She was built to clean. To serve. To fade quietly into the background.
But the stars have other plans for her.
*****
In the Gaian Empire, there are twelve kinds of clones. Hirayas are the lowest - built to clean, to obey, to fade into the backgroun...
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"Okay, newb. Just a reminder—what happens in Montebello stays in Montebello. Got it?" Dylan says, falling into step beside me as we follow Jon along the shoreline.
"Got it," I answer, trying to keep my hair in place as the wind keeps whipping it across my face.
"So, Jon and I figured out that—"
"Coffee or wine?" Jon cuts in abruptly, stopping both of us mid-thought.
Dylan doesn't miss a beat. "Wine," he replies, brows raising.
"Uh. . . water?" I say, a little confused too.
Jon gives a wooden little nod. "Fine. Come on."
He veers toward a massive rock near the waterline and, without ceremony, plants a hand on it and shoves. The entire slab groans and slides aside, revealing a hidden door carved right into the stone. Beyond it, a narrow walkway descends into shadow.
"Seriously? You bought property here in Montebello?" Dylan blurts, clearly just as surprised as I am.
Jon leaves his cigarette balanced between his lips as he speaks. "Why not?"
"Let me guess. Five million? Ten million kiehls?"
"Millions, yes. Privacy's expensive like that," he murmurs, and for a moment, the ghost of a smile appears.
He gestures for Dylan to enter first. When it's my turn, I step forward, but Jon lifts a hand, stopping me.
"No dirty shoes, please. Contaminants here could mean a safety breach."
I glance down, mortified, at my mud-streaked sandals.
"Sorry, sir. So sorry. Just. . . give me a second," I stammer, retreating toward a nearby boulder.
I smack the soles of my sandals against the rough part of the stone, desperate to knock off every bit of dirt. But of course, because the manual coders have a sick sense of humor, a sharp ocean gust cuts through at exactly the wrong moment.
My skirt whips upward, snapping all the way to my face and blinding me. The white lace underwear—courtesy of the digital attire package—now on full display.
I yelp, hands flying down to wrestle the fabric back into place, my face blazing hot. When I dare a look back toward Jon, he's still standing at the open door, cigarette lazily burning between his fingers, gaze turned out to the sea.
Thank the gods. Maybe he didn't see.
Once I'm sure my sandals are clean and my dignity is intact, I hurry back to him.
"Captain, thank you for waiting," I say, breathless.
Jon doesn't flinch, doesn't even meet my eyes. He simply gives the faintest nod and steps aside, motioning for me to enter.