The look of Regina's office was secondary to the almost incomprehensible fact that she even had one. Offices were for desk jockeys, figureheads. People who'd never seen action, or at least not in a damn long time.

Right.

This was 2035 and she was somewhere in the neighborhood of 50.

The room's large window was partially obscured by half-drawn vertical slat blinds. Dylan figured there was a glass half full metaphor in there somewhere but was too tired to fish it from the recesses of his mind. Gold and silver etched multi-volume compilations lined the bookshelf, itself matte black and silver. Utilitarian chic, if such a thing existed.

Dylan tried not to look at the plaques on the wall, the framed photos on the desk. He failed, reaching for one—a little girl, probably five or so, being held by a stern looking blond man with a scar on his right cheek. "Cute kid."

"She was."

"Was...?"

"She's not a kid anymore."

"Oh."

Of course she's not.

"My daughter. Although I'm relatively certain you already put two and two together."

So he wasn't the only one with a kid. Except, as Regina had just informed him, hers was grown now.

Fuck.

"My daughter." Regina gently took the photo from Dylan's hand and put it back down on her desk. "And her father."

He nodded.

She needlessly clarified, "My husband."

She was married too. Yeah, well, so was he. Sort of. Widowed.

The idea scared him. He'd never again be able to look at a woman he was attracted to without wondering. Is it her, and is she doomed if she is?

"In any case, that's not what I wanted to talk to you about." Regina gestured to the chair in front of her desk. "Have a seat." She, as expected, took the one behind it.

Dylan obliged. He folded his hands and leaned forward in his chair. "You really did it."

"Did what?"

"You really made a perfect timegate." While he meant it as praise, he was immediately aware his tone came off as taunting. Well, if there was anything consistent when it came to their limited interactions, it was the tit-for-tat exchange of backhanded compliments.

Except here and now it made him feel like a kid called into the principal's office, and one who couldn't quit mouthing off no matter what was at stake.

"Hardly." Regina was flippant, but unoffended as far as Dylan could tell. Then her features softened, just so. "I had a little bit of help."

Yeah, he could imagine. Neither of them was that tech smart. Competent, sure. But this was a whole different level of brains and skill. Resources, permissions. There were only so many people who'd have been able to look at that data and make any sense of it.

"Your disk and my carefully curated, not to mention outsourced, expertise."

Regina wasn't being vague for just any reason. There was something she didn't want to divulge about the whole thing. The longer she dawdled, the bigger the brick inside Dylan's stomach got.

Back in 2010, the joint-op between TRAT and SORT couldn't even get within a decade of the victims of the Edward City disaster. Even the tech of 2055 was only good for one jump through time. But Regina had somehow managed to pull him and Paula from the brink of death and return them to the present. It was a far cry from Dylan's present, that was for sure. Then again, no it wasn't. This was all just so fucked and he had a sinking feeling it was about to get even worse.

"Outsourced...?" he echoed.

"I made a deal with the devil." Regina smiled, just so. Wistful, and reeking of knowledge withheld. "He thinks he's a god, but I assure you, that couldn't be farther from the truth."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Naturally, he jumped at the opportunity to play with 45 years worth of research and advancements on his baby."

"His baby?" Dylan repeated. Regina couldn't be talking about- "You mean Dr. Kirk? As in Dr. Edward Kirk? Dr. Edward Kirk as in Edward City?"

"None other."

"Hang on. If he was so eager to get his hands on the data...?"

"Why'd I sell my soul to him?"

"Well, yeah. Sounds like you had the upper hand."

Regina sighed. "Desperation is a terrible bargaining chip when it's mutual."

"Huh. I'd have thought that would've put you two on an even playing field."

"You thought wrong."

Dylan supposed that made sense. Nobody wanted to appear like the weaker party. Red-tape pissing contests were why he preferred to be on the front line. Live fast, get lost in time for 25 years, hopefully never have to write a report on any of it. Or something.

"It's been known to happen," he admitted. "So what's the plan? There is a plan, right?"

There had to be. Even if it was in its infancy and decades from fruition—from failure—there was a plan.

"Of course there is." Regina seemed the slightest bit annoyed and it was comforting. Then she inhaled sharply, giving her response on the exhale. "But first, I want to talk to you, and you alone."

"About?" Dylan could only guess.

Regina replied, "The DNA test came back."

"And confirmed everything I told you." Dylan wasn't asking. Paula was his daughter, now and forever. Even if Regina tried to tell him she was actually a dinosaur in an elaborate human costume.

"It confirmed some things you didn't say, too." Regina was wry. Smug, even.

"Such as?"

"You know," she began, and she sounded almost dreamy, "I used to think fate, destiny, all of it was just a load of BS."

Dylan agreed with the sentiment at least as easily as he voiced it. "It is."

"I was beginning to wonder if I was doing the right thing."

"Right thing...?"

"Maybe I'm still not. But it's what I was meant to do. What you were meant to do. Make sense?" Regina asked.

"Not really." Except it did make sense; Dylan wasn't sure why he lied.

Maybe it was that beating around the bush wasn't Regina's style.

"It will." She cleared her throat and stood up, her movement somehow simultaneously fluid and rigid. "Anyway, I think I'd better introduce you to everyone else before we go any farther."

Alphabet soup organizations were all cut from the same cloth. Or maybe it was that the letters of their acronyms were spooned from the same bowl. Whatever it was, Dylan was all too aware of how familiar this place was. He'd never been here before but he'd been here a million times before. Card readers and grayscale. Beeping and whooshing as electronically locked door after electronically locked door gave yield to Regina's unquestioned access. Her standing.

He was led into what had to be a nerve center of sorts, vastly underpopulated as it were, given the circumstances. Then again, the more sensitive shit was... Well, need to know basis and all that. And humanity facing extinction via never-existing-in-the-first-place-because-of-time-travel was about as sensitive a situation as Dylan could fathom. About as shit a situation, too.

Rows of high-def monitors, all projecting something or other. Maps, graphs. Formulas, equations.

A fit but slender Black man with short cropped hair sat before a massive keyboard, clicking away. Next to him and leaning against the consoles was another man, muscular arms crossed. Dylan immediately recognized him. He was older now, his light hair more gray than blonde, but no denying he was the man from the photo in Regina's office.

Dylan had only been granted partial access to the Ibis Island file but he knew whose company he was in. Regina infiltrated the facility as part of a four-man team. By the official report—hers, no less—they lost contact with one man on the jump in. Officially MIA but presumed dead as of 2010, there was no doubt he'd since been legally declared dead now.

But she and the other two not only survived but completed the mission. Even his position as command of the TRAT unit sent to Edward City didn't afford him access to the complete file. No, the version he'd read was heavily redacted, with none of the operatives referred to by full name.

Hell, maybe they'd been code names. Maybe they still were.

The clicking that'd been punctuating the silence ceased and tha man at the keyboard spun around in his chair. "Regina here has spent the last 25 years obsessed with bringing you back."

Dylan attempted to be deadpan, subdued. Unaffected, disinterested. "Flattered." The single word he spoke came out self-satisfied instead.

Regina didn't so much as try to quash her irritation. She just muttered, "You would be."

"I guess my reputation precedes me."

"That's one way of putting it." The man at the consoles grinned, his dark eyes shining with amusement. "So this is the famous Dylan."

The blond uncrossed his arms and pushed away from where he'd been leaning against what was undoubtedly expensive equipment. "I'd say infamous is more like it."

Dylan couldn't disagree with that. He could only imagine the reputation he'd amassed after all these years. He supposed it was better than being forgotten. Trying to manifest some manners from somewhere—his military training at the very least—he offered his hand.

Looking him over with an almost predatory scrutiny, the blond said, "I think we'd best save the introductions until everyone is here."

Regina seemed to take that remark as an affront or maybe just a challenge. Nodding to the man at the keyboard, she said, "Rick." Then staring the blond squarely in the eyes, she brazenly declared, "Gail. This is Dylan. Dylan-"

No mistaking what the gesture meant: there was clearly someone else involved in all of this, yet it seemed as though Regina wished there wasn't.

"I got it." Dylan waved her off, feeling like he was in the middle of something a little too reminiscent of a family squabble. "I think we all got it." Then he directed his attention to the one Regina had just introduced as Gail and assured him, "If humanity's on the brink, we all all have bigger fish to fry than making sure our 'Hello: My Name Is' tags are on straight."

Gail—fuck, he was Regina's husband, wasn't he?—let out a bark of laughter. Dylan wouldn't take his response as a win but it was a small relief to see the guy was human after all.

He just asked, "How'd you guys come to that conclusion anyway?"

Rick offered an explanation. "There were some hidden files on that disk you gave Regina, in addition to the time gate data. Sort of an 'in case of emergency' type of thing, best I could gather."

Before Rick could divulge anything more, the door whooshed open and in stepped a woman Dylan had yet to meet but whose very presence sent a chill down his spine. Close to his own age if he had to guess, maybe a couple of years younger, she was cradling a tablet. A messy copper braid hung loosely over her shoulder, its tip obscuring the name and credentials on her ID badge. Her half-honey, half-sky blue eyes looked him over. It was the least he'd been scrutinized but it left him feeling utterly exposed.

Clearly attempting an icebreaker, Rick said, "I guess we can continue with the introductions now."

The woman, realizing that was her cue as much as anyone, flipped her braid over her should with her free hand, and Dylan saw the name on her badge just as soon as he heard it.

"Julia."

He just hadn't expected it to come out of his own mouth.