“Target: Roja Renn. Target: Human companion alias ‘Kelsea.’ Detainment Protocol 9-47B. Immediate apprehension. No tribunal. Deliver directly to Judge Harro for expedited deportation.”
I blink once, twice. The words don’t change. No tribunal. No appeal. Not even a damn booking number. This isn’t an arrest. It’s a deletion. They want us erased, quiet as ash on a black wind.
Something cracks in my chest—quiet but irreversible. Not panic. Not rage. Just that slow, simmering fury that builds when the world confirms every suspicion you tried not to believe.
I stand without a word.
“Kelsea,” I call, voice tight.
She stirs on the blanket, bleary-eyed, still caught in that twilight space between dread and dream. “Roja? What is it?”
I walk over, hand clenched tight around the comm unit. The screen's still glowing faintly, casting pale green light up across my knuckles. I crouch and hold it out to her.
Her breath stutters. She reads the message once, lips parted. Then again, slower, like maybe it’ll rewrite itself.
“They’re sending us straight to the judge?” she says, voice rasped thin.
I nod. “No lawyers. No record. Straight to processing.”
Her face hardens—not fear exactly, more like the air's been knocked out of her. I’ve seen it before. The look people get right before they’re loaded into a shuttle bay and told they don’t have a name anymore.
She barely whispers, “They want us gone.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Permanently.”
I don’t let her respond. I don’t want to hear the word “why” again. I’ve heard it too many times. I don’t need her to process it. I just need it done.
So I close my hand and crush the comm unit.
The plastic shrieks under pressure, metal groaning like it wants to scream. The screen flickers, dies, then sparks out in a pop of blue light. It leaves a scorched line across my palm. I don’t flinch. The broken pieces fall to the ground like they’re already in mourning.
Kelsea jerks slightly at the sound. Her hand rises, instinctive, reaching for a blade that isn’t there.
“They’re not taking us,” I say.
She looks up, searching my face for something to anchor to. “So what do we do?”
“We move. Fast.”
“How long before they act on this?”
“Hours. Maybe less. That message was a direct route to a ground team. No repeats. No backups.”
I can see her pulse at the base of her neck, fluttering like a trapped moth.
I step closer, crouch beside her. She smells like dust and adrenaline, skin cold under the low warehouse air. Her fingers graze mine as she steadies herself. There's something in her eyes—more than fear, deeper than resolve. A resignation that's turned to steel.
“I thought we had more time,” she murmurs.
I shake my head. “That’s a luxury. We were lucky to have any.”
She swallows. I hear it, thick and hard. Her hand drops to her lap.
“This is my fault,” she says.
“No,” I cut in, sharper than I intend. “This is on them.”
“I pulled you into this.”
