Miss Parker returned to her office, feeling alone. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, but it seemed to go deeper in that moment than it had in many years. She'd expected to come back to Sydney and Broots, at the very least. Now Sydney was missing and Broots was there, yes, but without the freedom to share everything with him, it wasn't the same. He was at arm's length.

And then there was Jarod, of course, festering in a cage twenty-five floors down. They should have set up some jury-rigged communication system, should have invented some excuse for Miss Parker to check in regularly. Then at least she'd have some means of connection, some way of reassuring herself that he hadn't simply been swallowed whole by the hellmouth of the Centre. But they hadn't, and Miss Parker… missed him. Living alongside Jarod, creating something positive out of years of frustration and malice on both sides, it hadn't been easy so far, far from it. But now that she'd had it for a few surreal days, the thought of losing it, losing him was like ripping a bandage off an open wound. They needed more time to heal in private, and being thrown back into the thick of it was jarring to say the least.

Her office was the same as how she'd left it. Her answering machine indicator was blinking. She queued up the first message.

"Hey Daniels, this is Parker calling. I'm at Marrow Apartments, unit 525, here with the building owner. There's a problem with the lock…"

She skipped through to the end of the message and deleted it. Her pseudo-Pretend in Iowa. It was hard to believe that had been less than two weeks ago. She hadn't even taken the weight off her feet in her office when she'd last been back to the Centre. She'd stopped for just long enough to consult with the linguistics team, then headed right back out the door.

She sat down at the desk. Not a moment later, there was a business-like rap at the door.

"What?" she barked.

A man in a wheelchair wearing a tweed suit pushed the door open a crack by the tips of his outstretched fingers, and rolled his way through.

"Morning," he said with a warm smile. "Welcome back. You must have been through quite an ordeal, I'm surprised you aren't headed straight home for a nap. No one would blame you."

"I would," said Miss Parker. The man's face looked familiar but she couldn't place it. She cut to the chase. "Who are you?"

"Dr Tuchen," said the man. "Head of clean-up. We've crossed paths at a couple of Jarod's bases of operations, post-Pretend."

"Right. Well, nice to meet you, I'm sure."

Dr Tuchen smiled, a token gesture of forgiveness for Miss Parker's rudeness.

"I'm here on a bit of an irregular errand. A delegation of convenience, you might say. I was just talking to our interim head, your brother, and he asked if I wasn't busy, could I swing by and talk to you about your new assignment."

"New assignment?" said Miss Parker. She'd figured there would be one, hadn't been so naïve as to assume she'd be honourably discharged as soon as Jarod was under lock and key. A year ago she would have been outraged to hear she was being swindled out of her hard-earned escape from the Centre. Now, she could even call it a stroke of luck. It was, after all, in her best interests to stay on site while the plan was set in motion. She hadn't expected to be assigned a new position so soon, though. Especially without being consulted. Surely there would be a T-board first, at the very least? "I heard through the grapevine Lyle was running things while I was away. I would have thought the Triumvirate had had enough of Lyle's leadership style back when he botched that deal with the Yakuza. But now he's handing me my new assignment like I'm an underling. Gotta say, I'm not in love with how this is shaking out, Tuchen."

Bizarrely, she almost wished she could speak to Raines. One of the sole perks of returning to the Centre having "captured" Jarod was that it was supposed to put her on a level playing field with Lyle. If Lyle was calling the shots instead of Raines, she only stood to lose.

Tuchen nodded placatingly. "Of course, we're open to your input on the assignment. Don't consider this an order. I think you'll find it a good fit, though. I know you've been petitioning for a return to your position in corporate —" This hadn't been true for years, for the record. Her aspirations had shifted to a much more permanent exit around the time when her job-related stress had set off the ticking time bomb in her stomach lining. "— but for now, we need you here at the main office. So, here's a thought: what do you think of returning to your position running our security department?"

Miss Parker's eyebrows shot up, not quite able to hide her surprise — and not-so-unpleasant surprise at that. Truth be told, it would be a good fit, even more than Tuchen knew. Security had access to the whole building, with obvious exceptions like Raines's (Lyle's?) office and SL-27. It would not be unexpected for a newly re-appointed Head of Security to check in on security vulnerabilities, say, a new prisoner with a history of successfully escaping Centre grounds.

(Something at the back of her mind pointed out that ever since parting with Jarod down in the sub-levels, there had been an unwelcome earwig constantly burrowing its way into her brain: How could she arrange a visit to his holding cell? How much time would she have? How soon could it be? How often could she go down to SL-25 without creating suspicion? So she was worried — so sue her.)

A more immediate concern, however: she couldn't be seen to take this lying down. Lyle would flag that as suspicious in a second.

"That's a demotion," she said icily, playing up her abused pride. "Last time I checked, I was the one who brought Jarod back in. Lyle's contribution was transport, that's it, though I'm sure he's said otherwise. Bagging Jarod was supposed to come with a promotion, not a glorified rent-a-cop's badge."

Tuchen had a permanent smile installed on his face, and he bobbed his head along as she spoke, as if nothing else could have pleased him more. It was starting to creep her out.

"Of course, of course," he said, with a tone intended to soothe. "You deserve to be lauded for your role in returning Jarod to us. Take note, please, that this position at the head of security would be temporary. As I said, we need you at the main office for the time being. At least until Jarod gets settled in."

And wasn't that the most ominous thing he'd said yet?

Miss Parker snorted. "That's what they said about the Jarod assignment. It was supposed to take a couple of weeks, tops. It ended up taking years off my life, in more ways than one."

Tuchen's smile dropped a notch.

"So, you're refusing the appointment?" he said.

"I won't —"

"Because you should know, before you do, the risks involved." He smiled again, and an asynchronous twitch to his lip made Miss Parker pause. He wanted her to refuse. Why? "The risks involved in refusing, I should say."

"You be sure to let me know when you're ready to get to the point," said Miss Parker, caustic as always but unable to hide a flicker of worry.

Tuchen looked like he'd unwrapped the Christmas present he'd always wanted.

"We — Lyle and I — are aware of your ruse," he started, and Jesus H Christ, a word like 'ruse' could only be the product of a rehearsed speech. Miss Parker tensed. "Jarod didn't abduct you. It's clear you fled with Jarod and likely abetted his escape all along the route from Philadelphia. Needless to say, the Triumvirate would be very displeased if they were to hear about this. At present, they know nothing that casts you in a negative light — we have a T-board scheduled, but I have it on good authority that the attending parties believe it to be a formality, and are going into proceedings with a glowing opinion of your loyalty and dedication to the Centre. But that could change. Easily."

Miss Parker canted her jaw to the side, assessing Tuchen's eager face.

"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" she said dryly.

Tuchen's mouth shrugged.

"I didn't not enjoy it. So?"

She could put up a fight, but what would that achieve aside from appeasing her ego? She wanted the security head position. It could be useful.

"I'll play rent-a-cop for now," she said, with a contemptuous curl to her lip. She didn't have to fake that one. "But Lyle had better watch his back. Not even a month on the throne and he's already making enemies. A little bird told me the peasants are restless."

Nobody, avian or otherwise, had told her anything of the kind, unless she counted that 'off-kilter' comment from Sydney's phone message. Now that she'd put it into words, however, it matched with the energy of their reception in the main lobby when Jarod had been dragged in. Nobody was happy that Jarod was back. They were only relieved Lyle had got what he wanted. A triumphant monarch was a generous monarch. Not for the first time, Miss Parker wondered where Raines was hiding himself… or whether, perhaps, Lyle had removed his predecessor on the way to the top. The king is dead, long live the king…?

Tuchen's brow smoothed out as if it had been pulled taut at both ends, and a muscle in his jaw tightened. Ah, thought Miss Parker. So he's noticed, too.

"Empty threats, Miss Parker. You remember the way to your new/old office, I assume? Sub-level nine. You can leave your files from the Jarod pursuit here, my department will be going over the material for a post-project audit. Don't be surprised if you hear from me frequently over the next few days." His megawatt smile returned. He wheeled forward a couple inches and rapped merrily on the desk. "I'm going to be after you for all those dotted T's and crossed I's."

And he wheeled himself backwards out the door, giggling to himself. Miss Parker frowned after him. As she sat back down, the glint of something round and metallic caught her eye on the edge of the desk. She picked it up: it was a DSA.

What the hell? She couldn't remember that being there when she'd come in.

She unearthed last year's model of DSA player from the closet, dusted it off, and inserted the disc. The screen sparked to life, showing a view from above of her father's old office. That is, Lyle's office. On the screen, Lyle himself was slumped in his chair, running his fingertips along his hairline. There was an open file in front of him, overflowing with glossy photographs. Across the desk sat Tuchen, his fingers interlaced in his lap. Something about the latter's posture suggested a doctor who has just delivered a pessimistic prognosis.

"You're sure?" said the on-screen Lyle.

"It's conclusive," said Tuchen. "The team concluded she was likely sleeping on the third floor. You said yourself the doors were unlocked. The Volkswagen even had its key left in the ignition. Everything points to her having complete freedom to leave, no evidence whatsoever of her having been held captive. It's not what you wanted to hear, sir, I realize. But it's the truth."

"The truth," Lyle said woodenly.

"Yes, sir. Miss Parker was there willingly. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch to posit that some sort of alliance has formed between her and Jarod, temporary or otherwise. As to why she brought him — that is, she helped bring him back to the Centre, I can't guess. Regardless, my view is that she is too unpredictable when it comes to Jarod and the future of the Centre. I wouldn't recommend her for the CentSec position, that's too much power in the hands of an unknown quantity. She can't be counted on."

Lyle didn't reply for a long time. Then, in a flurry of movement almost too fast for the low-quality recording to capture, he dashed the report from the house in Teton off the desk, onto the floor.

"Damn it!" he roared. Tuchen jumped.

"Forgive me, Mr Lyle. But — I can't see why you're as upset as you appear to be. I have never had the impression you and your sister were… close?"

"We're… not," said Lyle, with something bizarrely akin to regret in his voice. She'd heard that regret before. Lyle was a good actor when he wanted to be. "But I am running low on allies here. Having Miss Parker on our side would have been convenient. There will always be a faction of the employees in Blue Cove who see her as Dad's successor, more than me. But if she's with Jarod, she's not with us."

Tuchen hesitated, then wheeled around the side of the desk to where Lyle sat.

"You still have me, sir. I'm not going anywhere," he said, reaching out a hand. Lyle smacked the hand away.

"Give it a rest, Tuchen. You gotta know that doesn't exactly fill me with confidence." Lyle paused. "Go ahead with the CentSec appointment. I need her around and on-site. She can still —"

The video ended in the middle of Lyle's sentence. Miss Parker jabbed a button on the DSA player's interface, which should have prompted the next file to play. She was sure there must be something else to follow, that couldn't be it. Nothing happened.

She ejected the disc and spun it between two fingers, looking for a message, a label maybe, inked on the outside. Nothing.

What was this — a threat? A warning? If so, from whom? Tuchen was the only person she'd seen near the desk, but then, this was her first visit back to the office since returning to Blue Cove. Anyone could have dropped it on the desk. If it had been Tuchen, why wouldn't he just tell her, rather than sneaking a DSA into her possession?

As for the contents of the video… it wasn't good news, but it was manageable. There had always been the chance Lyle would figure out that she hadn't exactly been tied up in Margaret's basement. If the worst that came out of it was Lyle blackmailing her into a job — a job, mind, that served her current agenda quite well — then things were looking up. She wouldn't start worrying unduly until he brought the information back to the Triumvirate.

Still.

For the umpteenth time that day, she wished she could talk to Jarod. Maybe he wouldn't know what to do, necessarily, but she would feel a lot less alone.


When Miss Parker arrived on SL-9 the next day, a man with unkempt, dirty-blond sideburns was moving a teetering pile of boxes out of the Security Head's office. She brushed past him and into the office, unseen. The room smelled like chewing tobacco and sweat; she wrinkled her nose reflexively.

"Yeah, I avoid coming in here if I can help it," said a voice. Miss Parker jumped, startled. She pawed for the light switch, flooding the room with cold, fluorescent light. A man stood by the main desk, tall with an impeccably tailored uniform, shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness with the curve of his hand. When he lowered his hand, it revealed a familiar face: Willie, Raines's go-to sweeper.

"Willie?" Miss Parker said. "Why are you in my office?"

Willie shrugged. "When I came in, it was Harvey's office." He sighed. "Lot of restructuring lately."

Miss Parker realized belatedly that Willie wore the uniform prescribed to all foot soldiers in the security department.

"Can we blame the restructuring for your new outfit? I thought you were teacher's pet. Yes sir, of course sir, let me clean up after your war crimes, sir. What happened, were Raines's foot massages not up to your standards?"

Against all odds, Willie did not rise to take the bait. If anything, he seemed more relaxed than Miss Parker had ever seen him. His rigid, boxy posture had evolved into a loose slouch, and he no longer looked like someone had taped his mouth shut from the inside.

"Mr Lyle wasn't happy after the near miss in Cedar Rapids. I guess he just really wanted someone to blame, so I got shuffled over to security. I don't hate it. There's a lot less drama in CentSec. Less ego."

Miss Parker dropped her things on the desk, sending up a cloud of mingled skin cells and food crumbs. She coughed.

"Less cleanliness."

"Harvey'll take care of it if you point it out to him. He's a good guy. Didn't deserve to lose his post just because you finally finished a job you should have tied up years ago."

Finally, a glimpse of the old, bitchy Willie. He was still in there, ready to perk up from this new baseline of unflappable chill at the least provocation.

"Glass houses, Willie," she shot back.

The man with the sideburns pushed back into the room, shuffling to a halt when he saw Miss Parker.

"Hey, Miss Parker, you're here! That's great, that's great," he said. He seized Miss Parker's hand between two catcher's mitt-sized hands and pumped it enthusiastically. "I'm Harvey. I'm still working on clearing out my stuff, it only just came down the wire that you'd been transferred over. Just so you know — there's no love lost between me and this job, so no bitterness on my part, happy to have you! Oh man, it fugs in here, don't it? That's me and my habits, sorry. I'll have a guy in, air this place out."

After a too-lengthy handshake, Miss Parker managed to recover her hand.

"Yes, please do," she said. All at once it struck her that this was her new normal, at least until the next stage of the plan. No Sydney. No Broots. No sifting through Jarod's convoluted hints, no divining a clue's chain of custody from Angelo, no last-minute jet-sets across the country. Not that she'd miss it, not most of it at least. It would take some adjustment, that's all.

Coming home to her little house on the outskirts of Blue Cove had been odd. For one, she could see the signs of Jarod's path through each room, scavenging things to bring to Wyoming. For the most part, he seemed to have taken things that had been left out, refraining from delving into drawers and cabinets.

She hadn't unpacked yet, at least not entirely. Her favourite mug was returned to the cabinet over the stove so it would be ready for coffee in the morning. But the clothes, her toothbrush, etcetera, she left in the bag.

Couldn't hurt to have a means of getting out of town fast on short notice.

"Miss Parker?"

She realized the magnificently side-burned Harvey had been speaking for the last thirty seconds, and she hadn't processed a word of it.

"Hm?"

Harvey's smile was patient and reached his eyes. He had the face of someone who laughed well and often.

"I asked if you had a sec for me to show you how to review current security vulnerabilities."

"Has the system changed in the last eight years?" she asked.

A great, booming laugh erupted from the depths of Harvey's gut.

"Not in the last twenty, I don't think."

"Then I've got it covered." She paused. "Thanks."

Computers were Broots's thing, sure, but Miss Parker knew the lumbering monster that was the CentSec network back-to-front, rebranding or no. As Harvey's 'guy' bustled around her, slowly but surely converting the ambient atmosphere into something breathable, Miss Parker sat at her new/old desk and navigated to the latest vulnerability report. The length of the current report was embarrassing, frankly. Miss Parker absorbed little of it. Number one with a bullet was: SL-25-R02, new occupant, flight risk. She checked the roster detailing assignments for security feed review. As she expected, too few guys, too many cameras. She'd put money on these vulnerabilities being the downfall of the Centre one day, if she didn't know better. A couple of clicks, and she'd rearranged the work schedule such that, whoops, nobody would be reviewing Jarod's security feed for the next twenty-four hours. It wouldn't get him out of the cell, but it would open another sort of door.


Sub-level twenty-five was quiet. Ostensibly there were other prisoners being held in other cells, but if there were, Miss Parker couldn't hear them. She bee-lined for cell 02, checked through the small window in the outer door to make sure the viewing area was empty of spectators, and let herself in.

Jarod was sitting on the floor against one wall. He wore a plain, boxy tunic and matching draw-string pants, which meant that at some point in the last day someone must have come down and… either pressured him into changing or changed his clothes for him against his will. Neither possibility was a barrel of laughs to entertain. He looked up as she came in, squinting against the light of the spotlight illuminating the cage. Was the light turned off at night? Probably not, she thought. Not while he was "settling in".

Just over a day had passed since she'd last seen him, yet by the fatigue in Jarod's eyes it might have been a year or more. Then he looked up and his expression morphed, the fatigue clearing in a literal blink of an eye. Even back in the bowels of the Centre, he was still Pretending.

(But was he Pretending for the cameras, or for her?)

"Miss Parker," he said with urgency. He stood up, revealing bare feet on cold cement flooring. "What are you doing down here? It's not —"

"It's not time, I know. I came down anyway." She stepped closer. This isn't right, said an uncomplicated corner of her mind. He's supposed to be free. We're supposed to be free. "How was your first night back?"

"I've had worse." He tried to stuff his hands into his pockets, only to remember that pockets were not a luxury he had been granted. "Working out some of the final contingencies made it easier. It's helpful to have a distraction."

Miss Parker nodded. She had ridden the elevator down here running through what she'd say when she saw Jarod again. Now that she was standing in front of him, she didn't know where to start, or even if she should. She thought she could detect in his closed-off posture that he wasn't quite on the same page as her. That was something she hadn't considered: that though her own world-view had radically shifted in the past week-and-change, Jarod was not ready to meet her in the middle.

You were the face of the dogs at my heels for years.

"Is it anything like you imagined?" he asked. She didn't have to ask what he meant, as his question followed so closely on the heels of her own thoughts. Jarod behind bars had been the goal for so long, and now here he was.

"Yes and no," she said, after a beat. He seemed to understand. Yes, she imagined it would look more-or-less like this. No, she could not have anticipated it would feel like this.

"Yeah," he breathed.

Silence fell. Miss Parker was acutely aware of the seconds sliding past. How long could she get away with being down here unmonitored?

"What will you do?" she asked, finally.

Jarod frowned. "We've been over the plan. Are you asking about a specific step, or —"

"No, I mean." She paused, staring at his fingers curled around the bars to avoid looking into his face. She couldn't figure why this was as difficult to broach as it was. "I mean after. When this is over. What will you do?"

"Oh." He reached around to massage his neck, likely cramped from stooping to accommodate the limited dimensions of his new home. "Well. I've been on the run for so long, right now all I'm hoping for is the opportunity to stay put for a while. Have a home. I'll have to catch up with Mom and Emily again, of course. This time, luckily, I'll have a head start. No convoluted scavenger hunt required." He searched her face. "What will you do, Miss Parker?"

She should have been prepared for the question to boomerang back her way, but she wasn't.

"I don't know," she said.

And she didn't. All that lay ahead was a yawning uncertainty. Would it be safe to return to her house in Blue Cove? Would she even want to? Ironically, the man behind the bars might have more stable prospects than she did. She envisioned infrequent postcards from Jarod, token efforts to keep in touch, describing an idyllic existence on the west coast — mowing the lawn out front in suburban Seattle, maybe. Sunday afternoon visits with Margaret and Emily. Ferrying his two-point-five kids to soccer practice. Coming home to an animal rights activist wife. Go to bed, wake up, lather, rinse, repeat. The thought stirred something in her that felt like anger.

"We don't have to —"

"Do you really think you'll be able to do that? Just sit still? I can't picture that," she said, and she hoped he didn't notice how brittle she sounded, under the veneer of a pretty fair point, she thought. How would he keep fighting for the little guy if he settled down in suburbia, or wherever the fallout of their master plan took him?

A flash of irritation passed across Jarod's face, quick enough that it might have been a trick of the light.

"I haven't had the opportunity to sit still since I escaped, not in a place of my own choosing. You know that. You perpetrated that. I might be better at it than you give me credit for." A beat, and his face cleared. "We don't have to go our separate ways, you know. We could —" He broke off.

She didn't dare try to finish that sentence for him.

"We could what?"

He stared past her, at the camera mounted behind the viewing area. "Did you just come down here to say 'hi', or…?"

Miss Parker blinked. Right, to business.

"To loop you in," she started, then related all that he had missed: Sydney's disappearance, Tuchen's alliance with Lyle, her own transfer to CentSec, the upcoming T-board, etcetera. Jarod listened in silence, digesting each piece of news and integrating it into their evolving plan.

"And Broots had no ideas about where Sydney might have gone?" he asked when she'd finished. "If anyone had the resources to find Sydney, it'd be him."

Miss Parker shook her head. She missed Syd, there was no denying that. Even a few minutes with him would help stabilize the topsy-turvy skew her life had taken on since gunning down a deli owner in Philly. He'd always made an excellent sounding board for any tirade that cared to spill out of her.

"No, he didn't say anything helpful," she said. "He did mention Syd wasn't the only person who had disappeared recently. That's my next stop after seeing you, I'm going to look into the missing employees, see if I can find a pattern."

Jarod nodded wearily. He rested his head against the bars and closed his eyes, briefly, clinging to the bars as if they were all that held him up.

"Sounds good," he mumbled.

After a moment of hesitation, Miss Parker covered his hands with hers and leaned in, softly knocking her forehead against his, a gentle bump of encouragement.

"Soon," she said, and hoped she wasn't lying.


The list of missing employees was two pages, one-sided, when Miss Parker printed it out. She scanned the list, name after faceless name failing to spark a neuron. She didn't know any of these people.

"Miss Parker."

She turned in her seat, reluctantly prying her eyes away from the list. Willie stood in the threshold to her new/old office, looking like he owned the place. More relevantly, he looked annoyed.

"What," she said flatly.

"Did you change the permissions on outside contractor access key cards?"

"No," she said, reflexively. She had. He didn't need to know that. Suffice to say that tracking an outside contractor key card access back to her was a lot harder than tracking back her own dedicated card.

"Yes, you did. Fix it," he snapped. "Outside contractors shouldn't have blanket access, I just hauled a reporter out of the chemical labs."

She put the list down. "You seem to be confused. Who here is head of security? You fix it."

"Under Harvey, people here cleaned up their own messes," said Willie. His eyes flicked to the list, and he snatched it up before Miss Parker could stop him. "Speaking of messes. I know these names. You're looking into the MIA employees."

"I'm." She balked. He recognized the missing employees by their names alone? "I'm looking into trends in disgruntled employees, so I'm debriefing the absentees' colleagues. Give me that."

"Sure," Willie snorted, twitching the page out of her reach as she moved to grab it. He tapped against the edge of the paper idly, considering. "I'll come with."

"You will not."

"Yeah, I will. I'm done with my shift on SL-14 and you need manpower."

Miss Parker drummed her fingers against her hip. She did, in fact, need manpower. She could cut the list in half with another pair of hands on the job.

After some deliberation, she reluctantly allowed him to tag along, and the two of them made their way down to the accounting department. Miss Parker tore the list in two and gave half to Willie with instructions on what questions to ask.

"Beats the hell outta me why you're helping at all," she muttered.

"I'm doing my job," said Willie. He scanned his half of the list. "A foreign concept to you, maybe, but it means something to me."

"What about your old job?"

Willie affected an unconcerned expression. "What about it?"

"You were Raines's right-hand man. William Raines is missing employee number one, if anyone is." An idea dawned. "Is that what this is, you're looking for Raines?"

Willie barked a laugh, short and derisive. He shook his head.

"No. Raines isn't my job anymore."

Miss Parker didn't give a rat's ass about Willie and his weird codependent dynamic with Raines, but she was incredulous all the same.

"I thought you worshiped the ground Raines walked on. Vice-versa, too. You don't care that nobody seems to know where he's hiding himself?"

Willie shrugged. "Maybe a little. Look, I work my ass off at my job. Whatever it is. Raines could see that. Didn't hurt that he was supposed to be a good leg up to the top, but I would have just as soon answered to someone else. Maybe someone else would have actually handed down a promotion." He scowled in evident contempt. "Dick."

He returned to his list, penciling in notes in the margin to optimize his interview process.

"So that was all… good work ethic?" Miss Parker scoffed. "I might buy that, if I hadn't witnessed you actively botch operations in the name of impressing that wrinkled nut-sack."

"What?" said Willie, actually having the nerve to look confused. His face cleared. "Oh, the Jarod retrieval op. Yeah, well. Maybe I was a little extra-motivated. I never liked that guy."

"Jarod?"

"Yeah. Smug asshole." He smirked. "Probably why you and I never got along, too. You're both smug assholes."

They emerged into a densely-populated cubicle floor. Miss Parker was struck with how many people worked at the Centre; generally she only interacted with the same half-dozen people on a rotating schedule. A cheerful buzz permeated the room, like a scaled-up beehive. She looked around and spotted the cubicle number of her first interviewee, a woman in a forest green hijab.

"I think I figured out why you haven't been promoted in five years, Willie, if you make it a habit to go around calling your boss a smug asshole."

"Hm. Well, I'll say this for you, Parker. If I'd thrown out that comment in my last posting, I would have been sent downstairs for radical re-education therapy. With you, all I get is a weak comeback. Things are looking up."

He strode off towards the far corner, off to talk to a work friend of the recently vanished Dan Plaster, Centre accountant. Miss Parker watched him go, wondering how many more hidden victims of William Raines dwelt under this roof.


"Yameena Siddiqui? Afternoon, I'm —"

"Miss Parker! How nice to see you."

"Yeah. Thanks. Got a moment? I want to ask you about Lena."

"Of course, yeah. Wow, I didn't think they'd send you down. But why not? You found that Pretender guy, maybe you can find Lena."

"That's the idea."

"So, what would you like to know?"

"Anything you know about where Lena might have gone, I'll take anything."

"Right, right. Well, to be honest, at first I thought Lena was just ditching work. She doesn't love it here. She's one of these people who loves to complain. I didn't mind, she makes complaining funny. Lena's very funny."

"Lena hasn't been seen on the premises in three days. If she's ditching, she's really committed to it."

"Oh, she's definitely not ditching. I swung by her place yesterday 'cause when she didn't show up I thought maybe I had it wrong, maybe she was sick. But nobody answered the door."

"She could be ditching to go somewhere sunny, no?"

"No, Lena hates tropical vacations. But what really twigged me is that her car is still here."

"You saw her car?"

"Yeah! Or, I did yesterday, it was in the company parking garage. Come to think of it, I didn't see it this morning. So maybe Lena's around after all?"

"… Maybe. Was Lena in the habit of ditching work?"

"Well, no, that's also part of it. She didn't like work but she showed up anyway. Always."

"You said that before, she doesn't like working here. How do you know?"

"Oh, she never stops talking about it. She hates the higher-ups — no offence, Miss Parker — and she's always saying how horrible the Centre is for its deals with the military. Lena is a big anti-military type, she's loud about it. That never made her a lot of friends, but I like her. She hates… well. I hope this won't affect anything, but she's not a huge fan of your brother. She's been saying ever since he took over that she's just gonna quit. She says the Centre's even worse with him at the helm."

"She was planning to quit?"

"Eh. Maybe. Lena's all talk. Everyone likes to vent sometimes, right?"


Miss Parker ran into Broots on the elevator to the surface some days later. For reasons she couldn't articulate, the encounter was steeped in awkwardness.

"They have me back in the tech operations hub on SL-5," Broots said, though she hadn't asked. "Never thought I'd miss hunting Jarod, but you couldn't beat it for…" He trailed off.

"Aggravation? The spice of life? Wizard of Oz-themed scavenger hunts down the yellow brick road of childhood memories?" she guessed.

Broots muttered a soft 'heh', accompanied by a lopsided smile.

"I was going to say 'variety', but yeah, all of the above."

Miss Parker was on her way up to Lyle's office with the hope of catching him off-guard with the information she'd pulled from the employee databases and the aggregate of the employee interviews conducted by herself and Willie. One pervasive trend stood out: a disproportionate number of the vanished employees had either been denied a raise or had made a formal complaint about working conditions, some time in the past year. People who might have one foot out the door in any case, in other words. Optimistically, they could have taken advantage of the reduced oversight that came along with Raines's persistent absence and fled the Centre. Somehow, though, that didn't ring true to Miss Parker. Or at the very least, it wasn't the full picture. She planned on ambushing Lyle with her findings in the hope that he'd let something slip if she put him off-balance.

The doors to the top floor had opened only a crack when a loud clatter and a yelp made everyone in the elevator jump. The din was coming from Lyle's office. Miss Parker stepped out into the hallway; Broots hesitated a moment before stumbling out behind her, a shaved millisecond before the doors closed again. The two of them rounded the corner, a straight shot to Lyle's office. They hadn't taken two steps before the double doors at the end of the hall burst open.

The unmistakable voice of Mr Lyle rang down the hall: "Don't return until she's found!"

The doors rebounded on their hinges and smacked the pin-wheeling figure of Sam the sweeper. As he breached the threshold, something blue, white and catastrophically accurate hit him in the temple, bounced off onto the tile, and shattered into hundreds of tiny slivers spreading outward in a cloud from Sam's head.

Sam lay still.

Miss Parker and Broots watched the doors for a long, frozen moment, ready to dodge bullets should they start flying. When nothing further happened, Broots scurried forward and bent across Sam's sprawled form. His hand palmed Sam's throat for a pulse.

"Phwauh," Broots growled in relief. He dropped down into a whisper. "He's alive. We should get him down to the infirmary. I don't know about you, but my question for Lyle is nothing that can't wait, given the mood he's in. Wanna help with his legs?"

Miss Parker didn't, but she also didn't want to get beaned with one of Lyle's favourite vases, so she grabbed Sam by the ankles and started dragging him back to the elevators.

Down on SL-20, the intake nurse didn't blink when Broots explained what happened.

"He's not the first and he won't be the last," she said through a Newfoundland accent, palpating the impact point of the shattered vase. "Trouble at the top. Trouble at the top, that'll trickle down. Watch out for it."

"Thanks for that folksy advice," said Miss Parker. She turned on her heel with a backwards wave in Broots's general direction. "I'll see you around, Broots."

"Uh, wait, Miss Parker! Hang on," said Broots, skidding after her. Miss Parker paused and looked at him expectantly. "Uh. I heard you have a T-board tomorrow. About the whole —" He looked around for listening ears and dropped his voice. "— not-kidnapping thing. All the higher-ups showing up from Africa, and everything."

"Bright and early," confirmed Miss Parker.

"OK. OK. Good luck! I'm sure it will be fine. I heard the Triumvirate are, are in your corner. Just a formality thing."

Miss Parker's returning smile was half-grimace. She turned again to leave.

"Miss Parker?"

"What now, Broots?"

Broots seemed to dredge up the question from somewhere long-buried.

"Have you seen Jarod since he got back?"

"Yes," said Miss Parker, since it was the truth as everyone knew it. She waffled on whether to divulge more. No, better to play things close to the vest, even when it was Broots. "I escorted him to his holding cell."

"Holding cell?" Broots echoed. The idea seemed to chill him. "Right, yeah, I guess that makes sense."

"Yep," said Miss Parker, resolutely giving nothing away. Come on, Broots, she thought. Show me I can trust you with this. Give me something.

"Is he… is he all right?"

It was a start.

"What do you think?" she asked. "Jarod is the Centre's very own child of Omelas, basement accommodations and all. I think we've known for years that when we brought him back, he was never going to be 'all right'."


The shrill ring of Miss Parker's phone startled her out of a deep sleep. She'd been dreaming of… something, as soon as her eyes opened, she couldn't remember. She could remember a klaxon wail, rows upon rows of feet rising out of the ground, nothing else. She threw aside her duvet — one of the only items she'd unpacked since leaving Jarod's place — and grabbed the handset.

"What?" she groaned, voice thick with sleep. God, she could use a cigarette.

For a wild fraction of a second she expected Jarod's voice to drift tinnily from the receiver, calling her to tease the nature of his latest Pretend and to herd her towards the Centre's latest load of dirty laundry. But no, that was all gone by. Instead, it was Harvey.

"Morning, Miss Parker," he said. He sounded uncharacteristically sober. "Thought I'd let you know, your T-board is cancelled. So you don't have to be in an hour early."

"Great," Miss Parker grunted. It was good, if suspicious, news. Why would they cancel a T-board? "So you woke me up early to tell me I don't have to wake up early, fantastic. It's —" She checked her bedside clock. "Damn it, Harvey, really? Five AM?"

"Sorry," said Harvey, but he sounded too distracted to convey sincerity. "The call was supposed to go through to you directly, but calls for the head of CentSec are still routed to my extension. I'll have to fix that. Sorry."

The last word was spoken on a shuddering exhale. Miss Parker frowned as sleep lifted its veil from her eyes, not to mention her prefrontal cortex.

"Harvey, what is it, what's wrong?" As her brain continued to wake up, it began to make vital connections. Her throat clenched. "Harvey… why was the T-board cancelled?" A beat of silence. "Harvey!"

"It's pretty crazy, Miss Parker. It's the craziest thing, I don't know what to think about it," he said.

"What is?" said Miss Parker, fearing the answer.

"The Triumvirate can't make it in. They're dead. All of 'em, dead."