She's helping me—offering to be my Omega, to play along with whatever game I need to play—and she gets nothing out of it.
Just the chance to prove something.
Just the opportunity to help destroy a man she has every reason to want dead anyway.
"She can hate me," I say, and the words come out rougher than I intend. "For being responsible for her parents' death."
The robot's sensors flash.
Brighter.
Faster.
Like something I said triggered an alert in its programming.
"You are not responsible."
The statement is firm.
Absolute.
"Your parents are prime responsible for the deaths of the Eastman family. Kai James Lawson was seventeen years of age at time of execution. Minor status. No direct involvement in planning or implementation of operation."
I blink.
"If you wish to partake in her downfall," Ro continues, and there's something almost threatening in the synthesized voice now, "that action will mark you as an enemy. Response protocols will be adjusted accordingly."
The robot is threatening me.
The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh.
Almost.
"This model will now self-destruct."
What.
The words register a half-second before the beeping starts.
Loud.
Rapid.
A countdown sequence I've heard before—in training exercises, in actual combat situations, in the nightmares that sometimes plague me after particularly brutal missions.
Bomb.
The fucking robot is a bomb.
"Shit—"
I'm moving before I finish the word, lunging toward the bed to deposit the sphere somewhere safe?—
Except the only "somewhere" isSera.
Sera, who's sleeping peacefully, who's recovering from poison, who will absolutely be hurt if this thing goes off while she's holding it.
I curse again.
