The words tumbled from my lips before I could stop them. "Are you hurt?" My eyes raked over him, searching for wounds, for torn fabric, for any sign of damage. He didn't appear injured, but dark splashes stained his shirt—viscous and black, too dark to be human blood. Alien blood, I realized with a shudder. "Did you get shot?"
His grin was infuriatingly casual, as if we were discussing the weather rather than our near-death experience. "A couple of times," he said, a cocky edge creeping into his voice. "I'm pretty much bulletproof."
"My Superman," I quipped back, trying to match his lightness even as my heart hammered against my ribs. But the joke felt hollow because somewhere beneath the banter, I knew the truth. I'd never encountered anything or anyone remotely like him. He was like Superman. My gaze drifted downward, drawn to the small device cradled in his palm. "Can you fix it?"
Rickon turned it over again, examining the damage with a critical eye, his fingers probing the ruined edges. "Maybe. The core relay might still be intact, but the transmission array is completely destroyed. I'd need tools, time, and components I can't easily access." He set it on the table between us, careful to keep it partially hidden beneath his hand, like someone might recognize the alien tech for what it was. "Even if I can repair it, we're talking days. Maybe longer."
My stomach dropped, the feeling of free falling sudden and sickening. "Time we don't have."
"No," he agreed, his voice flat. "We don't."
I stared at the ruined device, my mind racing through possibilities and discarding them just as quickly. Every option felt like a dead end. "So, what do we do?" I laughed, but it came out bitter, edged with something close to hysteria. "We can't trust anyone. For all we know, Hewes has the whole White House infested with those hairless cat-looking aliens." Asshole.
Rickon's expression turned grim, his eyes darkening. "The Trogvyk—that's what they're called—they're the species behind the slave trade. They've been pillaging multiple worlds for decades. Earth is just their latest target." He glanced around the diner, his voice dropping lower, barely audible over the clatter of dishes and the hiss of the griddle. "The one pretending to be Chase had a cuddwisg device. We have to assume that others do as well. They can pretend to be anyone."
"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
Rickon shrugged, picking up the communicator again, turning it over in his hands like he could will it back to life through sheer determination. "Our priority is to stay hidden until I can repair this or find another way to contact the Prime."
"What's our next move?" I asked.
His jaw clenched again, the muscle jumping. "We need to find somewhere safe to lie low for a while. Somewhere they won't think to look."
The diner's television, which had been playing some mindless eighties rerun—canned laughter and big hair—suddenly cut to aBREAKING NEWSbanner in aggressive red letters. The chyron at the bottom of the screen read:PRESIDENT SURVIVES ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT.
My blood turned to ice. The warmth from the coffee and the booth seemed to leach away all at once, leaving me frozen to my core.
"Rickon," I breathed, unable to tear my eyes off the screen.
He glanced up sharply, following my gaze. His entire body went rigid, every muscle locked into place.
There I was. On national television. Standing behind a podium bristling with microphones, the White House press room logo unmistakable in the background. I wore the navy pantsuit I'd put on this morning—a lifetime ago—my hair perfectly styled, my expression somber but composed. Presidential.
"Earlier today," the me on screen said, her voice steady, hitting all the right notes, "I was the target of a coordinated assassination attempt by an international terrorist organization. Their goal was to kill me and replace me with a body double as part of a broader conspiracy to destabilize our government."
"What the fuck?" I whispered, the words barely making it past my lips.
The camera cut to a photo of Rickon—his human face. The image looked like security footage, slightly grainy but unmistakably him. My stomach twisted.
"This man," fake-me continued, gesturing toward the photo, "aided the terrorist cell in their attack. In the ensuing gunfight, two brave Secret Service agents—Chase Wilkie and Marcus Rivers—gave their lives protecting me. The terrorists and their accomplices escaped, but we are working with local and federal law enforcement to bring them to justice."
The screen split, showing both the press conference and the photo of Rickon alongside what I realized, with dawning horror, was a photo of me. An older photo, probably from some campaign event, but altered. In it, I wore a gray pantsuit, but instead of a purse, there was a gun in my hand.
"These individuals are armed and extremely dangerous," the imposter said, her—my—voice hardening. "If you see them, do not approach. Contact authorities immediately."
Rickon leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the screen. "That's Declan," he said quietly, his voice tight. I heard rage simmering beneath the surface. "I recognize the cadence of his voice. The way he pauses between certain words. A cuddwisg can alter appearance perfectly, but the auditory modifications are limited."
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. My chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped steel bands around my ribs and was slowly tightening them. That bastard was standing in the White House, wearing my face, speaking with my authority. How many people had he already fooled? How deep did this go?
"Ellie." Rickon's hand found mine under the table, warm and solid, his fingers lacing through mine. "Ellie, look at me."
I dragged my eyes from the screen to his face, forcing myself to focus on his features instead of the imposter wearing mine.
"We're going to fix this," he said, his voice steady and certain, like it was already done.
Before I could respond, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. The waitress, Deb, was staring at us, her eyes darting between our faces and the television screen. Her mouth had fallen open slightly while her hand reached for the phone mounted on the wall behind the counter, the cord coiled and yellowed with age.
"Rickon," I hissed, my heart suddenly racing again.
