Chapter 16 · Maker

"Sit down, Maya. Or don't. It won't change how this ends," Doc said, not looking up from the holographic terminal.

I didn't sit. I kept my hand tight on the grip of my knife, my boots grinding into the sterile floor of the lab. The air here didn't smell like the Underbelly's rust and piss; it smelled like ozone and expensive bleach. It smelled like a lie.

"Who the hell are you?" I spat. "And why are there a dozen versions of my face floating in tanks in the next room?"

Doc finally looked at me. He was old, his skin like yellowed parchment stretched over a skull, wearing a lab coat that cost more than my entire neighborhood. He didn't look scared. He looked bored.

"The 'versions' are just failed iterations," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Too unstable. Too much aggression in the genetic cocktail. You, however, are a miracle of survival. A statistical anomaly."

"I'm not a miracle. I'm a courier with a headache and a talking teddy bear," I snapped.

Beside me, Pip shifted. The plush toy's voice was low, dangerously sharp. "Cut the crap, Doc. She's not a courier. She's a prototype.