Dark Skies - 3. Fuck-Ass Helicopter

It would be a mistake to think that Interim Authority policies like the Transport Rationalisation Ordinance and the Recursion Triggers ban list are applied entirely in good faith. Perhaps the last great relic of the Old World Order is the truth - universally acknowledged - that a man in possession of a good fortune is never in want of a coffee.

Collaborative Storytelling

Mic hadn't slept. She'd managed a fitful hour, maybe, amidst...everything else. Her clothes were the same as yesterday's, crinkled from Vi's shitty dryer: her tan trench-coat and denim skirt; black tank-top and knit cardigan. Sitting side by side with her editor who looked exponentially more professional with her hair freshly curled, in her navy-and-blues pantsuit hugged her figure just a little too well to be accidental - in the former Dean's Office of Wythenshawe campus, she felt a distinct sense of impending doom. The administrative surrounds; the Echoes of Dylan in her ears...replaying their early days, reminding her of the memories she'd just tainted; the care she'd given that was now unresolvably infected with betrayal that, in retrospect, made selflessness seem like an almost predatory act...like a trap she'd laid.

“Are you okay?” Gemma hissed, glancing over at her.

“Are you?” Mic retorted. “Why are we here? What are we doing?”

“Don’t deflect.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just…long night.”

“Well get it together. Stop with the…” Gemma trailed off, providing a fairly unflattering pantomime of what Mic had hoped was largely internal: muscles twitching, eyes darting, foot tapping. Reflexively, Mic grabbed at her shoulder, squeezing as hard as she could and wincing, more from the pressure than the pain. But it brought the room into better focus. The sounds of Dylan and Vi’s voices eased. The feeling of fingers on skin calmed to a manageable background sensation.

"Sorry I'm late," Miguel breezed in through the open door, sporting a lush dark red and brown wool vest - probably alpaca or something insane like that, Mic supposed - chinos and loafers that looked casual but probably cost more than Mic made in a month. Mic turned in her seat to watch him daintily push it closed, before moving into the room. Like a 'cool principal', he sat himself on the edge of the large desk, facing them. "Hi again, Mic."

“Hello, there.” Mic provided a single, perfunctory wave. Miguel just smiled.

“Big night?”

“God, did I get a fucking forehead tattoo, jesu - "

“ - Mic!” Gemma swiped out at her reflexively, slapping her on the arm.

“Ow! Sorry. I’m sorry, Miguel. Professionalism was a lot simpler at nine in the morning before coffee went extinct.”

“There’s no need to apologise, Mic. I spent our entire interview high. I’m hardly one to judge.”

“Sorry?” Gemma perked up.

"What, like I was gonna put it in my notes?" Mic squinted at her.

“I mean…”

“So how about I cut to the chase? Mic, you’re probably wondering why I had Miss Arden drag you back over here?”

“Slightly.”

“For the record, Michelle does have a unique style when it comes to interviews, but I guarantee you…her published work is balanced and thoughtful. Also, as her editor, I have to give full approval of anything before it gets put online, so - “

“ - She didn’t do anything wrong.” Miguel raised an eyebrow.

“Which was never in doubt.” Gemma smiled wanly.

“Not a big poker player, are we?” Mic deadpanned, glancing over at her editor briefly. Gemma shrugged and rolled her eyes.

“I was actually very impressed with Mic’s…’unique style’, as you put it, Miss Arden. I was wondering how you both felt about…agency?” He winked at Mic, who just snorted, provoking a blank, questioning glare from Gemma.

“Oh, he means money. It’s a joke. We have…we have in-jokes.”

“You want to collaborate.” Gemma surmised, turning her attention back to Miguel. He nodded. “We’re an independent outlet, just as an FYI?”

“This wouldn’t be about influencing a story, more…expanding its’ scope.” He explained. “When I was talking to Mic yesterday, we briefly touched on the nature of her current work. That it’s about collecting stories and experiences related to the Echoes.”

“Essentially yes, that’s the idea. We wanted to run a series of short pieces looking into the diversity of experiences of the post-collapse era.”

“Well, I’m sold.”

“You can buy a subscription on our website.”

“I’d rather buy something a little more significant.”

“Independent…news…outlet.” Gemma folded her arms over her chest, leaning back in her chair.

“Complete…editorial…independence.” He smirked, mirroring her pose. Gemma sighed.

“What do you actually want, Mr Ablentegre?”

“After the interview, I had some friends do a little digging. I can’t imagine your budget for a…what, freelance reporter - "

“ - Hey, I’m on salary,” Mic huffed.

“Apologies: I can’t imagine your budget for Mic’s work would extend beyond…train tickets and comped accomodation?”

“Her itinerary is fairly localised, yes.”

“What if it wasn’t?” Miguel paused, letting that question hang in the air for a few seconds: “I’m talking about the same project, and the same level of creative control. The only difference would be an expanded scope and a significant increase in the number of open doors.”

“And a positive portrayal of the Orphean Collective? A dedicated word count towards that end? Credit? What?” Miguel shrugged.

“It’s not about that. All we want is to ensure the consideration of ideas worth considering. I…also think you might be overestimating how meaningful an ‘investment’ like this would be to our bottom line.”

“Expanded scope.” Mic muttered to herself. Gemma and Miguel both looked over at her. “How expanded?”

“Anywhere you want. Anywhere that isn’t a war zone, or irradiated, or has shut its’ borders entirely.”

“Sure. We can get to that. But…I’m more talking about the ‘open doors’ thing.”

“Sure. How can we help?”

“I’ll do it for the classified documents on the Battle of Manchester. And Torrence. I want to talk to Torrence.”

“Mic.” Gemma warned.

“And I want to bring someone with me.”

“First Class, I take it?”

“First Class is still a thing?”

“Not even a little, since the Interim Authority rolled out the Transportation Rationalisation Ordnance. I am simply…drawing attention to how much you’re asking for.”

“Make a deal with the Devil, you wanna get paid, no?”

“Mic!” Gemma almost shouted, getting to her feet. “Outside! Now!” Mic offered little resistance as Gemma yanked her out of her chair and towards the door, pulling it open and pushing her through: “Are you out of your god damned mind?” She slammed the door shut.

“Yes.” Mic conceded coldly. “But so is the world.”

“Ooh-la-la,” Gemma rolled her eyes, crossing her arms across her chest. “Appeal to nihilism now, is it? That’s where we’re at?”

“No, I just got sick of being haggled over and decided to let you both know what I would sell myself for.”

“We’re an independent…news…outlet.”

“Say it again. Slower this time. Maybe someone’ll listen.”

“I could fire you, you realise.”

“God, the world ended. When are you people gonna get that? None of this matters. The only things worth doing are fighting the good fight to try to make a better one, or trying to have some fucking fun. Struggling to uphold some…crumbling facade and play-acting like it’s still the Old World Order, it’s pointless. So yeah, fire me if you like. I’ll just…live with my UBI. Or find something to fight for, maybe. Definitely have a bit more fun.” Mic angled her head to the side, crossing her arms across her chest.

“Do they matter?”

“Who?”

“Not who, what. The Manchester Files. Wherever the Orpheans are going to want us to send you. Recursive Alignment. Torrence-fucking-Szeeman. Do they matter? Are you gonna give me something worth publishing?”

“Yes.”

“Will it be good enough to make me feel better about whoring out my ethics and getting in bed with that slimy fuck in there?”

“He’s not - "

“ - He’s slimy, Mic. I don’t trust people who have an answer for fucking everything like they wrote the conversation they’re having with you in advance. Nor should you. Even if you’re…” Gemma sighed, rolling her eyes: “Kinda sorta one of them.”

“Can you make this call?” Mic asked. Gemma’s eyes narrowed.

“Who do you think you’re talking to? You didn’t think I knew that some version of this offer was coming, the second he contacted The Herald about you? I’ve got sign-off, parameters…I can approve this. It was always a question of ‘should I?’”

“I think you should.”

“Then I will. Also? Before we go back in? How goddamn arrogant of you to act like you’re the only one who knows the world ended. Wasn’t just your world it happened to, you mouthy little bitch…” Gemma shouldered past Mic, reopening the door and leading them both back in. Slowly, they took their seats back in front of a smiling Miguel.

"Oh he definitely heard all that." Mic leaned in toward Gemma, attempting a whisper.

"Who fucking cares." Gemma sighed. "Mr Ablentegre, I'll need to have our lawyers look at your proposal before we commit to anything."

"Of course." He nodded amiably.

“Also? I want a pony.” Mic smirked.

Recursive Alignment

"Torrence is simple. Relative to the Manchester files, anyhow." Miguel explained, walking rapidly, Mic skip-running to keep up.

"I'm very tired, Miguel..." She admitted.

"Technically speaking, she is currently in the Enforcers' custody. A black-site in the Midlands. Collaboration with the Interim Authority has progressed considerably in recent years, so I have been able to secure a brief window of access for you."

"I could use something stimulant-y?"

"I've already organised you a coffee."

"Wait, are you serious? I haven't had coffee in years."

"Few have. Call it...a signing bonus. A celebration to commemorate the beginning of a fruitful joint endeavour. Less traditional than champagne...but along the same lines."

"Bit more expensive than Champagne..."

"Oh, you are not wrong." Miguel smirked. "The 'Taxi' is always a little on the pricey side, too."

"We're taking a cab? To the midlands?" Mic raised an eyebrow as Miguel came to a halt. She was breathing heavily. It was his turn to raise an eyebrow in her direction. "What? I'm out of shape. So sue me."

"The 'Taxi':" Miguel gestured over to the right, towards an open field with a large, stationary helicopter in the centre of it. It bulged out slightly at the back, like an insect carrying an egg-sac. Mic assumed it was some sort of passenger compartment. "Come on. I'll debrief you once we're in." He nodded, guiding her towards the helicopter, and up the small ramp into the back section. Inside was dark leather, chromatic linings and eggshell-textured wall panelling. Several large, entirely gratuitous recliner-armchairs cluttered along the interior sides of the cabin. At either end of the cabin were a couple of discreet bar fridges and fold-out tables in what looked like mahogany finishes. It was...a lot. Mic took an exhausted seat, sinking into the armchair closest to the entryway, her eyes fluttering closed.

"What the fuck..." She groaned.

"So..." Miguel clapped his hands together, taking a seat across the aisle from her. "Oh, here we are..." A random aide poked his head through the hatch, carefully holding out what looked to Mic like a cross between a thermos and a safe. It was large and chunky with a double-latched seam, but was topped with what was clearly a detachable cap. Miguel took it carefully, opening a hidden compartment in the side of his armchair and withdrawing a small coffee mug. He carefully unscrewed the cap of the thermos-safe and calmly held out the mug to Mic. With two hands, she ceremoniously took the mug. "I assume you've heard the story of how we ended up in this scenario?"

"With coffee?" Mic clarified. Miguel nodded. Slowly, cautiously, Mic raised the mug to her lips, letting the aroma flood her. She immediately clocked the danger of it, of the flood of minor olfactory recall it immediately provoked. "Hasn't everyone?" She murmured: "Winchester's Blight? The 'Year Without Bananas' and all that?"

"Everyone talks about the coffee and the bananas. For me...vanilla was the biggest loss."

"We have synthetic vanilla."

"We have other ways of getting caffeine. Is it the same, though?" Miguel mused.

"Touche." Mic shrugged. She sighed, letting a small smile spread across her face as she sipped from the mug. It was a little too hot; soothing. The aroma was earthy and familiar, but there were all kinds of background hints...cocoa and caramel and spice. The taste was exquisite, and Mic let that first sip sit, cooling to an ambient temperature on her palette. It was difficult to tell whether it was, genuinely, an exceptionally complex blend...or if it had just been far, far too long.

"What do you think?"

"It's difficult to be objective with something so rare and expensive and like...romanticised. It's like seeing one of the movies as an adult where seeing it as a kid was a formative moment. You don't know if it's actually good, you just know..." Mic took a moment to sip her coffee. "You just know you love it."

Mic leaned back into the lush armchair, sniffing at her coffee...sipping it...letting her nose and mouth graze the rim of the mug with repetitive, intimate purpose. She savoured it like a long-absent lover rediscovering...reclaiming...re-finding. She could feel herself sinking into a full-blown Echo, but...it was fine, she told herself. She was better at this than anyone. Even Vi had told her so. As her eyes drifted shut, she could hear the sensory diegesis of a small cafe she remembered well. Melbourne. Lia. Way-back-when and far, far away, even with the mug in hand she could feel Lia's fingers interlocking with her own, stretching out the interdigital spaces and latching onto her hand like soft, warm armour. Her head tilted slightly to the side as she felt a single finger tracing the outline of an artery in her neck. She breathed heavily, remembering what came next. Not that day, but not that much further on in the timeline. She could hear Lia's shouts, like distant thunder rumbling. Could remember all those things she said, that maybe she meant...and maybe she didn't. Mic knew she'd never know for sure. Unless...

"Don't go too deep, now." Miguel said quietly. Mic exhaled: she hadn't even known she was holding in a breath. It felt...intrusive. Like he'd barged his way into the cafe and pulled her up and out of it.

"Aren't you people all about this stuff?"

"Time and a place, Miss Reid."

"I can handle it."

"If they weren't seductive, I suspect we wouldn't be living in a world lacking a third of its previous inhabitants, don't you think? I find it's useful to think of all people as existing on a continuum of interwoven luck and skill. Overestimating either...both...is dangerous. Neither are total. Both run out."

"Does it get bad? For you?" Miguel smiled to himself. Irreverently, he flipped the thermos-safe back open, taking a swig directly from the opening. "The Echoes come for us all. We've all experienced heaven. We've all been through hell. They're the promise - the threat - that our pasts aren't past. Not just past, anyhow. They're alive in us, crawling around, trying to claw their way back to the present. If we let them...we don't get to pick and choose which ones resurface. Or how many. Or in what way. I am convinced that every single person who became what doctors refer to as 'Acute cases'; everyone who met an unparseable 'Locus'...thought they had an Echo they wanted - or felt they needed - to spend a few moments longer in under control. And then..."

"They didn't."

"Mmm. So yes. It gets bad for me. I've had a lot of good days, Mic. Days I'd like to return to, to live in forever. I've also had a lot of bad days; days that haunt me like ghosts. I sometimes indulge them. Both of them. But I always keep a hand on the door handle out. Maybe one day that won't be enough. But it's served me well thus far." Mic nodded slowly, realising mid-nod that she was nodding her way into sleep. Miguel reached out, taking the mug from her and setting it down on one of the fold-out tables.

It wasn't restful. It was the kind of sleep that functioned in much the same way as taking jumper cables to a car battery starts a car: It was just enough to get her head back in the game...but no more. Still; in her experience, sometimes that was all you needed.

The flight to the midlands was almost an hour. As Miguel gently prompted her to wake up, Mic had instinctively, blearily reached around, letting Miguel helpfully place the thermos-safe in her hand. half-way through her first swallow, he'd started opining. He'd continued as they left the helicopter, speed-walking across bitumen and into the maw of the facility - half under-ground; severe, all brutalist concrete and bunker-like subsections. But Mic was barely present. All she was thinking about was Torrence. Not because she cared particularly about the Ides of March...but because, after months of nothing, it felt like a lead. It felt like progress.

In a daze, she was vaguely aware of them clearing security checkpoints and moving astride various cadres of heavily armed IA Security personnel through the facility until they arrived at a deeply unremarkable white door.

"Is this her?" Mic asked.

"This is her." Miguel nodded, stepping back.

"You're not coming in?" He shook his head.

"Torrence...won't want to see me." He assured her.

"But...why - "

" - Good luck, Mic." Miguel nodded, clasping his hands behind his back as the guards pulled open the door to let her in. Mic walked slowly into the room. The door was closed behind her. She sneered at the momentary panic she felt as she realised she was alone...in a prison cell...with the architect of the Ides of March. Who looked...very much like...a tired woman, in her early-to-mid-forties...lying on the far side of the room in a bunk and a beige prison jumpsuit; shoulder length blond hair tied back in a taught pony-tail.

"Who are you?" Torrence squinted over in Mic's direction, not getting up.

"I'm Michelle Reid."

"You don't look like an interrogator."

"I'm a reporter."

"How are you..." Torrence paused, sighed, shook her head: "The Orpheans."

"Miguel Ablentegre organised - "

" - I don't need the specifics. We can talk. Did you have a..." Torrence trailed off, clicking her fingers, clearly trying to recall a word she'd forgotten:

"Recorder?" Mic hazarded. Torrence nodded. "Yes, let me just..." Mic started digging around in her purse.

"You know why they called themselves the Orphean Collective, right?"

"Um...no, I assume it's to do with the myth?"

"Mmhmm. The men who couldn't stop themselves from looking back into hell." Torrence chuckled. "It's cute. Not particularly creative. The exact sort of shit a bunch of rich dorks probably thought was extremely metal when they were all high in the wake of an apocalyptic scenario that fucked basically everyone else worse than it fucked them." Mic managed to locate her recorder, frowning as she noted the battery was teetering on the edge of ten percent. She hoped it'd be enough. Torrence - with a laboured groan, pulled herself up and out of her bunk, indicating a couple of chairs. The two of them sat, directly across from one another.

"Feels a bit like an interrogation, now." Mic observed with a small smile, trying to break the ice. Torrence shot her a slightly patronising little smirk in return:

"Sweetheart...it really doesn't."

"Um..." Mic avoided eye contact, fiddling with the recorder.

"It's okay. Take a breath. We've got time." Torrence reassured her. "You don't need to be nervous, Michelle."

"Mic. You can call me Mic."

"Okay, Mic." Torrence smiled. "Just relax. It's not like you're sitting alone in a room with a dangerous terrorist, now is it?" Mic froze, before looking up to meet Torrence's eyes. "Okay, noted: we don't like jokes."

"We like funny jokes. True, weird, unsettling statements? Less so."

"Oh come on. Lean into the absurdity, kid."

"I'm not a kid."

"Only kids say 'I'm not a kid'. You get that, right? Adults know there's no such thing as growing up." A small muscle in Mic's left eyelid twitched involuntarily. She fought the urge to slap her hand over her eye. She flipped the recorder on and took a deep breath.

"So Torrence. Thanks for agreeing to speak with me. I'd love to start by confirming that you're happy for this interview to be recorded, and for our conversation to be used in an article I'm writing?"

"I, Torrence Szeeman, being of...questionably sound mind, am adequately bored that I think it'd be hilarious if any of what we're likely about to discuss were published in any kind of public-facing capacity. So yeah. There's your consent statement, lovely."

"Great, thank you." Mic smiled wanly. "So let's start with the Orphean Collective. For several years, you worked with them as a researcher and - "

" - Consulted. I was a consultant."

"Sorry?"

"No problem."

"No, I mean, that's...that wasn't my understanding. Miguel...your details are...you were a key researcher with the Collective, specialising in Recursive Alignment." Torrence slowly, deliberately, crossed one leg over the other and folded her arms across her chest.

"Really? So that's how they're playing it?"

"Huh?" Mic shook her head, confused. Torrence just shrugged.

"What else are they saying about me? That I went crazy? Started doing reckless experiments, like some kind of mad scientist?" She chuckled. The chuckle died rapidly as she clocked Mic's facial expression. "Right. I should've known, but...still hurts."

"If there's another side to the story - "

" - No, it's just a matter of perspective. Don't worry about it."

"Still, I'd love to - "

" - No, you're right. I was a researcher with the Orphean Collective looking into the development of Recursive Alignment methodologies."

"But..." Mic trailed off. Torrence slowly shook her head, mouthing the words 'leave it'. Mic nodded slowly. "So...how would you characterise the Recursive Alignment Project?" Torrence considered the question, tilting her head briefly to-and-fro like she was weighing up options:

"Promising?" She offered. "Promising but complicated. Fundamentally, the problem with SeReS is uh...well, the metaphor I use - not because it's accurate but because it's accessible and accurate enough - is that it's like quantum uncertainty. The act of observing it seems to change it. In a clinical setting, we have a lot of examples of things that look like breakthroughs - methodologies, treatments and so forth - that do work, I can guarantee you that they work, Mic...in a clinical setting. The consistent issue with SeReS is what happens when a patient leaves the clinical setting."

"So the Orpheans strategies aren't effective?" Torrence cocked her head with a small frown.

"No sweetheart, no one's strategies are effective. The only effective strategies are self-defined. SeReS isn't a disease, it's - " Torrence paused, her eyes narrowing.

"It's a what?" Torrence slowly, pointedly shook her head.

"So like I said: clinical outcomes show one thing, but they don't gel with...um...self-reported data? Self-managed treatment? So from a purely medical or psychiatric standpoint, this is the rub: we can treat SeReS, predictably and efficaciously, in a hospital. Only...in a hospital. The whole idea behind Recursive Alignment was trying to find a way to identify strategies that could be applied in a clinical setting that would translate to self-managed care."

"How?"

"Well, how do you manage it?"

"What?"

"How do you neutralise? Bring yourself back?"

"Uh...my shoulder. I hurt my shoulder, a long time ago. If I squeeze it - "

" - Right, so that would be a chrono-sensory Recursive Alignment. Fancy bullshit for 'it tells you when and where you are and aren't'. You see where I'm going with this?"

"You're saying that Recursive Alignment is...identifying personal strategies in a clinical environment?"

"Yep."

"That's it?"

"What did you think it was gonna be?"

"I was told it was like EMDR, that it was about reprocessing difficult Echoes."

"Well..." Torrence raised an eyebrow: "Typically, if one was going to administer pain relief, Michelle, one would require there to be...pain?"

"I don't follow."

"Okay, follow my logic: who would be a good candidate for individualised care focussed on alleviating the most intrusive and destabilising effects of Echo Recursion?"

"Right. Someone who had a lot of really problematic Echo Recursions." Mic sighed, rolling her eyes.

"Bingo." Torrence unfolded her arms, sitting forward in her chair: "Recursive Alignment isn't about provoking Echoes and reintegrating them for the general population, Mic: it's about taking Acute cases and working out where they can squeeze to make it stop. You don't do EMDR on people who don't suffer from recurring, intrusive memories. You also don't do Recursive Alignment on people who aren't Acute: dangerous to themselves and others, unable to pull themselves free...stuck."

"And that's why - "

" - Yes, Mic. The Ides of March were RA subjects who had been cleared for reintegration into society. The first. But...as mentioned? Clinical success does not equate to self-managed care when it comes to SeReS."

"Then why - "

" - Mic." Torrence admonished with an exhausted expression: "Do you have any idea how many Acute cases didn't die when...well, when the world ended? Do you have any idea, the burden on the state - every state - of keeping millions of unproductive, intermittently violent, never properly lucid bodies moving? There were factions forming, schools of thought on...options. And the Project was working, we just needed more..." she trailed off, before rolling her eyes and sitting back in her chair. Mic saw her glance into the top right corner of the room, following her stare towards what may or may not have been a small hole in intersection between segments of roofing: "The Project was a failure." Torrence enunciated clearly: "Misguided and poorly researched. There is no recovery from Acute Recursion."

"That's such bullshit." Mic whispered.

"Take what you're given, Michelle. You're getting more than most." Torrence made pointed eye contact before looking back up into the corner of the room: "I was wrong. The Orphean Collective were not aware I was running trials. That's all I have for you."

"But..." Mic paused, head lilting to the side. "Okay. I have one more question."

"Please." Torrence gestured for her to proceed. Mic knew the shape of what she had to ask, but she needed to get the words right. She took a moment to organise the thought:

"Do you ever look back?" She asked. She paused for a couple of seconds too long, eyes on Torrence's, pleading: "Would you have done anything differently?" Torrence smirked.

"Always. And no." Mic nodded slowly.

"Thanks for your time, Miss Szeeman." Mic concluded, turning off the recorder. She got to her feet, walking towards the door.

"See you later, Mic. Don't be a stranger."

"Right back at you..." Mic waved awkwardly as she let herself out. She brushed past the Enforcer guards, grabbing for Miguel - waiting just outside - pulling him into the corridor. "Back to your fuck-ass helicopter, now!" She hissed.

Together, silently, they cleared one security checkpoint, then another. It took about twenty minutes before they were back in the helicopter. Mic got on her knees, prying open one of the bar fridges, finding several 'travel-sized' bottles of vodka, uncapping and downing one after the bother

"Is this place bugged?" She asked, both eyebrows raised. Miguel shook his head. "Why did you lie to me? About Recursive Alignment? About Torrence?"

"You did well in there." Miguel stated.

"Answer my question."

"Firstly: you were a reporter. We were on the record. I didn't know you."

"You still don't."

"I know enough." He let the words hang in the air. "I know what you want. The Manchester files?"

"You don't know why."

"It doesn't matter why. It's enough. Wanting them - seeking them out - could get you a cell next to Torrence's. Which you know. Which means you can be trusted. Trusted enough for this at least."

"And what the fuck is this?"

"Context. On the truth of Recursive Alignment, the Interim Authority...us."

"Yeah, about that: was that the truth? RA is just that?"

"Nothing more. It was a joint IA Orphean Project."

"Why did she say she was a Consultant?"

"Because she was. Torrence was with us on loan from the Interim Authority. But she believed in Recursive Alignment. After the Ides of March incident, the IA insisted we take sole responsibility. They distanced themselves. Torrence was the easiest scapegoat which meant she became ours."

"And she was being monitored, in there."

"Naturally. And she knew how far she could go. And she knew where she couldn't. Torrence is a very clever person, Mic. As are you."

"Don't flatter me. It feels..."

"Manipulative?"

"Yes."

"It's not. I assure you."

"Why were they okay with me knowing?"

"Because the question of what Recursive Alignment actually is doesn't fall into the category of things they think matter. Because you don't. They assume your words will contribute to the noise and they will be able to use this situation to claim they have acted in a fair and transparent way."

"Miguel...I was meant to be writing a story."

"It's still the same story."

"No, now it's a fucking espionage thriller and I'm gonna end up with a laser sight on my fucking forehead by the start of Act Three."

"Not if we play this - "

" - There is no we, Miguel: I'm a journalist."

"You're a survivor. Not just that: 'Do you ever look back'? Confirming she was Orphean? You're clever, and adaptable, and resourceful. More importantly, you're curious. Do this thing with me, Mic: the world ended. Let's build a better one." Mic shook her head.

"I want to do the work. I want those files. And yes - you got me: I'm fucking curious. But to be clear: I'm not signing up for your ideology." She insisted.

"Neither did Torrence." Miguel assured her. Mic paused. Slowly, Miguel held out his hand.

"Fuck it." Mic winced, taking it.

I Know What I Am

“I slept with Violet.” Mic said. Simply. Quietly. She tried to look up but couldn’t meet Dylan’s eyes.

“Oh.” She heard.

“Please…” Mic murmured. She could feel a painful lump rising in her throat. “Please say something.”

“It’s fine.” Dylan said. The words slipped out as a resigned sigh.

“What?” Mic looked up, eyebrows furrowing inward, meeting Dylan’s eyes, then immediately regretting it. “It’s not fine…”

“It is, though - "

“- Fuck, am I going to have to kick my own ass for this?”

“What do you want from me here, Mic?” Dylan asked quietly.

“I want…fuck. I don’t know. I want to have not hurt you.”

“Mic, I’ve been up for days. I don’t know how to process this. I don’t even know what’s to process.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s…” Dylan paused, shaking her head. “I mean, I kind of knew this was coming.”

“What does that mean?”

“Mic, I’m not some…random fuck: I know you. You’ve told me about your past, about Vi and Briony and Rett and Grace. I’ve watched you with the Echoes of them. You told me you’d seen Briony around, that she wanted…more. Even despite…how things ended. Did…did you think I was naive and helpless and didn’t read between the lines?”

“What lines?”

“For fucks sake: I know you never stopped loving them, that not loving them wasn’t why you left. Did you think you were being subtle? That you were hard to read? And look…it is actually fine. The part that isn’t fine is…you didn’t trust me enough to tell me if this was something you needed. That you did it first, then told me second.” Dylan shook her head, raising her hands to her face, making several small sounds of aggravation. She let her hands fall to her sides, flopping cartoonishly. “Fuck I’m so exhausted. You’ve got no idea the effort it’s taking to stay…lucid…”

“Come with me.” Mic instructed. She held out her hand. Dylan took it, letting Mic lead her to the bedroom. Mic lay her down in their bed, pushing her onto her side, and winding an arm around her.

“It’s not going to work…” Dylan yawned.

“I’ll tell you something I learned a long time ago: the human body cannot physically stay conscious for more than a certain length of time without medical intervention. Sleep might feel impossible right now, but baby…it’s inevitable. So shut up, feel my warmth, my body, my breathing, and try again.” She felt Dylan nod slowly.

“Mic…” Dylan murmured. “You can love who you want to love, just don’t leave me.”

“Okay baby.” Mic whispered, just holding her. “I’m here.”

Mic rocked Dylan in a slow, controlled metronome. It spoke to the hundred times - more - she’d had to do this by herself - for herself - on the cold, hard floor of some random, abandoned house on the city’s outskirts. What she’d said was true: Echoing into chronic sleep deprivation was just…despair fighting inevitability. A self-made war against the fear of where you might find yourself upon waking. Trapped, slipping away into the depths of Echoes you’d dreamed into being, or…just the same. Unchanged. Still fragmented, at risk and abandoned to this haunted world of shadows and ghosts. Mic heard a single, sharp snore force its way from Dylan’s sinuses. Tenderly, she pressed her lips against the smooth, convex indent where the back of Dylan’s head met the top of her neck, letting herself linger. Letting herself consider alternate possibilities.

“Time to go.” She muttered to herself, quietly extricating herself from the embrace. Mic went to their closet, taking out her suitcase. Evaluating, she chose what she needed: clothes, a couple of old journals she’d managed to hold onto from the early days…a little cache of photos she kept: Ryan; Lia; the Polycule; Dylan. That shitty old blanket she should have replaced long ago.

The suitcase was bigger than her old backpack, but it was a functional analogue: a container adequate to hold the remnants of her life, such as it was. She’d never really settled in. Dylan had pushed, then accepted the minimalism of her. Like it was a quirk. A trait. Mic sighed to herself, shaking her head as she carefully zipped up the suitcase, taking a last look around. In the dark, the contours of Dylan’s sleeping body curved like a landscape. The rise and fall of her chest spoke to wind blowing over fields of long grass, ashen under a moonlit sky. The way her hair fell around her face spoke to paintings of women from ages long past; etched in oil, small smiles and averted gazes, and…Mic forced herself to stop. The ennui of it all was a form of self-harm. Dylan was poetry because her mind craved the kind of snapshot only poetry could make. And that was cruel. That was how Echoes were built; the kind that one couldn’t easily shrug off. Mic gritted her teeth and made her way to the door.

It was late and the streets were quiet. Mic made the call she needed to make, then waited the time she needed to wait, then climbed into the car she needed to climb into. She was silent as she straddled the suitcase between her knees.

“What the actual fuck, ‘Chel?” Vi breathed as she pulled away from the curb.

“Don’t. Please. It’s raw. Gonna be for a bit.” Vi nodded slowly. And so they drove. The streets started off as unfamiliar, as they drove into the liminal space outside the roads familiar to Mic via the context of Dylan, and before they reached the roads familiar to Mic via the context of Vi. Eventually they reached…familiarity, and Mic felt as though she was able to take her first breath in days. She fiddled with the toggle on the zip of her suitcase, glancing out the window.

“Are you hungry?” She asked.

“Am I hungry?” Vi chuckled a bitter little chuckle, shaking her head. “Yeah. Famished. I’ll order us pizza when we get back.”

“Not sure I’m feeling pizza.” Mic mused.

“You’re getting pizza.” Vi snapped.

“Vi…” Mic pleaded, reaching out to place a hand on Vi’s thigh. Vi swatted her away.

“Love isn’t…” Vi paused, sighing, keeping her eyes on the road. “Love doesn’t mean I don’t get to be upset. It doesn’t mean I have to turn a blind eye when you fuck over another girl - worse - another…” She gritted her teeth. “Do you have any idea how this feels? How hard I’m having to fight off this weird, paralleling Echo? ‘Chel, you’ve made me the getaway driver for the exact thing you did to me - to us - that broke our fucking hearts.”

“Must be rough.”

“Oh fuck you.”

“Violet…what else could I have done? There was no…future in it. You know who I am. We talked about it. Letting someone depend on me, being the…the senior partner in a relationship, with all my damage, with all my…me-ness, it’s fucking irresponsible. I’m not that girl. So what was I to do?” Mic could see Vi’s jaw clench viciously as she got the last of the words out. Arriving at Vi’s place, the car slowed to a halt. Vi pulled up the handbrake, leaving the engine running and turning in the drivers’ seat to face Mic directly:

“How about…not abandon a vulnerable fucking doll who trusted you? Again?”

“Maybe it’s a useful lesson.”

“Oh don’t you dare deflect with that bullshit: was you leaving us instructive? Was that a ‘useful lesson’ for Gracie? For Bri? Breaking up with someone is one thing. Your version of it? Entirely another.”

“Fuck.” Mic inhaled sharply. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, exactly. You did it, and it’s done. So…whatever, ‘Chel. What the fuck ever.”

“Vi - "

“ - I am such a goddamned mark, aren’t I? I mean, I see it, ’Chel, I see your pattern, and here I am, not just complicit in it but letting you build towards the next time you do it to me - “

“ - Vi, I never will - "

“ - You fucking liar, it’s what you do - "

“ - It’s true, but you’re different - "

“ - Fuck you - "

“ - Stop: I mean it - "

“ - You can’t know that you won’t - "

“ - Yes, I can - "

“ - Fucking how - "

“ - Because I came back for you!” Mic shouted, eyes wide and voice threatening to snap like a twig. It hung in the air between them, floating like vapour between their locked eyes, in the space where their gazes overlapped. “All of you.” Mic clarified, quietly and emphatically. “But…” Mic’s voice dropped lower into her vocal register as she felt a painful lump rising in her throat: “It’s always gonna be you, Violet.”

“This has to be true, ‘Chel. It has to stay true.” Vi shook her head, a sharp edge surfacing behind her soft, almost pleading tone.

“I fucking promise you.” Mic paused, taking a deep breath. “It’s why I need you to come with me.”

“‘Come with you’? Come with you where?”

“Everywhere?” Mic shrugged with a small laugh. “The uh…The Herald made a deal with the Orphean Collective. My little story is going global.” Vi just looked at her. Time distended, becoming unmoored from context. They just continued to stare at one another. It could have been a minute or an hour, Mic couldn’t tell.

“Look…” Vi finally exhaled, shaking her head: “That’s a fucking lot, Michelle. Come inside. We’ll get a pizza ordered. I’m not having this conversation in a car on the street like we’re fucking teenagers.”

Vi led the way, locking the car and letting them into the flat. In the living room, they sat on the familiar couch, silent as Vi put through an online pizza order. The silence persisted, growing between them, teetering on the edge of uncomfortable, until:

“Sell me. You’ve got one shot, so make it good.” Mic nodded solemnly, before slowly, methodically running through the events of the last couple of days. It didn’t take long. Once she finished, she sat patiently, waiting for Vi to digest the information.

“So you joined a cult.” Vi summarised.

“Technically I’m being funded by a cult.”

“How did you find the time? Between that and everything that’s been going on between us, with…” Vi trailed off. A pained scowl cut across her face: “Your ex?”

“I’m very tired.” Mic admitted.

“So…” Vi got to her feet, pacing slowly.

“Could we have a drink?”

“Yeah, I think that’s probably a good idea.” Vi nodded. She went to the kitchen, returning with a bottle of bourbon and no cups. Mic raised an eyebrow. “Oh like you’re too good for drinking from the bottle. I know what kind of girl you are.” Vi rolled her eyes, taking a swig of bourbon before passing the bottle to Mic, who did the same.

“Yeah. You do.” Mic smiled up at Vi.

“What about Grace? The band?” Vi sighed.

“I know.”

“They need me, ‘Chel. I love them, but they are kind of hopeless without me.”

“I know the feeling.”

“I mean, Bri can play bass, and she knows our songs. So there’s that. And Rett knows Gracie’s um…preventatives, for her Echoes.”

“Yeah.”

“How long would it be?”

“I don’t know, specifically. Weeks, at minimum. Maybe over a month.”

“Okay. That might be doable.” Mic passed the bottle back to Vi who took a long, open-eyed drink. Wincing, she shook her head. “I was talking a good game about new versions of us the other night, but…” Vi slumped down into the couch: “A few days back in my life, and it’s just…the same as it ever was. The ‘Chel show.”

“You’re gonna have to get used to ‘Mic’.” Mic gently prompted. “Of all people, you not going with the name I’ve chosen is - "

“ - You do not want to play that card with me, tonight. Not after how things went with your ex. You know how this shit’d look from the outside. It’s not much better from the inside.” Vi handed Mic the bottle. Mic quietly drank. “What happens when we get back?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you got a taste for monogamy, now? Cause I don’t.”

“If anything, the opposite.” Mic nodded to herself. “I love her, but it was still a mistake. Vi…I want my family back. Grace, and Bri, and Rett, they’re all a part of ‘us’, Vi. I don’t just know that, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Vi grabbed back the bottle with a look on her face that Mic interpreted as somewhere in the realm of ‘relieved’, drinking again before looking down at her feet and shaking her head.

“Great. So you tell them.”

“Huh?”

“‘Huh’?” Vi imitated: “You want this? Me? Them? Make it happen. Get them on board and…yeah, I’ll come away with you.”

“You mean it?”

“Yes. I need Grace to know we’re all okay. I need Rett and Briony happy. Most importantly, I need to not lift a finger for it. I’ll get them to come over, but I need you to do the rest. Because you love me. Because you want me. Because you owe me for…” Vi paused, taking a pointed swallow of bourbon: “All the things I’m willing to not say.” Mic nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry, Violet.” Mic murmured.

“I love you, Mic.” Vi nodded. “But I don’t believe you. Words won’t change that. Please find another way to.”

“This would help? Fixing things?”

“Yes.” Vi replied with a simple, small shrug.

“Then it’s done.” Mic stated. She opened her mouth to say something else, but was interrupted by a knock on the front door.

The pizza - pepperoni - was bland and unsatisfying, ultimately. The sliced meat tasted slightly more like cardboard than any other identifiable thing. The two women managed a couple of slices and left the rest. Briony arrived shortly after.

“Hi there,” She greeted Vi at the door with a quick peck on the lips before making her way inside, pausing as she clocked Mic sitting on the couch.

“Hi Bri,” Mic waved awkwardly. Briony paused, briefly, before shaking her head.

“Nope, I’ve got nothing.”

“We made up.” Vi said sheepishly, reaching up and pulling off Briony’s jacket from behind. Briony shrugged out of it helpfully. “Your makeup looks great, as always. Is that a new eyeshadow?”

“Yeah, playing around with teal,” Briony confirmed. “So uh…what the actual, you guys?” She smiled brightly, folding her arms across her chest, waiting expectantly.

“I came to see Vi after what happened at the bar.”

“What, to give her a piece of your mind?”

“Something in that realm…” Vi winced, hanging Briony’s coat off a peg in the hallway.

“Oh my god, you fucked our ex and this is the first I’m hearing of it?” Briony turned, slapping Vi’s arm with a mild amount of force.

“Ow! It’s not…like that - "

“ - I mean, it is quite a bit like that,” Mic interrupted. “But in her defence, it all happened very quickly and there are a lot of moving parts to the situation.”

“I’ll bet.” Briony smirked.

“What does that even mean?” Vi asked.

“You know what it means, you sapphic disaster.” Briony raised an eyebrow. “Okay. I am…hmm. I think I’m happy about this. I think. I’ll let you know more once I’ve evaluated further.” She informed Vi with a brisk nod and another peck on the lips. “Got my eye on you, bitch.” She aimed at Mic, holding two fingers up to her eyes then levelling them in Mic’s direction with a faux-serious nod.

“Come sit.” Mic patted the couch beside her.

“Ummm…” Briony equivocated. “Fuck it.” She ran over to the couch, vaulting in beside Mic. “C’mon Lois Lane: pitch me the scoop.”

“Okay, so…” Mic began, taking a brief moment to smile to herself as she noticed Vi walking towards the kitchen, arms wrapped around her midsection with a quiet, private grin on her face, dimpling her cheeks ever-so-slightly. “The sky was grey, and the rain was falling in windswept sheets. My clothes? Soaked. My mindset? Focussed…”

Mic proceeded to recount - with a level of detail that made Briony blush more than once - the events of the past couple of days. As she neared the end; as she got to the Dylan of it all, she found herself - without meaning to - reaching up to squeeze her shoulder. She noticed the look of concern from Briony, and could feel her own cheeks flushing as Dylan’s words Echoed around her. Squeezing down harder wasn’t helping. The feeling of her body against Dylan’s; of her lips pressing against the back of Dylan’s scalp…she was back there. Her words faltered; her breathing faltered; her ability to maintain her sense of time and place faltered and -

“ - It’s still really raw for her.” She heard Vi’s voice; distant, then closer…pulling her back to the living room. She felt Vi’s hand fold over hers, over her shoulder, fingers entwining with hers and squeezing down hard, provoking that old ache. “They broke up. Then I went and picked her up. And now she’s here with us.” Vi concluded.

“Thank you.” Mic mouthed up at Vi. The other girl simply leaned down to kiss Mic’s forehead.

“I’ve got you, Mic. Trust me.” She whispered into Mic’s ear. Mic nodded. She could feel her bottom lip tremble through a tight smile as her eyes shuttered closed.

“Goddamn Echoes.” Briony smiled sympathetically over at Mic, placing a hand on her thigh and applying a small amount of pressure.

“Yep.” Mic nodded, reaching for the bourbon bottle, now on the coffee table. There was another knock at the door.

With Briony on side, Rett and Grace were simpler. The intra-group dynamics remained as Mic had left them: As Briony did, so did Rett; as Vi did, so did Grace. Despite fleeting Echo-bleeds and a mild veneer of dissociation after the intensity of the night as a whole, falling back into the ecosystem of it - of ‘them’ - was easy. Natural. Calming. Despite her ultimatum, Vi was the one who brought up the trip. Shocked but supportive, Briony, Rett, and Grace peppered Mic with questions about the Orpheans, about the story, and about the itinerary. They all continued drinking and talking. At some point, Vi got her guitar to walk Briony through the basslines for some of their songs. And for the first time in a very long time, Mic felt almost…home. It made her warm inside. It made her smile.

It made her want to run.

Instead, she kept reaching for Vi like a lifeline; clutching at her to ward off the impulse like she clutched at her shoulder to ward off the Echoes. Vi noticed. Mic noticed Vi noticing. They continued to drink. Eventually the others left. By that point, Vi’s words were fuzzy at the edges, melodic and distended but hitting slightly skewed tonalities. Mic took her to the bedroom. Bringing her suitcase with her. She slowly - performatively - began to unpack it.

“What’re you doing?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve never seen anyone manage to unpack a suitcase condescendingly before.”

“I just need you to know - “

“ - That you’re here to stay.” Vi finished. “Drawing attention to it makes it worse. You can…get that, yeah? It says you’re thinking about it.” Vi sighed, her eyes rolling back slightly; unfocusing and refocusing. “Just come lie with me.”

“Gladly.” Mic shrugged, crawling into bed, started to strip off her clothes.

“They folded fast. I guess I should’ve seen it coming but…I guess I forgot that part.”

“Which part?”

“The whole thing of…what you do to people who aren’t me.” Vi rolled over, facing away from Mic. Mic rolled in beside her, spooning into her, using the arm sandwiched beneath her to reach up towards her shoulder…trying to squeeze away errant Echoes.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just…you always, always get what you want. You wanted us? You got us. You wanted to run and remake yourself? You got that, too. You wanted us back? Here we are. Why are we all dying to give you what you want?” Vi’s voice was low. Tired. A little hurt. Slightly slurred. Mic took a few moments to process, curling into Vi, before taking a deep breath.

“It’s because everyone always wants me to choose them.” Mic slowly articulated. “I’ve never understood why. But…I talk long enough, and people just become…pliable. I’m not trying to do it, it’s not intentional. But…I know what I am, Vi. I do.”