The Mediator

As Dren worked, he heard the crunch of footsteps behind him. He turned, his hand instinctively moving to the crude knife at his side, only to relax when he saw who it was: Anora, a mediator assigned to oversee his progress.

Anora was tall and slender, her features serene but watchful. Like all mediators, she wore the distinctive garments of woven biofabric, a blend of human craftsmanship and Creche ingenuity.

“You’ve been busy,” she said, her voice calm. “The reclamation team reports progress in this sector.”

Dren shrugged, looking back at the river. “Doesn’t feel like progress. Feels like I’m just scratching at the surface.”

Anora stepped closer, her gaze sweeping the landscape. “Progress is rarely obvious at first. But it’s there.” She hesitated, then added, “You’ve been here over a year now, Dren. Have you thought about petitioning for reintegration?”

Dren laughed bitterly. “And go back to what? I’m not sure they’d want me, even if I passed your tests.”

“It’s not about what they want,” Anora said. “It’s about what you want. You’ve learned enough to avoid repeating your mistakes. That’s all anyone can ask.”

Dren didn’t reply. Instead, he turned his attention back to the river, the faint sound of rushing water filling the silence.