to Thai and the sounds become words. The words become screams.
"Be quiet!
"Mai ao! No! No nonono!"
"Down! Map lohng dieow nee! On your face!"
"Please pleaseplease!"
"Get down!"
She cocks her head, listening to the altercation. She has good hearing, another thing the scientists gave her along with her smooth skin and her doglike urge to obey. She listens. More screams. The thud of footsteps and something breaking. Her nape prickles. She wears nothing but slim pants and a string halter. Her other clothing lies below, awaiting her change into street clothes.
More shouts filter up. The scream of someone in pain. Primal, animal pain.
White shirts. A raid. Adrenaline surges through her. She has to get off the roof before they arrive. Emiko turns and runs for the stairs but stops short at the stairwell. The tramp of feet echoes up.
"Squad Three. Clear!"
"Wing Clear?"
"Secure!"
She shoves the door closed and presses her back to it, trapped. Already they clog the stairwells. She casts about the rooftop, looking for another escape route.
"Check the roof!"
Emiko sprints for the edge of the tower. Thirty feet below, the first of the tower's balconies extends. A penthouse balcony from a time when the tower must have been luxurious. She stares down at the tiny balcony, dizzy. Below it, there is nothing but the plunge to the street and the people who fill it like black spider mites.
Wind gusts, tugging her toward the edge. Emiko sways and barely catches her balance. It's as if the spirits of the air are trying to kill her. She stares down at the balcony. No. It's impossible.
She turns and runs back to the door, searching for something to wedge it shut. Chips of brick and tile litter the rooftop along with the clothing draped on drying lines, but nothing—she spies a piece of an old broom. Scrambles for it and jams it against the door frame.
The door's hinges are so rusted that it sags with the pressure she applies. She shoves the broom handle tighter against it, grimacing. The WeatherAll of the broom is stronger than the metal of the door.
Emiko casts about for another solution. She's already boiling from running back and forth like a frantic rat. The sun is a thick red ball, sinking for the horizon. Long shadows stretch across the broken surface of the building's roof. She turns in a panicked circle. Her eyes fall on the clothing and the lines. Perhaps she can use the rope to climb down. She runs to the clotheslines and tries to yank one off but it's tough and well-tied. It won't come free. She yanks again.
Behind her, the door shudders. A voice on the other side curses. "Open up!" The door jumps in its frame as someone slams against it, trying to force past her improvised brace.
Inexplicably, she hears Gendo-sama in her head, telling her she is perfect. Optimal. Delightful. She grimaces at the old bastard's voice as she yanks again on the line, hating him, hating the old snake who loved her and discarded her. The line cuts into her hands but refuses to give way. Gendo-sama. Such a traitor. She will die because she is optimal, but not optimal enough for a return ticket.
I'm burning up.
Optimal.
Another thud from behind her. The door cracks. She gives up on the line. Turns in another circle, searching desperately for a solution. There is nothing except rubble and the open air all around. She might as well be a thousand miles high. Optimally high.
A hinge shatters, throwing bits of metal. The door sags. With a final glance at the door, Emiko sprints again for the edge of the building, still hoping for a solution. A way to climb down.
She stops, windmilling at the edge. The precipice yawns. The wind gusts. There is nothing. No handholds. No way to climb. She looks back at the clotheslines. If only—
The door breaks from its hinges. A pair of white shirts spill through, stumbling, waving spring guns. They catch sight of her and charge across the roof. "You! Come here!"
She peers over the edge. The people are dots far below; the balcony is as small as a postage envelope.
"Stop! Yoot dieow nee! Halt!"
The white shirts are running for her—running full bore—and yet somehow, strangely, they suddenly seem slow. Slow as honey on a cold day.
Emiko watches them, puzzled. They are halfway across the roof, but they are so very very slow. They seem to be running through rice porridge. Their every motion drags. So slow. As slow as the man who