Chapter 24
LIORA
Three years pass. Pepper is a whirlwind of energy and questions that hit like laser fire.
She’s up at dawn and asleep at midnight, and somehow still manages to make me feel like I’ve slept through a monsoon every single day.
The image inducer clings to her temple like a lifeline, its soft hum always in the background like a warning I can’t afford to ignore.
It masks her Reaper features well enough most days.
But sometimes—when she’s mad or overexcited—it glitches.
Her voice doubles, like two versions of her echoing out of sync.
Her eyes flash silver when she’s scared, furious, or just done with being cooped up.
And I know it’s only a matter of time before someone sees what they shouldn’t.
“Mommy, why can’t I go to school like the other kids?” she asks one morning, hanging upside down from the back of the couch like a tiny human bat. She grins at me, jelly on her cheek and wild curls everywhere.
I freeze with the kettle in my hand. “Because we’re… special,” I say finally, which is only half a lie. “And special kids need special lessons.”
She gives me a look like she knows I’m full of it.
She’s smart. Too smart. Already reading at eighth-grade level.
Already asking about where babies come from and why everyone stares when we walk down the street.
I keep telling myself I’ll figure it out when the time comes. But time’s never been kind to me.
Some nights, I lie awake recalibrating her inducer settings, praying the damn thing doesn’t short out on a crowded train or during a random ID scan.
Other nights, I lie in bed with her curled up at my side, one hand on her back, listening to her breathe just to remind myself she’s real.
That I didn’t imagine her. That she’s mine. Ours.
But being “special” is expensive. I blew through the holo-film residuals in under a year.
Between the fake IDs, the updated power cores for the image inducer, the relocation costs, and doctor visits for a kid who couldn’t go to a normal clinic, I’m drowning.
Freelance journalism doesn’t stretch the way it used to.
The last gig almost outed us both when my source sold my burner number to a bounty board. If I hadn’t bolted when I did…
Now I’m on my last credit. I skipped dinner last night so Pepper could have seconds. Again. There’s a clinic up the road that’ll pay 400 credits for clean plasma, no questions asked. I’m two seconds from going. From giving blood I can’t afford to lose.
And then—just after noon—there’s a knock on the door.
It’s not a scared knock. Not desperate or angry. It’s precise. Calculated.
Pepper glances up from her toy pile, a fake pastry half-crushed in her fist. “Mommy, someone’s at the door!”
“I heard, baby.” My voice comes out tighter than I want.
I wipe my hands on my shirt and walk to the door. The old security cam is broken. I peer through the peephole.
There’s a man in a sleek coat and shiny boots. Corporate, maybe. Too clean for this part of town.
I hesitate, then unlock the first bolt.
The man adjusts his collar. Smiles.
“Ms. Rin?” he asks, like he already knows the answer. “My name is Mylo Raskin. I’m with Planetary Pictures. I believe we have something to talk about.”
“I’m not interested,” I say flatly, trying to push the door shut. “You already got the rights to my story.”
But Mylo Raskin plants his foot in the frame like he owns the damn threshold. His smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens like I’ve just challenged him to a game he’s sure he’ll win.
“Yes, but what about a sequel?”
“How does that even make any sense?” I sputter. “The story’s over! Gyon is…Gyon is gone.”
“Yeah, but that’s the great thing about Hollywood magic--the truth don’t matter a lick.”
I try to shut the door again. His foot must be in agony but he persists. He’s not as subtle as the last guy they sent for the first picture. This man has something to prove, not just to me but to himself…and probably the galaxy at large.
“Just hear me out,” he says, and fans a folder in my face.
Contracts. Numbers. Real credits. Too many zeroes to ignore.
“We’re talking a franchise, Ms. Rin. Not just a sequel.
A whole holo-series. Intergalactic rights.
Merch deals. Think Maze meets Starcrash Chronicles.
And you, front and center. Star-crossed lovers.
Alien culture shock. Heroine’s journey. You’re the next big franchise. ”
“You don’t even know what I’ve been through,” I snap.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Actually, I watched the first film. Twice. Even read the original script before the rewrites ruined it. And I know what everyone saw: a survivor. A woman who walked through hell with a Reaper and came out with a story the galaxy can’t stop talking about.”
I hesitate. And that’s my mistake.
Because now he’s talking fast, stacking buzzwords like building blocks, waving the folder like it’s a magic wand that’ll make everything better. I see production budgets, a per-episode salary that makes my stomach twist, backend deals with percentages I can’t even process.
“Think about it,” he says, dropping his voice to a near-whisper. “This could change everything for you and your kid.”
That does it. I slam the door.
And for a moment, I breathe.
“Mommy?” Pepper calls from the kitchenette. Her little hands are full of plastifoam noodles, and she’s chewing with a mouth too big for her tiny face. “Was that a bad guy?”
“Worse,” I mutter, dragging my back down the door until I hit the floor. “A producer.”
She giggles. It’s a sweet sound. Too sweet for this world.
I want to forget about Mylo. I try to forget about Mylo. But the folder he waved is burned into my brain like an afterimage. The credits listed on the back cover alone could clear every debt I owe. Could buy Pepper a new image inducer. Could buy her freedom.
That night, while Pepper eats the last of the powdered soup—no protein cubes this time, we’re out—I do a manual recalibration of her inducer. It’s been glitching all week. A hitch in the vocal harmonics, a shimmer at her temples that doesn’t fade fast enough.
She’s humming to herself when it sparks.
“Pepper!” I lunge forward, grabbing her head in my hands.
“It tickled,” she says with a nervous laugh.
Then I see them. Her eyes. Glowing. Silver with flecks of red, just like his. Like his.
“Baby,” I whisper. “Stay still. Don’t move.”
She freezes. She’s too used to these moments.
The hum of the image inducer goes dead.
And there she is. All of her. Not the smooth hologram of a human child, but the impossible mix of me and Gyon. Her cheekbones sharper than they should be. Her hair darker, longer. Her fingernails slightly too thick, too glossy. Her irises gleaming like suns behind storm clouds.
I feel my chest crack open.
I fumble for the backup power pack. Click it into place. Wait.
Nothing.
“Mommy?” Her voice is too small now. “Did I break again?”
“No, sweetheart,” I say. My voice trembles. “You didn’t break.”
She reaches out and touches my cheek with a hand too strong for a four-year-old. Her thumb brushes a tear I didn’t know I shed.
“I like when I look like me.”
I want to scream. Instead, I smile. “I like it too. But not everyone would understand.”
“Because I’m different?”
“No.” I pull her close, press my forehead to hers. “Because they’re afraid of different.”
She hugs me tight. I feel her whole body shake.
That night, after she’s asleep, I sit in the dark for hours, staring at the broken device and the empty wallet on my terminal screen. I don’t want to go back to the spotlight. I don’t want to be a face. A commodity. A sob story turned sequel bait.
But then I think about that flash of fear in Pepper’s eyes when she realized something had gone wrong. I think about the way she clung to me. The way she said “I like when I look like me.”
And I realize I’d sell my soul for that girl’s safety.
So I dig through the trash, find the wrinkled business card Mylo shoved into my hand before I threw it away. Planetary Pictures. Personal comm line.
I stare at it until dawn.
Then I pick it up and call.
He answers on the first ring. “Ms. Rin?”
“You still want to make that franchise?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
There’s a pause. Then that cocky smile filters through the comm line like static. “You just made my day.”
“Don’t get excited yet,” I warn. “We’re doing this my way. No glam, no bullshit. I want script approval. I want full image rights. And I want a bonus clause if this thing sells.”
He whistles low. “Damn. You drive a hard bargain.”
“You have no idea.”
I hang up without saying goodbye.
Because I don’t need pleasantries. I need money. I need safety.
And I need control.
Three months. That’s how long I have until the cameras roll. Until the lights go up, the makeup gets caked on, and someone yells Action! like it’s not my entire life they’re playing dress-up with. The studio calls it a “semi-true inspired adaptation.” I call it a gamble with my soul.
I’ve signed the contracts. Mylo damn near popped an artery when I negotiated my terms. I want script rewrites—my rewrites.
I want to play myself. I want veto rights over editing.
I want full input on casting, set design, costumes.
He agreed to almost all of it, his grin twitching like it was trying to escape his face.
“You’re a producer now,” he said, pushing a stylus toward me.
“Then I’ll produce the hell out of it,” I snapped, and signed.
I thought I’d feel powerful. In control. Instead, all I feel is tired.
Pepper watches from the couch while I pace the tiny living room, cradling a cup of caf I keep forgetting to drink. She’s coloring a starship with gold teeth and rocket claws, humming some nonsense song about burning the sky.
“You’re frowning again,” she says without looking up.
“I’m thinking.”
“Thinking is your mad face.”
I grin despite myself. “Is it now?”
She nods, solemn. “But it’s okay. You look less tired than yesterday.”
That’s a lie, but I let it slide. I walk over, lean down, and kiss her temple. The image inducer hums, faint but steady. Still working. For now.
“You know I’m doing this for you, right?” I ask her softly.
She shrugs. “You said we needed credits. So go get the credits.”
That hits harder than it should. She’s four going on forty.
I sit beside her, cross-legged on the floor. “It’s not just about money. It’s about—telling the story right. The real story. So no one else can twist it.”
She puts down her crayon. “About Daddy?”
I freeze.
She rarely talks about him. I thought she didn’t remember.
“Why do you say that?” I ask carefully.
Her eyes search mine, like she knows something I don’t. “I dream about him sometimes.”
My throat closes.
“He’s tall,” she says. “And his voice rumbles like thunder. And he calls me... ‘jal’ta’kar.’ What does that mean?”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
I just pull her into my arms and hold her there, her tiny heartbeat a steady drum against my ribs.
Later that night, after she’s asleep, I review the script drafts on my cracked tablet.
They’re… bad. Worse than I feared. The Reapers are portrayed like cartoon monsters, snarling clichés with shoulder spikes and glowing swords.
My character is a wide-eyed virgin who falls in love because the Reaper “shows her a new way to feel.” It’s grotesque.
I delete whole paragraphs. Rewrite dialogue that actually sounds like me. Insert lines that cut deeper. Truth buried in fiction. Razorblades wrapped in sugar.
When Mylo sends back notes, I send back fire. I don’t care if I piss off the studio. I’m done being polite.
The costume team starts virtual fittings next week. They want me in “combat couture.” I tell them to go spelunk themselves. I send them old vids from the Maze footage—bloodstained armor, torn fabric, dirt under my nails.
“This is what survival looks like,” I tell them. “Not a damn catsuit.”
Mylo calls to “chat.”
“You’re scaring the design team,” he says, halfway between amused and exasperated.
“Good. Maybe they’ll design something real.”
“You know, most actresses don’t push back this hard.”
“I’m not most actresses.”
He chuckles. “You’re really gonna make this thing matter, huh?”
I don’t answer. He doesn’t need me to.
In the quiet that follows, I glance at Pepper’s room. Her door is cracked just enough for me to see the soft blue nightlight shaped like a moon. She’s curled in her blanket, one fist tucked under her cheek, breathing even.
She deserves a better world.
Maybe this stupid film is a step toward it.
Maybe not.
But at least this time, I’ll be the one holding the pen.