But I don’t laugh. I let him think he’s right.
“You were his downfall,” Trebuchet continues. “And thus an obstruction. I am removing obstructions.”
“Then… why am I alive?” I whisper, making my voice tremble just enough.
Trebuchet releases me and stands. The optic flickers like annoyance.
“Because Arnab requested it. He believes you are leverage.”
“Am I?” I breathe.
He doesn’t hear the steel under it.
“You were,” Trebuchet says calmly. “But no longer.” He turns back to his console. “Soon he will realize that.”
My stomach clenches, but I keep my expression blank. My heart pounds like it’s trying to break ribs. The dim lamp buzzesoverhead; the cell reeks of cold stone, metal oil, and the faint copper scent of my own dried blood. I pull in a breath and smell dampness from somewhere behind the wall. My palms sting from cuts I don’t fully remember getting.
Trebuchet’s voice drones on about logic, efficiency, fate. I tune him out.
Instead, I look at the console.
I memorize the pattern of lights.
The timing of the pulses.
The sound of the coolant hiss every time the blue heart beats.
The order in which he touches the panels.
And I file it away—like I used to memorize safety codes for the Stan Hansen, like I memorized the safe hiding spots in the orphanage, like I memorized the way Vokar’s voice shifted when he was trying not to worry me.
I’m good at remembering what hurts.
And this thing will hurt.
Soon.
Because of me.
Trebuchet disengages from the console again and returns to the far side of the cell, loops a cable from his forearm into the wall, and goes into some kind of low-power recharge state. His optic dims, not off but cycling slower.
I sit up slowly, as if dizzy. My vision throbs for effect.
The guards don’t come.
No one else moves.
I’m alone.
Good.
I shift my body, inching toward the darkest corner of the cell—where the shadows hide me from the angle of Trebuchet’s optic. My bones ache. My temples pulse. Every muscle feels like it’s been scraped raw.
I sink onto the floor, my back against cool stone. The lights flicker overhead—one long, two short, a pause. I watch it. Everything has rhythm when you’re scared enough to notice.
My hand slips into the pocket of my torn uniform. My fingers brush soft fabric—matted fur, tiny cotton stuffing, a stitch I fixed myself.
One of my stuffed animals.
