Death came like a power cut.
I open my eyes. Neon lights shatter into crimson shards in puddles. Rain falls like countless burning needles piercing my scalp. This body isn't mine – copper-brown skin, a faded red cord on the wrist, fingertips slightly curved from years of dance. A silver anklet bell jingles wildly with each heartbeat.
"Maya, hurry!" Someone waves from the dark alley mouth, voice torn apart by the rain curtain. I—no, *she*—turns, wet hair flinging droplets. Headlights blaze suddenly behind her, two white beams like pouncing beasts. Engine roar, a scream, the rack of a gunslide merging into a single sharp line. Explosive pain tears through my chest. I look down, see blood blooming on the sari. The world goes dark.
...
"BP seventy systolic, heart rate one-thirty." A woman's voice, cold to the bone, cuts into my ears. I bolt upright. Beyond a plastic curtain, an ECG monitor drones a flatline tone. Restraints bite into my wrists, drawing blood. The taste of metal coats my throat.
An AI nurse recites in flat English: "Subject E-7. Seventh memory fusion failure. Rejection level B-plus."
I can't remember who I am, but I remember the feel of the sari soaked with blood with perfect clarity. The pain lingers like a hermit crab crawling along my nerve endings.
A countdown lights up on the right wall: 00:09:57.
Nine minutes until they come to "dispose" of me.
I rip off the neural sensors on my neck. Blood beads from the needle pricks. As my feet hit the floor, phantom pain flares in my ankle – as if the mark from the silver bell is still there. This is Maya's memory, yet it clings to my nerves like a second skin.
Outside the door, combat boots strike the corridor floor, steady as a heartbeat. I grab an IV stand like a club, but my palm trembles. This tremor isn't fear; it's the memory of unfamiliar muscles: Maya's terror, Diego's street fighting instincts, Viktor's sniper breathing patterns... they war in my veins.
I take a deep breath, leveling the metal pole. The lock clicks. The light turns green.
The first guard bursts in, wearing a full black helmet. I sidestep the stun gun, sweep the pole across his knees – the movement is fluid, unfamiliar. Viktor, is that you?
He crashes down, his gun skidding near my feet. I bend to grab it. As my fingers brush the stock, a flashback stabs my brain:
— Rio dawn. Diego sprints across rooftops, spray cans clattering in his backpack. A helicopter searchlight cuts across the sky like a razor. He leaps towards the next building, wind screaming in his ears—
I snap back, finding myself already rolling into the corridor. Alarms wail. White sedative mist sprays from the ceiling. Holding my breath, guided by Benjamin's hacker knowledge, I find the ventilation grate: crosshead screws, three and a half turns counterclockwise. My fingers twist automatically.
The grate clatters down. The dark duct yawns like a beast's gullet. I scramble in, knees scraping raw, blood smearing a thin line on the metal. Gunfire erupts behind me. Bullets whip past my ankles. The phantom sound of bells rings again—
Maya dances in the rain, her anklet bells keeping time with her heart.
I clench my teeth, shut out the bells, and crawl forward.
The duct ends at a laundry chute. I curl up and drop, plunging into a wave of scalding sheets. The reek of disinfectant burns my sinuses but brings a strange comfort – Sophia's old Parisian bookshop smelled faintly of this bleach.
I shove aside the sheets, bare feet hitting tile. At the corridor's end, an exit sign glows acid green.
Countdown: 00:06:12.
"Run." The word echoes in seven different voices inside my head.
I run.