Author's Note: Here, have some answers. There'll be more next chapter too. Clones, man. Sooo many clones.
Rachel's staring out the window, standing parallel to Leekie sitting at his desk. Around the room are several men in suits. Papers are spread across the desk in front of Leekie; contracts. They're facing away from him. I knew this was coming. I've known this was coming for six years, and it still catches me entirely off guard. But it's a deep breath, a mask of calm, and a hand pushing the door open, stepping into the office with the click of heels on tile.
Rachel doesn't turn to me when she speaks.
"Nice of you to join us, Delphine."
Her voice is so constructed, dripping authority and superiority off every syllable. I'm far from familiar to it, but she turns towards me then, and I see Cosima somewhere in her features.
"As you've heard from Aldous, we've come to the decision to bring Eleonore to our institute for further observations and, possibly, precautionary treatment." Rachel walks forward and takes a binder off the edge of Leekie's desk. She walks over to me, holds it out at a distance. I take it, flip it open as cautiously casual as I can manage.
"Her condition right now is stable, as are the others. But we can never be too careful."
The edge to her voice, the elegance on the tip of her words, is sickening. Or maybe it only is under these circumstances. The binder holds her profile; blood work done, exams and their inconclusive results about her predisposition to die young. A photograph of her is paper clipped to the corner of the page.
And she's stunning. Blonde hair that rolls in waves down to her shoulders, blue eyes that smile green, pale skin with a barely there red permanently engraved into her cheeks. I remember it like I saw her last month, maybe yesterday. I haven't seen her since I left that year for University.
In a lot of ways she looks the same, and it's such a comfort, like maybe I still know her. But her stare is entirely foreign to me. Her features are grown up. The years compliment her beautifully, but her glare is jarringly coarse, like she's been scarred. I look away, flip the page, for fear Rachel will use it against me if I stare too long.
But there she is again, on the second set of reports, this time with a little more life to her smile. This woman looks hauntingly familiar, though I've never met her.
Kaitlin. She's Irish. She has Elle's everything, her eyes, her jawline, her skin tone. Her hair is shorter though, and somehow her shoulder's seem broader. She's also less beautiful to my biased eyes. All my years working here, and this is the first time I've seen her.
"Your role at Dyad, your job, your research, won't change." Rachel moves to stand next to his desk again, with Leekie listening in. The men around the room are talking in low voices, to their phones or to each other. Lawyers, probably. Or maybe scientists. Or maybe the lawyers of scientists.
"But I understand you want to see her."
I look up at Rachel, and it's a bad judgment call. She can probably see my desperation. I try my best to mask it.
But she stares back at me with her corporate eyes, and she knows. Then she looks towards the window.
"I think we can allow that."
I nod, flipping Kaitlin's page over.
Amanda. Australian, hair dyed a shade or two lighter than Elle's. Her photograph carries a subtle anxiety.
"Those are only the profiles for this group of the project." Rachel says, referring to the binder. But she doesn't say anything more. And to be honest, I don't care. I've always assumed there were more than a few. It doesn't matter, ten, twenty, or fifty.
I've never seen any of her clones before. Not until now.
Rachel shifts her stance, and walks towards the papers on Leekie's desk. "We need you to sign a few agreements." I look up at her. She looks back at me, and I might be wrong, but I think she smiles. It's cold; maybe she doesn't know how to be warm. "Take as long as you need."
I flip the binder shut and walk towards the desk, setting it on the edge of the wood before standing in front of the papers. I pick one up. Sit down. Decide to take Rachel up on her offer; see what rights I'll lose by signing this. But we both know I'll sign regardless. I'll sign them, and see her, if it costs my life. If Rachel doesn't know, Leekie does; I've given up everything for her safety, I'm not about to stop now.
"She looks like you." Rachel says to me. "I can see how you thought the two of you were related."
I bite my tongue, hard. Now is not the time to forget who she is, what power she has. Leekie says nothing. He just observes silently, his dominance stripped by this elitist five foot four woman.
I read the papers. I sign the papers. I leave the building, walk across the street, get in my car, all without processing. But when the ignition starts it's hard to stay masked. I sink into the driver's seat, close my eyes and see her. I see her at eleven. Then I see her at nineteen, a face of someone I know while being a stranger to me. Then I see her in an another reality, where she grew up in Ireland, lived her life outside of Dublin, the paper's said. And then it's Brisbane, Australia. The pools at my eyes just barely slip over the edge; a subtle flood that isn't even enough to scar my makeup draws its course across my cheek. I love her, of course I do. After all this time, though, she's someone else. And I can't help feeling like I'm about to be introduced to the ghost of my sister.
The drive back to the apartment is short.
When I walk in I don't know if I expect her to be there or not, but when the first thing I see is her shoes by the edge of the couch, I can't help but smile. It's fragile. And then I see her. And suddenly the last few hours are a blur.
She stands up. She walks over to me. I don't know where this is going before it gets there, but then she's on my lips. Then she's in my bed, and she's holding onto me like it's the last time we'll ever be this close. I should stop her. I should tell her what she needs to know, because I walk a tightrope everyday with her trust and this feels too desperate to be anything but falling off it.
But her hands do the talking. Her lips are suggestions; soft when she's so close to gone that it's too much concentration to kiss me back. Hard when she remembers what this is, and she fights to forget. She thinks is our last chance to pretend we've been honest with each other. She thinks I'm betraying her. Maybe I am.
She brings me to close before I get her there, and then it's a wordless goodnight, the whisper of her lips still stained across my shoulders and chest. She doesn't want to talk about it, and somehow I let her get away with that. I watch her close her eyes, she doesn't open them. It's me that reaches for the light, clicks it off, turns to her and tries to solve the problems with my eyes. I look at her. She's breathing steady now, slow and rhythmic. There is nothing I can do right now. I turn to my side, and try to fall asleep.