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Thank you Hello, friends and Welcome to Sleeptight Stories.
Red sits and eats dinner like there is nothing wrong, but her brain cannot keep up with all her thoughts.
When the house is finally quiet, she looks at the charm and things start to happen.
The Transfer Student Vol. 2, Part 5 It was finally quiet in the house.
Blue had been especially noisy after dinner, going on and on about his school day and how he'd reprogrammed the school bell to ring three times instead of once, using only his phone.
Naturally, he was very proud.
He also mentioned his new friend Lio again, describing him as a total stinker, just like Red.
Which was meant as a jab, but honestly, Red was relieved.
At least he hadn't said anything that would make their mom ask more questions.
Despite the quiet, and the fact that she was completely exhausted, Red had been lying in bed for hours unable to fall asleep.
Her brain was so fuzzy that even reading seemed impossible.
She glanced at her bedside table.
The glowing red numbers on the old -fashioned digital clock her mom had given her, seemed to pulse louder with every passing minute.
2 .47 a .m. UGH! She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling.
Cracks in the plaster formed crooked spider webs above her.
Nothing like the smooth, seamless panels of her old ceiling on Mars.
Sleep refused to come.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Alexa's face at lunch. Tilted in curiosity, her fingers turning the stone over slowly, carefully, the way she always handled delicate things.
The same curiosity that had brought them together.
Red had lied to her face, lied to them all.
Her stomach twisted.
It wasn't just the guilt, it was everything.
Lio's message, the symbol, the charm, the creeping sense that she was tangled in something far bigger than a scavenger hunt or forgotten journal entries.
With a sigh, Red kicked off her blanket and got up, the chill of the floorboards prickling against her toes.
Her Martian biology adjusted quickly to temperature shifts, well, except for winter.
But Earth's unpredictable climate still caught her off -guard. She crossed the room and opened her desk drawer.
The charm was wrapped in one of her older socks, which Blue had declared a biohazard. She unwrapped the charm carefully and set it on her desk, beneath the cone of light from her lamp.
Up close in the artificial glow new details emerged.
Tiny markings etched across its surface.
So fine, they'd been invisible during the day.
They seemed to shift when she tilted the charm like oil on water, creating patterns that almost formed shapes, but never quite committed to anything recognizable.
Red picked it up, feeling its familiar weight.
Whatever metal or material it was made from had warmed immediately to her touch, just as it always did.
But tonight, it felt… different.
Not just warm. Responsive.
Almost alive. As if it could feel her tension, her curiosity, her desperate need to understand what Dr. Hart had really left behind.
Outside her window, the night was still and silent, except for the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.
No traffic on their quiet street.
No distant sounds of the city.
The kind of deep quiet that reminded her of the observation domes on Mars, where you could hear your own heartbeat echoing off the walls.
She turned off the lamp.
Then cradling the charm in her hand, she stepped to the window where moonlight spilled through the glass in pale ribbons.
As the pale light touched the charm's surface, the etchings began to glow.
Faintly at first, like the luminescent algae she studied in earth science, but then brighter, pulsing in a rhythm that matched her accelerating heartbeat.
Red nearly dropped it in surprise.
Whatever this was, it wasn't happening because of the desk lamp's artificial light.
The charm was responding to the moon, Earth's moon, so different from Phobos and Deimos with their rapid orbits across the Martian sky.
Her hands trembled slightly as she held the charm up to the moonbeam.
The sensation that had started as warmth intensified into something else, a vibration subtle but unmistakable, like holding a tuning fork against her palm.
What are you? She thought, staring at the glowing markings as they writhed then shimmered like something alive.
And, more importantly, what do you want?" A memory surfaced, sharp and sudden, Dr. Hart's voice from one of the decoded journal entries.
Some knowledge is meant to stay buried.
The wrong hands could tip the balance.
Red swallowed. But what if it's not just about the wrong hands, she thought, but the right ones.
The charm pulsed again, this time brighter.
Red's breath caught in her throat.
It was reacting to her, not the room, not the light, her.
Her Martian biology, her fingertips, her pulse, her presence, was triggering something the others couldn't, not fully.
Whatever this charm was, it hadn't just been left behind, it had been left for her.
The light flared and the air above the charm began to shimmer.
Red flinched, shielding her eyes.
A narrow beam projected from the Charm Center, widening until it formed a flickering, three -dimensional image hovering just above her desk.
It crackled once, then steadied.
Dr. Hart. She looked older than the photos Red had found in the journal and elsewhere.
Her hair streaked with gray, lines etched around her eyes.
She wore a lab coat, with strange patches sewn into the sleeves.
Simples Red didn't recognize.
Behind her was what looked like a makeshift laboratory.
equipment cobbled together from mismatched parts.
Testing? Is this recording?
Doctor Hart's voice wavered, then leveled into something more urgent.
If you're hearing this, you've activated the Guardian piece.
That means you found it.
And that means I've failed to return Red grabbed her notebook, knocking over her pencil holder in the rush.
pens clattered to the floor.
The third migration window opens in exactly 47 days from the time stamp of this message.
Mars and Earth will align briefly.
Perfectly. That's when transfer is possible.
That's when the next wave will try.
Red's pens scratched across the page as Dr. Hart leaned closer to the recorder, voice dropping.
There are three caches, each hidden, each important.
They hold what we call the Martian seeds, tech and biology, the best of both worlds.
They were meant to rebuild, to connect, not to conquer.
I placed them where no one would look.
In the background of the projection, Red could hear metallic clanging sounds and the faint beeping of equipment.
Dr. Hart kept glancing over her shoulder as if expecting interruption.
Her voice grew tighter.
Sector seven, beneath the old Johnson Farm, where groundwater still runs deep.
Sector twelve, the collapsed mineshaft east of the ridge.
And sector... A loud bang echoed in the background.
Dr. Hart startled. Machinery beeped wildly.
They found me, she whispered, panic rising.
Remember this. Trust only those who can show you the circle within the circle.
The AID isn't whole anymore.
Some want peace. someone— Another door slammed.
Dr. Hart turned, half shouting something Red couldn't catch, then lunged toward the camera.
Find the last cash before they— The projection cut to black.
Red stared at the empty space above her desk, heart pounding.
The charm in her hand had grown so hot she dropped it.
It landed with a metallic clink, still pulsing faintly on the wood.
A wave of dizziness washed over her.
Her nose prickled. She reached up, and her fingers came away with a bit of blood.
A nosebleed. Whatever energy the charm had released hadn't just been light or sound.
It had affected her, physically.
She stumbled to the nightstand, grabbed a tissue, and tilted her head back, pinching the bridge of her nose.
Her thoughts raced.
47 days! But from when?
What exactly were the Martian seeds?
Why was Dr. Hart hiding from her own organization?
win. The charm's glow faded, but the weight of its message pressed heavier than ever.
That stone red had switched?
The one she had to give to her father?
It hadn't just been a strange relic.
It had been part of this, a key, a warning, maybe even a beacon.
And she'd removed it from the one place it was supposed to be.
A faint knock on her door made her freeze.
Red? Blue's voice came through, sleepy and suspicious.
Are you talking to yourself again, you stinky head?
Red cleared her throat.
Just watching a video, she whispered back, cringing at how shaky her voice sounded.
it. Go to sleep, you stinker !" She could hear Blue saying, blah blah blah, and imagined that he was sticking his tongue out at the same time.
She wrapped the charm back in its sock, slid it into the drawer, and sat motionless for a moment, one hand resting on the cover of her notebook.
Her pulse still hadn't settled.
47 days, three cash sites, a circle within a circle and now, the knowledge that AID was no longer united.
Red's hands shook as she tried to write down everything she remembered from the hologram.
Third migration window, 47 days.
Johnson farm. Mine shaft, circle within circle.
Her writing grew messier with each word. Her Martian script mixing with Earth's alphabet in her hurry.
The nose bleed had stopped, but a steady throb pulsed behind her eyes.
She knew the risks.
Back on Mars, there were stories of what could happen when someone interacted with tech not properly attuned.
Headaches, memory fog, even temporary blindness.
Devices built for Martians weren't meant to harm, but they could still overwhelm a system not ready for them.
She shut her eyes, taking a slow breath.
If only she had access to a med scan pad, the ones from home could diagnose stress responses in seconds.
But here she had nothing but instinct and hope.
Focus, she whispered.
What matters is the message.
She opened her map app, careful to keep the brightness low.
Johnson farm? There was no Johnson farm that she knew of.
But then again, Dr. Hart's message could be decades old.
Searching for abandoned mine shaft, Eastern Ridge yielded multiple results, none conclusive.
Red leaned back in her chair, trying to piece everything together.
The idea that AID had splintered made too much sense.
Some agents had always felt more like allies, others like watchers in disguise.
Her father's vague warnings, the hesitation in her mother's voice, none of it was random.
Could she even tell them what she'd learned?
Would revealing it endanger her family?
And what about the gang?
She returned to her notebook creating a makeshift timeline.
If the recording was from when Dr. Hart disappeared, that would mean the 47 day countdown had already passed.
But what if it hadn't?
But what if the third migration window was still ahead?
Red opened her calendar app and marked the day, adding a question mark.
Then counting forward 47 days, she marked another date.
What would happen then?
Another Martian migration?
A political collapse?
Or something worse?
Her limbs felt heavy now, her body exhausted, but her mind wouldn't rest. She gripped her pencil and returned to the notebook.
If the AID is compromised, she whispered, then who do I trust?
She drew the symbol again, a circle within a circle.
It looked familiar, like something etched in one of the public murals back on Mars.
Unity? Resistance? A forgotten ciga of something much larger?
She didn't know. Yet.
But she would after some much needed sleep.
Red was about to plug in her phone when she noticed several unread messages from earlier that evening.
The group chat had been active while she was at dinner, and she'd completely forgotten to check it.
Alexa had written, Guys, I've been thinking.
That stone feels different, like, actually different from before.
Are we sure we're done with this mystery?" Charlie had jumped in next.
Maybe the stone is haunted, or maybe it changes with the phases of the moon.
Or maybe it's aliens." Rachel followed, more direct.
Since when have you backed down from a mystery, Red?
You seemed eager before.
Something changed. And Kurt, ever the peacemaker, had replied, maybe Red's right.
Maybe it's all nothing.
Red felt guilty seeing these messages hours later.
They'd been wondering about her while she'd been sitting at the dinner table, pretending everything was normal.
They were smart. Of course they noticed the shift. Of course they were worried.
She tapped out a reply, knowing they wouldn't see it until morning.
Sorry for the late reply!
Just thinking we don't have enough to go on right now.
Let's give it some time.
We can revisit if something new comes up." As soon as she sent it she winced.
Why had she responded at 3 a .m.?
That would definitely raise questions.
Still, she added another message, trying to brush it off.
And, yes, I know it's late, couldn't sleep.
English homework is killing me.
Talk tomorrow? She set her phone down before she could talk herself into deleting the messages.
Her friends deserved better.
But telling them everything now meant dragging them into whatever danger Mother had swallowed Doctor Hart, and possibly exposing her family's biggest secret.
Not yet, she told herself.
Not until I find one of the cash sites.
Not until I know what the Martian seeds really are.
Not until I'm sure who to trust. She glanced at her notebook again, pages filled with scrambled notes, jagged sketches, and more questions than answers.
And still one quiet thought whispered through the weight of it all.
You need them. This is too big to face alone.
Tomorrow would come with new questions.
Alexa's suspicion. Rachel steady gaze.
Charlie's jokes. Kurt's quiet knowing.
Red closed her eyes.
How long could she keep pretending?
And that is the end of this part.
Good night, sleep tight.
You
