On the clearest night of summer, in a quiet London alley, a woman lies dying in my arms. I shift slightly and drop my head, drag my stare from the stars to her face. My knee scrapes against the concrete, gathering dust in wounds, but I ignore it as the woman takes another shuddering breath. I've done all I can.
"I'm so sorry." The words are only whispers, but they carry in the wind. I swallow down the tightness in my throat. "I'm so sorry that I couldn't save you." With one hand, I brush stray hairs from her face, then I press two feather-light fingers to her temple. "Peace," I murmur.
The woman's eyes flutter, and her frantic gaze calms. After two more breaths, she slips away. I close my eyes along with hers and take a moment to mourn, because she was young and she died in a stranger's arms.
It's impossible to pretend here, so close to the ground, that anything could be different. That the world could have peace. That I could be normal. That any of this could be normal.
That for once I wouldn't be alone.
As good at it as I may be, in the face of dirt and crimson even I can't pretend. I can only tuck those thoughts away in a box, leave the woman's body on the ground, and stand, mask and hood flipped back up. Alley walls glitch around me as the mask renders a face over my own.
I have work to finish tonight.
The footsteps that hesitated at the corner of the alley a second ago resume, and a woman comes into view. An English agent, undoubtedly.
The streetlight ripples over blonde hair, high cheekbones, and eyes like a summer-sun gilded forest. I gasp.
That's not an English agent.
"Kaitlyn?"
She only frowns and pulls out her gun. "Who are you?" Her accent is Cockney, not American.
I move on reflex, and in a moment the woman's gun rests in my palm. My head spins, words echoing over and over. Kaitlyn, Kaitlyn, Kaitlyn. I thread my left hand through my hair, giving it a light tug. Think logically. It can't be Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn's dead. The gun shakes-or, no, that's my hand.
I scan the agent's face. Her freckles don't fit. The expression isn't right. She has no scar.
It's not Kaitlyn.
I take a deep breath, set the gun on the ground, and nod once to the woman before I spin and walk away. She makes no move to follow.
Two blocks from the alley, I switch my comm back on. "Three, tell me who that was."
The AI's voice responds in my ear immediately. "Eleanor Wilson, known as Kira Green, twenty-four-year-old British intelligence agent. Specializes in secure transportations for field ops."
"She looked like Kaitlyn." I fiddle with the edge of my b-jacket, my brow furrowing. "She looked just like Kaitlyn. What if it was-"
"Ara!" Three stops me mid-turn. "Facial analyses indicate that woman is not Kaitlyn Smith. Kaitlyn is dead. Please, remember your mission."
The mission. Right.
Sara Lewis has to die.
I run the facts through again. She's a barista, works at the little pub where Duke Street Hill and Borough High intersect. It's been a convenient place for gathering information-serve the right man whisky that's a bit too strong and you'll have a few state secrets on your hands. The process has become a bit too convenient, though. Sarah Lewis now holds enough of a reputation that she can't simply up and move away, and that's what makes my job difficult.
Killing a target can be hard or easy, but killing the personas I've created has always reached a whole other level of complication. After all, I can't just snipe myself.
A simple shake clears my head, and I check that my gun is at my waist. "Alright." The light from the main street darkens as my face changes again. "Alright, Staci, you there?"
Kaitlyn's AI takes just a beat longer than Three to answer. "I'm here," she says.
I tap at the bracelets on my wrists, an illusion of jeans and a t-shirt settles over me, and just like that, I've become Sara Lewis. "Is Taylor on track?"
"I've located her through camera seven-eighty-six, about a block from the complex," Staci replies.
One step into the street, I pause. "What." Shoot. No, no, no. "She's early."
"You're late," Three counters.
I glance at the time, curse, and break into a sprint. "Staci-stall her. Three, get me the visual."
"Affirmative," Staci says. "Running program Replica."
In the corner of my display, a feed pops up. Despite the pace I take, weaving past vehicles and people in a blur, I keep half my focus on the video. Taylor steps into the footage. Seconds later, a man bumps into her-except, it's not really a man. It's Staci, though no one else would know it. She keeps up a flawless impersonation of a creep from the pub, down to the very twitch in her eye. The illusion's demeanor twists into a leer, and Taylor edges away.
Now just a corner from the altercation, I slow to a stroll. My breathing evens out as I take the turn, nearly striding right into Taylor's back. I make a show of joining her side and dropping a glare on Staci. "Is there a problem here?"
Staci smooths the man's look into something neutral. "Not at all. Me 'n the pretty lady were just talkin'."
"Well this 'pretty lady' happens to be my coworker, and she doesn't look too happy about chatting with you, Jackson. I suggest you leave before I run out of reasons why we shouldn't have our own little chat." I unsheathe my knife with a practiced ease, but leave it hanging at my side out of view of the surveillance cameras. No need to give Sara Lewis any red flags before she dies.
With raised hands, the illusion of Jackson backs off down the street. I lay a hand on Taylor's shoulder and re-sheathe the knife. "You good?"
She glares after the illusion and nods sharply, but her arm shakes beneath my grasp. "I could've gone inside, but I didn't want him to follow me. Should've just put him in his place."
My lips turn down as I guide her towards the entrance. That would have been unfortunate-both for the sake of her knuckles and the keeping of the illusion, it's best that she didn't. "You can't afford to lose your job right now." Taylor huffs in acknowledgment as the door clangs shut behind us and we start up the steps.
I wait five flights of stairs and half a hall of walking before I speak again. "Here." I loosen the sheathe and knife from my side and press them into her hand. "Keep this. I have another."
We've reached my apartment, now, and hers is the one next door. She gives me a grin, I smile back, and then the apartment door closes between us.
The thud of my head against the door sounds as hollow as I feel. I take a deep breath.
That's six months of friendship ended. She knew things about me that I'd told no one else but Kaitlyn. How I always pretend. Why I hate the war. That I'm always alone.
I need a distraction.
"Three, pull up folder 481 and run facial analysis against the blonde in the alley. No civilian is going to just randomly look that much like Kaitlyn, much less an agent."
Staci clicks in distress. "Those pictures are of Kaitlyn, Ara. You are breaking the rules for nothing, and-"
"Five matches found," Three interrupts.
I hum. "Focus on your task, Staci. Is everything in place?"
Staci's light blinks, indicating that her processing power briefly leaves my jacket. "Structural packages are all in place," she answers after a moment. "Floor-wide package is activated. Apartment package initiation sequence begun."
I have maybe a minute. "Three, bring up those pictures."
Five photographs appear, projected on the wall. I study the girl depicted. In four of the pictures, she's at my younger self's side. In one, she stands alone. "That's not Kaitlyn."
"It is not," Three confirms.
"Don't forget," they told me. Hypocrites who break their own orders.
"Remember the Rules, Ara," Staci warns.
The Rules. "Don't trust."
I let my thumb brush against the photo, and then turn away.
"Don't care."
She wasn't an imaginary friend.
"Don't idealize."
Kaitlyn had a twin.
"Don't hesitate."
I had another sister.
"Don't diverge."
They can't stop me if I do.
"Suit, Staci."
My b-jacket morphs, illusion falling away and suit wrapping around me as the apartment explodes into white.