Olivier didn’t know where he was going—where he was running, full sprint, only slowing his movements when his Censor alerted him that he was about to pass by some other guest. Even then, he barely slowed to more than a brisk walk, his eyes trained straight ahead because if he had the misfortune of running into that Dionese man, he was liable to punch him.
Olivier had never punched someone. The closest he’d ever come had been his cousin Louis, and that hadn’t been anything more than the older boy teaching him how to defend himself, if needed. It had never been needed; despite how terribly his classmates had often treated him, with the exception of Xander Floren, most had simply ignored him or sent snide comments his way. Nothing worth getting into a fist fight over, especially when the laws would favour whoever he struck not just because he was the first to punch, but because he was a non-dev.
He was supposed to be patience and control.
He was supposed to be perfect and pleasant, never letting his temper—or any other feeling—get the better of him.
It was all a lie. Non-devs were just as human as anyone else. They loved and hated, they had tempers and hearts. They lusted and plotted murders that would never be anything but a nice fantasy, just like every other human on the planet. Yet, Olivier had always felt closer to the supposedly perfect person he was supposed to be than not. It wasn’t that he was naturally mature and contained, nothing ruffling his feathers; no, it was that his mother had beaten him down with harsh words and punishments that toed the line into abuse until he was small. Even when he fumed and raged inside, hardly anyone could ever tell—and certainly, when they did notice his ire, what they saw was nothing compared to the storm surely roiling within him.
Non-devs weren’t perfect, but they were better at controlling their reactions—at thinking things through and not striking out when a normal person would already be burning the world to ashes.
That wasn’t true, yet it was. It was more that low-devs often had the capacity to think so fast they were more likely to control their reactions a better than the average person. It wasn’t anything so impressive that they deserved praise or recognition, yet they received it. Olivier had heard more than a few sound bites from low- and non-devs, speaking on how their genetics were really only relevant in war, when those milliseconds of extra time in thinking up a strategy or letting a skill or core ability rip their enemy apart might win a battle.
In everyday life, Olivier didn’t really think it made that much of a difference. Instead, his ability to manage himself just left him unsure what to do at times like this, when his emotions were rattling through him. He had no experience coping with something this big—this unending desire to turn around and race back to Emilia so he could throw her across the bed and bury himself inside her. It wouldn’t even matter where or what—in her mouth, pussy, ass; his fingers, tongue, cock.
Anything would do and all he could do was run and hope to escape the feeling of his skin melting off because he wasn’t just giving in—he was going against the pull of the world and it was attempting to eat him up, melt him into mush so it could consume him.
What a disturbing thought—feeling—that the aether might try to pull him into itself—
No—not the aether.
Something else?
But… what else was there? There was the
physical world
and the
aether.
Nothing more, nothing less. It didn’t matter that he’d long known of allegations that there was
something more
to their world—something outside the aether. He had never believed that—never felt the presence of something extra within their world, and yet…
Consumed with his strange thoughts—wondering where in the galaxy such thoughts had come from because even in comparison to some of the odd feelings he sometimes received from the aether, these ones were absolutely wild, pressing into places his mind had never strayed despite how natural it might have been with all he knew—Olivier had lost track of where he was and how fast he was going, only remembering that he actually needed to pay attention to the notifications blaring over his Censor when he ran straight into someone.
Luckily—of perhaps unluckily—the person he’d run into was a Hyrat clone and the man caught him, some skill exploding outwards to stop them both from tumbling to the floor.
“Whoa. Now, I’ve seen quite a few people run away from Emmie, but this is a little impressive. What the fuck did she do to you?”
Olivier pulled back, his blood vessels pounding with the effort of his racing heart, and stared into bright green eyes. As much as the Hyrat clones were still somewhat off-putting, having been subjected to them so often over the last few weeks, Olivier had come to realize they were also attractive, and also all a little different.
They all had soft brown skin, just like all members of The Black Knot’s ruling families, although the three boys who were constantly picking Emilia up from class had darker, sun-kissed skin and so many freckles over their noses, hands and collarbones they must have spent years earning them in the joy of summer breaks with Emilia and the rest of their friends. Most of the clones had few freckles, although Olivier had noticed more on Grenner Hyrat—likely due to having been assigned to monitor Emilia for so many years—but when he ran across clones on the streets of the capital, or watched court cases where they were testifying, he had begun to take note of their freckles, scars, and the small indicators of style and preference in their normal clothing and the ways they held themselves when not playing the part of
Hyrat clone
.
One day, he imagined he might be able to recognize a few by sight. Even only a few weeks into seeing the Hyrat boys and Grenner Hyrat relatively often, Olivier was sure he would be able to pull them out of a line up of clones with minimal effort… assuming they were being themselves, anyways. As a result, he knew this clone wasn’t any of those four.
An unknown clone, then. One who still knew who he was—one who was able to guess he was running from Emilia, no less.
“Hello,” he said for lack of anything else to say. The clone’s hands were still lingering on his waist, shifting with his slowly calming breaths. “Have we met?”
The man’s smile widened, revealing the straight white teeth all clones possessed. Fine lines sprung up around his eyes, the only indication he was pushing 200 because the clones aged with grace and perfection, only sprouting grey hair in their late 200s, those who lived to die of old age reading as early 200s until the moment their passed despite the natural lifespan of the clones pushing mid-300s.
“No. I’m just a random clone on assignment. Knew ya’ll were on the ship, though. Figured I’d run into you eventually, but didn’t think it would be quite so literally.” A laugh escaped the man, bright and cheerful and reminding Olivier so much of Baylor Hyrat’s it was almost like seeing an older version of Emilia’s friend.
Almost.
Olivier had thought there something odd about Baylor Hyrat before—some energy surrounding him that sent a shiver through Olivier whenever the boy focused too long on a single person—but he had somewhat thought it simply that his cheerfulness was so at odds with the stereotype of the clones that perhaps it was leaving an odd feeling swirling in his stomach. Watching this man, however… Olivier felt none of that apprehension.
There was no lingering concern that this man might be dangerous or hiding something more nefarious inside.
Thinking back to what Emilia had spoken of at dinner—their conversation about black knots and clones who were inclined to kill for joy, only held back by the morals of people like Emilia—Olivier slotted Baylor Hyrat into the position of
serial killer in all but body count
the girl had refused to put a name to, and yeah, he could see it. For all that he was smiles and laughter, Olivier wouldn’t be surprised to walk in on Baylor Hyrat slitting someone’s throat just for fun.
Oddly, that didn’t put him off as much as it should have. Perhaps it was the knowledge that, as long as Emilia didn’t want him to, the clone wouldn’t act on his urges? There was something almost sweet about that—about this boy refusing to give in because he loved Emilia and didn’t want to make her sad.
“Apologies,” Olivier said, snapping back into the moment—none of the three Hyrat boys were on the ship, and it wasn’t his business if Emilia were friends with a boy one loss of control away from becoming a cheerful, joyous serial killer—and finally bothering to step out of the older man’s hold.
“Wanna talk about it? We all have a lot of experience with that girl driving us crazy.” The clone leaned in, conspiratorial and already erecting a privacy barrier around them, all so he could dramatically whisper that the amount of boundaries Emilia had pushed growing up was so excessive they now taught younger clones specifically how to manage her.
“I…” Olivier trailed off, not even knowing what to say to that. The Hyrat clones, known throughout the continent for their ability to manage criminals and sensitive situations, had difficulties managing Emilia?
“Yeah~ Well, she’s always been a problem child. Getting lost. Being kidnapped—although, most of those cases turned out to be unintentional kidnappings or Emmie just wandering off and not telling anyone where she was going.”
Unintentional kidnappings!?
How did someone kidnap another person
unintentionally!?
“Starting wars— Well, one war, and it was already coming.”
What.
“A lot of diplomatic incidents.”
Well, at least those he’d already known about, thanks to all of Lan’za’s stories.
“The whole”—the clone waved his hand between Olivier and seemingly the universe as a whole—“murder thing. Probably not even the first murder—not that the other one we suspect she had a part in wasn’t for good reason!”
The clones eyes grew a little frantic as he tried to backtrack what he’d just said, and honestly, it was a little endearing—and definitely calming—to see a clone panic like this, his words stumbling into one another as he tried to explain that there wasn’t any proof she’d taken part in the murder. “Really, it’s just circumstantial! And the man was terrible—castrated his illegitimate eight-year-old son so he wouldn’t
pollute their bloodline.
Apparently it’s okay to sleep with sex workers, but stars forbid the woman have a kid and that kid maybe want to have kids of their own one day.”
The clone shook his head, lip pulled up in disgust. It was strange to see the clones so open with their feeling. While Olivier didn’t have the most experience questioning clones for cases, the few he had spoken with, as well as the ones he’d seen in other cases, had all seemed so… contained. Reserved in a way that made them seem unfeeling. Yet, all the clones he had met since Emilia wandered into his classroom were just so… human. They had feelings and beliefs. This man was clearly disgusted with the person Emilia had helped kill—Olivier wasn’t an idiot and could read between the lines: Emilia had definitely had some part in killing the guy.
That should bother him—should make him question if she really should be thrown in prison for the murder of Zachariah Lumos. It didn’t bother him. Despite everything—despite all of Emilia’s chaos and unending chatter and ability to piss off practically anyone—Olivier didn’t think her a bad person. Someone at odds with the expectations for non-devs, perhaps—possibly part-personality, part-ADHD, she seemed so much more spontaneous than the stereotypes about them allowed—but perhaps also one of the best people he had ever met.
Having done research on black knots since first seeing her with the Hyrat clones, as well as having heard her speak about them with so much love earlier that evening, Olivier couldn’t help but think this clone’s disgust for people who viewed sex workers as beneath them came from her as well.
Emilia, who was able to befriend so many black knots and become a guiding light to them—able to inspire anger and compassion on behalf of people the world often ignored within them, able to bring clones liable to turn into serial killers to heel. That sort of person… there was no way Olivier would ever think her the sort to kill someone without a good reason. Perhaps without a reason some people would understand, but there would still be a reason she thought was good—understandable with a long enough conversation.
So, the question spiralled back to
why
had she killed Zachariah Lumos, especially given how powerful she was. Couldn’t she have just disarmed him and let SecOps and The Black Knot deal with him? Had it been an accident? A loss of control? Or, was it something else?
The answer shouldn’t matter to Olivier—she wasn’t his client and he couldn’t take her case. Yet…
“Do you have some time to chat?” he found himself asking, abruptly realizing the clone had never actually introduced himself as he sent a message off to Emilia, informing her he would be a bit longer and to go ahead and take the bed—there was no way he could go back yet, regardless of whether the man agreed to chat with him or not and letting her sleep on that terrible couch when he may never manage to drag himself back to the room just didn’t sit well with him.
It didn’t surprise him when the clone happily agreed, linking their arms together and beginning to drag Olivier off to a bar a few floors away.
Somehow, Olivier didn’t think many of the clones would turn down the possibility of a conversation about Emilia, especially not with him: they clearly all knew he was the lawyer she was trying to woo. For the moment, if he wanted anything, there was an army of clones just waiting to make it happen.
What a dangerous ability, the power to ask and receive virtually anything from members of such a dangerous organization, simply because they wanted him to help someone they loved.
.
!
Arc 9 | Chapter 334: She Played a Part in That Murder, Definitely
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