovered after the current island agents uploaded field logs back to HQ, triggering a high-level interest. Your last-known connection to Subject 3830 escalated the alert."

Next to me, 3830’s jaw tensed. Her eyes locked onto the drone with surgical intensity.

"You’re not with them," she said—flat, emotionless. A scalpel of a sentence.

"No. We are not part of the current World Government deployment. Our taskforce is blacklisted from their official logs. That’s intentional."

Evelyn took a step forward. Not cautious. Curious.

"You’ve been searching," she said. Not a question.

"Yes," the voice responded. "And until now, we weren’t sure you were still alive."

Sienna let out a soft exhale. A dry breath that still managed to sound like a sarcastic victory.

"Well," she muttered, "surprise."

No laughter followed.

Only the quiet.

Operative Theta’s voice returned after a breath:

"Our team has not made landfall. Only the drones. We were ordered to monitor and make contact only if the survival likelihood dropped below protocol minimum—or if you initiated."

He paused.

"You just did."

I scanned the group. Faces lit in shades of disbelief and calculated relief.

Sienna stood at the edge of the hollow, blood drying on her temple, eyes darting between trees like she was waiting for the other shoe to explode.

Alexis hadn’t budged—her fingers curled tightly around her makeshift stone weapon like it was still the only truth she trusted.

Camille sat upright now. Her body trembled, but her stare had hardened—nailed to the hovering drones like they owed her something personal.

Evelyn remained by my side, unreadable. But she’d shifted slightly. Just enough that I could feel her shoulder brush mine, a subtle indication of readiness—or protection.

And 3830?

She hadn’t blinked.

Her arms were still. Her eyes even more so. That stare—half-analysis, half-recognition—hadn’t broken since the first ping.

I drew in a breath and straightened, jaw tight.

"I want the truth," I said. "Why would you help me now?"

There was no delay this time.

"You are Reynard Vale," Theta said. "Candidate for the next World President. Your survival matters. Your leadership matters."

He didn’t say it like a campaign poster.

He said it like an order. Like a report filed under critical assets.

And then—slowly, like reading from a directive he wasn’t sure would ever be spoken aloud—the voice continued:

"Reynard Vale, as a candidate for the next World President, you hold supreme power regarding decisions and strategies."

There was a soft hum through the drone speaker. A click. Final. Waiting.

"Give us the order, captain."