The morning light filtered through the cracks in the blinds, painting stripes across the small room. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the day pressing against my chest before it had even begun. My head pounded, and it wasn’t from a lack of sleep—I hadn’t needed much since that Night. It was the memories, the ghosts of what I had done as Replica, clawing at my mind.
My eyes drifted at the newest trophy from my last outing as the ghost. The anti-meta grenades, or whatever they were named. They sat inside Tempus’ satchel the past week, still in the corner of the room, untouched, untouchable. I had no idea what I should do with them.
The alarm buzzed on my phone, its harsh tone jerking me back to the present. I turned it off and sat up, my body moving automatically. Another day. Another attempt at pretending to be Liz Sterling, ordinary music store clerk, not the wreckage I left behind whenever I wore that other face.
Paul had given me the morning shift at the shop today. He didn’t say anything when I took extra hours lately—maybe he thought I needed the distraction, or maybe he needed the help. Business wasn’t exactly booming, but the regulars who came to browse the dusty racks of vinyls and cheap guitars kept the doors open.
As I dressed, I caught my reflection in the cracked mirror hanging on the back of the closet door. My hair was messier than usual.
“Maybe I should take care of myself a bit…”
The mirror didn’t reply. It just reflected the tired face of a woman who felt decades older than her twenty-six years. I grabbed the brush, tugging it through the tangles with enough force to make my scalp protest. It didn’t matter how I looked—Paul wouldn’t notice, and the regulars weren’t exactly there for the customer service. Still, the motion grounded me, something tangible in a world that often felt like it was slipping away.
I tied my hair back into a loose ponytail, threw on a faded band T-shirt, and slid into a pair of worn jeans. A glance at the corner of the room, at the satchel with its ominous contents, sent a shiver through me. The grenades weren’t going anywhere, but I still felt their weight every time I looked at them.
“Not today,” I muttered to no one in particular.
Grabbing my bag and keys, I left the apartment and descended the narrow staircase to the street below. Neo Lyon was waking up, the usual symphony of morning sounds filling the air—cars honking, people shouting, the hum of machinery. The chaos should’ve been comforting, a reminder of normalcy, but all I could see were the cracks beneath it. How many of these people would end up collateral damage the next time Gravitas and Ms. Kai decided to settle their score?
The shop was only a twenty-minute walk away. Paul had found a spot that straddled two worlds—the fading charm of an imitation of the older Lyon neighborhood and the creeping encroachment of shiny, sterile redevelopment projects, in the Terreaux district. It gave the place character, even if business wasn’t booming.
I pushed the glass door open, the bell above jingling to announce my arrival. Paul was at the counter, adjusting the display of guitar picks with the kind of meticulous care that made me wonder if he had a hidden OCD streak.
“Morning,” I said, setting my bag down behind the counter.
“Morning, Liz,” he replied, not looking up. “You’re early.”
I shrugged. “Thought I’d get a head start.”
Actually, I was early because what was supposed to be a twenty minute walk ended up being barely ten minutes. I guess my outings also made me faster and developed my stamina…
Paul didn’t press for more, and I didn’t offer. That was one of the things I appreciated about him. He had an uncanny ability to sense when I needed space, and he gave it without question.
I moved past the counter and busied myself with sorting through a box of newly arrived vinyls. Paul was particular about categorizing by genre, sub-genre, and obscure details I didn’t even pretend to understand. It kept the shop’s eclectic vibe intact, attracting the kind of customers who appreciated Paul’s eccentricity.
But my mind wasn’t on the records. It was back in that apartment, staring at the grenades in the corner. They were supposed to be just tools, but to me, they were a reminder of how far I’d gone. Not just as Replica, but as myself.
The morning dragged on in a haze of dusty vinyls and muffled guitar strums. A few customers wandered in, drawn by the mismatched charm of the shop. Paul’s greeting to each one was the same—cheerful but not intrusive, just enough to let them know he appreciated their business. I envied that, his ability to seem genuine. Everything about me these days felt like a performance.
As I adjusted a stack of records in the indie section, the bell above the door jingled. A young man, probably a student from the university nearby, walked in. He looked like he was searching for something specific but didn’t quite know where to start. I forced a smile and approached.
“Looking for something in particular?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.
He hesitated, then scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah. Do you have anything by The Velvet Underdogs?”
I nodded toward the rock section. “Third shelf, near the bottom. They’re under ‘V,’ but Paul insists on categorizing them by their short-lived garage punk phase, so good luck.”
The kid chuckled nervously and made his way over. For a moment, I felt almost normal—just another store clerk helping another customer. But the moment faded as quickly as it had come. My gaze drifted to the street outside, where two MetaPol agents in their sleek uniforms strolled past, their faces impassive as they scanned the area.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen them, but it didn’t matter. My mind reeled with memories: the last time I’d crossed paths with MetaPol, the chaos that had ensued, the injuries I’d inflicted. The way one of them had screamed when—
“Liz?” Paul’s voice broke through, pulling me back to the present. He was standing behind the counter, a concerned look on his face. “You okay?”
I nodded quickly, forcing a laugh. “Yeah. Just zoned out. Sorry.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push it. “If you need to take a break, go ahead. I can handle things here.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted, though my heart was still racing. “Really.”
I busied myself with organizing the jazz section, letting the rhythm of the work calm me. But the agents stayed on my mind. They always did. Every time I saw them, I felt like I was walking a tightrope over a pit of fire. If they ever connected the dots between Liz Sterling, music store clerk, and Replica, the rogue metahuman who had left a trail of chaos in her wake…
I shook my head, trying to dispel the thought.
The hours at Paul’s shop passed with the steady cadence of daily life. Customers trickled in and out, leaving behind faint echoes of quiet conversations and the smell of coffee from the cafe across the street. It was a rhythm I clung to, even if it felt like I was marching in place while my past loomed just behind me, ready to yank me back.
As the clock edged toward noon, Paul stepped out for his usual mid-morning coffee run. The shop felt different in his absence—quieter, heavier. I used the solitude to organize a display of second hand guitars near the window. The simple act of arranging them by size and style, brushing away layers of dust from their necks, brought a sense of order I hadn’t realized I craved.
The guitars gleamed under the filtered sunlight, their lacquered finishes polished to a shine. For a moment, I let myself get lost in the motion, in the tactile satisfaction of clearing away dust and grime. But it wasn’t enough to drown out the whispers of guilt that coiled around my mind.
The shop’s bell jingled again, snapping me from my thoughts. A customer wandered in, a woman in her thirties with a leather jacket and a distracted air. She flipped through the vinyls in the classic rock section, her fingers deftly skimming the edges. I returned to the counter, trying to look busy as I adjusted the register. Her presence was unremarkable, just another passerby in the stream of faces I encountered daily. Yet, every new customer carried the faint possibility of being someone connected to my past—or worse, my actions.
The woman glanced up and caught my eye. “Hey, do you have any Fleetwood Mac? Original pressings?”
“Check the top shelf,” I replied. “They’re marked with green tags.”
“Thanks,” she said, giving me a small smile before returning to her search.
I exhaled, my shoulders relaxing. She wasn’t a threat, just another music enthusiast. But even that brief exchange left me drained, my nerves frayed by the constant need to keep my guard up.
When Paul returned, carrying two steaming cups of coffee, I accepted mine with a grateful nod. He didn’t comment on my obvious tension, just handed me the cup and went back to the counter. That was Paul—quietly observant, but never prying. I appreciated it more than I could say.
The afternoon stretched on, marked by the steady hum of Neo Lyon’s streets outside and the occasional chime of the shop bell. Customers came and went, leaving me alone with my thoughts more often than not. I didn’t mind. The mundane routine of Paul’s shop had a way of lulling me into a rhythm, even if it was only temporary.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
When my shift ended, I found myself reluctant to leave. The shop had become a kind of refuge, a place where I could almost convince myself that I was still Liz Sterling, a normal person with a normal job. But the moment I stepped out into the bustling street, the weight of reality settled back onto my shoulders like a leaden cloak.
I decided to take the long way home, weaving through side streets and quieter neighborhoods. The Terreaux district was alive with its usual charm, the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting from boulangeries and the chatter of patrons spilling out of corner cafés. It was hard to reconcile this picturesque scene with the chaos that seemed to follow me everywhere.
As I turned down an alley lined with faded murals, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, my stomach tightening at the sight of an unfamiliar number. For a moment, I considered letting it ring, but curiosity won out.
“Hello?” My voice was cautious, guarded.
“Liz Sterling?” The voice on the other end was deep, clipped—professional.
“Yes,” I replied warily.
“This is Julien from Neo Lyon Temp Services. You applied for one of our general labor positions last week.”
I exhaled, relief washing over me. “Oh, right. Yes, that’s me.”
“We’ve got an opening for a one-day gig tomorrow. A warehouse inventory job, starts at 7 a.m. Pays cash. Interested?”
“Yes, absolutely,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
The details followed—an address on the industrial outskirts of the city and a reminder to bring ID. I thanked him and ended the call, my heart still racing from the initial jolt of panic. These temp jobs were a lifeline, a way to stay afloat while keeping my head down. But each one came with the risk of exposure—a stray glance, an offhand comment, and someone might start connecting the dots.
The sun was dipping below the horizon by the time I reached my apartment. The satchel was still in its corner, its presence a silent accusation. I ignored it, heading straight for the small kitchen to cobble together something resembling dinner. The hum of the fridge and the rhythmic chop of the knife against the cutting board filled the silence, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the memories clawing at the edges of my mind.
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The next morning came far too quickly. The soft chime of my phone alarm pulled me from a restless sleep. My dreams had been chaotic—a messy swirl of faces, flashes of light, and the guttural cry of someone I couldn’t quite place. It was the kind of dream that stuck to your ribs, leaving you unsettled long after waking.
I dragged myself out of bed, the floor cold against my bare feet, and threw on a pair of work jeans and a plain hoodie. The satchel caught my eye as I laced up my boots. It sat where I’d left it, untouched, its ominous presence an uninvited reminder. My stomach tightened as I looked away.
The warehouse job wasn’t far, but the industrial district had a kind of emptiness that made every step feel heavier. Graffiti marked the walls of abandoned factories, a reminder of lives lived and lost in the city’s underbelly. By the time I reached the building, my nerves were frayed. The towering structure loomed ahead, its corrugated metal walls rusting at the edges. It was familiar—too familiar.
I hesitated at the entrance, my breath catching as a memory bubbled to the surface: the clatter of crates crashing to the floor, the hiss of gas, the sound of someone crying out as they fell. My chest tightened. This was that warehouse. The one I’d attacked as Replica. My actions had left scars on this place—on people—and now I was walking back into it as if nothing had happened.
A man with a clipboard stood near the entrance, waving me over. “Sterling?” he asked, glancing at me with a bored expression.
“That’s me,” I replied, forcing a smile. My voice felt too loud in the quiet of the lot.
He handed me a visitor badge and gestured toward a group of workers gathered near a forklift. “Join them. Inventory’s in the back. Move fast, and don’t break anything.”
I nodded, slipping the badge over my hoodie. The workers gave me a cursory glance before resuming their chatter. I kept my head down, focusing on the task at hand.
The work was monotonous—counting boxes, checking labels, and scanning barcodes. It was the kind of mindless labor that should have let my thoughts wander, but the opposite happened. Every sound, every shadow, felt magnified, dragging me back to that night. I could see the path I had taken, the crates I had overturned in my search for whatever scrap of intel I’d thought was worth all the destruction.
The hours dragged on, the repetitive motions and cold, sterile air of the warehouse offering no solace. My hands worked on autopilot, sorting and stacking, while my mind churned with memories of that night. The sharp tang of rust and dust in the air mixed with the phantom scent of smoke and sweat from the chaos I’d caused here. Every so often, I’d catch a glimpse of a mark—a dent in a crate, a scorch on the floor—and my chest would tighten, the echoes of my own actions ringing in my ears.
I shouldn’t have taken this job. The logical part of me knew that, but I hadn’t recognized the address until it was too late. Now, here I was, wading through the wreckage of my own past, trying to play the part of an ordinary worker when the truth of what I’d done screamed in my head.
The supervisor barked orders, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Hey, you! Sterling! Zone three needs the last shipment stacked. Now!”
“Got it,” I called back, my voice strained but steady. I hefted a box onto a dolly, ignoring the dull ache in my arms. My body could handle the work—it was the weight in my chest that threatened to crush me.
As I moved to the next zone, my gaze caught on a young man struggling to adjust the legs of a pallet jack. He looked barely out of his teens, his thin frame swimming in an oversized reflective vest. His face was unfamiliar, but there was something about his hunched shoulders and fumbling movements that felt painfully familiar. He reminded me of one of the workers I’d seen that night—a man I’d shoved aside in my frenzy to escape. I couldn’t remember his face, only the way he’d cried out as he hit the concrete floor.
Shaking the thought, I approached and grabbed the handle of the jack. “Here, let me,” I said.
The boy looked up, startled. “Oh, uh, thanks.”
I adjusted the lever and helped guide the pallet into place. He gave me a sheepish smile. “Guess I’m not cut out for this kind of work.”
“It takes practice,” I replied, stepping back. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
He nodded, his gratitude evident, and returned to his task. I lingered for a moment, my hands clenching the straps of my gloves. Helping him had felt… right, but it didn’t erase the bile rising in my throat. All the small kindnesses in the world wouldn’t undo the harm I’d caused.
As the day wore on, my unease only grew. The more I moved through the warehouse, the more the walls seemed to close in around me, pressing with the weight of memory and guilt. The other workers didn’t notice—they were too focused on their own tasks. But I could feel the phantom eyes of those I’d hurt, their silent accusations following me through the aisles.
By the time the shift ended, I was a frayed wire, sparking with tension. The workers dispersed quickly, eager to leave the cold, dim building behind. I lingered at the edge of the lot, staring back at the warehouse as the last of the sunlight faded.
The satchel weighed heavily on my mind as I trudged home.
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The morning after the warehouse job, I woke up before dawn, unable to shake the echoes of my dreams. Shadows of faces—some I recognized, others not—whispered accusations I couldn’t quite make out. Their murmurs turned to screams as I stumbled through the warehouse again, searching for something I never found. I sat on the edge of the bed, head in my hands, trying to slow my breathing.
Paul had texted late last night, asking if I could come in to cover the afternoon shift. My knee-jerk reaction was to agree—it was better than sitting here, stewing in my thoughts. The satchel sat untouched in the corner of the room, and I forced myself to look away from it as I got ready.
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At the shop, the usual rhythm of the day did little to ground me. Customers came and went, each a brief interruption to my swirling thoughts. Paul wasn’t in yet, leaving me alone to handle the shop and my guilt. My mind replayed moments from the warehouse—how I made the agents suffer their colleagues' wounds. The pain in their muffles.
I sighed, leaning heavily against the counter. The shop felt colder than usual, the weight of my memories pressing down on me like the steel beams of that collapsing building. It wasn’t just the warehouse or the MetaPol agents. It was everything—Tempus, the Red Hands, the Moon-Eaters. All of it a tangled mess I couldn’t seem to escape.
The door jingled, breaking my spiral of thought. A middle-aged man with a scruffy beard walked in, his coat dusted with the remnants of Neo Lyon’s streets. He offered a polite nod before heading to the back, where the classical section sat untouched most days. I forced myself to stand up straighter, plastering on the tired but reliable smile I’d perfected over months of pretending I was just Liz.
My fingers tapped against the counter idly as I waited for him to make his selection. But my thoughts wouldn’t stay still. They drifted back to the boy in the warehouse—the one who had struggled with the pallet jack. I’d helped him, but that moment of kindness felt like a drop of water in a vast, arid desert. Could it even begin to atone for the harm I’d caused?
I couldn’t forget the sounds from that night—the crunch of bones, the muffled groans of pain, the panicked shouts. The memories clung to me like a second skin. I wasn’t just Replica during those moments. I was myself. The line between the two blurred more and more with every action, every decision.
The man approached the counter with a vinyl in hand, and I rang him up mechanically, my hands moving on autopilot. He handed over a few bills, and I gave him change without making eye contact. He left with a murmured thanks, the door jingling behind him as he disappeared into the midday rush.
“Liz,” Paul’s voice startled me as he walked in from the back. His usual cheery demeanor was subdued today, his eyes scanning me with quiet concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Maybe I have,” I muttered, forcing a weak smile. “Just tired.”
Paul raised an eyebrow but didn’t push further. Instead, he leaned on the counter beside me, watching the world outside the shop window. “You know, if you ever need to talk about it—whatever it is—you can.”
I swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. Paul didn’t know half of it, and he was better off staying ignorant. The less he knew, the safer he was.
“Thanks, Paul,” I said softly. “I appreciate it. Really.”
He nodded, satisfied enough for now, and went to restock some guitar strings near the back. I took the opportunity to step outside, letting the brisk air fill my lungs. The streets of Neo Lyon were alive with their usual chaos, but today, they felt quieter in contrast to the storm raging in my mind.
I glanced at my reflection in the shop window, at the tired woman staring back at me. Replica wasn’t some mask I put on. She was me. She always had been, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to take control. I’d told myself that what I did as Replica was separate, something outside of who I was. But I couldn’t keep lying to myself. Every choice, every injury I inflicted, every life I changed or ended—that was all me.
Maybe it was time to stop pretending otherwise.
The afternoon stretched on, each passing hour a blur. Paul left early to run errands, leaving me alone in the shop. A few customers came and went, but none stayed long. By the time I closed up for the evening, the streets were bathed in the golden light of the setting sun.
As I walked home, the satchel’s contents loomed large in my mind. Those anti-meta grenades were a tool—just like my powers. Just like me. The difference was in how I used them, and for what purpose.
When I reached my apartment, I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the satchel from its corner and emptied its contents onto the small table by the window. The grenades gleamed ominously in the dim light, their polished surfaces reflecting fragments of my face. My hands hovered over them, trembling slightly.
Replica was never something I became. She was always there, a part of me I’d tried to bury. But that part was what kept me alive, what gave me the strength to survive when the world collapsed around me. Maybe it was time to stop running from her.
I clenched my fists, the trembling stopping as resolve hardened within me. I wasn’t a hero, but I wasn’t just a villain either. I was something else entirely—a force for survival, for balance in a world that had tipped too far into chaos.
And it was time I accepted that.