Page 118 of Border Control

LAURA

I stepout of my room, bleary-eyed and heavy with fatigue. Last night turned into a blur of restless hours tangled in thought, worrying about Dom. The collar they put on him can't be good, but somehow, I know he's alive. I can sense something through the mind-sync, just not hear him, like someone pushed pause on him. He wasn't loud before, but I could always hear the murmur of his thoughts: now, the mind sync still hums between us, but there's nothing on it. Just… mental static.

I run my fingers along Samara’s golden wall as I pass it. It's cold. Solid. Not like the flood of emotions I’m still carrying from last night. Seeing all the horrible shit he went through, realising the cracks in him run deep. He doesn't show it except in the vulnerable moments where he needs pain to cope. He's always been honest about his hurt and what he needs, whereas me? I paper over my cracks.

Laying my forehead against the cool stone, wishing it was my warm alien, I breathe deeply. Dom said it wasn’t my fault. That I’m not faking it.

But I am.

Iprojectconfidence. I wear it like a costume. I push myself harder than anyone else ever could, so no one sees how often I second-guess. How sometimes, panic claws its way up my throat and I have to swallow it whole.

It isn’t the bond. I blamed it, thought maybe Dom’s presence was what was throwing me off balance, shaking me. But… I was like this before. The panic was mine. The control too thin, painted over with lipstick, using a different shade to pretend I could change how I feel and how I act.

I pause in the corridor, rest my palm against the wall, and take one full, deliberate breath. I clutch the data pad they gave me to my chest with the other, the only thing I have as a weapon to save Dom. I can't fail him. Not when he’s trusting me with this much. I can’t freak out. He needs me.

This trial is the most important of my life. It’s all on me. My strategy, my responsibility, my fire, to fight this injustice. To take on a culture that thinks it can chew clones up and spit them out and never answer for it.

I brush my hair behind my ears and lift my chin.

As long as I’m prepared, I can’t fail. I have all the evidence, and it's watertight. Imaya helped me interpret the records of chip scans both at Katyen's apartment building and the Milagrove Tree, their hospital, and Dom's number appears nowhere on them ever.

‘I think I've got a few angles to pry at,’I reassure Dom, but he doesn’t answer. His warm mental voice has been absent all night. I chew my lip.

It should feel… good. I’m finally alone in my head, my secrets my own, the way I wanted it to be. I mean, I was so desperate I took Dom up on his offer to return to a place which literally shot him on sight. I should never have accepted. Ellen and Arabella were both so sure, but I thought I could handle it once the mind sync was fixed.

My hands tremble, and I curl them into the fabric wrap. I want to hear his voice again, both in person and… yeah, in my head. He never flinched at what a mess it was in here, never dragged out my anxiety and judged me for it. He’s the one person who’s seen all of me, the good, the bad, and the downright ugly. All the stuff with my dad is out there now, the clockwork mechanics that make me tick, and he didn’t turn away.

He stayed with me, enduring the flood, holding onto me through it. He knew he had a choice, and he still chose to reach out to me. All of me.

Now, I have to do the same.

This place better have a metric shit-tonne of the alien equivalent of coffee.

Sliding my thumbs around the layered strips of fabric to make sure I'm presentable and adjusting the translation headphones to sit smoothly encasing each ear, I knock on the door to Samara’s office, projecting all the confidence I can muster.

But nothing happens.

“How do doors work here?’ A flat panel to the left on the lintel looks significant. I wave at it, then poke the surface. Maybe it’s a data pad thing?

“Allow me to assist.” A tall male appears as if from the shadows, his scales sliding from dark camouflage to gold and black before landing on a calm blue.

How long had he been standing there?

“Females do not have chips. Ask any nearby male to serve you,” he says politely.

“So women still need guys to open doors around here. Got it. Thanks,” I say.

At least the door opens, and the guy melts back to wherever he came from.

‘Are there doormen clones?’I ask Dom.

Nothing. Silence.

‘It just wouldn't surprise me, is all,’I finish, blinking. My eyes burn. Damn.

As I take in the gleaming, ultra-modern surroundings of Samara’s office, I can almost feel my exhaustion sinking deeper, weighed down by the sleek, pristine sterility of the place.

Everything in here is meticulously polished, edges sharp, lines crisp. The walls are a stark, smooth slate, interspersed with iridescent panels that shift color subtly. The room is beautiful, in a clinical way.