I stared at my fingers. Wet. Why? Viper didn't cry. This tears are a biological handicap. So why is it that- This... this isn't me.
"My lady?" Elodie's voice said in a soft worried way. "My lady, you're... you're white as a sheet! Oh, gods, are you in pain? Is it your head?
It was pain. But it wasn't the blunt trauma in my head. It was... a crushing weight in my chest. The girl's memories... her "cruel" family... that was the trigger. But the emotion? The emotion seemed to be mine. A single, splintered memory, not of ponies and tantrums, but of a small, clean apartment, the smell of cheap paint, and the first time I'd ever learned what "quiet" meant.
The memory hit me. I was standing by the window, my hand resting on the pistol I'd hidden under the sill. I'd been checking the perimeter for three hours. The mission was over. We were out. We were "safe." But my instinct said otherwise.
"You can stop, you know," Lyra's voice, amused. She was unpacking a box of books. "We're clear. Wolf himself couldn't find us here."
"Wolf would have found us in two hours," I'd said, my voice flat, stiff and robotic. "He'd find a way through the sewer routes. The power grid. He'd..."
I heard her small chuckle. That warm sound that always seemed to cut through me. She came up behind me. I was a foot taller, a weapon disguised as a man. And she... she stood on her tiptoes. Her hand, warm and calloused from her medical gear, landed on my head.
She patted me. Like a nervous puppy. "It's okay to be 'off,' love," she'd whispered, her eyes seeing the man, not the weapon. "You're not an 'instrument' here. You're just... you. Everything is going to be fine." I'd just stood there. Stunned. No one had ever...patted... me before.
The memory shattered, and I was back in the library. The smell of old paper. And Elodie, babbling in panic. Everything will be fine. The words... Lyra... I avenged her. I'd burned my old world to the ground for her. But I never... I never mourned. There was no time. The memories, the ones I kept locked in a box, they flooded in. Her, smiling over that damn coffee. Her, humming off-key while she cooked. The scent of her hair. The precise, efficient way she'd stitched up my wounds after a bad operation. It was too much.
This 12 year old body had no filters. The emotional calluses, the psychological barrier I'd spent 35 years building... it wasn't here.
I wasn't standing. I was hunched over, one hand braced on my chest, gasping. It wasn't a single, confusing tear. It was a silent, agonizing flood. This sorrow. This was a pain worse than any bullet. It was a toxin. It was crushing me. I, Viper, who had felt nothing, was now feeling everything.
"Oh, my lady... my lady... what's wrong?" Elodie was crying now, too. Hysterical. "Please... please don't... oh, this is all my fault... I... I..." She was useless and liability. Then she did the last thing I would have ever predicted. She lunged forward. I flinched but I was too weak. She wrapped her thin, arms around my small, shaking frame. She... hugged me. "It's alright, my lady," she whispered, her voice shaking but... firm. "Whatever it is... whatever you're remembering... it's alright. You're safe now. It's over. Everything will be fine."
The echo. The exact same words. It was so strong, my hand... this small, girl's hand... actually started to lift. To hug her back.
BAM!
The library doors slammed open, the sound echoing like a gunshot. I flinched. Elodie shrieked and shoved me away—not hard, but enough to break contact. A woman stood in the doorway. Tall, dressed in a starched grey uniform that looked like a mix between a military and maid uniform. Her hair was pulled back so tight it looked painful. Behind her, two other maids, built like bricks. And... a small boy, with dark hair, peeking out from behind her skirt.
Elodie scrambled to her feet, bowing so low her head almost touched her knees. "Mistress Helga! I... I apologize! Her ladyship... she was feeling faint! The fever..."
The head maid Helga ignored her. Her eyes cold, flat, analytical, just like the Duke's—swept over the scene. They landed on me, my face streaked with tears. Then they moved to Elodie. She didn't speak. She just walked forward. Elodie shrinks.
"Mistress, I was just..." Helga shoved her. A single, brutal push that sent Elodie sprawling onto the hardwood floor. "Tsk." She looked at her with disgust. "Pathetic," Helga hissed. "Leaving your post. Agitating the young lady when she is unwell." She turned to the two larger maids. "Take Lady Seraphina to her chambers. She is not to leave." She jerked her chin at Elodie, who was frozen on the floor. "You. Pack your things. You are dismissed." Elodie's face went pale.
"No," I whispered. My voice was a rasp. "She was... she was helpi-" The maids grabbed my arms. Their grip was like iron. They started dragging me. "Wait!" I tried to plant my feet, but this body was useless. I was a doll. "Elodie!" The last thing I saw as they hauled me from the room was Elodie, still on the floor, looking at me. Her face was a mask of absolute, horror.
They threw me into my room. "What will happen to her?" I demanded, spinning around. The maid just looked at me with dull, bovine eyes and shut the door. I heard the click. A key turning in a lock. I grabbed the handle. It was solid. "Let me out!" I slammed my shoulder against the heavy oak. It was useless. It was like a moth hitting a wall. This body had no mass, no strength. The frustration was so sudden, so hot, I wanted to scream. "WHY?" The sound that came out was a high, cracking shout. A muffled voice came from the other side of the door. "Orders from the Duchess, my lady. You are to rest. For your own good."
Silence. I slid down the door, my legs giving out. I sat on the carpet. I lost composure. Viper. Never. Lost. Composure. I had never cried. Not when they found Lyra. Not when my own mother sent me to the black site. I'd just... acted. And now... Elodie. fired and dismissed. Thrown out of the manor with no money? starvation? sold to a brothel? A sharp, acidic bubble formed in my stomach. Guilt. Another new, unwelcome variable. I got Lyra killed by being "illogical". And now, in this new life, in less than an hour, I had gotten this babbling, terrified, kind maid... fired. I had failed to protect someone, again.
I felt... drained. Utterly, completely exhausted. I pushed myself up, my limbs feeling like lead, and slumped into the high backed chair by the desk. I put my head in my hands. I am a 35 year old assassin. A one man insurgency. And I was just defeated by a locked door. I truly am a fuck up.
Knock. Knock. I didn't look up. "Go away." The door opened. I hear faint small footsteps but I didn't care, I was too tired. The footsteps approached the desk. A small hand entered my field of vision. It set something down. A single piece of hard candy, wrapped in wax paper. The scent. It was faint. Lemon and... honey. It was... familiar. Not to me. But to Seraphina. I lifted my head.
The boy from the library. He was standing there, looking nervous. Then a flash of memories. Not mine but Seraphina's. The same boy. In the gardens. I'd scraped my knee. He'd... he'd given me a candy. Called me a crybaby. Kaelen. The son of the guard commander, Varrus. A boy who practically lived in the manor. He pushed a small, rumpled bag of the candies toward me. I stared at him.
Reluctantly, I took one. I unwrapped the sticky paper. I put it in my mouth. It was objectively terrible. The flavor was weak, compared to the complex, ingenuity of the modern world, it was garbage. But this body... this body loved it. A simple, childish comfort. The flavor, familiar to this tongue, was oddly... grounding.
Kaelen gave a small, nervous smile. "Are you... alright, Sera? Mother Helga was... she's always mean." I just nodded, sucking on the candy. What was I supposed to say? "I was... I was really worried," he mumbled, shuffling his feet. "When you fell from Firefly. Everyone... everyone said you might not... you know." I looked at him. Really looked at him.
He was just a kid. Maybe twelve, like me. He was... innocent. No angles. No ulterior motives. Just a kid, worried about his friend. A friend who was now a stranger. A friend who had been replaced by a 35 year old killer.
"...I'm fine," I managed. My voice was a raspy.
"Oh. Good!" He looked relieved. "Well... I'll let you rest. Mother Helga said not to bother you." He scurried out, closing the door softly. I was alone again. The sugar gave me a momentary lift, but the exhaustion... it wasn't physical. It was emotional.
A fatigue so deep it felt like it was in my bones. I had never felt this tired in my entire life. I pushed myself out of the chair, walked to the ridiculously large, soft bed, and collapsed onto the silk sheets. Another new, foreign feeling. Defeat.