The Blonde

Zero a.m.

She wanted to cry. He’d fought hard to force his air into lungs she couldn ‘t feel. His lips mashed against hers, and she couldn ‘t feel those, either. Maybe she was already crying. She wouldn ‘t have been able to feel the drops on her cheeks.

She couldn’t feel anything, but she could see and hear and think. That was the worst part.

She knew exactly what had happened.

Back in the lab, she’d overheard them speculating.

Partial engagement.

When the self-replicating supramolecular assemblies—oh, how the Operator hated the nickname Mary Kates, even from the beginning— were faced with a choice, they reset to zero. That’s what must have happened to her. The doors of the elevator may have opened a full second, or a fraction of a millisecond, in time; that didn’t matter to the Mary Kates. They reset to zero.

Leaving her brain-damaged in this oh-so-creative way.

This was not how she’d imagined it. She thought it would have been quick and efficient. And she hoped she’d live long enough for a bit of revenge.

Not to look up into the eyes of another man she’d doomed to the grave.

Her Diet Coke-loving savior.

Pressing his lips to hers, genuine concern in his blue eyes.

And then the other one showed up. The one the Operator sent.

“What’s your name?”

“Brian.”

“Brian, did you give her mouth-to-mouth?”

Yeah, this guy knew the score. But he wasn ‘t a complete dick. Here, he was warning Brian—her savior had a name—to wash up, rinse out his mouth, like that would help. At least it was a gesture of humanity.

And then the Operator’s man looked into her eyes, and somehow sensed she was still in there, because he touched her chin with his index finger and spoke to her.

“Now that wasn’t very smart.”