Page 8

Ziva

Watching Myall’s steady, fluid movements as his slender fingers glide over the tools, he places each one with meticulous care.

The flex of his knuckles as he works reveals the strength behind his delicate touch, and I can’t help but smirk, even as my own NeuroMod dulls the amusement I should be feeling.

We’re gathered around my workstation, conducting our repairs on malfunctioning devices. Thankfully, it means we won’t have to subject any citizens to the mind-numbing recalibration process today.

“You know,” I say, keeping my voice low, “I think you missed a spot. That micro capacitor is at least half a millimeter out of alignment.”

Myall’s green eyes flick up to meet mine, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth before he quickly schools his features. “Very funny, Ziva. I’ll have you know this system is perfected to maximize our repair efficiency.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” I drawl, picking up a precision screwdriver and twirling it between my fingers. “Because heaven forbid we have to reach an extra inch for a tool.”

Myall shakes his head, his messy brown locks falling into his eyes—but I catch the slight upturn of his lips. “Mock all you want, but when we’re neck-deep in repairs later today, you’ll be thanking me for this organization.”

I open my mouth to retort, but the words die in my throat as the screwdriver slips from my grasp.

Time slows as the tool clatters to the floor, the sound echoing through the cavernous workroom like a gunshot.

My heart rate spikes, a flash of panic breaking through the emotional dampening of my NeuroMod.

Before I can react, Myall is there, his rough hand brushing mine as we both reach for the fallen screwdriver.

I freeze, my pulse quickening as our fingers brush, the brief touch sending a ripple of warmth through me that my NeuroMod can’t quite suppress.

It’s a warmth that spreads from our fingertips, awakening something long dormant within me.

“I’ve got it,” Myall says, his voice low and gentle. He retrieves the screwdriver, our hands still close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

Swallowing hard, I try to regain my composure as a flush creeps up my neck.

“Thanks,” I manage. As Myall straightens, our eyes meet, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something in his gaze—a depth of emotion that shouldn’t be possible with our dampened states.

I blink and the emotion vanishes from his face.

“No problem,” he replies, clearing his throat and taking a step back as he holds out the screwdriver. “Wouldn’t want to disrupt the perfect organization, right?”

Taking the instrument, my fingers brush his once more. “Right,” I say, attempting to inject some levity into my tone. “Can’t have chaos in the sacred order of things.”

As we return to our work of repairing the NeuroMods, I can’t help but steal glances at Myall. My mind races, trying to make sense of the connection I just felt. Is it my imagination, or was there something different in the way he looked at me today?

Since our meeting at the abandoned factory last night, where we proposed the idea of starting a rebellion, he’s been looking at me almost…wistfully? No, that can’t be right.

I refocus on the NeuroMod, but my mind keeps drifting. My hands move automatically through the familiar motions of repair, but my mind can’t seem to let go of that brief touch with Myall and the way he keeps looking at me today.

There’s something about him, something I can’t ignore, no matter how much my conditioning demands I suppress it.

Our interactions have always been strictly professional—even with our workstations across from each other—but this morning there’s something different, a connection that I never expected to feel.

And here I am, unable to stop thinking about it.

Myall continues working beside me, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil in my mind. He hums softly under his breath, and I find myself drawn to the sound. It’s a simple tune, one that we’ve all heard countless times during our daily routines here.

But now it sounds different—almost like a melody that wraps around me, pulling me into its rhythm. The familiar tune, once a mere backdrop to our daily routines, now stirs something deep inside, a longing for freedom that thrums in sync with the beat.

I shake my head, my long hair swaying back and forth as I try to clear my thoughts.

This is ridiculous—I’m supposed to be immune to these kinds of feelings.

That’s what the NeuroMods do, they suppress these burning emotions.

We’ve all grown up being warned about the dangers of uncontrollable feelings.

“Something on your mind?” Myall’s soft, husky voice breaks through my thoughts, and I jump slightly in surprise.

“Uh…no,” I reply quickly, hoping he didn’t notice my distraction. I grab the NeuroMod before me, turning it over and begin prying open it’s casing. “Just…lost in thought.”

He gives me a curious look before shrugging and returning his focus to his work. But even as we continue our tasks in silence, I can’t shake off the questions swirling in my mind.

How many others feel this way? How many of us are silently yearning for something more, something real? And more importantly, what would happen if we dared to reach for it?

The sharp click of heels on the polished floor shatters my reverie. I cringe as I recognize the sound—Supervisor Penn approaching. Glancing at Myall, I see my own tension mirrored in his eyes.

“Status report, Technicians,” Supervisor Penn demands, her voice as cold and sterile as the room around us.

I swallow hard, heart stuttering. We’ve been talking more than working, and our progress is behind. “I’m just finishing up the repairs on this batch, ma’am,” I lie without hesitation, gesturing to the half-repaired NeuroMods before us.

Supervisor Penn’s eyes narrow suspiciously. She glances at Myall who paused his retreat to his workstation when Penn glanced his way. “Is that so? Your efficiency metrics seem…lacking today, Emerson.”

Thinking quickly, I grab the nearest NeuroMod.

“Actually, ma’am, Mr. Hansen and I encountered an unusual malfunction.

See this fluctuation here?” I point to a random readout laying sprawled on my workstation bench, praying she doesn’t look too closely.

“We’ve been working to isolate the cause.

It could indicate a larger systemic issue. ”

Myall picks up on it, adding, “Ms. Emerson decided it was best to investigate thoroughly before proceeding with repairs, and asked me to examine the fluctuations from a compliance standpoint.”

Supervisor Penn’s expression shifts from suspicion to interest. “I see. Carry on then, but I expect a full report by end of shift.”

As she walks away, I exhale slowly, relief washing over me.

Thank god she bought that.

Turning to Myall, a small smile plays at my lips as I bump his shoulder with mine. “Quick thinking,” I mumble.

“You started it,” he replies, his voice equally low.

Seizing the moment, I discreetly reach for a small, folded paper from my pant pocket and slide it across my workstation bench. “Something you should see,” I whisper, my heart pounding. “Later.”

Myall’s fingers close around the note, and I see a flicker of curiosity in his eyes as he expertly tucks the note away, concealing it from sight.

What I’ve just done is dangerously reckless, a foolish gamble that could unravel everything.

The weight of the note between us feels heavier now, as if it holds the power to change our fates.

But as I watch him stride back towards his workstation, excitement bubbles within me.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of routine repairs and diagnostics, and I find my gaze constantly drawn to Myall.

Our eyes meet across the workroom, brief stolen glances that send a flutter through my chest despite the dampening effects of my NeuroMod.

Each time, I quickly look away, focusing intently on the tools in my hands, but the connection lingers—and so does his searing gaze.

I’m reaching for a micro-spanner when Supervisor Penn’s voice cuts through the noise of machinery over the comm system at my workstation. “Emerson, Hansen. My office, now.”

My stomach drops. Did she suspect something about our earlier exchange? Did one of the camera’s catch the note that I passed to Myall? I shoot a worried glance at Myall, but his face remains impassive as he places his tools on the workbench and begins walking towards our supervisor’s office.

Inside her office, Penn gestures sharply toward a complex array of circuitry on her desk, the polished surface reflecting the harsh overhead lighting. The intricate network of wires and components hums softly, like a mechanical heartbeat.

“We’ve got a priority repair at the request of Regent Colvin. Highly sensitive equipment from Elysium. I need your combined expertise on this.”

Myall and I exchange curious glances. Priority repairs are rare, reserved for high-ranking projects or emergencies. And we are being assigned one together. If Regent Colvin, figurehead of The Harmonization Authority is requesting this personally, it must be important.

“Of course, ma’am,” Myall responds smoothly for the both of us, his tone neutral.

The thrill of being assigned to work with Myall on a project that could have far-reaching implications sends a rush of adrenaline through me as Supervisor Penn begins briefing us on the details of the repair.

As she talks, I lean in, examining the intricate web of connections. My fingers trace the delicate pathways, feeling the coolness of the components beneath my touch, each one a potential key to unlocking the mysteries of the NeuroMod system.

“This is… different,” I mutter, my curiosity piqued.

Myall nods as he points to a section, his presence close enough that I feel the warmth of his body. “Look at how these relays are configured. I’ve never seen anything like it.”