The remaining weeks between Angela's phone call with Uncle and her arrival in Messina are easily the most stressful time she's had since the war. It's silly. Nothing out of the ordinary happens. Nothing to give her cause to worry. Uncle even picks up the phone when she calls him to ask if their plan is still on a few days before the holidays end. Besides, if he'd had no intention of meeting her, he wouldn't have called her in the first place - so in keeping with reason it makes no difference if she rushes to Italy right away or waits a week for a good excuse. And yet the doubts won't let her rest. What if she arrives in Sicily to find nothing? What if he leaves before then? What if it's a trap? What if Uncle will do something to her?

What if, what if.

What if this is what she needs to finally make real progress?

She flies to Zurich on Friday to have some time to settle back in. A direct flight would be preferable, but she never complained about her family seeing her off at the airport, and it would be strange to do so now, out of the blue. Unfortunately, this extends her wait by an additional, nerve racking day of gut-churning wait. She could, in theory, take a bus and arrive a few hours earlier than the plane, but that would mean having to deal with all the issues regarding her suspect height that she no longer has to deal with at the Zurich or Stockholm airports - the staff having grown used to her.

Instead, Angela once again pours over all the documents and schematics she's prepared before the flight, foregoing sleep to do so. The void in her stomach tells her she'd find rest elusive, anyway.

Other than dealing with the usual grievances metal detectors take up with her, Angela's arrival in Calabria is uneventful. Disembarking is always easier than getting on an airplane without her parents. What are the guards going to do? Stuff her back inside?

It's a few hours more before she sets foot on Sicily, first she must catch a cab, then buy a passage on the ferry between the tip of the Italian boot and the island - thankfully to no raised eyebrows. She supposes it's not anywhere near as suspicious for children to take a thirty-minute long ferry ride as flying across the border is.

Finally in her city of destination, Angela finds the address she's been given easily enough. It's just the sort of neighbourhood she remembers from her childhood and Istanbul - not affluent, not poor, not anything.

She climbs up the stairs of the tenement with entirely too much ache in her chest for the short effort that it is, then takes a few minutes in front of the door checking and rechecking the address while her heart calms down. Finally, she rings the bell.

And then, he's here.

Uncle looks exactly the same as she remembers. Insanely. Perhaps expectedly. It makes sense the creator of what's inside her would likewise not age. However, the man makes zero attempt at hiding his identity. His haircut is the same, without a trace of a beard or moustache to be seen. Even his glasses look to be the exact frame seared in her memory. Does he even need them? His technology could gift the blind with a hawk's eyesight.

"Ah! Angela!" She stiffens to the point of freezing when Uncle throws his arms around her in a greeting. "You haven't changed one bit!"

And whose fault is that?

The words thaw Angela out of her petrified state, lighting a heat deep in her chest she hasn't felt in a long time. All the same, she swallows back a litany of acid gathering at the back of her throat.

"May I come in?"

"Of course! Of course. What sort of uncle would I be if I let my niece come all the way here just to turn her away at the door? Come on in. I made a cake."

The man waves her inside through the nondescript door. The insides are a different story altogether. Most clinics (all that Angela has ever seen, really) are arranged to give appearances of professionalism as a place of science and medicine; health journals littering the tabletops, physiological charts lining the sterile-white walls, basic health instruction leaflets strewn about - the works. It all serves to put the patient at ease, to let them know they've come to a place of healing and what to expect. It's all very standardised and lacking in personality by design.

There's none of that here. For all intents and purposes, it's a simple tenement in a not-too-dire need of renovations with all the utilities and interior design choices one would expect. Different to what she remembers in her old home, but not really. Not in the ways that matter. The living room, where she's left while Uncle gets the cake, looks almost lived in. There are even framed photos on the wall.

There's even her own.

Her smiling face looks not that different from how she looks now, but different enough. Few could tell, but Angela has had ten years to memorise every minute unchanging detail of her face. She must've been… eight? The other time Uncle remembered her birthday was after the surgery, so the single candle atop the cake must stand for eight. Or was it seven?

"Here you go." Uncle puts the plate with a brown slice of cake with bits of nuts in front of her, before sitting down himself. "I added some orange rind to the mix. There's really no comparison between these and the ones in Germany."

"Sweden."

"Hmm?" Uncle vocalises with his mouth already full.

"And Switzerland. I live in Sweden and Switzerland now."

"Hans like Heiri, dear. It's all north of the Alps."

Right. What difference does it make to him where she lives. Germany, Switzerland, Sweden, or Brazil. It's not like he cared to check in with her for the last eight years. And it's not like she ever wanted him to, just-

She takes her first own bite, and to her indignation finds nothing to be desired of the taste.

"So," Uncle continues as he stuffs the last piece into his mouth with a positively radiant smile. It makes Angela's stomach churn. "You said on the phone you were trying to recreate my work. What seems to be the problem?"

Angela takes her backpack off the ground to pull out the papers with detailed notes on each (bar one) iteration of her nanites, with their planned functions, technical specifications, materials used, and all other data feasible to put on paper. She's not quite prepared a summary for each, but there's no need for that. She remembers all her failures in frustrating detail, same as the roadblocks she's encountered; the spaghetti code, the manufacturing issues, the bricked computers.

"Ah! That. Anti-omnic measure. There's a chemical backdoor."

Angela blinks. "A what?"

"Chemical backdoor. The nanites react in contact with a specified substance and become docile. I don't remember what yours is at the moment, but mine is pickle juice."

W-wh

"Why pickle juice?"

"Why not? It's cheap. Easy to find, or make. Low chance anyone will inject you with it. You can always drink the leftovers, too!"

That is all beside the point. Injecting someone with pickle juice would cause severe side-effects, up to a coma and potentially even death, like doing so with any other acid would.

But then, Uncle isn't just anyone. And neither is she for that matter. She still remembers all the injections Uncle tested out on her ten years ago, and the feeling of liquid fire spreading through her veins. She didn't ask what those fluids were back then, but almost certainly nothing as innocuous as a culinary product. It still has the potential to be painful, being an acid, but besides that there are no actual drawbacks. Uncle is entirely correct in that a jar of pickled cucumbers is very easy to acquire, and she can sooner imagine being injected with sulfuric acid than with pickle juice, of all things.

Huh.

"There's also an issue with the ones you gave me," Angela continues once she's finished going over her own attempts.

"What issue?" Uncle leans forward, frowning.

Really? She really has to say it? "I'm not growing."

"Well, of course not! Your strain is a proof of concept I'd thrown together mid-through the development to see it at work. It's painfully bare-bones and achieves certain ends through rather… forceful means. But it's all working as intended! And anyway! It's better to stay young than get too old, won't you agree? Or ask anyone over thirty. But, since we're already on the topic, any more side-effects that you've noticed?"

"I…" That was just a stop-gap? A device no known science can begin to emulate was a throwaway made for a test? "I still can't exercise?" A wince passes through her features at the pathetic tone her voice takes.

"Well, that's unfortunate. I'd hoped the heart could adapt in time, but I suppose not. You just need more space in your chest cavity."

"Which I can't have because I'm not growing." Angela helpfully points out.

"The pains of progress. Worry none, it's a simple enough fix. Entirely software. I can update you in five minutes. Well, maybe ten. My computer won't boot up on the first try sometimes - I can't figure out why. Actually, make that however long we might need to go to the grocery for your own pickle juice …Is something wrong?"

Angela isn't sure. Five minutes, he says. Five minutes to undo a fixture of her reality neither she nor her adoptive parents could hope to touch these last six years. Because of- pickle juice, or strawberry jam or whatever the hell else Uncle figured would be an appropriate safety measure. Would she have ever figured that out? Maybe. No. Probably not. She would have to circumvent the whole issue somehow because, well, pickle juice. It pains her to say but it's ingenious.

"Can we cut to the chase?" she answers instead.

"Certainly!" Uncle replies with the widest grin she's yet seen on him. "Let's take this to the lab, shall we?"

Angela nods without a word, before abruptly standing up as to overcome the sudden stiffness in her limbs.

The lab, much like in their old home, has more to do with a kitchen than an operating theatre. No, wait. It is a kitchen, although the only clues left are the sink and fridge. The tools, clean for once, mingle with plates and dirty utensils. Strange devices lie strewn about the whole room to which purpose Angela still has no clue, but of whom many glow a very familiar red. Idly, she wonders what, or who, she would find if she were to inspect the fridge. She almost does, but uncertainty for once works in her favour, and before she can make the decision to pull the door open, Uncle presents her with a chair.

"No need to get on the table. Just give me your hand, I need a sample to see what we're dealing with."

What they're dealing with, the man announces soon after she wrenches her hand out of his, is strawberry milk - which they indeed then have to first buy. Or more specifically, which Angela has to buy, given Uncle sends her on the errand while he studies the documents she's brought to him for review. A superior choice to pickle juice in Angela's own estimate.

"Aaand done. You can turn the process off at any moment, I'll write you a note how. It's easier in the newer versions, but we'd need to change your manufacturing unit for that, and I don't currently have one on hand. I could make you one for next week if you'd like?"

"Pass," she answers as she's rolling up her sleeve. The scars are still there. That is fine. They stopped bothering her a long time ago. It would feel strange to casually show her skin at this point. "I'll upgrade with my own nanites eventually."

"About that! Well, how to put this… they're all basically useless and you need to design them from scratch."

Angela can do no more than to blink at the words. Useless. Three years of work. Useless.

For a single moment, madness overtakes her, and the thought crosses her mind to leave and continue her work as she had for the last three years. But the moment passes, and Angela recognises the sunk cost fallacy for what it is. Regardless of how much work she's put into her tech and how impressive it seems in theory - it is useless in actuality. It's done nothing but kill when it's supposed to mend. Starting anew yet again may seem a daunting prospect after all the effort she's already put in, but it'll ultimately be less and to more effect than if she stays the course.

"How?"

He tells her. Tells her exactly. Yet, when he's finished speaking, nothing remains of his words that Angela can piece together in her mind. It's blank. Like reading a book while deprived of sleep for two weeks and finding she can't remember a single thing she knows to have read on the page she just turned.

She freezes up, mind in overdrive and heart aching at a maddened pace. What did he do? She can feel nothing at all off about herself but-

The update.

It has to be. That or the cake. But far more likely the update, or whatever it actually is that Uncle's done. Of all the people on the planet, he would know how to drug her, but why bother when he could simply reprogram the machines with an atomic level of control over her body? When he could physically rewrite her memories at will? She's always thought such a level of control impossible. Surely, not even Uncle's tech could be so advanced as to selectively target memories.

Her eyes snap back into focus on Uncle's expectant smile.

"What did you do?"

A hint of confusion sneaks its way onto the man's face.

"I… told you what you asked for? Or do you mean how I managed that?"

Angela doesn't know what she expected. If he just wiped her memory then why would he insist he just told her everything? She'd know instantly something's afoot. She does know. No. No it doesn't make sense. Could it be a bug in the system randomly rearranging her short term memory? No. She heard him say everything, she remembers listening!

"I can't remember what you just said," she admits at length, on the lookout for any more discrepancy in her mind.

Uncle's smile slips fully, and once again he spins his explanation. Once again, Angela finds herself not recalling a single word of it at the end.

"Nothing?" Uncle asks at her lost expression, to which Angela simply nods. There's functionally nothing. A memory she knows is there but can't be recalled. "Huh."

"What's happening? Why can't I remember?"

"I think I have an idea. Let me check. Wait here." And where would she go after learning her brain is leaking data? Out on the streets to forget where she's supposed to go?

When Uncle returns, it is with a roll of… parchment? It is parchment. He spreads it on the dining/operating table , using cups as weights to keep it from rolling up again. Angela climbs up on her chair for a better view, but finds the script completely unrecognisable - albeit in the ordinary, foreign way. It looks like Hebrew, or thereabouts at a guess.

"What is this?"

"My contract. All the terms and agreements are here, and I seem to recall… here!" Uncle stamps the document with his finger. "I shall not spread the knowledge gained in the exchange through any- well, that doesn't matter. Yes, I think I know what the problem is! Can you read this?" He asks after dragging her in front of the computer screen and opening a file with-

With-

Angela narrows her eyes at the text-filled screen.

"No."

"And this?" He grabs one of the pens lying around to scribble… something down on the table.

"No."

"No, as in you can't read it or don't know how to?"

"The former. What's going on?"

"I wrote in French. Did you notice?"

"No I didn't notice, I can't even look at it or my mind goes blank, what's going on?" Angela snaps, her voice uncomfortably close to the edge of hysteria. She shouldn't have come here. She should've kept at it and eventually she'd figure things out on her own. Instead she jumped the gun and now there's a virus in her blood. Why did she think it was a good idea to trust Uncle? She'd seen what happened to some of his patients even with only the best of intentions on his part.

"I think it's my benefactor taking exception to me sharing his insights without his approval."

Benefactor? Oh. Oh.

Stupid. Of course. How naive was she to think Uncle ever really worked alone? The technology he's created is decades ahead of the curve. No great discovery is ever made by singular individuals anymore, the science and technology has simply progressed too far, becoming too complicated for comprehension by any singular individual. She's known this on some level for years now, but refused to acknowledge it due to never seeing anyone actually work with Uncle, or hearing him speak about his work with anyone but her. As if it'd been so difficult to hide such things from a little kid.

Angela swallows.

How difficult indeed to hide such things from anyone at all with the ability to interfere with memory.

"So," she speaks up in a small voice. "There's a built-in loyalty program?" It's the only solution that makes sense, so of course Uncle shakes his head.

"Oh, no! That would be the smart thing to do. A good loyalty program would leave the subject unaware of its existence, but here we are. Talking about it. No, it's much more crude than that. See-"

Angela doesn't see. Or hear. Or remember. She shakes her head in a vain attempt to dispel the fog behind her temples.

"Ah, sorry about that! I forgot."

"Can you remove it?" She peers at the man from under her bangs.

"The memory thing? Don't worry about it."

Angela swallows back the scream building up in her throat.

"How am I supposed not to worry? I've just been told someone has backdoor access to my brain."

"Huh? Oh, no, no no. Not you. Me. The contract is between the devil and me. Well, legally speaking between him, me and- but nevermind that. Your soul is just fine, the issue's on my end."

Angela grinds her teeth at Uncle's cryptic rambling.

"How does it work, then? I won't leave my nanites with the option for someone to-"

"It's not the nanites." Uncle interrupts with a hard look and voice. It takes all Angela has not to draw back in her chair like a little child berated by her minder. "Think, Angela. If I'm not supposed to spread this knowledge, then it's a very poor safeguard only for the people who are already using said technology to not be able to think about it, with the entire rest five billion humans unaffected. Likewise, putting the muzzle on me as opposed to the rest of the planet only makes sense, doesn't it?" As if at the flip of a switch, the smile returns to his face, as brilliant as it ever was. "Now. If you're done throwing your tantrum so we can start on a workaround?"

It takes a moment for Angela to thaw so she can mutely nod her head.

She doesn't like it. She doesn't like it at all, but Uncle is right. It doesn't make sense scientifically for him to be the cause of her memory lapse, but he's right. If he could tell this to anyone else in the world, then what's the point? It's not like she can do anything about it anyway. Not like his other tech makes scientific sense to her either. Not yet. Once she develops her own technology she can purge herself of any possible interference. But for now…

The truth is she needs a breakthrough. Whatever Uncle gives her, she will need to be careful in excess with, but ultimately, she still needs her breakthrough, and she would take it from the devil's own hands if such were the price.

And so, Angela does as Uncle says and goes over the strange contract with him in search of an answer.

"The trick, I think, is that I can't share what I know with you. Not that you or anyone else can't have it. You should be able to learn from the things I've learned all on my own, and then fill the gaps. I do believe I still have my old notes…"

The rest of the day and most of the night is full of gaps, but compared to the gaping chasm from before it really is quite the improvement. It's a tedious process of bouncing every page of research back and forth between the two of them. Sentence by sentence. Sometimes word by word and number by number.

Angela doesn't understand, can't begin to imagine the sort of technology needed to affect minds not only at will, instantly, but also so precisely. None of her theories work. Clearly, nothing stops Uncle from talking about his work, or even of this devil benefactor of his so long as it's under the pseudonym. Uncle says it's not a matter of proximity, either, which - once again. Makes no sense. If it's not the nanites, and it doesn't make sense for it to be them, then how can Uncle's words be scrambled a thousand kilometres away? How does it make sense for even his writing to elude her memory?

It doesn't. None of it does.

What does make sense are the select few numbers and blueprints they manage to distil after two gruelling days of going over Uncle's notes, with much, much more biding their time in the files they've had no time to go through.

She doesn't ask. She doesn't have to.

"Same time next week?" Uncle suggests at the Calabrian airport, where Angela asked him to take her to smooth the departure over.

A swell of emotions she cares not to give a name to rots in her chest, but in the end, it's all she can do to agree.