We made it to the command center within the hour. Hugh and TAI were at their places at the head of the table.

  Rodrigo was sitting with his chair tipped almost about to fall back. He gave me a smile and a wink as I walked in. Nothing sexual just that of a big brother saying hi to his sister. I liked it.

  Manuel sat back straight as always, silent as the killer he was. Except soccer—He was quite the screamer then.

  I sat near TAI. Yasoba sat next to me. Hugh stood and began briefing us.

  "Now that we are all here, we have a high priority target that is in motion to a dead drop. This is an American handler, the very same one we ran into with the Kay kidnapping attempt. Kay has forthrightly codenamed her "Karen".

  "We want her data drop. Other than that it's a pick up and release. No interrogation. Just pure old fashioned robbery—an Italian cultural skill I hear."

  Rodrigo laughed and shouted "?Si! Hell yea boss!"

  Manuel rolled his eyes with a small smirk on his face.

  Provost was stoic and unmoved—his typical.

  Blah blah blah. We went over vectors, approach angles, ROE—all that setup stuff you’re supposed to care about. Very official. Very serious. Very boring.

  We all got dressed.

  In my case? I possessed my infiltrator body.

  Possessed is a good word for it.

  I was starting to feel more like a ghost in the system than an actual part of the team. The only one besides TAI who talked to me like a person was Rodrigo.

  We’d gotten close between sessions. He was always telling me he had my back, and if things ever got too hot? “Disappear into the canal again, chica. Nobody’ll catch you.”

  He treated me like a person. Not an asset. Not a student.

  And I kinda hated that I liked it.

  My head tilted back and opened—a smooth, mechanical hiss as the cranial port revealed itself.

  The transfer cable plugged in.

  A moment of static. Then stillness.

  Then: tangibility and ether.

  Next thing I knew, I was in my carbon-fiber, neo-green infiltrator body.

  I could feel the boost instantly.

  This was what a proper android felt like.

  Best part?

  No damn itching.

  I met the team in the vehicle bay. Rodrigo was in the driver’s seat, Provost riding shotgun, Manuel in the back, checking his sniper rifle for the hundredth time.

  “Dai ragazza, muoviti!” Rodrigo shouted out the window—just as the van door was closing behind me.

  “I may be fast,” I said back in Italian, grinning, “but I’m not as fast as your girls, baby.”

  Rodrigo laughed. “I believe you presume too much.”

  He caught Manuel’s gaze in the mirror.

  Manuel looked up.

  I swear—I saw a wink.

  "TAI ops hot. Provost and Jane on interception. Flame in seat. Ice on overwatch." Provost said into the comms as we drove out.

  "Roger. Roger. Provost. Keep Jane in lead. Safe hunting"

  “Hear that, babe?” Flame aka Rodrigo grinned. “You’re in lead—where it’s safest.”

  "Trade you" I said enjoying the banter

  "Not in your life" he fired back, laughing.

  The woman walked down the square with a purpose—but not confidence.

  She moved like someone trained to blend in, but entirely too aware to relax. Jacket zipped halfway, head on a swivel. Every couple of steps, she glanced back—not instinctively—trained.

  She was looking for tails.

  The kind of check that’s been graded, corrected and perfected.

  The kind that meant she didn’t trust this drop—like what she had on her was radioactive and she was looking forward to get to the bomb shelter to recover.

  Her stride was narrow. Fast. Jersey hair, big glasses, tactical bag slung cross-body like a tourist.

  But that wasn’t a purse. And that wasn’t a sightseeing pace.

  She was walking like she knew we were coming and didn’t know from where.

  To that she was correct.

  The van pulled in two blocks behind her—slow and quiet.

  Not close enough to spook her. Just enough to watch.

  She walked fast, narrow stride, glancing back every few paces.

  Too alert. Too clean.

  Provost watched her through the forward display, jaw tight.

  “She’s too aware,” he said. “Eyes are working corners. That’s not nervous. She’s not guessing. She’s too smooth. She’s either reading us… or expecting someone else.”

  I scanned her posture again.

  Nothing visible in the hands. Bag was secure. No comms.

  “I’m in lead,” I said calmly. “I think it’s fine. She can’t hurt us.”

  Provost didn’t look away.

  “Yeah. She can’t hurt you. But she can hurt us.”

  A beat. Then:

  “Fine. You take her full. Smother her. Your body should be able to handle anything she has, right?”

  “Yeah, I suppose. But I’ll go fast and swoop her up. Don’t worry.”

  We kicked the Tulanto special into gear for the snatch.

  All you could hear were the tires—a hush over the road—so we were nearly on top of her before she turned around.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The side doors slid open.

  I jumped—five feet out, dropped into a practiced roll, inside her personal space before she finished turning.

  Provost rolled out just behind me, a few feet back—same drill, same pattern.

  Her hand blurred.

  My HUD flared red. My vision snapped wide.

  I juked right—hard, instant.

  Couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t override the urge.

  The mana-propelled round passed where I’d been a blink ago.

  Hit Provost square across the chest—he grunted, one hand clutching his synthetic side as he dropped hard onto the pavement.

  I was already grabbing the bag.

  My other hand snapped forward—slammed into her wrist just as another round fired.

  It cracked through the van door behind me—clean, hot, metal-on-metal.

  I yanked her arms back—heard the snap—

  Then hauled her onto my shoulder like a fireman with no time to ask questions.

  I sprinted for the van.

  Provost was already pulling himself into the driver’s seat, his natural hand pressed against his chest.

  The cybernetic one was ruined—cracked down the wrist, fingers limp and twitching where the round had punched through it.

  It just hung there. Dead weight.

  I tossed the handler into the back seat and zip-tied her like she weighed nothing.

  The doors sealed shut behind us.

  A body with a huge chest cavity opening, stared back at me from the shotgun position.

  A brother.

  He had no chance. Mana rounds don’t punch—they bloom. Like hollow-points, but on drugs.

  Where the impact hit, skin had peeled outward—like the bullet had exploded in all directions once it tasted bone.

  His chest didn’t look shot.

  It looked scooped.

  The cabin was silent. No words.

  The channel was chaos.

  Just breathing.

  And the hum of acceleration—

  —then the chaotic feel of a side collision.

  A large white oversized SUV slammed into our side.

  Outside, five people poured out—all armed, all firing.

  A spray of blood exploded from the closest one, dead center chest, leaving a gold, molten hole behind.

  Manuel was covering our escape.

  Shit had hit the fan. Again.

  The first subject dropped hard—“aggressive negotiation” complete.

  The rest scrambled, ducking behind concrete and mortar, hiding near fountain walls and cracked storefronts.

  Provost slammed the van into reverse—

  —but the SUV surged forward again, colliding hard with our front grill.

  Bullets pinged off the van’s glass—no penetration. But the pressure was real.

  “Ice,” Provost barked. “Expect sharp turn in 3… 2… 1—”

  The van kicked sideways, sliding like it had weight and water in equal measure.

  He drove like he was born in the curve.

  The SUV’s engine block crested into our view—

  CRACK.

  First shot: right into the block.

  Second: into the driver.

  The SUV finally rolled to a slow stop, killed by its own momentum.

  We burned away, back toward base.

  “Status,” Ice said over comms.

  “One down,” I said. “Subject… done.”

  I looked down at the chained agent in the back. My hand was still at her throat.

  “I can be a monster too,” I said to her.

  And I twisted.

  Gurgling sounds followed—wet, shallow.

  She thrashed once. Then again.

  Then nothing.

  Just another body in a van racing for sanctuary.

  “Emotions, Jane,” Provost said. Calm. Cold. “Keep them in check. Mission’s a fail now.”

  “I guess I’m just balancing us out,” I muttered, looking forward at the dwindling flame in the front seat.

  I was in the chair again, loading back into my body when Provost came by—t-shirt showing a bandaged chest, his left arm missing.

  He didn’t say anything. Just stood there while I did my business.

  The moment I leaned back and the automatic transition placed itself into my skull, I felt it—

  Cold. Mechanical. Exact.

  Always the same.

  Even when things are so very different.

  “Do you always stare at women when they’re in a state of undress?” I asked as I came to.

  He didn’t blink.

  “We need to speak. We reviewed the footage. You were somehow alerted to the mana signature of that weapon. TAI says it’s rare. Rare as in non-existent. The doctors will want to diagnose it—try to recreate it.”

  “Great. So now I’m not just an asset. I’m an experiment too, huh?”

  The cable slid out with a soft click on release.

  I didn’t flinch.

  I never flinch.

  Not during this part.

  It used to feel like coming home.

  Now?

  Possession.

  Not a ghost.

  Not a weapon.

  Just something they let out when they need something dirty done in clean lines.

  “You’re not listening,” he said. “Nothing new.”

  “But know this—”

  “You made the right call. That bolt would’ve killed you. Or at least taken you offline. With those others there?”

  “Wouldn’t have been good.”

  When we got back, I just stood there. Watching.

  Cold. Indifferent.

  Just watching as the only nice person I ever had got carted away by the med techs.

  Provost went straight to the med bay—to look after his chest wound,and clean up the stump where his arm used to be.

  Valerie was going to be ecstatic, for sure.

  I went straight to my data closet to get my itchy-ass body back.

  The itch felt more mental at this point, but I knew it was only a matter of time.

  This was the only thing that was mine in this entire base.

  One room. One rack. One shell.

  Nobody else ever came here. Not unless TAI needed something.

  I still had quarters, though.

  And I headed there right after Provost finally left.

  He tried to stare me down until I said something.

  But trying to stare down an android?

  That’s a task best left to gargoyles.

  I got to my room.

  A standard junior suite from any hotel chain—minus the second bed.

  It wasn’t cold in temperature.

  Just cold.

  Too clean. Too untouched. Too staged.

  I’d never slept in the bed. Never used the bathroom.

  Never sat in any of the chairs.

  The only things here were on the bureau—and in the bags I’d taken from Mateo.

  Creep that he was.

  At least… that’s what I know now.

  I don’t really remember those times. Not clearly.

  A blessing, maybe. If my logs are to be believed.

  The mirror on the wall was unforgiving.

  My other body had the blood on it—

  But this one?

  This one radiated the discomfort instead.

  Maybe worse.

  I sat in the chair at the table. The only chair I’d ever used here.

  “TAI… Do… do you have drone footage? Of it all?”

  “Yes. Several angles, in fact.”

  “Can you send them to me?”

  “Of course.” A pause. “But Giselle… we’ve reviewed it. As Yasoba said—you are not at fault here.”

  “Sure.”

  I looked away from the mirror.

  “Just… send it. Please.”

  I received the files and synced them with my own recording—cringey first-person-action-game HUD and all.

  They all played at once, pausing and zooming in as needed.

  Unlike humans, I could keep track of every angle at once. No distraction. No delay. Just data.

  I cued it back to the beginning.

  I had just jumped out of the van.

  More like launched.

  Multiple drones caught me mid-air—like a missile hitting pavement, rolling into her personal space.

  I should have kicked her.

  Should’ve gone harder.

  Hit her center mass. Drive her down on contact. Her ribs be damned.

  I was holding back. That was the mistake.

  As I left, Flame chuckled in comms:

  “Jane go lead! Shit! More like jet-fuel!”

  More chuckling.

  Then quieter:

  “Get her, little sister…”

  The drones showed Provost coming up behind—Not five feet like I remembered.

  Twenty-five.

  The van had to slow for the jump. For a human jump.

  He landed too fast. Too early. Stumbled.

  Used both hands to stabilize. His rifle slipped behind him.

  He grabbed the sling—left hand, cybernetic—Pulled it back across his chest.

  That’s what saved him.

  Then the shot.

  The gun was behind her bag, slotted between layers of coat lining. Not hidden—designed.

  Perfect camouflage.

  The drone feed twitched as the cannon fired—mana signature strong enough to shake sensors.

  “Gun! Ice! Gun!”

  Rodrigo’s voice, urgent.

  “No shot!” Ice replied.

  Of course no shot.

  Dummy that I was, I was in the way.

  She died anyway.

  We should’ve sniped her.

  Then picked up the bag.

  Case closed.

  I see myself swing—karate chop to her gun hand.

  Should’ve grabbed the wrist.

  Pulled the muzzle down.

  So many versions of this are my fault.

  And yet… they’re all coddling me.

  Then another shot.

  “Gah.” That’s all I hear.

  “Status! …Flame, status!”

  That’s Ice. That’s Manuel.

  First time I’ve ever heard him emotional.

  It’s jarring.

  It’s my fault.

  “Man down. Taking seat,” Provost says.

  Calm. Final. Already in the van.

  I’m mid-drag, mid-break, hauling the handler in like trash.

  The drones follow the outside carnage.

  I’m left with one angle.

  My own.

  My head pivoted and he stared back at me.

  Head tilted back at an angle, chest up.

  He’d landed that way after Provost unceremoniously tossed his body over.

  A six-inch hole in his chest.

  Rodrigo’s grin—frozen in time.

  Mouth open mid-smirk, jaw slack, falling with gravity.

  Even after death, he was waiting for the joke.

  One last laugh.

  I closed the file.

  Looked down at my balled fist.

  Inside my palm: blood.

  Damn android synth-blood.

  A hole in my chest? I’ve got backups.

  He doesn’t.

  Why’d I juke that shot?

  My door was open.

  It’s a cultural thing, apparently. Something about always being watched.

  Why close doors?

  Footsteps passed by in the hall.

  I looked up.

  Manuel.

  He didn’t look in.

  Didn’t slow.

  Just kept walking.

  Head down.

  In his own world.

  Soon enough another set of footsteps approached.

  Then stopped.

  At my door.

  I didn’t look up right away.

  Didn’t need to.

  Slate.

  He stood there—one hand in a pocket, the other doing nothing useful.

  “Heard you had a hard day today,” he said, voice low.

  A beat.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Jane might be the one who rewrites them.