“She’s a prisoner.”
And then she reached into her own mind—into the carefully pruned garden of the Lazarus Protocol—and she remembered . Not the missions. Not the deaths. The first time Anya had laughed, a gummy infant smile in a Moscow apartment. The smell of rain on hot pavement. A lullaby. A promise. scop-191
She stepped forward and placed her palm against Anya’s cheek. The silver eyes widened. Mnemosyne shrieked—not in rage, but in confusion. No human had ever offered affection to a god. “She’s a prisoner