Near Light

by novalounge

This is a sequel to 'One Way Trip', so read that first. If 'Life is Strange' was their origin story, 'One Way Trip' was a re-awakening. An introduction to new friends, hidden enemies. Warnings for the future. Early power-ups for what lies ahead. 'Near Light' is the continued adventure of Max & Chloe, picking up where 'One Way Trip' left off. Pricefield, etc.

21. Another day

Chloe scanned their bedroom through closed lids.

Max's uneven vitals scratched out their own bright story against an otherwise subdued background.

She pressed her lips to the nape of Max's neck, leaving behind a fading, lip-shaped impression in infra-red. In whispers, "Can't sleep?"

Max, little-spoon, tensed. Stretched her legs under the sheet, painting the outlines of the room in a sudden scattering of white-noise. She rolled enough to look over her shoulder. "…sorry love…didn't mean to…I can go to one of the guest rooms. You need—"

"No, don't. It's okay." Chloe nuzzled. "If anyone should be lying here awake, it's me, not you."

Max pulled Chloe's arm over her, laced their fingers together above her heart. "You'll be great."

"Hmm? What about you? What's goin' on in there?"

Max shrugged against her. "Usual? Stupid brain won't shut off." She let out a long sigh, deflating.

Chloe didn't respond beyond a light squeeze. Understood.

Emo yawned, curled upside down in his drawer.

A distant siren intruded, faded.

After a few minutes, Chloe said, "You're still wondering how 'you' you would have pwned 'em at the starting line over there." Statement, not a question.

Max shrugged. "Or done parts way different? I dunno."

Chloe replayed more than a hundred alt-timelines from that awful branch, alongside the memories and feelings of her other-selves at each turn. Every heartbreaking incident, every thought, the detail of every plan; every painful, harried personal or team decision that went into them. Time-stretched moments blurred together in parallel replay, compounding information with each rewind, iteration; cause and effect rippling between looping timelines like heavy rain across the nighttime surface of a deep lake.

Plans went to the second. Not much more room for finesse.

Barring some fancy new expression of power, anyway.

…yeah…there's that.

She diverted her anger. Gently massaged the back of Max's head with her chin. "You already know, dude. It would have been different from the start. Your, uh, time-shift trick with the wormholes alone…swapping out the few people they couldn't save directly…it factors out a lot of the event-compression they created. She wasn't where you are yet."

Max nodded. "No, it's not even…yeah, would have changed everything over there, for sure. I know. But that's not…not what I'm stuck on."

"Spill."

Max paused, searching for the right words. "It…it was only a few weeks of divergence, right? It's…their decisions to move on…I guess? I'm having trouble with? They were close enough to us to be us. But more than once, they decided someone's gonna get left behind. That it was good enough to move on to a new day - that it's…it's okay to not save certain people?" Max fidgeted. "I know it was desperate, but…how did we get there? Was that us?"

Something Chloe hadn't considered. Or had, but rejected in the flood of event data and memories Max brought home on the relayed cube. Memories Max didn't have.

Right. The gang over there only talked her through highlights.

Chloe kissed Max's shoulder, lingered. "Babe, those…lost souls? No one ever gave up on them. Least of all you. You don't know, is all. On every floor, up on the walls, they kept the names and pictures of every single person they hadn't yet saved on their way to the final pass. Not in memorial - but as a punch list.

"They triaged…gave their all to write each new day forward as close to right as they could with what they had. But they weren't ever satisfied. Remember, you barged into an evolutionary draft of that timeline…not the end.

"The us over there, while they were…fighting forward, they were looking for the source of the bad. Hoping for something they couldn't see. For someone in charge to take on, or some trigger-event to go back and undo. At the worst, they'd have pushed through to the other side, another month, six, whatever it took, to see how it all fit together in hindsight. So they could hopefully go back before the beginning, to stop it from ever starting. If that's what's circling your brain, you should know - there was no serious thought that anything less than getting everyone home safe was ever gonna be okay."

"…hmmm?" Max shrank into herself, heart slowing.

Chloe, slowly, "They counted on the outer loops to save the people they couldn't reach in the small ones. So, they made some hard calls to keep stumbling forward. And then, when you came in, that ship? That might have been a big key for them to find their way back to something normal, all on their own. We don't know. But in the end, it didn't matter, because it was your way - exploring other branches, jumping back here and deciding to fight through this one instead - that's what saved all of them. Every one. You made it all better. You're the reason. It was you that whole time, Max. You were the answer they couldn't see."

Max sank further into her pillow. Quiet. Considering. Finally, sighed, "…back to our annoyingly persistent meta…always something hidden in the wider-loops."

"Uh-huh."

Max glanced over her shoulder. "I know…" Her eyes darted away, back again. Shook her head. "…a part of me knows. You know? But I dunno…I don't think we outgrow our 'what if' game? That's…my head's been perma-stuck on replay, anyway." She rotated her hip back toward Chloe.

Chloe chuckled, whispered, "It's new intel…you're on sleep-deprived autopilot, picking things apart, trying to learn from it. Cause you'll always be you. Just…don't be too hard on yourself? Any of your selves? K? You might still get a chance to show how you'd rock it solo. Especially if their b-plans go on repeat after we blaze through these bullshit media games."

"True dat." Max hugged Chloe's arm. "Eh. Or not. Won't go that way again. It can't, not now."

"No…you're right. Starting line's different again. We know who a bunch of them are now. I'm already way over their bullshit - and you're all you over here. Well, the most 'you' we know of so far, at least." Chloe hesitated. "Even…even if you're content to fight with both arms tied behind your back."

Max tensed again, looked over her shoulder. "What do you mean?" Sounded hurt.

Chloe changed her mind. Let it go. "Nah. Never-mind. Near-term, it doesn't matter, I guess. Like I said, you're all you, and…uh…I've…taken other precautions too." Chloe smiled in the dark.

"Oh, god. I can hear that evil smirk from here." Max's voice dropped as her body relaxed again. She snuggled back. "And of course you have. Always. You're the other half they never see coming. You know?"

Chloe closed her eyes. Whispered close, "This help at all?"

Silence. Finally, "Yeah. It helps to know they didn't give up on anyone…just…thanks." Max curled under the light covers, practically pulling Chloe over her like a crashing wave. Or maybe like an avalanche of warm. Changed the subject. "Have I told you today how much I adore you?"

Chloe let her, sighed, "Suppose it wouldn't kill me to hear it again."

"Well, I adore you this…this much." Max held her hands a few inches apart.

"I assume you measure from the back of one hand, across a closed, infinite universe, all the way to the back of the other hand?"

"Duh. Because…science. And stuff."

Chloe reluctantly rolled off Max. "Seems like the right amount - but only cause I'm way adorable, dude." She scooted closer, nibbled Max's earlobe. With a breathy whisper, "In a bad-ass mad-science kinda way."

Max tucked her chin, made cute little noise in time with Chloe's nibbles.

Chloe pulled back. "God, you're helpless against me, aren't you?"

Max shrugged lightly.

Chloe chuckled, paused, intoned with mock impatience, "No matter. Scurry yourself to slumber, my dear and troubled assistant. I must up to an early 'morrow!"

Max giggled softly. "There's no 'tina. Heh. And…you know. Thanks. Um, would you wake me up before you leave, though, love? I need to rattle some cages back East while it's still morning there, but I super-wanna listen in, too?"

"Mmph."

---

Ty helped Ken lift the cold iron bar that final inch. "Where you at?"

Ken was flat on his back, arms supporting most of the weight above his chest. He hissed, "I'm done. That's it."

Ty nodded. "Good. Do two more. Come on, Leung, don't give up on yourself so easy."

Ken scowled, groaned. Didn't move the bar backward.

"That's it. Just two. You can do it." Ty let the weight descend through Ken's tremors. Assisted enough for him to safely finish the final two reps to the limit of his muscles. Seated the bowed bar on the rack with a heavy clank.

Ken's arms flopped. "Man down." Gasping. "Gonna be here for a sec."

Ty dropped a towel on his chest with a thump. "Did good, man. That's one up from last week. Gettin' fit!"

"Fuck off, Williams. I am fit. Sadist." Ken pushed up off the bench, laughing. "Thanks for the spot. What are you doin' this morning?" He shrugged. "Return the favor?"

Ty held up his hands. "Nah, it's cool. Cardio day. 120."

Ken winced. "I can never do that long inside. Text me if you need an extra magazine or something. Least I can do - which is, you know, why I'll do it."

"Always the White Knight."

"Asian, thank you very much." Ken smiled, not otherwise moving.

"It's good to seek balance in your routine, though." Ty grinned, waved backward as he threw his towel over his shoulder, walked away.

Flipped his hood up. Head down, he put his earbuds in and made his way to the front row of treadmills on the other end of the floor.

0400.

Inside, it was cool, well-lit. A mix of advanced tech and human-friendly surfaces. Outside, the scattered lights of suburbia twinkled, edged into darkness at the foot of the distant mountains. The half-empty office gym was more home away from home than it should have been.

Morning meditations.

'Habit' wasn't the right word, but something disguised as unconscious preference placed him where he could see everything in the gym behind him reflected in the ballistic skin of the building. His earbud cable freely tucked into an empty pocket, unconnected, subtly enforcing his personal bubble. Like most of his comrades, he wasn't comfortable isolating his senses.

He stepped on the belt. It gave under him with a springy push as the machine came to life, anticipating his routine. He could almost hear the equipment chattering back and forth with the army of med-bots inside him, regulating, deciding among themselves how much and how fast. Wasn't like the old days. Wasn't a bad thing. Sore muscles lasting more than an hour were a relic. He shook his head, slotted his bottle into the holder, set off at a brisk walk to warm himself up.

He picked up the pace, trying to outrace his growing unease.

Twenty minutes in, he felt her wake. He was getting better at that part.

Hey.

He didn't ask how her head felt. He shared a muted version through her link. Distant clanging spikes beat their way through heavy blankets of heat and pressure. Less than the night before, though.

She didn't need to ask him what was wrong. It was plain to see, at the front of everyone's minds. She reassured instead. I'm okay. It wasn't here. It wasn't me.

Soothing.

No more words.

It was different between them when they were alone. Open. Unmediated by the symbolic acoustics of language.

Two minds traveling together, freely intermingling. One racing, one half-asleep.

Both hurting in different ways.

But each helping restore the other.

---

Emily jolted awake to Mira's snores. Took her a minute to catch up to her surroundings, calm her heart. She wasn't used to sharing a room, which was itself a fuzzy reminder that everything was probably okay. For the moment.

She and Mira shared the small bed, while Jason owned the floor. Dark, wood-paneled room. Faint scent of packaged sandwiches and cedar. Sunrise leaked through thin gaps in the blinds, throwing striped patterns across the double-latched front door.

They tried to skirt the small highway-town entirely the night before. But Jason noticed it through the trees - the flickering room light. Same pattern as the electronic locks, the cameras. Same sequence as the lights on the drone that chased him to the edge of the forest before it stopped and shot straight up - only to blast down and shatter into a billion plastic pieces.

Someone watched over them.

Even so, they couldn't be too careful.

Mira had ordered them to stay put while she went up to investigate the room. Snuck up the steel and concrete steps to the second floor of the motel. Neared the door. The blinking stopped as she listened from outside. Eventually worked up the courage to try the handle. Unlocked. She vanished inside for what seemed like hours. When she returned, she motioned them up from the underbrush. The room was empty. Waiting.

Out of the cold.

Into hot showers.

And down the catwalk from their room, vending machine snacks and cold drinks that magically dropped as they approached.

Freakin' weird, that.

Not entirely trusting the situation, but too exhausted to continue trekking blindly through the freezing woods, they agreed to hunker down for the night. Decide what to do the next morning.

Em closed her eyes.

Jason's breathing was out of time with Mira's snores, only coalescing into an illusory rhythm every thirty seconds or so.

She rolled away.

Safe.

Not entirely trusting.

But like the others, thoroughly exhausted from their escape.

---

Max couldn't force sleep.

Chloe helped earlier, but in the end, Max's thoughts only pivoted to other concerns. Her recent open-loop issue with the emitter, if that's what it was? When and how to break the ice with Chloe about topics Max had gone to great pains to shield her from, to her detriment. The stranger in their room, who may or may not have been a dream, but…never-mind current media silliness or the existential unknowns of deep time or…all the rest.

She wasn't nervous about morning, though; Chloe was perfect for the job, and that all made sense.

Couldn't still her inner mental racquetball matches, was all.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Rise.

Fall.

Symbolic issues. Who was she? How much of herself, of who she'd become, did she have any control over in the end? Was that okay?

Time I spent remembering and sharing our vision.

Time I spent by myself in some vast hole in space.

Time I spent outside with ordinary people, all around the world.

Those moments were all that stood between one and the other. Versions of herself. Realities for everyone else. It left her fidgety, anxious to get outside. As if repeating the same recipe over again would somehow force more distance between this branch and the last. Between her and an angrier version of herself. Or maybe somehow prevent the next disastrous fork.

Too many competing thoughts. Let it all go. For now.

She tossed and turned again, carefully, to minimize disruption.

Chloe presented the illusion of deep sleep, but Max knew that wasn't entirely a thing. Not like she was contained or constrained by the boundaries of purely organic biology, or even her own head anymore.

No doubt, some part of Chloe casually wandered the surveillance shells covering a dozen cities…or sensed glimmers of spaces between, carried along on growing streamers of atmospheric smart-dust. While another part of her, perhaps sectioned off in a synthetic body, monitored the ongoing multidimensional recalibration of The Device in a lab below. Yet another, probably hanging out in some virtual world in the Core, perfecting her full-scale recreation of Aincrad or Academy City, or whatever she was doing for fun while running other simulations, or…who knew where else she might be. Like Max, Chloe's experience of time was selective and variable. But even when divided, she was always a hundred-percent present with Max. It was hard to complain.

This Chloe was much farther along her evolutionary path than OtherChloe had been near the…well, near when they parted. Made sense. The tech transfer was from the equivalent of 90k years into another future. At least.

Her head-start grows in so many weird ways. Still catching up in others. She'll have all the time I can give her. Max stifled a yawn. I'm so flippin' proud of how fast she's adapted, though. Even if she'd be rolling her eyes to hear me go on about it.

Max forced her eyes closed, tried to drift, but darkness wouldn't give way to dreams. Ehn. Eh…meh. Nearly time to get up anyway.

She gave up, reluctantly slid her phone from the nightstand. Second time since they went to bed. Screen was dim, tinted to nighttime hues.

New messages.

That was fast. Doesn't anyone sleep? Right. Forwarded samples, roundy planet.

Recent news streams continued to light fires, bringing fans and detractors out of the woodwork. Some felt compelled to yell. Others, to stop yelling at each other long enough to shout in the direction of MCCP. Some small number of those snuck through in the form of notes. Some of those found their way to Max.

She scrolled through new ones.

Tapped.

—

Hi everyone.

I couldn't find your Insta? Trying this instead. I can only imagine how low things must feel for you guys right now. It probably doesn't matter, but I still believe in you. They can shout a million lies, and I don't care. My heart knows you guys are the real deal. And my head knows how bad we need you. Or at least someone like you.

Don't let us down out here. Okay?

-Tran

—

Aw.

Emo climbed the bed on the other side of Chloe. Going in for tactical snuggles.

Max reread the last, hesitated, tapped away.

The preview of the following message gave her more than she needed to know about it.

—

YOU SHOULD JUST DIE! FALSE PROFIT! RADIOATION CHILD KILLERS! DIE DIE DIE! I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE!

-ANONYMOS STRANGER

—

Skipped forward. Rolled her eyes. Ugh. Spellcheck. Learn about it. And…email filterrrs- don't leeave meee? Pleease?

She wondered briefly if the unread message could be from the lone, sign-wielding protester occupying the sidewalk across the street from their main campus entrance. 'Free Alena,' it said. That might be a problem if it catches on.

Ugh.

On to another message.

—

We got your back, fam. Fuck the haters. Fuck this whole goddamn broke-ass system. Fuck em up!

GG

—

She tapped back to the list, scrolled.

Skimmed through the next few. Similarly mixed bag.

I did say I wanted to see a representative sampling…

—

I believe in you.

~ Ash.

—

—

…disgraceful scam artists. No different from the rest. You promise hope and take it away. Cruel, selfish trash…

—

—

If saving our world is your religion, show us the way.

#ImWithMCCP

—

"Hashtag email?"

The most recent address caught her eye. A white-listed flag. From—

Aw.

Kate? Why are you up so late?! Or is it early for you?

Her fingers leapt across the small screen.

—

Dearest Max,

I've been a neglectful friend. I'm truly sorry I haven't written you in a while. When our noses are down in our daily work, we can sometimes forget to look up. That's no excuse, but I hope you know that you're always in my thoughts and prayers. Especially now.

It's not fair of anyone to say these terrible things. Not when you've worked so hard and put so much of yourselves into acting for others.

Sometimes, we might strain under the weight of temporary darkness, get lost in the feeling that the struggle will never pass. It's essential that we keep faith in whatever we might believe - in whoever's plan, or in whatever voice or destination guides us. In the friends and family around us who help us carry so much more than we ever could on our own.

I know you won't take the negatives to heart. I'm very thankful that you're surrounded by good people. Please, please, please remember to make some extra time for you with all this craziness going on. Okay?

A wise friend once told me that we have to make time to refuel ourselves if we're to remain a bright light for others. :-)

Call if you'd like to talk.

I'm always here for you.

With much love and kindness,

-Kate

PS: Patrick (new baby rescue-bun) says hello! I'll text you a new pic in the morning. He's got the floppiest, most adorable-est little ears. You will behold and embrace the power of 'awww!'

There is no escape!

-km

—

Max wrinkled her nose, not unlike a bunny. Smiled.

You're like the perfect antidote to everything.

This world doesn't deserve you, Kate.

She tapped out her only reply of the night. "Yes, please. All of that thing you just said. Call you tomorrow?"

---

Juliet knelt in deep snow. Thin wisps of pink steam spiraled from the rapidly icing pools of crimson on all sides. Pools that more appropriately belonged inside people.

Her heart thumped out of her chest. Suddenly awake. Upright. The image, the bright nightmare, was gone. Replaced by a dim softness.

She wrapped her arms around herself. Shaking. Not the first time.

At least it wasn't his eyes this time; the attacker who fell next to her. That too-frequent dream loop. The way they went from wide-open blue, united in terrified regret, to…independent, unfocused, so quickly as…whatever holds a person alive left him.

He couldn't have been much older than she was.

Than Zach would have been.

No.

Why did she think that? Why now?

Why?

Why?

Was it normal to conflate the two of them? After all this time? Was it the only natural place for her mind to go? The only events in her life with that sort of end?

After all this time, she was the one left alive. Again.

Still in the dark, without any closure. Again.

Her instinct to whisper 'I miss you,' faltered, failed. It felt tired. Nothing would change. Zach wasn't alive to hear. And in present circumstances, indulging in that sadness wasn't a comfort. She didn't know what her future held. Or if it even mattered.

She let herself fall back. The exposed skin of her shoulders cooling. Pulled up the covers. Underwear, a t-shirt. Otherwise, bare skin. She remembered where she was.

Angry at herself for feeling this way. For moping instead of…well…what else was left to her?

Early light outside the house.

She calmed herself. Sought distraction in the moment. Shivering. Not only from cold. Had to pee but wasn't quite ready to brave the raw air between her and the bathroom. Or go for the heater switch on the far wall. Still bleary-eyed from lack of sleep the night before, she reached for the borrowed phone. Scrolled around, re-read parts of her middle-of-the-night texts with Ian.

Maybe to take her mind somewhere else as she tried to reclaim warmth.

Maybe to make sure they weren't also part of a dream.

JW: I never properly thanked you or your group for helping me.

Ian: It's late where you are. This isn't necessary.

JW: Thank you, anyway. Will u tell the others?

Ian: They know.

A timestamp gap of hours. Another post-nightmare distraction-question.

JW: Why do you do it?

A gap of minutes.

Ian: I shared with you the answer before. You ask again and again.

JW: Tell me again?

Ian: You must seek sleep.

Ian: Are you feeling well?

Ian: You've been lonely.

JW: You're avoiding my question.

Ian: As are you.

JW: Why? Tell me.

Another gap.

Ian: Maybe you're important to the future? ;)

Gap.

JW: How could I be? I don't know what you mean by that?

Ian: Sorry. Old Chan joke.

JW: Just tell me. Please?

A gap of a few minutes. She remembered the dots blinking on for a while. Wondered if he fell asleep himself.

Ian: Okie. There are versions, but they go this way - a happy little girl in Tokyo breaks away from her mother, runs into busy intersection. A lorry races toward her, certain to strike her dead. In the last possible moment, an ordinary man in a long coat rushes to the girl and throws her to the safety of the sidewalk. Before the girl's mother can react, the man whispers into his watch, 'target secure.' He then smiles, telling her 'Your child is important to the future,' before disappearing forever into the dense street crowd.

Ian: It became something of an urban legend online many years ago. Which spawned copycat stories of people who similarly helped others, remembered the story and whispered into their watches in jest afterward, perpetuating the myths.

Ian: Maybe it is similar. A laugh instead, when obvious answers to 'why' won't satisfy?

JW: I'm sorry I'm not clear. I meant tell me why YOU do it? You're all hackers or something, right? You have all these crazy skills, but why use them like this? Why use them to help me? How do you have access to this house? Whose cat is this? How did you even find me?

JW: You said you guys have helped other people too - what's behind it?

JW: Why? What's your reason to spend your time this way? For you personally, I mean?

JW: I'm grateful - but I don't understand what drives you to help strangers like this? This isn't normal.

A gap of minutes.

Ian: The most direct answer that might make sense.

Ian: I hope to one day save my father.

That trail ended there. He wouldn't speak further on it.

She scrolled but rebounded from the bottom. That weird part of her that loved finishing puzzles in one sitting sat frustrated in a silent house on a snowy island, a world away from the millions of people chasing dreams into morning beyond the banks of flowing, icy waters.

She struggled to motivate herself out from under her covers.

---

Ty glanced at his watch. A little after 4:30 am.

Less than 30-minutes 'til Chloe was set to go live with their first return volley of Jillian's counter-strategy.

Not his area, so he didn't get a lot of what they were doing. Hoped it worked out. He kept to his quick run. Glancing every so often at the crawl on the TV ahead. World events, other headline news, a missing businessman, the occasional unflattering barb aimed their way.

Sophie dozed off a few minutes before. Asked him to nudge her when it was time. He preferred to let her rest if it were up to him. She was finally coming out of her cluster cycle. Better if she found relief from the last of it in sleep.

Behind him, a trio of young women traipsed in, invaded the ellipticals one row back.

He wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but they were close, and it was hard not to hear. Sounded like they were waiting for Chloe to come on too. Probably wasn't an isolated thing.

Two were visible on either side of his reflection. Each of them with blonde hair, pulled back. The one out of sight, directly behind him, had short black hair. He'd seen them around.

The one on the left said to the others, "…this is one way to push through an all-nighter." She laughed, started her machine up. "Ugh."

"It works, Jen. Trust me," the one out of view said. "20 minutes is all it takes."

Ty chuckled to himself. That's not how it works. He'd seen too many torn ACLs and other accidents caused by careless amateurs pushing through fatigue. Didn't want to butt in, but he'd keep an eye.

He managed a couple hours of rack-time after helping John the night before. They'd split the administrative mechanics of rolling out a massive new surveillance effort with team leads around the globe, based on the dizzying intel dump from Max's bad trip. He still hadn't fully wrapped his head around it.

Behind him, the woman they'd called 'Jen' asked quietly, "Coaching moment? What happened last night? Why'd you freeze?"

The pale woman opposite stammered, "Who? Me? When?"

"Earth to Amy? Morning? During Q&A drills? Jillian passed you the mic and you straight-up blanked with the big boss?"

"Yeah. I don't know? I didn't expect it to get all the way around to me?" Amy took a drink from her water bottle. "Besides, it's not like she needs practice or anything. She's already better at this than even you guys." She splashed on herself as she pulled the bottle away. Shrugged at the mess, tired.

The woman directly behind him laughed. "Not wrong. And yeah, okay, Aim. I still call bullshit."

Amy again. "Whatever, Steph. Who in their right mind brings in burritos for a late-night work-session? That's wrong on so many levels!"

Steph laughed, "You're gonna blame my midnight burritos for your deer-in-headlights stage-coma? Man. Uh - is it wrong I want a breakfast burrito right now? Anyone else?"

"Kinda? I mean, that I want one, and also that it's probably wrong." Jen again. "Aim's not lying though - she is way too scary-fast on the uptake. Tell me it doesn't weird you guys out?"

"What? That she's Chloe?" Steph asked. "Come on. I only wish I could be half that fierce one day."

Nods. All three chuckled again.

"Fair point. Her and Max, both."

"OTP4lyfe."

Giggles.

Ty checked the time. Glanced at the news-crawler. Same pastel newsroom. Same pasted smiles. Same four item loop at the bottom.

Jen paused, continued nervously, "Didn't mention this before, but I, uh, bumped into her in the hallway, before we started last night. Chloe, I mean. She was standing outside the door, doing her glowy-eye thing. Caught me staring at her like an idiot from like three feet away."

"Ouch." Amy struggled, lowered her incline angle. "You know she can still see when she does that."

"Thanks. I figured that out. But…she uh…it wasn't like that. She was cool about it and everything. When I asked, she said she was getting ready for us…studying everything she could about interviews and…well…I don't know, now - do you…" Jen shook her head. "…do you think she meant everything that exists?!"

Steph's voice. "There's a reason their initials are on all the buildings, guys. We could do a lot worse on the boss-spectrum. Especially with…you know…everything…else…"

They quieted for a few minutes.

Big Picture, always looming.

Fewer answers.

Steph finally asked, "And on that tragic note…did you guys…look? Look yourselves up, or…?"

Amy faltered. Slowed her pace. "I couldn't. Not...not after seeing Jen's face." Looked at Jen. "Sorry…"

Steph,"…"

Jen stopped. Switched her gaze between Amy and Steph. "I peeked yesterday afternoon when it all went up. Wish I hadn't. Wish…I don't know."

"What'd you see? Or do you not—"

Eyes down. "I know it's not 'real' real? But…" Eyes up, angry. "I guess there were these same two guys - and…uh…they killed my parents forty-three fucking times. Across all the different times or…whatever. Like - seriously?! We work in fucking PR…like…why go after them?! You know? I'm a nobody, and they don't have anything to do with us. Doesn't make any sense. How did they even know who—"

"…shit. Sorry."

"Thanks, I guess. Me too. Easier if it was just some vague…I don't know. They made the news a bunch of times. Local broadcast assholes interviewed my grandparents back in Iowa over and over. And…it just tore out my heart to see them so broken up like that. I could only watch a few versions, but…you could see it…it was so real for them. You know? Like, these fuckin' guys, they killed my parents, right? You think knowing that would be enough…but it was watching…seeing my grandpa devastated - that was the worst part. I'm so like…fuck these people, you know? Fuck second chances! Max should wish 'em all away. Be done with this once and for all." Jen started back up, her stride rougher, jerkier than when she began. Shook her head, cheeks red, brows knitted together in anger.

"…sorry Jen."

They continued in silence for another five minutes.

Ty couldn't feel anything but sympathy. He'd had his brief moral-compass-check after learning some of the details of what happened on repeat in that sideways branch. Imagined there'd be a whole lot more of that going around.

Breathing harder, Amy broke the silence. "Are you guys thinking about doing the whole thing? The bot post we drafted up for the intranet, for medical?"

Nano-tech. Standard issue for field ops. Ty'd had his for years now. But as of the all-staff message that went out late last night, they were available for anyone inside who wanted them.

Not the worst idea to go wide. It would have saved a lot of our people in those early passes over there.

He left the thought to fade.

Kept running.

Steph was mid-sentence. "—I looked, at it. I think they're just the medtechs, not the enhancement ones, right? I'm gonna go in and do it later either way. Just one shot. Why not? Good insurance. Or like having a little doctor running around inside you. Ops peeps seem okay with them."

Amy laughed. "Ha. I might hold out for enhancements." Coughed.

"Same goop, different program." Steph again.

Jen smirked. "But those aren't for everyone yet…I'm not sure Chloe wants that kind of competition."

"No, they're not even close to what she has, or…is, I don't think. Besides, Fiona heard from Jillian, said it was Chloe's call to open it up this far…and don't you dare let Chloe hear you say that, by the way!"

"She's probably listening to you right now—"

"…dammit. If you're listening, I'm only kidding! We love you, Chloe! Promise!"

Uncertain laughter, glances toward the small light-field panels in the corners.

Ty raced on.

The scene behind him, those conversations, had to be playing out in a thousand ways as more ordinary staffers around the world skimmed the looping records, discovered what versions of a nearby fate looked like for them or their loved ones. Talked among themselves. Or pondered in solitude.

Sobering.

Plans were formalized.

Decisions made.

Actions carried out.

Friends, families, co-workers, and everyday people died in precise ways.

Again, and again…

The dangers weren't as strictly theoretical as they'd been a day before.

That reality was one choice away.

But the consequences were open for everyone inside to see now.

Couldn't help but change things for people.

No reason it couldn't happen—

Caught himself.

---

Ian watched over all of them.

He was concerned for Juliet. It wasn't her time yet. According to the plan he'd developed with the others, he had to keep her sequestered in place for another 11 days. If that plan was to remain salvageable. In her current state of restless agitation, the isolation of the beta site, he'd be lucky to keep her half that time without disruptive intervention.

It was entirely his fault - the ones hired to relocate her missed a light. Because he became distracted, missed changing a light for them. They were to have calmly escorted her off the street to a modern, comfortable, safe house, minutes before the others would have arrived. Stayed with her and protected her. But they didn't get to her until after her attackers intercepted. He bore responsibility for the deaths that occurred, and the trauma Juliet continued to experience as a result.

It was too late to change - objects in motion - it had to be her. He needed Juliet now, but with their necessarily limited interactions, he was uncertain how to help her. Or how to get her back to a place where he could begin to convince her to voluntarily risk her life again. They'd have only a tiny window of opportunity. But at this rate…

Price, he watched always, warily, from a distance. Didn't dare go nearer. Even odds she'd sense him, and that would risk everything.

Caulfield…he was least worried about her, even though he'd lose Juliet without her direct and unreserved cooperation when the time came. He'd have only the barest moments with her. But out of all of them, she was a known, predictable element.

There were other moving parts. Unrelated, opportunistic. The three child-escapees; secure for the moment. He needed to get them to a safe-haven without enemy detection that might inflict on them a similar trauma. Their losses would be terrible but shouldn't ultimately affect the plan.

Then there was the bulk of The Collective's activities. Erasures. Sanitization. Interference here and there.

The bystanders he'd kept from becoming collateral damage.

His outside partners in crime.

Their involvement completed.

He thought for a moment.

Missed the obvious.

Discovered it.

Of course.

It was there all along.

---

Chloe blinked again under the hot lights. Dust motes danced above her skin, bright, out of focus.

The studio's makeup artist interpreted her flutter as impatience. "Almost done." She'd insisted on applying a base to keep the shine off.

Not like Chloe couldn't control surface reflectivity on her own, but she played along without fidgeting too much. Act normal.

If there was one litany they repeated throughout her broadcast prep the night before, that was it. Act normal. Thanks for the confidence booster, jerks. Normal for who?

She smiled to herself.

She was the one who asked for help. The plan. The coaching. Maybe it was a sign of maturity or something that she recognized her nervousness. Limits. She could pull it all apart, knew all the right moves. Everything there was to know about the processes. In theory.

But in mere moments, it would be her sitting there live, directly in front of the camera, alone, watched by millions of people. Nothing in OtherChloe's digital closet of knowledgeable goodness was geared for that. It was outside her experience in the other timeline. No practical help.

Ah well. If nothing else, Chloe appreciated the opportunity to indulge that feeling. A pointed reminder of how close she remained to her old self. A reassurance that despite all her changes, modifications or otherwise, she was a person inside.

Still me.

Two camera operators ran through final uplink checks with the remote network hub in NYC.

Back from vacation less than a day, and I'm already on national TV. Womp, womp. Five-years-ago-me would have lost her shit if she had any idea what this future looked like.

Her eyes danced away from the cameras.

She masked the vestiges of her inner nervousness by casually monitoring their behind-the-scenes conversations, AV feeds, and general goings-on. No obvious red flags. Check.

Waiting.

Soon.

…waiting…

The second-hand on the wall clock snapped forward in ultra-slow motion. That smooth flow kept going, on its way to the next second-marker. Barely registering as movement at all. A sign that her perception accelerated again. Or rather, she wasn't holding it back quite as far as real-time.

Shit.

She decelerated.

The second hand frittered around the face at regular speed again.

FFS. Nothing like making extra time while you're busy waiting.

To be fair, I volunteered.

'Leave it to me, Max.'

That's what she'd said. Borrowed code between them from another life. Shorthand that settled responsibilities before they could rise to questions.

It made the most sense. Max would have been fine, but with multiple close-up cameras, there was a chance, however small, that mid-interview rewind displacements might get caught. Last thing they needed was the further distraction of a wave of amateur frame-by-frame video analysts on YouTube, dissecting visuals while pandering to the wacky fringes. Inevitably escalating awareness of any weird up into the mainstream. Would complicate an already complicated situation.

Max could have jumped back into herself each time instead of rewinding, kept it all square in her head. But it was unnecessary work when she wasn't the only person who could stand up for MCCP.

'Break a leg, Chlo…' Famous last words

Do I still have bones?

She squinted. Wasn't a question she had an absolute answer for.

Chloe was polling higher with the public than Max for the moment, but Jillian had the good sense not to add that bullet to her team's case for Chloe the night before. In her favor, Chloe also had millisecond-access to the bulk of the world's knowledge, possibly the most advanced - or at least the most extensible - mind on the planet, and ostensibly, total control of her internal passage of time. They led with that trinity.

Not like there was any dissent to overcome.

Leave it to me, Max.

- K.

"There. You're good." The makeup artist closed her case with a crisp snap of the clasp, spared a last glance at her work before scampering off. Erin. Chloe paged through a mental screen of some of Erin's after-hours zombie makeup work online. Friends all pale and splashed in red like fun chewy death. She looks happier in those pictures.

"Would you like a water or anything?" The local morning producer interrupted, hovered. Her eyes were bleak, headset akimbo, and her clipboard, clutched to her chest, had seen better days.

"No, but thank you for asking. I'll be fine." Chloe smiled more warmly than was strictly accurate or necessary.

It was earlier than they were used to being at work. They wouldn't see daylight for another two hours.

Chloe adjusted the earpiece they'd provided, which would soon link her to her remote interviewers. Her live connection to Jillian and everyone back at HQ would be virtual, if more simultaneous than the quarter-second delay from NY, or the seven-second delay to air.

Almost time.

The first of three remote interviews. Each conducted from a local network affiliate, fed to national, then back out. Morning shows. Widest reach and least-likely to be openly hostile or confrontational. That was Jillian's call. Couldn't be too prepared though, given how divorced Max's initial story was from reality.

Chloe expected things to go off the rails by the second interview, despite Jillian's confidence that they'd make it to the third unscathed. Jillian trusted in her relationships. Chloe trusted that once she spiked the ball during the first morning show, the more decisive elements of Them behind this particular media push would do their best to influence or interfere through the shows that followed. Nuke that bridge when we come to it.

Was all a question of reaction times.

At least they wouldn't be able to pull any nonsense with the uncut broadcast video, which is why Jilli insisted on 'live' for this brief opening salvo. Quotes could still be assembled and recut out-of-context later by others, but the broadcast interviews would stand on their own as the authoritative, and very public, record of what Chloe actually said.

Jillian was confident the internet crowd would link back and auto-moderate any resulting counter-spin attempts.

And create plenty of their own noise if we can successfully shift the narrative to something more productive. 'Replace it with what?' had been Jillian's leading question, but she was already standing by with the recording of Max's interview with Juliet - fired off a clip, which pointed them a direction. An inadvertent slip Max had made, sitting there unused.

Downside of sidelining Max for this, Chloe wouldn't be able to take anything back on her own if she messed up. Not without an appeal to Max for a cube-assisted restart. After all the prep the night before and her other advantages, she didn't think it would come to that, though

While Max could run every branch permutation physically, Chloe computationally simulated far more, far faster, updating her paths in real-time. Different methods applied to the same end.

Chloe would do her best, and if it got out of control, they could cut the timeline after the first interview. She dropped her shoulders, pulled them back, sat up straight. Tried to force out the last of her jitters.

Max, meanwhile, would be freed up to chase leads in her way.

Like Patricia Tanner, Juliet's editor at the Journal, and probable rubber-stamp on the opening MCCP hit-piece that triggered the rolling waves of bullshit that followed.

---

Max stepped from her closet into the freezing morning air a mile above the city of Rye, in Westchester County, north of Manhattan.

She tapped her earpiece while her breath sculpted mini-cloud shapes. "Morning, gang. Is she back at the house yet?"

Air bit at her cheeks.

A sparse crackle. "Welcome to New York airspace…and yes, ma'am." A spare team out of the NYC office ran point on the ground for her. This was her second stop of the morning. She briefly soloed Wallace first thing, then erased all contact in a jump back for warmer clothes.

The voice continued, "She returned home from her daughter's parent-teacher conference 10-minutes ago."

Max dropped into freefall. "I don't want us to be disturbed."

Static popped. "You're clear. Her Uber to the city is sidelined a few miles away with electrical troubles. Cell towers in the area are also experiencing 'technical difficulties' for the next 32 minutes."

"I can hear your air quotes." She smiled. Their invisible hands were nothing if not thorough.

A light chuckle on the distant end before the speaker clicked offline.

Max redirected her attention below. Bare, sleeping branches raced toward her.

Bout time we chatted directly, yes?

She slowed her fall, touched lightly to the street with one foot, then the next. Crunchy, with a hint of slip. She set down just off the private multi-acre property. No traffic to speak of and no witnesses to her descent. Only the dense, snowy overgrowth hiding expensive homes and other structures from public view. She made her way past the open gate, up the long brick drive, past the turnaround, and finally, up the front steps of the traditional stone and wood colonial mansion. It towered three floors above.

These columns are beautiful.

Warm yellow light rippled and shone through hand-blown glass panes inset in the wooden double-doors.

She rang the bell.

Movement.

A door opened with a whoosh, like breaking a seal, as a hurried woman in her 50's pushed past. She was dressed for a professional office downtown, not the snowy outdoors. She secured the back of a pale pearl earring, probably selected at the last moment to match her silk blouse. Quick change. A bag and jacket shared rumpled space under her other arm. Impatient, she glanced, barked, "I left the gate opened for you."

Max replied, "I didn't bring a car. Actually…never mind. You're Patricia Tanner?"

The woman realized she'd made a mistake, broke eye contact, reached for her phone as she backed through her door. "Yes, but I'm not interested. Thank you."

Max, sweetly, "This will only take a moment."

Tanner hesitated. "I'm sorry - I don't know you, and I'm obviously in a hurry. Thank you. Good morning." Arms full, she turned away, hair twirling around her head like a spun skirt. She dragged her fingertips across her app while leaning the front door closed behind her.

The door stopped, leaving a few open inches. Through the crack, Max said, "It sounded like you were waiting for a driver? Surely you have a few minutes for me?" Her foot was over the threshold, blocking further closure. Boots were the right call.

Tanner, visibly annoyed, "How — never mind - I'm sorry, I told you I'm not interested." She tossed her bag on a table behind her, returned, opened the door enough to allow Max's foot to escape.

"May I come in?" Max moved her foot.

"I can't imagine why I would want that. Good day." Dismissive, Tanner spun the door closed in Max's face.

Max popped in behind her.

Tanner turned, surprised, confronted her. "Excuse me?! Get the hell out of my house! Who do you think you are?" She stopped short of walking into Max but brushed by her to open the door again, pointing Max toward the wintry morning snow.

"You have a lovely foyer." Max spun casually in place, taking it in, leaving behind soft echoes of her footfalls. "It's round, like a castle turret. Cute." The white marble, the drop chandelier. The delicate stairs gliding along the perimeter curve to the next level. The elegant, if cartoonishly oversized, furniture. "Oh, sorry, I'm Max Caulfield. I want—"

"Miss Caulfield." Tanner interrupted, stiffened, eyes narrowing. Her terse projection of self-control remained intact, however. "You should know better than to come here. Our two organizations are in active litigation, and it wouldn't be seemly for us to—"

Max shrugged. "I'm gonna assume you know the stories you printed about us are crap. We can move right past that." She hand-waved casually away as she ambled further from the door, looking at everything but Tanner. "I don't care about the litigation. Both of us have people. It's not why I'm here. I'm curious about a few things - I was hoping you could help me clear them up?"

Patricia shivered as a breeze blew in, but she didn't move to close the door behind her. Measuring her words, she said slowly, "I understand that you might be upset with our recent investigative series. All the more reason it's highly improper for you to be here. You need to leave. Now!"

Max held her ground. Absently peeled off one mitten, then the next. Folded them into her coat pocket. Sauntered, examined an old oil painting of a three-masted ship fighting rough seas. The ornate, gilded frame was probably many times more expensive than the art it contained.

Tanner filled the blooming silence. "I'm certain it was an uncomfortable examination for you. That's unavoidable; we raised questions that you'd prefer unasked. I'm not unsympathetic to the dog-pile effect that followed. But all our stories are sourced, vetted, and factually verified by a diverse staff of professionals before going to print. We stand behind our journalists and their notes, and there's nothing that can be done to further influence that." Rambling, as if uncertain how to proceed, "They're professionals following longstanding journalistic standards, procedures and—"

Max leaned her butt against an ornate side-table. An antique cup and saucer clinked. She crossed ankles and arms. Chuckled. "You can stop. It's okay. I'm not recording this." It wasn't technically a lie. All she had on her was an open mic. "…we're just two people, having an uncomfortably awkward conversation in a tastefully decorated foyer."

"You misunderstand. We're not having a conversation, Miss Caulfield. You've crossed a very bold line by coming here. I am asking you one final time to please leave - my next request will be of our local police - who are very responsive to the members of this community. And not very patient, I might add. I don't think either of us wants your mugshot to be our next national lede." Tanner crossed her arms in a defiant display of 'I'd be okay with that.'

"Lines crossed…heh…yeah - lines…bylines…those stories were lies." Max pulled herself up onto the table, feet dangling. "Your strict adherence to journalistic standards is bullshit, and I guarantee the bylines were too. So, cut the act, Tanner. We both know better. I'm here to follow the strings. Give me a string, I follow it away."

Shaking her head, "Have it your way. I've been more than patient with this trespass." Patricia dialed, held the phone to her ear. Pulled it away. Tapped again. Squinted.

A voice scratched in Max's ear, "Chloe's going on in one. Thought you might like to know, ma'am."

Max turned her head, replied quietly, "Thanks." She'd long ago abandoned her fruitless crusade against that particular honorific. Too many with prior service working in ops for that to have any lasting effect.

Patricia pocketed her phone. Examined Max more closely.

Her earpiece must have peeked over the edge of her lobe.

"It's tiny. That's military-grade communications gear? Between that and my…sudden and mysterious lack of signal - it appears those stories about you weren't entirely creative writing, were they?" She held Max's gaze, oddly confident.

Interesting. She's hiding behind annoyance, and all but admitted it's a hatchet job. But it doesn't look like she's well-informed enough to be properly afraid.

"A few facts were true. Even if your analysis and conclusions were way off."

Another tool. Ah well. Had to check.

Chloe's synth-voice intruded rudely over comms. "You just got so busted, dude!"

Max fought the urge to shush her. Instead, she hopped off the table, headed for the rightmost hallway leading out of the foyer. "Do you have a television? Of course, you do." Max kept going.

Incredulous, torn between following her invader further into her house or closing out the cold behind her, she stammered, "I-I'm sorry, but I insist; you really must—" Tanner's voice diminished behind well-insulated walls. She was someone used to being listened to.

Sitting room had a flatscreen. Max flopped into an uncomfortably decorative chair, kicked up her boots on the low table, pointed the remote. Called out, "Your driver isn't coming. We have time."

Max whispered for Chloe since part of her seemed to be listening in. "You were right - she has no idea what the hell to do with me. Heh."

"We need to discuss your rediscovered enthusiasm for criminal activity," Chloe chuckled.

"I didn't break anything on the way in. And I promise never to outshine you on that score, dear. Anyway, don't you have an interview or something?" Max flipped channels.

Chloe teased, "Blah blah… I can talk and talk at the same time."

Max chuckled, enjoying the light ChloeBanter. Maybe she was punchy from lack of sleep. Or accepted the lifted weight of a grim timeline effectively dodged. Or perhaps, in spite of current circumstances, she was buoyed by the feeling of recaptured momentum that came with their new weight of hard intel. Whatever the cause, Max also found herself enjoying the imbalance of her current exchange with Tanner.

Patricia entered, glowering over Max. As a last desperate attempt at threat, blurted, "I have dogs."

Max smiled. "What are their names?"

Tanner, flustered, "I don't— Oh." Her eye caught the screen. Resigned, she dropped, perched at the edge of a loveseat opposite Max. Stared at the television. "They're…Persephone and…and Ted."

Max smiled to herself at the dissonance between the two. Has to be a story there. Meanwhile, she steered the TV toward the local affiliate carrying Chloe's first appearance.

Bumpers titled the show, named the hosts, showed their bright and colorful 'breakfast table' set, flashed through the morning's scheduled segments.

Max set the volume low. Audible, but not high enough to compete. Finally asked, "What do they have over you? It's not your agenda. But as collected as you've been this morning, I'm having trouble believing you're way outside your comfort zone with this kind of spin-job. This isn't the first time."

Tanner didn't reply at once. Measured, finally said, "Everyone answers to someone. And no-one gets where they are, or stays there, completely under their own power." She looked away, seemed surprised at herself to have responded so plainly. Nothing further.

Max filled the void. "I kinda get that, but it's interesting…even after reading the nonsense you guys printed, which I presume you must have at some point, you don't seem to have any real idea who it is you've picked a fight with."

Patricia's eyes lifted at the last, stared daggers at Max across the coffee table. "It's usually men who throw that line, toward the end. What next? Name calling? Physical threats? Another block of clay with a detonator in my daughter's backpack?"

Max's eyes went wide, but she shouldn't have been surprised all the same. Another thread for another time. She held up her hand. "Sorry - I didn't mean it in the same way they might." Felt like time for de-escalation.

Patricia stared back, appeared uncertain as to how to respond. "I learned my lessons many times over. What is it you want, Miss Caulfield? I can't move you physically. I don't want you in my house for another moment. How can I compel you to leave?"

Above the small, ornate marble fireplace, on the mantle, a few scattered pictures fanned out. A family of three, including a baby. The daughter. In another photograph, the same unshaven man, a little older, this time alone in loose khakis, squinting against sunlight, holding a long-lensed camera at his shoulder like it was a rifle.

…in another life.

Patricia followed her gaze.

"Husband? Partner?" Max asked, suspecting the answer.

Quiet for a minute, Patricia nodded. Reluctantly glanced at the photo, then away. "Yes. Steven was both to me. He was killed while on assignment, four years ago."

More daughters without fathers. Another Joyce. Another— Backing off, Max let out, "I'm sorry. Your little girl, she was young at the time."

"She doesn't remember him well. Look—"

Max softened, held up her hand. "I'm sorry." Human. She's…human after all. Dammit. And not an insider. "I am sorry for barging in on you this morning Mrs. Tanner. I am. What you did to us was shitty, and you know it. I don't know how involved you were, or the depths behind your reasons, but we have that under control now."

Tanner looked like she wanted to say something but didn't interrupt.

Max continued, "All I'm interested in at this point is how it came together. Why. Under whose direction. That may help both of us if I read your situation correctly.

"And I'm also concerned about the safety of my friend, Juliet Watson, and your other writer who came out to see us. That morning, before your first editorial about us hit the stands, a team of armed mercenaries tried to murder Juliet on the street in front of her dorms. Now she and Portnoi are both missing."

Patricia's eyes darted, only for a second, before that same outward mask of control returned.

Striking a lot of nerves here. Fear, but not shock, exactly.

---

Emily bolted upright, throwing the covers off, her heart racing yet again. Only this time, Mira was up beside her just as quick, eyes wide.

The TV blared music at top volume.

Jason, groggy and annoyed, prairie-dogged up from the floor. His hand blindly searched over the edge for a remote, scattering plastic wrappers to the floor. "Not funny, you guys."

The hair on the back of Em's neck stood up at the image on the screen. A rotating, helicopter-eye view of a building, massive, with a barrel shape at the center and three long, fat spokes radiating outward into a green office campus the size of multiple city blocks.

Jason joined, rubbed his eye, slack-jawed.

A volume bar spread across the bottom of the screen dropped from 100% down to 20%. Mira, remote in hand, said, "I've seen this shape so many times, but never—"

Eyes transfixed on the screen, Emily muttered, "Yeah. Me too. But—"

"Me three," stumbled Jason.

The video of the building retreated to an inset square between two impossibly attractive hosts seated together at a table. A busy city street scene streamed through the windows behind them.

The first host beamed, "Good morning, Janie! And good day to you out there, nation. How is everyone? Don't answer out loud; we can't hear you. Heh-heh-heh."

"Hehe. Good morning Bill. And thanks for that fourth-wall-breaking reminder - what's on our breakfast plate today?" The woman opposite tilted her head, smiled at the camera, eyes bright.

The man with perfect hair replied through nearly perfect teeth in a nearly perfect jaw, "Well, Janie, we have a bit of an exclusive on our hands this morning."

"Oh? What's in store?" Hair flip.

"We'll begin the program by catching up with one of 2015's fastest rising business superstars, Miss Chloe Price. She's the co-founder of embattled tech giant MCCP, joining us live from Las Vegas, Nevada—"

"That's a state out west, right, Bill?"

He laughed. "Indeed, it is, Janie. Quite a few of our viewers call it home. After that, we've got the author of the new Times bestseller "My Emptiness, Me, and All of You, Together." And later in our broadcast, we'll check in with the hometown heroes behind that amazing kitten rescue video making the rounds online…"

Mira scrunched her brow at the TV. "Price? MCCC-something? Who are they, and why—"

"I don't know, let's listen."

Who is she? Why is the TV even on? And why is that shape…?

Jason pulled himself up, sat on the bed. "You guys didn't turn the screen on, did you?"

Emily and Mira looked at each other, shook their heads.

"You've both drawn it too, right?" Emily gestured toward the campus video.

Nods.

"What does it all mean?"

Silence.

In the background, "…well, let's jump right in! Miss Price? Can you hear us out West?"

---

Chloe debated editing some of the introductory content scrolling up on their teleprompters.

'Embattled' is a little strong. So is your tie and fake-orange tan, Bill. Chloe's thoughts carried over virtual comms to a conference room back at HQ.

"Chloe - no. Come on. They're friendlies, and their producer is doing me a huge personal favor. Please don't play with them," admonished the vaguely annoying miniature Jillian sitting in the 'angel' position on Chloe's virtual shoulder.

A miniature Chloe sat in the devil position on Chloe's other shoulder. Snickering.

Back in Jillian's ops-center conference room, a group of her folks ringed a long table, surrounded by various feeds from Chloe, the studio, and all major domestic network broadcast views.

The perfectly composed Chloe on camera didn't acknowledge or reflect any of her inner dialogs or their background shenanigans. That was all inside-voice.

Chloe's concession to business casual was a blue, oversized men's suit-coat over a faded grey NASA t-shirt. Half the team wanted to dress her up, the other half to dress her down. Compromises.

"Thank you for joining us this morning, Miss Price. I understand—"

"Please, let's not be too formal. 'Chloe' is fine. And thank you for having me on, Bill, Janie."

"Indeed. Now, if I'm not mistaken, this is your first time visiting us on our show, is that..."

Chloe made a quick tweak to isolate and filter the multi-part audio lag between her real-time spy-feeds of the NYC studio, the relayed hosts' voices in her ear, and the echoes caused by the seven-second broadcast delay. Plus, the further speed-of-light loops to broadcast audio from Max's open mic in New York and by Jillian's team closer to home. Redistributed. Real-time was less distracting for everyone.

Here we go.

Q&A itself was a simple game. By Chloe's mental math the previous night, there were 26 letters in the western alphabet. Anywhere between 200,000 and 2-million unique words in the English language, depending on the preferred definition of 'word.' Only 10,000 of which were in daily use by most people. Only so many sequential combinations of those words that fit together by accepted grammatical rules to form coherent sentences. Only so many combinations of those sentences that could be structured as interrogatives. A limited subset of which they could possibly ask her, statistically smeared across everything they'd ever asked anyone, ever, filtered through the context of the current news crisis.

By her reckoning, it came down to seven questions likely to come up organically in each interview, with one of four varieties of follow-on question for each answer she gave. And twenty-nine additional unique questions possible, falling to various percentages based on individual style, network bias or bent among the three sets of hosts scheduled. Provided the hosts didn't take things into the weeds. Off-script would default her back to real-time remixing.

Jillian and her team had worked with Chloe to adapt their messaging frameworks to her expected range of questions, planted triggers for follow-on questions they wanted to engineer, then ran some live-fire playback drills and coaching to help her lead the interview to the outcome they wanted on camera. She had prior experience under her belt with phone and text interviews with the science types, but live, mainstream TV had unique mechanical peculiarities, in addition to the psychological and interpersonal ones. The practice had helped her feel marginally more comfortable at least.

She smiled, looked straight into the camera.

She took a second to remind herself of their mission, of all the concerned, hardworking people she was there to represent. The corner they needed to turn in this first interview, the one they had the best chance of controlling.

She put on her best 'Polished-Chloe' act and jumped in. "That's right, Bill. We're still a young, private company, and we tend to keep our heads down. But I think this recent kerfuffle has brought home one disadvantage of that approach. I'm sorry to say that we're probably victims of our default of 'media disengagement,' which has left gaps for confusion, speculation and even outright falsehoods."

For those watching the broadcast, the view flipped between her seated hosts, a full-frame of Chloe, and an inset window between Bill and Janie, placing all three of them on the same screen.

Bill, smiling conspiratorially, "This is your first public response to the many allegations, right here on our show, folks - so you're suggesting that the Journal may have reported actual falsehoods?"

Chloe leaned forward another six degrees, nodded lightly. "Yes. To be clear, our position is that they've printed intentional fabrications, including the entirety of the interview with my co-founder, Max Caulfield. That's correct. For the record, we've filed multiple libel lawsuits against the Journal's operations here in the US, as well as in the United Kingdom. While we aren't asking for monetary damages, we would like a formal apology and complete retraction to the various false statements they've printed about us this last week. A lot of the copy-paste reporting quickly redistributed their claims uncritically, owing largely to their fine reputation. Which has now damaged ours."

Janie leaned forward too, gripping her coffee mug. "Is that a warning for others who would continue to repeat those same allegations?" She laughed. "Should we take this opportunity to clear things up, right here, on the record?"

Bill nodded amiably, leaning back.

Chloe smiled sweetly. "Yes - we'd very much like an opportunity. But I think we'd appreciate more frequent engagement outside of manufactured crisis', once this is all behind us."

A voice from her virtual shoulder intruded. Jillian. "Nice, touch, Chloe. Giving them a carrot. But pull back on the sweetness. Humble, but back straight; we're firmly in the right. High road. Keep it at that level. You're on-message but remember your transitions and concluding statements need to lead them naturally along our route-map to our best follow-ons."

Chloe rolled her inner eyes. Yes, sensei. Promise I'll trip all the right flags, right up to the reveal.

A few quiet snickers at Chloe's remark around the table, silenced mid-way by Jillian's all-business glare.

On the monitor, Bill set down his cup, folded his hands. "So many allegations have been leveled at MCCP over the last week, where should we even begin?"

Chloe chuckled. "Yes, it's been a fairly well-orchestrated kitchen sink. Not everyone is a fan of our work, apparently."

Janie chimed in, "Let's start at the beginning. Is MCCP a dangerous cult? Are you, Chloe Price, nothing more than a charismatic cult leader selling the world modern-day snake oil?"

Aww. Guys! She called me charismatic!

Jillian ignored her. "Conclude first. Sound-bites. Clear and short."

Chloe chuckled, shook her head. "No, Janie, we're not a cult. We're a business. We have regular employees all over the world, a P&L we have to manage, and everyone goes home at the end of their days, just like everywhere else."

"How do you suppose that 'cult' meme began? Do you have insights?"

Chloe, projecting earnestness, "That's something our litigation seeks to uncover. We were all completely stunned to read the Journal's outlandish claims about us."

"We've so rarely gotten a look - can you share with us, in your own words then - what is the real MCCP?"

Well, Janie, thank you for that telegraphed soft-ball question - we're a bunch of super-weirdo smarty-pants fighting an entrenched global conspiracy of stupidness, and we're hell-bent on kicking the end of the world straight in the balls as hard as we possibly can. While hopefully looking cute—

Inner-shoulder-voice, "Chloe."

Sorry. Playing. Nervous, I guess? I know…less 'my words,' more 'try to sound like Max' on this one.

"That's not what I meant, Chloe," surrendered Jillian. "Share your voice, but keep the end we want in mind."

K.

Chloe smiled for the TV camera, and Jillian. "What is MCCP? We're easy, guys. We're trying to do some good in the world. Leave it better than we found it. In a lot of different ways. That's it. It's the kind of mission that attracts enthusiastic volunteers. And in joining us, many of them found each other for the first time. That's the hidden secret of MCCP, and our real magic, I think. Those connections between concerned and talented people around hard, unsolved problems that affect everyone."

The first echoes of Max's real conversation with the Journal. What's true stays true.

Jillian, holding her breath, "That's it, Chloe. Called bullshit - now it's time to elevate - give the viewers an alternative to talk about. Set it up. This is the first time a mainstream global audience is hearing from either of you on TV like this - what truth do you want them to believe? What do you believe?"

Chloe accelerated her mind a few thousand times, slowing the world around her to a practical standstill. Felt a deeper appreciation for Max's conversational time-dancing.

Replayed the feed so far. Checked her pacing.

No pressure.

What do I believe?

What's the takeaway?

She knew the flow. But delivering answers, or even surprises, wasn't enough on camera; wasn't the level of persuasion Jillian was pushing for. Chloe had to go beyond that. She somehow had to make a personal, emotional connection with countless people she couldn't even see. Wouldn't ever meet. It wasn't something she could fake and still have it fly.

All those people watching - weren't they the same people everyone was fighting so hard for? Talk to them, not the hosts.

There was something she could aim for. Jillian called it 'competent passion.' More emotionally delivered than purely rational facts, but not to the level of wide-eyed fervor that would resonate with the cult claims they were fighting. A touch of humor. A bit of humility. Humanity. Comfortable confidence.

Chloe played with extremes to lighten up the room the night before, but in truth, it took some doing to hit the right mark. She had to bring herself to that place again. It wasn't acting, so much as compensation for the specific off-putting weirdness of the studio environment. They added up to an imposition of remove, of distance. Those impersonal concentric rings of nested lenses under hot lights against an otherwise black background, the time delayed questions in her ear.

Should have been doing this while I was waiting. Shit.

Second hand wouldn't move until she let it. She had time. Peeled back the layers.

Replayed the last night she closely watched an hour of global news. Stories of refugees in hard lands. Warfare. Disease outbreaks. Flames of political riots in the streets overseas. Another school shooting nearer to home.

Reflected on shipping containers ferrying human beings as objects for sale. People to be owned. Trails of sadness and despair from start to finish. Not all finishes. Watched again as her angel, Max, led the first by her hand to safety.

Peeled back the layers, allowed herself to feel what her other selves had felt, the events and terrors of the most recent sideways branch. The details, repeated over and over. Horrors since erased from existence.

And finally, she focused on a future lived by another Chloe in another timeline. Accompanied by their shared person. Their bright light against darkness.

She added up the horrifying scope of ongoing, mundane human tragedies. Some carried the fingerprints of their adversaries. Small patterns. Large. But others were more symptomatic of lost people trapped in a variety of unfavorable architectures. Trapped in fear. Living without hope. Without the tools or power or mobility to find their way to something better.

Every incident, every event, every situation, touched at least one person deeply, irrevocably. Others around them. Those were the ones she was fighting for. They were the ones out there. Beyond the cameras. She was on their side. They were the whole reason.

What do I believe?

Fuck 'believe' - we shouldn't be necessary. Shit could have been solved without any superpowers at all, if only you all hadn't allowed yourselves to be pulled so far from each other.

What is MCCP?

What's our truth?

There's only truth.

Back to real-time. She looked away, knitted her brow, returned her gaze forward. Called up the faces of countless people she'd met, more she'd never meet. A flutter of her lashes. An extra glisten across her eyes that could only come from feeling it deeply, immediately.

This time, she looked through the camera, locked eyes with her hosts on the other side. Continued without missing a beat, "We're fiercely loyal to this idea we've built. This…place. Our people, and everyone they're trying to help. Because it's not underselling it to say that together, in a span of a couple years, their work has already made progress against some of the most basic and persistent root causes of human struggle.

"Our shared history is the story of how universal and intractable these issues have always been for us. From individuals to societies, we're driven by these basics we all want and need. Health, comfort, and safety. Freedom from fear, coercion, and violence. The need for food, water, shelter. Desire for an environment that supports voluntary connections between people. Love. Dignity. Respect. Recognition. A society that provides room for curiosity, and reason and means for everyone to dream, pursue and become something even more amazing than we are."

Chloe slowed to a stop. Left a space of a few beats.

Janie, showing surprise at the direction of Chloe's response, "That's…an impossibly tall order for any one company, isn't it?"

"It's been too tall for any one-anything so far. Despite all the power ever given by the many to the few, it's never been solved." Chloe shrugged, voice light, hopeful. "But for the first time, we're at the brink of technologies that subvert all of that - to give us a chance of ending scarcity for good. For everyone. Of Food. Water. Shelter. Wealth.

"Our first target was cheap, unlimited energy, so we all put our heads down - and now we've solved fusion in ten different ways. It's done. City-scale installations are live and running. Licensed micro-reactors roll out in partner's vehicles and consumer products this year. That's not the only thing we've been working on."

Bill and Janie looked at each other. Behind the scenes, network chatter ramped at the sudden revelation that they were apparently well beyond the stage of speculative licensing of preliminary designs and theory. It's real. Casually delivered, as though it were an impassioned slip of the tongue. As Max had accidentally done while rebutting Elliot Portnoi's obnoxious outbursts.

Chloe smiled imperceptibly. "So, while it hasn't made us universally popular with investment portfolios more dependent on short-term thinking, it's only natural that our folks are excited and a little proud to see early signs of progress from our efforts. So, yes, we're shooting for the impossible, and hopeful for our future. Why not? That belief in people doesn't make us a cult.

"Inside MCCP, we're already rowing in the same direction. So, there's no need for coercion or tricks to bring our people along. We don't have any secret hierarchies or networks, and there's nothing nefarious going on inside our company. While not everything about us is visible to the public yet, everything we do is to serve it. Everything."

She stopped there. Could almost feel the energy shift behind the scenes.

Lesson #2. Know when to stop talking.

After an awkward pause and recovery, no doubt exacerbated by the chatter in their earpieces, her hosts quickly asked a couple of anticipated follow-up questions about the nature and timing of rolling out working fusion reactors for everyday public use. Chloe gave them short, pointed answers, with concrete dates and brands to make it fully real.

Open exchange, after-hours, and pre-market trading volumes skyrocketed as financial markets raced to adjust.

It was an acceleration of their original timeline, and they'd need to commit extra effort to help partners ramp production this year, but fuck it, they'll all be thrilled. Bad guys fired the first shots. Max had accidentally leaked it so subtly, they might not have even noticed. Jillian spotted it. Chloe ran with it.

Toward the end of their time, Bill threw out their final topic. The obvious closer. "Chloe, what about the darling little girl, Alena? Can you tell us what happened there? One minute she's held up to the nation and lauded as a hero, the next, decried as a victim of sophisticated brainwashing…"

Chloe had a special place in her heart for Alena. "Well, to be fair, Bill, the press have been the ones to make both of those claims. She's the daughter of one of our employees, and our only position until now has been that her privacy is respected. She's a sweet, funny, courageous girl. But the truth of her actions…what didn't come across in the now-famous video clip, was who she acted to protect that night. An unfortunate accident of camera placement, into which people have projected other agendas."

"Speculation has been that she was protecting you. It's a cornerstone of the 'cult' brainwashing claims. Who was it then?"

Chloe nodded. "Something we all understand. She used her body, her life, as a shield to protect her father, who she loves very much. He was the first hit by the hail of gunfire that night and tragically collapsed. Alena stood her ground, arms out, between more bullets and her dad. It was a desperate reflex of love and hope over fear. And ultimately, one that touched the gunmen, halting their fire and undoubtedly saving others' lives as well."

Bill and Janie exchanged glances. "It was her father all along? Is he…alright? We've all seen video of him waving reporters away from their apartment, but this is the first we've heard about his involvement in the incident."

Chloe shared a genuine smile. "His suit was dark, so he wasn't visible in the video. Alena's been upset about everything people have been saying, so she and her father allowed me to share more detail with here with you today. Her father's made a full recovery. They're both doing great. It turns out his injuries were a painful shock at the time, but not ultimately life-threatening. And she's simply happy her dad's okay."

Chloe felt a brief internal pang.

Both hosts sat back. Bill added, "Thank goodness. Wow. We'd…we'd love to have them on the show…"

---

Jillian watched as the aggregate online sentiment meter floating over the conference table tipped further into the green. The volume of mentions had expanded several times since morning. It was a brief pulse of the preponderance of online conversation, compiled from real-time measurements by a variety of outside service providers, as well as their in-house tools.

Green was good, red was bad. Typical of such instrumentation.

Green is good.

A few early headlines and social snippets scrolled through the air, giving a representative flavor for the commentary, pro and con. Confusion mixed with open excitement mixed with extreme cynicism. The ratio between them hovered at 50:35:15. Global markets were entering the early stages of turmoil, adding flavor to the news and commentary.

Jillian waved her arm, opening the side-wall of the conference room. Beyond, most of her troops were at their desks or workstations, heads-down, monitoring, absorbing, responding to the early wave of newly surging inquiries from global press, analysts, as the online world exploded after the first interview.

Once Chloe wrapped the final appearance, the remaining work would be done from here, behind the scenes. Much was already in motion.

Quick 'crisis management' scrums with partner company execs and their pr teams around this inadvertent 'leak' of the impending public rollout of fusion power. They passed along pre-baked plans, talking points, etc., to the largest partners already.

Separately, they were talking with journalists, bloggers, influencers. Persuading, framing conversations. Producing and distributing new infographics, videos. Coaching and connecting a bureau of outside third-party subject-matter experts who could credibly confirm or refute the minutiae among the noisy output of thousands of covering journalists and 24-hour news channels. 'Objective' experts who couldn't be pressed on topics outside their lane, or about MCCP in general.

Then, feeding back the best results into their official social channels for signal amplification. Let the crowd take it from there. Company ethos wouldn't allow covert manipulation of news or social dialog. It was a convenience that forbade the use of social sock-puppets, hacks, algorithmic manipulations, or a host of other underhanded tactics that were in obvious militarized use by those working against them.

Those kinds of distasteful behaviors were initially cultivated and refined in political and stock short-seller spheres, but they'd crept into corporate use over the last decade or two, as political consultants turned their eyes toward large, untapped piles of cash.

Communities could sometimes spot the obvious fakes in their midst, but the practice continued to grow more subtle and sophisticated - enough to be a real problem one day soon. According to Max and Chloe, geopolitical manipulation by nation-states was the next wave at the horizon. It was still early days for social and media manipulation - at least if their last timeline remained an accurate guide.

It put MCCP at a tactical disadvantage to be on the receiving end of well-organized information warfare, but that trade was acceptable to Jillian in practice if it kept them on the proper side of their moral lines.

She still believed that taking a correct path would lead to a correct place, even if the trials along the way seemed unfair. It's why she was at MCCP. Why there was nowhere else she could go that would offer a more meaningful role.

Presently, hers was to ensure they armed organic defenders with the ammo needed to engage in these community debates on their behalf. Chloe was off to a good start. MCCP would take the high road, chasing from above the noise, until they gathered the momentum to get ahead of it all and reclaim their narrative agenda. They'd have to work for a few weeks to turn that corner if they weren't blindsided by new bombshells. Plans allowed for a few. Then, onto a re-refresh of Jillian's long-term program for the company.

Turning back once more, she allowed herself a brief moment of satisfaction. Late nights paid off. She broke the silence. "Congratulations, Chloe. You did well."

Chloe responded over the background roar of an engine, "Let's not count chickens. Two to go."

"Hmm. You're right. But it helps that you appear to have nailed the first one."

"Surprised?" A chuckle.

"Not at all." Jillian smiled to herself.

"Thanks. I roll up to the next studio in like four minutes. Try not to disappoint."

"Just be yourself, Chloe. You won't."

---

Ariel scanned the muffin display as she waited in line to order her going-to-work latte. Saw a plump blueberry one with her name on it, beaming out a shiny rainbow-halo and confident, happy sparkles. There may or may not have been an angelic choir that only she could hear warming up in the background.

Carbs. Mmmm.

She leaned against the rail. Comfortable. She could be asleep again in minutes.

Her phone buzzed. Internal message.

Hector: thanks ishii

Wut? Huh?

Ariel: ?

HN: you designed the op template that saved my sister every loop that followed. owe you 50.

She might have read something about that. Stayed late to go over as much as she could the night before, but barely grasped the outlines of what happened in the alt branch from the handful of reports she was able to finish. It would take years for any one person to understand that way. She key-searched her name before heading home to bed; skimming that index alone delayed her departure another hour.

Everyone was working way beyond. Whole thing felt abstract in the reading. She dashed out a light reply.

AI: Np. What kind of drinking buddy would I be if I let your little sister get hurt? And thanks for saving my life twice, I think?

HN: 3x. beers? wings?

AI: no

HN: instant? Harsh.

AI: It's early morning. And quick enough that you knew before you asked.

She smiled.

HN: still asked. Open to being surprised.

Her line moved forward. She cringed at how open she'd been in Tokyo. Did it again.

AI: besides, every time we have drinks you pull some old dark trauma or war story out of me. Its embarrassing.

HN: we had drinks once. that's not how the empath thing works

AI: …

HN: delaying your replies by five seconds. Decent hack.

She laughed to herself.

AI: You like that?

AI: Fine. Wings.

AI: And beer, not beers.

AI: After work. 18:30. Lobby. Not a minute late.

AI: And you're buying.

HN: its a date

AI: not a date

HN: didn't say it was

It was her turn at the counter. It's not a date. She ordered her usual drink from the barista, then pointed to the glorious muffin of morning salivation. Salvation? Moved to the other counter to wait for her latte.

AI: it's not a date!

HN: Dude. XD

Felt her cheeks flush. Tucked her chin into her coat collar, closed her eyes and shook her head. Under her breath, "Baka."

---

Max knocked lightly on the weathered door below the rising stairs. 131st Street, Harlem, NYC. A faded clay pot with a winter-bare shrub chilled to one side of the door. The brownstone towered another three floors above the below-ground entrance to the first.

An old man carrying grocery bags shuffled along the sidewalk above. Stopped.

She smiled a 'hello.'

He gazed down at her with milky eyes for too long. Shuffled on.

No sounds from inside. The shaded route from the gate at the sidewalk to the front door had been swept clean of snow. She waited.

Before Max left Rye, Patricia Tanner haltingly, obliquely, painted her a picture. Ghost-writers who showed up in her office with finished copy in hand. A quick call from the COO of the multinational holding company that owned a majority stake in the paper, directing her in vague terms to allow whatever the small group of 'freelance consultants' requested. No reasons given, and Tanner didn't ask.

It wasn't the first time, but it was one of only a few so blatant. Everything arm's length. Most everyone unknown or sheltered by deniability. Unspoken horse trading. Although Tanner was the one left behind to face the skeptical inquiries her editorial staff's inner-circle, she later discovered that legal and others were somehow independently on the same page with her.

She might only have been a willing tool, but she was an observant and perceptive one.

It was what she shared afterward that that grabbed Max. That controversy was sometimes enough to be the end goal; something unproven, but that would forever stain a name. That Chloe's efforts wouldn't make a difference. "But if you're important, and I suspect you might be, they'll keep after you from every direction until you can't function." She'd said not to think of it as an attack from the press, but to see that as the necessary opening shot of a broad-spectrum effort to disassemble and shut them down. She'd watched it happen once or twice before. "Sorry, kiddo. Even if you're a genuine saint, it's already too late for you to come out of this clean."

As Max was leaving her, Patricia repeated that she'd deny everything to the end. Without further corroborating evidence, it was hardly the smoking gun they'd need for public exposure of the lies, or to slam-dunk their lawsuits to conclusion. Of course, her NYC team had recordings of their meeting now, but those carried the same problems as her original interview with Juliet. MCCP had the technological prowess to manufacture perfect fakes. Which made everything suspect, real or not, if someone chose to counter with that assertion. Tanner saw the hardware in her ear, after all.

But securing that level of smoking gun wasn't Max's intention. The NYC team was off and running at the first mention of the COO who made the call. Coordinating with the local Brussels teams. Updating HQ. Wheels up. Mission on.

Back in her present, a familiar voice intruded. "We've got movement toward the front, but there's some level interference."

Max looked back to the sky above. "Thanks. It's okay. You guys can back off for a while. Grab yourselves some breakfast or something? Please?"

"Copy that."

She knew they wouldn't. But maybe they'd feel comfortable enough to refill their coffees or whatever while their drone went looking for a better angle.

Chloe was already en route to her next interview. First one seemed like it went to plan. Max would catch up on the others later, once she was back and had a chance to debrief on her day. Tanner believed what she was saying, but that didn't mean her cynical predictions would come to pass. She didn't know enough about them to understand why the same rules wouldn't apply.

Max felt a change, like someone watching. Faced the door again.

A light flickered at the peep-hole. After a delay, a latch scraped, then another, and the door creaked open a couple inches. A young Black woman peered out at Max from under a pink bear-hood, complete with giant rounded ears. "Hmm?" Opened the door the rest of the way. "You come all this way yourself."

Note to self: Fuzzy bear-onesie-hoodie-pajamas? With feet?! Want.

"Uh, Alex?" Max smiled. "wait…you know who I am?"

Alex rubbed her eyes. Yawned. "Yup. Figured someone from y'all would come by eventually, but…she did say you were friends before."

"Jules?"

Alex stamped her feet up and down, arms around herself. "Yeah. Come on. Shit's cold."

Max followed Alex into a warm flat that smelled like something delicious baking. A partially disassembled prosthetic robot arm occupied one end of the dining table, alongside a range of technical-looking tools and wired-up tablet. The antique decor, the decades-wide span of multi-generational photos on display, hinted that Alex shared this space with an older relative.

Alex closed and latched the door. Appraised Max one more time. "Anybody ever tell you, you don't look like an alien? You eat people food, right?"

She almost sounded disappointed.

Max laughed at the unexpected greeting. "Uh. Thanks?"

"Kitchen's this way. Reheat something for us. Weird goings-on. I'll tell you what I know over breakfast, and I pray it's enough to help if she's in trouble. But…saying upfront, I don't know where Juliet or that drive of yours got off to."

Max, followed Alex, puzzled, "Drive?"

---

Juliet zoned, unconsciously absorbed by the snowy field between abandoned historical residences outside. Some kind of big, dark bird picked at an exposed bit of brush. Its movements in greyscale felt somehow macabre.

Like her morning dreams, she couldn't look away.

Going through only the most basic motions.

Dressed.

Heater on.

Coffee brewing.

The bird lifted its head, took to the air.

Sick of this.

As though hearing her thoughts, the phone vibrated across the kitchen table. She turned from the window. New text. Ian. Directing her to turn on the television, tune it to 7. She did as she was asked, dropped to the sofa, phone in hand.

It was an old tube TV, and the over the air reception wasn't perfect. But the picture was clear enough to recognize her.

Chloe?

---

Chloe was half-right. It was the third interview that left the rails.

It started with a last-instant host swap - from the morning fluff-crew to a hardline nighttime investigative network anchor. With that, the format also shifted from a one-on-one interview to a special news edition with a six-guest panel, including a 'science expert,' a senior congressman from Illinois, and a self-proclaimed 'child psychologist and deprogramming expert.' Among others. And their graphics team upped the ante with more inflammatory bumper-text, audio, and backgrounds.

None of this was made visible to Chloe, waiting in her studio chair.

As if.

The change alone wasn't reason to pull the ripcord. She expected it sooner. Even if she hoped it might go smoother.

Max could always cut reality after the second interview if the third became legitimately damaging. But Chloe couldn't pass up this opportunity to do a little investigation on live TV.

Part of her wanted a fight.

If she was honest with herself, she was still furious at the path They'd chosen to inflict on everyone in the alternate branch. She suppressed her feelings to focus on moving this branch forward, but there were too many layers of memory to smile it away completely. Never-mind the massive inconvenience they sought to create here.

She'd reminded Max that the bad guys were less united in this branch after the 'out' she offered them, and to cut them some slack as she reacclimatized - but someone in this timeline plucked at these particular strings.

By all indications, the bad guys still didn't know about Chloe. Thought her a clever hacker maybe. An infrequent public face of the commercial front of their real enemy - but otherwise dismissed as a snarky ride-along companion to Max.

No threat on her own.

No match.

Normal.

Even if that were true, they know we can erase it. What's their fucking point? Why bother with an ambush? Cornered? Minions keeping up appearances? No other choice with chickenshit peers or overlords watching or threatening or whatever? Or does some part of them have to move forward either way? Like a train wreck in slow-mo, running out stored momentum?

Max gave all of you a way out.

Protection, even.

You can't win.

So why? Why do you idiots persist?

Just…you know…fuck you guys, man.

If anyone in Jillian's section overheard Chloe's inner voice, they didn't make a sound.

Chloe accelerated.

Seeded self-expanding dossiers on the new network host, all six panelists. Synced up with the ops team at HQ, already following the communications trail from the program-change-decision backward.

If they were after a televised battle of wits, they'd find themselves embarrassingly disarmed.