Blair let the melted handle drip off her fingers onto the concrete. The little puddle of brass hissed and went dull grey, and the whole shed filled up with the smell of a burned penny.
"You owe the academy a new door, Davenport," I said.
"Bill my father, since he loves paperwork." She looked at the crushed mats, then at the scratches on my stomach, and her nostrils flared. "Your clone grabbed her chest in front of the entire squad."
"My clone has his own agency, and I can't be held responsible for his choices."
"You are his choices, Monroe."
She had a point, which I hated. Every bad idea that clone ever had came straight out of my own skull, so technically I'd just copped a feel of my Captain on a public training field and then dragged her other self into a shed. My lawyer would advise me to stop talking. My lawyer was also me, and he had terrible judgment.
