Chapter 25 #2
What an offer, but he's right. However, I wonder if my bones will reform when I shift into a different clone. I might not need to have him break it so it re-heals properly, but the chances of me finding a quiet corner to shift and test it is minimal, what with all the clones and cameras in here.
“What's your designation code?” I ask, just in case.
“I’m known as Ezla.” he murmurs, his tone understated yet proud.
The air shifts as more clones look over. Two clones with names. They'd have a shock if they knew I had one too, given to me by Samara. Or… was it someone else? I can’t quite remember exactly. Right now, it’s not important.
“You have a name as well?” Juran asks Ezla, voice boyish in its enthusiasm.
Ezla’s chest swells. He’s not bad looking, for a Selthiastock. “Yes. I was named by the human Arra-bellah.”
The mention of Gara’s tiny human sends a jolt through me. Ezla glances at me but doesn’t comment.
The other clones in the barracks perk up at the mention of a human, whispers rippling through the room like a wave. “You know humans?” the Lautostock asks. “What are they like? What should we say at the plenary tomorrow to attract the one here?”
My stomach twists. I want them all to fuck right off.
Ezla straightens, holding up a hand for silence.
His calm authority settles the room instantly.
“They are all different, unique, and they view us as individuals too. If you have a particular hobby or life experience which sets you apart, mention it. Anything which makes you unique, highlight it. Even if you think you're just a number, humans know there’s more to you.”
“We’re not unique,” a clone protests.
Ezla gives him a kind look. “There will be something that sets you apart from your batch mates. Are you the more lighthearted, or serious one? Are you more knowledgeable on one subject? What experiences do you have which they don’t?
I'm hoping to have a mate one day, someone who loves my meticulous attention to detail.” His golden eyes go misty, and there’s a faint, wistful smile on his face.
“El-len paved the way, showing the world clones are worthy of choosing. Arra-bellah helped show the worth of what we can do, and taught others to see us for who we are, not just what we’re made for.
Law-rah fought for justice for us, shaping new laws. ”
I glance around the barracks, taking in the hopeful faces, the wide eyes brimming with possibility. My chest warms with the clouds of hope blooming all around me.
A hope that Samara is going to crush beneath her plans.
I clench my jaw, swallowing down the bitterness rising in my throat. These clones, full of dreams of individuality, of finding meaning beyond their design… They have no idea what’s coming.
And that I’m part of it.
A clatter at the doors makes us all look over. True Born sons stroll into the barracks like they own it, their arrogance as thick in the air as their scents. They’re all so distinct—different haircuts, different scales, different postures, none of them bred for purpose like us. They’re individuals.
And they know it.
“What do we have here?” one sneers, kicking a bedroll across the floor. “Something fouling our sheets?” He laughs, and another True Born joins in, grabbing blankets from a bunk and tossing them to the ground.
“Pathetic,” he says, turning toward Juran. “Shouldn’t you be scrubbing the floor, clone?”
My fists twitch at my sides, and it takes everything I have not to rise. Not for this. It isn’t my mission. My head may insist I’m a superior clone amongst all the others, but I’m nothing against a True Born. I force my breathing to stay steady, even as anger churns hot in my chest.
Juran’s scales ripple to light blue as he steps forward. “You’re pretty stupid.”
The nearest True Born turns to him, yellow scales glinting under the lights and his black hair falling over one eye. He smirks. “Oh? And why’s that?”
Juran tilts his head, unflinching. “Because we outnumber you heavily.”
The room goes silent.
The leader’s smirk falters before it turns into a sneer. “Is that a threat, cleaner?” His voice rises, carrying to every corner of the barracks. “You all heard him. The clones are planning to rise up.” He spreads his arms wide, taunting. “Go on, try it. Let’s see how far you get.”
Juran’s scales shift lighter, betraying his nerves, but he holds his ground. Brave Lautostock, but someone needs to intervene.
I sigh, standing slowly, and everyone locks onto me.
Fuck. Guess that someone’s me.
I ball my fists. “Get out of here, True Borns.”
The leader’s grin grows wider. “Make us.”
My brain chatter starts up again. I can’t compare against a True Born. I’ll never be good enough.
But, as Nic-coal said, I can fight these thoughts.
I slug him in the face, and the fight begins.
It’s chaos from the start. Gerverstocks charge forward with sheer brute force, slamming into the True Borns like battering rams. Parthiastocks dart in and out, using their mental coordination to land spectacular combos.
The Lautostock Juran doesn’t shy away either, weaving through the melee, his agility sowing confusion, feints creating openings for others to strike.
Ezla and the other Selthiastocks pull injured clones back, patch them up, and shove them back into the fight, tireless and efficient.
I don’t want to fight. It’s reckless, and it’ll draw attention.
But when another of the True Borns lunges at me, fists raised, I react without thinking.
I block it with my metal arm, the impact sending a jolt up to my shoulder.
Before he can recover, I drive my fist into his ribs.
The sound of cracking bone echoes, and he staggers back, gasping for breath.
Another one comes at me from the side, trying to catch me off guard. I step back, and Juran hooks his leg around the True Born’s ankle and sweeps him to the ground. True Borns are individuals, too busy thinking about their own fights to notice the bigger picture. The clones don’t have that problem.
The leader of the True Borns stumbles back, his yellow scales scratched and bruised, his breathing labored. He glares at me and Juran, eyes burning with fury. “This isn’t over,” he spits.
I stare him down. “It won’t be, you’re right, and these Games won’t change anything. Not for a long while.” And if they end with disaster, they’ll be shut down for good.
One by one, the True Borns retreat, muttering curses and promises under their breath as they stumble out of the barracks. The clones remain still for a moment, the room filled with the sound of heavy breathing.
Then Juran turns to me, his scales settling into a neutral tone. “Thanks,” he says quietly.
I don’t respond. My metal hand aches, and my thoughts churn. Despite granting them their own mating games, clones will always be second class, mere Tubers.
Samara will make sure of that.
The warm water from the barrack’s showers streams down my back, washing away the grime from the day.
It does little for the ache in my bones or the turmoil in my head, but at least it’s quiet here.
I haven’t been able to shift, cameras watch our every move, even zooming in to my heavy Gerverstock dicks.
Juran also hasn’t stopped watching me. His sharp eyes follow the lines of my body, his expression thoughtful.
“See anything you like?” I growl at him.
He tears his eyes away. “My apologies. I… I’ve always admired Gerverstocks.
Their capacity to lead, their charisma, the…
way they look.” He sighs, scratching at his arms. Hundreds of tiny scales flake off in a stream of hardened carbon, glittering in a full spectrum of colors.
“All I can do is process toxins and radiation, and slough off my scales faster than any other clone. I’m… useless.”
His self-assessment veers close to my own analysis of the Lautostock. The steam curls around us like a barrier, and my lack of resounding encouragement speaks for itself.
“What did you want to talk about earlier?” I ask, cutting through this torturous silence.
He doesn’t answer immediately, taking a moment to lather soap over his arms. Finally, he says, “I’ve never met a human before yesterday.”
I pause, letting the water drum against my shoulders. I try for enthusiasm. “What was she like?”
“Distracted. She was looking for a Pranastock until you attracted her attention this morning, and then she was focused only on you.”
The steam suddenly feels suffocating. “What?” I manage, though my voice feels like it’s coming from somewhere far away.
Juran tilts his head, watching me carefully. “She told the All-Mother there are shapeshifter clones. Would you know anything about that?”
Every muscle in my body tenses. The water isn’t hiding my reaction, and I have to fight the instinct to run, to do something.
“You’ve been close to Nic-coal?” I ask, my voice tightly under control.
Juran nods, an easy smile spreading across his face. “So, you do know her.”
Drok na. I bite my stupid tongue.
The Lautostock watches me carefully. “I’m going to try to win her favor in these Games.”
His words hit me like a blaster bolt. It’s not as if I can stake a claim on her.
I’m a monster, a puppet of Samara’s. I have no right to want anything, let alone someone as kind and fierce as Nic-coal.
But the thought of Juran—or any other clone—standing by her side while I’m stuck in Samara’s web? It twists all my organs into paste.
Juran continues, “I don’t think I stand much of a chance, though. She seems… pretty taken with another clone.”
I freeze, every nerve in my body on edge. “Who?”
He shrugs, stepping back into the water and letting it run the soap off his scales. “I don’t know. But she looked at him like she knew him. Like he was important to her.” He glances at me, a knowing gleam in his eye.
I shake my head. “We can’t talk here; there’s cameras everywhere.” Not to mention the fact I can’t talk about the Prif’s plan at all, but maybe this Lautostock is smart enough to piece things together.
“Anyway, good luck tomorrow,” he says lightly, and leaves me alone with the pounding of water against my scales and the chaos in my head. She’s taken with another clone. Did he mean me? Or am I just fooling myself?
I soap up again, the heat of the water nearly matching the inferno in my blood.
I’ve got to find and beat all the Samarastocks in the competition, so they can’t hurt…
argh, can’t interfere with my mission. Thankfully for Nic-coal, I’m not a good person, because I’ll probably have to kill a few clones to keep her safe—no, to enact Samara’s plan.
The pain in my head flares again, a reminder of the orders chaining me to Samara. I press a hand to the wet tiles, steadying myself. If I focus on beating them because I want to be the best and serve Samara well, that works. I concentrate on that.
But never mind beating them… how am I going to find the fuckers?