38. Ellie #3
She nods and pours from a bottle, placing the full glass into the recessed holder on the dark wood table before moving toward the cockpit. Once the door seals and we’re alone, the cabin feels hollow. Jackson and Gabriel are already forward, hunched over their screens behind us, but Killian stays.
"You're coming down from the rush," he whispers, his voice low against the hum of the turbines.
I look down at my hands. He's right. They're shaking against the armrests. "I'm not used to this, Killian."
I close my eyes, and the corridor is there again.
Red light. I see the guard’s head snap back, the directory glass exploding.
I remember the vacant look in his eyes as he hit the floor, what was left of his face turned into a mess of bone and crimson.
I stepped over him as if he were a piece of trash, and I didn't even look down.
I kept moving. And all I feel now is... nothing.
Completely void of emotion. No guilt. No horror in killing someone. No remorse, even. Just nothing.
Killian doesn't say anything. He unbuckles his belt and stands, the small cabin suddenly feeling even smaller as he looms over me.
He reaches for my hand and pulls me out of my chair.
I stumble across the narrow aisle into his space, and he catches me, sitting back down and dragging me onto his lap.
I end up sideways, my back braced against the cabin wall and his heart beating steady against my ear.
He covers my hand with his, pinning my shaking fingers to his chest. I stop fighting and sink into him, my body finally finding the hard, toned lines of his muscles.
God, I’ve missed this. The way he feels, the heat of his skin through his shirt, the sheer mass of him that makes the rest of the world disappear.
He’s perfect in every way that matters: he’s here.
I’ve never been more secure than I am now, in his lap, with his heart thumping under my hand.
"Get used to it, Ellie. This is what it feels like to win."
By the time the cabin pressure settles, we’re clear of Colorado airspace.
Back at the house, the living room is dark, the massive floor-to-ceiling windows framing the black of the Montana forest. The only light comes from the bank of monitors Jackson has set up. He’s already deep into the files from the USB.
"Project Reformation," Jackson says, reading the name of the document folder.
I lean over his shoulder. The technical jargon is familiar. Horrifyingly familiar.
"I recognize the logic," I say, leaning in until the light from the monitors stings my eyes. "It’s my father’s mapping, but it’s failing.
See these spikes? The neural decay?" I point to the jagged red lines on the screen. "He can’t keep the new personality stable. It’s crashing after a few days.
The original mind fights back until it dies. "
Killian stays by the window, watching the dark treeline for any movement. He’s perfectly still, but the air around him feels charged. "Show her the target list, Jackson."
Jackson hesitates, then clicks a new tab.
My own face stares back at me. A photo from the office. From before they took me.
Subject 001: The Prototype. Priority: Retrieval. Status: Incomplete.
I stare at the words until they blur. I scroll down, my fingers clicking the mouse in the quiet room. I see the logs of the failed imprints, Subject 002, 003, all the way to 017. Their neural paths are shattered, red markers showing where their brains simply gave up.
Then I go back to my file. I scan the notes from Julian himself. Subject 001 continues to show zero decay. Without the original code architecture, the secondary imprints are unsustainable.
I pull back from the monitor, the truth finally sinking in.
"He doesn't want to kill me, Killian. He needs me," I say. "I’m the only one who didn't crash. I'm the only stable imprint he’s ever had, and he still doesn't know why. I’m not just a prototype. I’m the key to making the rest of them live."
In the kitchen beyond the living room, Gabriel and Kai are hunched over a spread of takeout containers, arguing quietly about whether the local Thai place actually knows how to make Pad Thai. Gabriel is midway through a joke, a rare smirk on his face, while Kai tosses a crumpled napkin at him.
They look so normal. So human.
I look back at the screen, at the red markers and the shattered lives. Then I look at them again, and then at Jackson and Killian. They aren't a crew. They aren't just a team I happened to fall in with.
They’re the first family I’ve chosen. And I’m going to make sure Julian Ross never gets near them.
Jackson leans back in his chair, a plastic fork halfway to his mouth. He doesn't look away from the new cluster of data blinking on the center monitor. "Found him," he says, nodding toward the screen. "The Reformation hub is in Wyoming. He probably thinks he’s untouchable there."
"He's hiding," I say, tracing the coordinates on the map. "We need to draw him out."
Killian turns from the window. His eyes are dark. He knows exactly what I am implying. "Over my dead fucking body."
"No," I say, looking at the woman in the photo. She’s a stranger to me now. "Over his. Pack the gear. We're going to Wyoming."