Page 11

CHAPTER 11

JACK

I pace my apartment, fingers drumming against the PerComm as my report sits unfinished. The words mock me from the screen: "Subject displays typical human mating behaviors..."

Delete.

My skin itches beneath this human form, but I can't shift back. Not now. Not when her scent still clings to me, when I can still taste her on my lips.

"Computer, personal log." The device chirps to life. "Last night's field research has become... complicated."

I run my hands through my hair—this strange, blonde hair that isn't mine. Dawn breaks over Twin Oaks, painting the sky in colors that remind me of home.

"The subject—" I stop, clench my jaw. "Vanessa. Her name is Vanessa."

The computer waits patiently for my input.

"I should transfer out. Request reassignment. The data is already compromised." My chest tightens at the thought. "But I won't."

The memory of her laughter, the way she arched against me under the stars, floods back. No clinical terms could capture that moment. No anthropological framework could explain why my heart races when she looks at me.

"Computer, delete log."

I'm breaking every protocol in the handbook. Rule one: maintain emotional distance. Rule two: avoid intimate physical contact. Rule three: never develop personal attachments.

My PerComm pings with a message from Command. Probably wondering why my weekly report is late. I ignore it.

Instead, I pull up the image I captured of her last night. She's smiling, her head tucked against my chest, stars scattered behind us like diamonds on velvet. My human face looks back at me, and for the first time since taking this form, the expression feels genuine.

"Computer, new personal log." I pause, knowing these words could end my career. "I'm in love with a human. And I don't care about the consequences."

The PerComm vibrates against my desk, its screen flashing red. Priority message. I already know what it says, but I open it anyway.

"Agent Jorun, your recent field behavior has deviated significantly from protocol. Multiple violations detected: excessive personal contact, emotional entanglement, physical intimacy with subject V.W. Cease all non-observational interaction immediately."

My jaw clenches. The message continues to scroll.

"Your previous work has been exemplary, which is why you're receiving a warning rather than immediate extraction. Return to standard observation protocols. Further deviation will result in disciplinary action."

I slam the device down, pacing the length of my apartment. The sunrise catches my reflection in the window – this human form I've worn so long it's starting to feel more real than my own skin.

"Computer, display my mission parameters."

The holographic display flickers to life: "Observe. Document. Do not interfere with natural human social development."

"Computer, display subject file: Wright, Vanessa."

Her image appears, captured from our first meeting at The Love Roast. The clinical notes scroll beside it: "Subject displays typical defensive mechanisms resulting from repeated relationship failures. Exhibits above-average intelligence and emotional awareness."

My fingers hover over the delete command. One touch and I could erase every trace of her from the official record. But that wouldn't erase her from my mind, or this ache in my chest that feels anything but scientific.

The PerComm buzzes again. Another message: "Confirmation of protocol compliance required within 24 hours."

I pick up the device, my thumb hovering over the response field. The cursor blinks, waiting for my acknowledgment, my promise to step back, to reduce her to nothing more than data points in a study.

I can't. Not yet.

I rehearse my speech as I walk to The Love Roast. The words taste like ash in my mouth: "Vanessa, I need to focus on my work." Or maybe: "This is moving too fast." All the standard human break-up lines I've documented over months of research.

My PerComm buzzes. Another message from Command, no doubt. I silence it without looking.

The café's pink and red Valentine's decorations mock me through the window. Vanessa moves behind the counter, her dark hair catching the morning light. She's explaining something to a customer, her hands animated, a slight smile playing at her lips.

My rehearsed speech evaporates.

I push open the door. The smell of coffee and freshly baked pastries mingles with her perfume.

I steady myself, falling back into my normal pattern of interaction with her.

"Good morning. I'd like to observe your morning rush patterns, if you don't mind."

"Our what?" she asks, something bitter in her voice.

"The social dynamics during peak hours. It's fascinating how humans cluster around caffeine distribution points."

It soon becomes apparent I said, or did, something wrong. She's cold to me in a way I've never felt before. As the morning rush continues, I observe as her jaw clenches and her muscles stiffen when she glances at me.

Once the full house of customers thins out, I decide to make my move. Her speech is stilted and full of anger; not the way I want this conversation to go.

"I apologize if I've caused offense. My behavior this morning was... inappropriate. Not the professional boundaries—those were necessary—but my failure to acknowledge what happened between us."

"Go on." The tension from her is so thick, yet I can sense a need from her to hear me out.

"Would you go out with me tomorrow? I'd like to explain myself properly."

I try, and though she seems open to it, her words show she's still hanging onto some form of bitterness. Despite it all, I need her to understand. To know how much I care for her.

So, I broach the topic of another date. One more personal, that can let me have that time I need to talk to her.

"Fine. Dinner." Vanessa is still showing signs of being closed off, but there's a hint of hope in her speech.

"I promise you won't regret it."