Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Carly stood on the sidewalk right beside where a woman in her forties was historically hit by a bus three minutes from now. Carly spied the woman heading her way, holding Starbucks. Carly activated the communication device implanted in her neck. "Target approaching."

"I see 'er," Trevor's voice came over her comm.

Carly hadn't been able to find a babysitter for her infant son for this mission, but as they discussed strategy, she and the other four members of her team decided it could be helpful to have him with her. As the woman got near, Carly pretended to be struggling to juggle a squirmy baby, his bottle, and her diaper bag. She put on her best winning smile. "I'm sorry, but could you help me? If you would just hold his bottle for one second ...."

"Where's the father?" the woman snapped. "You welfare queens make me sick."

Carly suppressed her instant, powerful desire to knock the woman on her ass -- an urge Mac knew she must be having as he said over the comm, "Easy. Remember the mission."

Carly rallied. "Oh, uh, wow. What made you think I'm on welfare?" she asked, managing to sound sweet and vulnerable instead of as enraged as she felt. This woman will be dead within two minutes, she reminded herself. She could manage to be gracious even to someone like this in their last moments.

"Because you're a mess and you can't even take care of yourself, much less your baby. All alone, no husband in sight. You're in my way!"

"Well, I'm not on welfare. Just so you know. I have a job in landscaping --"

"Don't care," said the woman, trying to push past her.

"Good," said Mac via her comm. "Keep engaging her in conversation."

Carly pretended to drop her bag and heard a loud clank. Uh-oh. There were definitely diapers in there, but there were a lot more guns. "Oh, no!" she cried. "My bag --"

"Oh, for god's sake," the woman said, exasperated, and, rather than helping, bodily pushed Carly out of her way to get to her car, which was parked on the street.

"Twenty-two seconds," came Philip's calm voice over the comm.

Carly grabbed the woman's wrist. "Let GO of me!" the woman shrieked.

"Sorry. Can't," Carly said, dropping all pretense. There was no point anymore. The woman desperately tried to struggle out of her grip, but Carly utilized her considerable Tactical ability to pull her off balance and then renew her grip. People walking by the on the sidewalk stopped and stared at the altercation.

"Time," said Trevor.

"She sure was determined to get out into the street so she could get hit by that bus," Marcy noted over the comm.

Carly let go of her ... and the woman held her head and started to scream as a Time Traveler sent from the future overwrote her consciousness and took her body as its host. Carly averted her eyes. The host consciousness died in agony ... but she'd have died in agony anyway when she got hit by the bus that just now flashed past Carly.

"What did you do to her?" a guy who'd seen some of it demanded.

"Nothing! I'm not even touching her!" Carly insisted, standing well away from her as she held Jeffrey Jr. close.

The screaming stopped. Carly smiled at the woman as she looked around in wonder. "Feeling okay now?" she asked. The woman nodded and grinned. The guy watching eyed them minute, then continued on his way, along with everyone else. Carly watched them go, then lowered her voice. "Traveler 8782?" she said. The woman nodded. "I'm Traveler 3465, Carly Shannon. Welcome to the twenty-first century."

The woman looked around herself in wonder. "It's so bright," she said, awed. "So -- so beautiful."

"This is actually a kind of bad area of town," Carly told her, all antipathy toward the woman who looked like her forgotten. She was a whole new person now. "It gets even prettier than this."

"I can hardly imagine," the woman breathed.

"All right. Well, I guess it's time for you to go meet your host's husband and try to assimilate into her life. Good luck -- she was a real piece of work."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

"No worries. Here is some cash to help you get started, and a couple of guns."

Carly stepped close to her to hide the weapon handoff from passersby. The woman looked around for a place to put them, and finally stuffed them in her oversized purse. "Thank you. But I -- I think I just need to wander around for a while, and ... take it all in, before I meet her husband. I can't imagine ever being able to get used to all this space and all this nature and all these people."

"You've gotta try the food," said Carly with a grin.

The woman was so overwhelmed by her Arrival in the twenty-first century, she nearly forgot to give Carly her next mission. "Oh! Yes. You have a mission tomorrow." Carly looked at her expectantly. Giving or receiving a mission upon greeting a new Arrival wasn't uncommon. "Arrive at these coordinates by three fifteen pm." She gave the coordinates. "Several other Traveler teams based in the area will be there. It's a mass Arrival -- of new team members for all of you."

"Wh -- we don't need a new team member. All five of us are still alive."

"Yes, now every team in town will have a sixth, an Intelligence specialist." Carly frowned. "Thank you for the money, and the weapons. See you tomorrow." The woman wandered off down the sidewalk in a daze, looking up at the buildings, the people, the storefonts, the cars, the sky.

Trevor, an old, old man in the body of a high-school football player, stepped out of an alleyway and came to her side, picking up her baby and playing with him. "'Bout as ordinary an Arrival as there ever is," he said, "except that news. New team member, huh?"

"Guess so," said Carly darkly.

She didn't want a new team member. She loved her team as it was. Who knew how this new person might throw off the beautiful, delicate balance that now existed within her team? No one complained about the news, but she could tell no one else on the team was happy about it, either.

A mass Arrival was rare. So many Traveler teams all in one place was even rarer. At the mission the following day, forty other teams stood around outside the barrack that historically was destroyed about three minutes from now, all eyeing each other, confused. Hall, standing right next to her, met her eyes, then shook his head. "This is weird as shit," he muttered.

A woman emerged from the barrack. "What's your business here?" she barked, also looking bewildered as she took in the sight of all the teams surrounding the barrack. "This is a military base! Get out of here before someone gets nervous and opens fire!"

They'd been let in by the General in charge of this base -- also a Traveler, though the woman didn't know it -- who now stepped forward. "Relax, Corporal. These are ... volunteers. We've gotten word there's about to be a massive attack on this base, so I ... called in reinforcements."

"Mercenaries?" she demanded incredulously. "Is the war going that badly??"

"'Fraid so," said the General. "So get your soldiers out here, armed. There's gonna be a fight, and they need to be ready."

Still obviously baffled by these confounding orders and none too happy about them, nevertheless she ordered the soldiers to retrieve weapons and then join them outside the barracks, where they all eyed the surrounding Traveler teams suspiciously. As soon as the last soldier emerged from the barracks, the screaming began.

Carly averted her eyes again. It was so hard to watch. She noticed most of the other watching Travelers averted their eyes, too.

It got about a million times weirder when the screaming stopped, and the new Travelers, rather than looking about themselves in wonder, or getting right to work saving their own lives like every other Arrival she'd ever witnessed, after a brief pause as they looked around at their whole company, turned and started fighting each other.

"What the fuck was that??" the one nearest her shouted, picking out another one through the crowd, pushing through, and shoving him. "What the fuck's wrong with you??"

"We lost seven! SEVEN!" said another one nearby, grabbing a woman close to him and shaking her. "What were you doing??"

"I -- I just couldn't," she spluttered.

"You sure are lucky someone was there to do it for you," he spat.

Fights just like this were breaking out all over the place, shoving, shouting, accusations, even punches thrown. Hall was shaking his head, muttering about how he would never let a member of his team behave so unprofessionally. Not to mention that the thirty seconds of historical death within which the Director was supposed to send a Traveler into that host came and went, and the fighting continued with no aerial attack beginning.

None of the watching Traveler teams had any idea what to make of all this. Just how bad was it in the future these new Travelers had come from? It was understood that every action taken by Traveler teams already here in the twenty-first had the potential to alter the future, so the future Carly and her team came from wasn't exactly the same as any other Traveler's who came much before or after them. What little they'd heard indicated their actions here in the twenty-first weren't improving things in the future; if anything, they were making them worse.

Still, Carly remembered the day her consciousness was sent back very well, of course. She and her entire team lined up beside the consciousness transfer device. There was only one in their dome. The room was peaceful -- silent, even, everyone nervous and excited. People were reviewing the actions they had to take immediately after their Arrival to save their lives. Everyone was focused, professional, intent on doing their job and doing it well. What kind of future would have people getting into fistfights as they awaited their turn in the consciousness transfer device?? Or maybe ... there were lots of devices, and everyone got sent back willy-nilly? Maybe these people had had no training at all??

The Corporal who commanded this unit -- who had also just been overwritten -- was apparently also taking charge of these new Travelers. "Focus!" Her sharp voice cut through all the fighting. "We've got incoming in fifteen seconds! Get to your stations!"

It immediately became clear they had training -- incredible training -- as at the Corporal's words they all instantly got out their guns or moved to some larger weapon the watching Traveler teams provided them and trained them on the sky, whence came a fleet of drones. Carly had been nervous for this mission and didn't want any of her team members less experienced at fighting to be here for it. Dozens of drones descending all at once and unleashing a hail of bullets and missiles ... she was sure despite their orders to destroy them before they could drop their payloads, some would get through and there would be casualties. Marcy waited back at the van to help treat them. But the incoming Travelers, even if they couldn't act as a team when they weren't in battle, acted as in sync as if they were performing in a ballet. Drones crashed to the ground all around them -- somehow missing every person on the ground -- and as the last drone fell out of the sky, the incoming Travelers were immediately back at each other's throats, throwing down their weapons as if they were gauntlets and pointing and screaming in each other's faces.

"ENOUGH!" the Corporal shouted. "Your new Traveler teams are here to greet you! Go meet them and introduce yourselves! For god's sake, you're professionals! Act like it!"

Reluctantly, still making rude comments and feinting at each other, they turned away from their fellow new Arrivals and seemingly beelined for their designated Traveler team, which ... okay, Carly supposed they would know what they looked like. Every Traveler studied the missions of teams that went to the twenty-first before them as part of their training. But how did they seem to already know exactly where they would be standing? Maybe video existed of them all standing here, waiting for them, that they'd memorized before their Arrival? They'd had their whole lives to collect and study whatever digital data survived through all those centuries, after all. But everything about this felt more off with every passing second.

A young woman walked with two young men -- all these new Arrivals's hosts except the Corporal seemed to be in their late teens or early twenties, young soldiers drafted into the war -- toward Carly and Mac. They were some of the very few not involving themselves in the fighting, though they appeared to be at least as upset as the rest. Something about their movements seemed ... Carly didn't know what to make of it. It was like they were attached at the hip. They separated at the last second, the two men going to Boyd and Hall's teams, and the woman walking up to Mac and Carly, staring at them. Staring through them. "I'm I-121. My host's name is Trinity Collins." Carly heard the young man who walked up to Hall introduce himself as "I-110, Kiyotaka Ayanokouji," and the one who walked up to Boyd's team introduce himself as "I-112, Shinei Nouzen."

Mac forced himself to smile, as he always, always did, at any newly Arrived Traveler. He knew how disorienting and overwhelming it was to Arrive in a whole new century, and he was always kind and generous about it. It was one of the many things Carly loved about him. "Nice to meet you. Welcome to the twenty-first," he said. "I'm 3468, your team Leader, but you can call me Mac. And this is 3465, Carly."

Trinity said nothing, turning before he was even half done talking, to look expectantly at the Corporal. No, not at the Corporal. She was looking at those two men, the three of them sharing meaningful looks, though Carly could not begin to decipher a thing being communicated, aside from a palpable despair that seemed to pervade all three.

"Travelers, meet your new team members!" the Corporal said in her loud, commanding voice. "We realize it is highly unusual to introduce a new Traveler to your teams with whom you did not train before you Arrived, but we and the Director are confident you will be grateful for your new team members as you begin to see their abilities. They are highly trained specialists in Intelligence, so they each have an 'I' designation. I will meet with your teams individually to explain more about them, but for now, please welcome them into your teams as though they'd always been here.”

She went on, "Remember, we are all Travelers, with one goal: to save humanity. So remember Protocol One: that the mission comes first. These specialists, like other highly trained specialists such as Historians, are forbidden from sharing details of their specialties with you. But do know that though they will respect your team and your team Leader's orders, technically they outrank all of you, so in the unlikely event they give an order that contradicts your team Leader's order, you will obey your Intel specialist. Understood?"

Carly's jaw dropped. They'd just been given new team Leaders without any warning?? Someone they didn't know from Adam?? She heard Hall cursing beside her. Mac was valiantly trying to hide it, but he was none too pleased, either. She heard the shocked murmurs from every team. Even if you didn't like your team Leader, at least you'd trained with them and were used to the way they did things. This ... this was beyond the pale.

Their new team member turned to them just then and said blandly, "I'm not gonna be giving any orders. Seriously, probably never. You don't have to worry. Carly." She looked Carly right in the eyes. "You don't have to worry. I'll do what I'm told."

"What about you, huh?" Hall prompted his new team member, who stood there looking ... bored?!? Yet somehow seeming to watch everything and everyone. Carly suspected she was the only one who noticed it, but as her team Tactician, it was her job to notice things like this. "Gonna be good and follow orders?"

"Yes, sir," he said dutifully, but the new Arrival standing with the team on their other side snorted.

Hall glowered. "You better. I run a tight ship."

"I know, sir. Your reputation precedes you," Ayanokouji said in the same monotone in which he said everything. "It's not me you have to worry about."

Decidedly not fans of Hall or how he did things after some run-ins with him in the past, nonetheless even Mac and Carly surreptitiously watched them, wondering what all this could be about.

Hall turned to face him confrontationally. "Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Hall eyed his other two team members, who shrugged. All three of them now watched their new team member suspiciously.

Trinity once more turned to Mac and Carly and said blandly, "I'm nothing like Ayanokouji, though. You don't have to worry about me."

Carly was most relieved to hear this, as Ayanokouji had to be one of the creepiest people she'd ever laid eyes on, only then he said in that same monotone, "Well, we're a little alike," and winked at her. Trinity blushed and giggled.

Mac looked at Carly, and it was written all over his face as clearly as it was probably written on her own. Somehow, it was all even worse than the very worst of the worst-case scenarios she'd been able to concoct when she first heard they'd be getting new team members. She'd have to keep a close eye on these people. She didn't trust even one of them the littlest bit.

Chapter Text

"Well, 3326, the time has come," said 3123 with his characteristic insincerity. 3326 regarded him expressionlessly. "Are you ready to take the oath and Travel back to the twenty-first century, save the world?"

3326 had practiced having no expression, finding anything else generally to lead to unpleasant consequences, but despite all his practice, he knew some of his loathing and resentment was showing through the cracks. As if he had a "choice." He'd been selected and trained since infancy as an Historian. Historians had no use in the current century, only in the twenty-first. Sure, he could say no. There were a couple of fully trained Historians still wandering the dome, receiving the occasional lecture about shirking their duty to humanity, and glares and whispers from everyone else. So though there was nothing to be gained by going back to the twenty-first century, there was much to lose by not going back. 3326 put on his best fake smile.

"Yes, sir."

It could be worse, 3326 figured. He wouldn't have to try to save his life with seconds to spare. All he had to do was take the needle out of the arm of the host who was shooting up heroin for the first time. His host body would be young and healthy -- far healthier than anyone living in a dome. Being a Traveler was a dangerous business, and the vast majority of the human population historically perished not long after 3326 was scheduled to Arrive in the twenty-first, so he didn't expect to live long once he Arrived in his new body ... but people in the dome didn't live long either, generally, plagued by countless health problems associated with their limited diet and lack of sunlight, as well as diseases unknown in the twenty-first, so he didn't suppose he'd be much worse off, no matter what happened in the twenty-first.

The twenty-first century, by all reports, was a glorious eden compared to the ruined world they now had to eke out an existence on. Whatever the circumstance of their Arrival, wherever it happened, it was sure to be better in nearly every way than where they'd been mere minutes before: in some sterile, sunless room inside a dome buried in ice four centuries in the future, filled with some of the last remnants of humanity, subsisting on yeast. Barely surviving. Even an Arrival in some dark alley in the worst area of town was a step up from the featureless dome with its artificial lighting and drab colors, the sameness of everything they'd seen day in, day out for their entire lives.

So 3326 laid himself down inside the consciousness transfer device when the moment came for him to be sent back into the body of his host four centuries in the past with a blend of his usual cynical nihilism and a bit of genuine curiosity. He'd never known anything besides the monochrome walls and sterile hallways of the dome. He may have never really had a choice about being a Traveler, but maybe -- just maybe -- it would prove to be a journey worth making.

He'd been right about one's Arrival in the twenty-first being disorienting and overwhelming, but he had to imagine it must be a hundred times as overwhelming for an Historian as for any other Traveler. The nature of his training made it so he was able to perceive and instantly commit to memory everything -- everything. The shade and quality of the light was unlike anything he'd ever experienced -- warm, and coming from one particular source, located in the room -- was that the sun, just there on the table?! No, a lamp. That was a lamp. He'd seen images of them in the historical record, though never casting a light with this eerie quality: dim, diffuse, ineffectual. The unfamiliar smells overwhelmed him, each signalling potential danger to his lizard brain, not one of which he could identify. Some smelled delicious (eventually, after some time in the twenty-first, he was able to identify what lay scattered on the countertop: leftover pizza), some inexplicably tantalizing (the smell of the heroin cooking, he later learned, his host body automatically reacting with anticipation), some foul (eventually identified, variously, as stale laundry, dirty socks, and a scent that was a harbinger of the imminent death of his host's friend Stephen, a scent probably perceptible only to an Historian).

There were sounds he'd heard his entire life, he realized for the first time in that moment as they abruptly ceased: the ventilation fans that continually operated in the dome, the creak of the weight of the snow on top of it, a sound which echoed faintly through every room and hallway at irregular intervals. What was he hearing now? A distant roar, which proved to be traffic on the major street just outside this apartment. Buzzing, created by the lamp and the large upright rectangular object in the room with the pizza. A non-Historian Traveler would describe the sounds as innumerable and be able to dismiss them as generally irrelevant, but in the following days, haunted by the incredibly strange and disorienting feeling of his Arrival in the twenty-first, 3326 had to enumerate them all to himself individually and attempt to identify them as he learned more and more about life in this century, things it would never have occurred to his trainers to teach. There were nineteen sounds in all, and even months later, three still remained a complete mystery.

Then there was how different his new body felt, not at all the sense of strength and health he'd been given to believe he'd feel. Rather, a sick heaviness, and a lingering depression still present in his host's body when he overtook it. Immediately, he sensed something seriously wrong, but already many Travelers had had such an experience, the Director's intel on their host way off, leading to their having to inhabit a host body that was seriously compromised, in extremely poor health, or which even died immediately after the Traveler's Arrival, so he would try to convince himself to see this as his being better off than some. His host body was, after all, relatively functional still. 3326 was glad for his characteristic nihilism, then: at least he could chalk it up to Murphy's Law or his bad luck or the travesty that he secretly believed was the Traveler Program, and move on. There was undeniably something wrong with this body ... but still less than was already wrong with his original body in the future.

All this took place in the space of a few seconds, too overwhelmed to do anything but stare in bewilderment ... until he saw the needle in his arm and flung it away from himself. He'd done it! He'd saved the life of his host body, and therefore, of himself. Right? He would be unable to move if his host had succeeded in shooting up before he Arrived, having already overdosed, so yes, he'd done it! And unlike the rest of his team, who could spend this day simply acclimating to their new bodies and this new century, he himself had a mission. He got up and got to work, doing his very best to ignore the sad, resentful gaze of his host's friend, the last thing Stephen ever saw in his short life the sight of his best friend leaving him to die without a backward glance.

Of course he couldn't ignore it. No amount of valiant math, weighing the number of lives he would save as a Traveler against Stephen's life, could get the vision of those hopeless, dilated eyes out of his mind. But as the team Historian, he was the only one who could address the considerable cost of their endeavors, utilizing lottery numbers and horse races to fund a base of Operations that he ought to secure by the time their team Leader Arrived the night after he did. Everything he did as he tried to complete this first, extremely important mission that first day was plagued by guilt, the physical sickness that inexplicably crept into him as the hours passed, bewildering and overwhelming perceptions, the increasing heaviness of his new body, and his usual despair.

Not to mention that cop, who made it his immediate mission in life to worsen everything that was already tormenting 3326 -- no, Philip. His name now was Philip. Such a strange name, even stranger to him, somehow, than the also unfamiliar new names of everyone else on his team. But during training, Trevor said he was envious, finding the name Philip "beautiful," and Philip was reminded that beauty is in the eye of the beholder ... and that it was a great gift to have a man as wise and kind as Trevor on his team.

That cop already knew something about Philip that he didn't know about himself: that was not the first time his host ever shot up, belying the information contained in the historical record. There was no autopsy, so the historical record contained only what his host's parents wanted to believe. In fact, Philip Pearson had been a heroin addict for over a year. That was the sickness that gradually rose up in him over hours, worsening until he could hardly function, weak and shaking, cold, physically ill: withdrawal. That cop knew what he was feeling, and deliberately kept him imprisoned as long as he legally could in order to worsen his sickness until it was unignorable. Jail was full of so many new, inexplicable sights and sounds and smells, not to mention danger and social interactions he couldn't even begin to understand how to navigate yet, if indeed he ever could, that his head ached by the time he was finally released. The cop pressed on that guilt he felt about Stephen's death and how he left him to die there -- but why did he claim Philip "skipped" out?? That seemed like an unnecessarily cruel accusation. He wouldn't "skip" away from a dying man. Walking was bad enough.

The cop tried to terrorize him with threats of prison ... the one thing he wasn't actually particularly afraid of. The Director would get him out of jail that day, for sure: he had a mission that night. That was one reason why so many Travelers were put in the bodies of law enforcement. Anyway, the cop's death of heart failure was imminent: one of countless facts about Seattle and its denizens Philip had had to memorize in the months leading up to his consciousness being transferred. All Philip had to do was sidestep him for a few days, and the problem would resolve itself. But why did he so want to terrorize Philip in the first place? Sitting around in a dim room shooting up ... who was it hurting besides himself? Why lock a potentially productive human being up rather than attempting to rehabilitate him and let him get back to being a productive member of society? Was life so very cheap in the twenty-first century? He tried not to think about it, but it added another weight to his ever-present despair. Maybe the twenty-first wasn't so great, after all.

The food, though. The incredible food. Sunlight. Trees. Grass. Flowers. So many people! And most of all, hope. So powerful and commonplace, it was palpable. It was so easy to lose oneself in that hope. Even he sometimes was able to forget what he knew of the future, however briefly, taking refuge in that naive, vain hope that everything would somehow be all right. It wouldn't. He was absolutely certain that it wouldn't. The Traveler Program was instituted decades before Philip left the future for the twenty-first. The hope -- written right into the Travelers' oath -- was that their lives in the domes would disappear, that they would all cease to exist, replaced by a beautiful future on an earth that had never been ruined in the first place ... but there they still were by the time Philip was sent back.

Still, the alienation he felt in the twenty-first century was even more profound than he could ever have imagined. He'd wondered all his life: Was the twenty-first so much more natural an existence for a human that it felt more good and right to a Traveler from the beginning than the future they'd been born into? Or was the change so extreme and unnatural that a Traveler felt wrong in that new body for the rest of their lives? Or maybe a Traveler eventually got used to their host's life after living it for a while and found that who they'd been and who their host had been gradually dovetailed into a single being who belonged here in the twenty-first? He'd never been given access to a single statement on the subject from any Traveler who preceded him, though surely they must have discussed it on camera somewhere in data that would survive to the twenty-fifth century where he could have accessed it ... unless the Director deliberately deleted or hid it from view. Philip now realized he should have recognized that as the red flag it was, because every instant of his new existence was so strange and felt so foreign that he was grateful, in secret moments, for his host's heroin addiction and the excuse it gave him to retreat into the bliss of an altered state that, if nothing else, made everything feel all right again for a little while.

Even standing under the open sky, as glorious as it was, felt dangerous and wrong after living in a dome designed to protect him from the outside world all his life. Even the base of Operations that became his home, an old garage, though the only retreat he had, was full of strange and unnatural smells and substances and stains and filth. Where did all this stuff come from? When he first moved in, he walked each wall, examining each object there in wonder: tires, oil cans, old advertisements, road signs, oily rags, metal funnels, scales, hoists, wrenches. At first he could only think of it as a repository of precious objects collected for some mad scientist's abandoned projects. Metal, rubber, cloth, tools -- all things so scarce and valuable in the twenty-fifth. It took him weeks to realize these objects were in fact so commonplace and aged in this decade that they were simply discarded here ... and when he realized it, his despair grew a little, perceptibly and permanently. Discarded ... like everything else of value. Like the environment, and human decency, and human lives, and the future.

He would never assimilate with the man who was Philip Pearson. He would never feel like he belonged in his life. Philip Pearson once had parents who loved him; 3326 had only his teachers and the Director, for as long as he could remember. Philip went to college and had friends and had a nice life that he threw away on heroin. 3326 had a worthless life dedicated to serving a program he didn't believe in that he nevertheless had always protected and cared for diligently. Philip Pearson, he gathered from the little bits of evidence he was able to collect from his phone and his possessions, had been devil-may-care and rakish and sometimes obnoxious; 3326 was precise and shy and dutiful. Philip's body and experiences and life had been nothing like 3326's, so far from it that 3326 couldn't even conceive of most of what Philip's daily life had been like, the things that had helped form him into the man he became.

Likewise, the twenty-first, while interesting, was entirely unrelatable to 3326. When asked what had led to all the terrible political and environmental decisions that preceded humanity's barely clinging to existence, greed and folly were the two reasons at the top of any list provided by his teachers. Deep down, he'd believed his teachers were wrong, that there were surely factors that explained it, or circumstances beyond anyone's control. No one would really allow the whole world to be destroyed out of mere greed, would they? He could never have imagined how right they were, could never have fathomed the headlong plunge into annihilation 3326 saw humanity all around him engage in every day in the twenty-first. He'd always thought the Traveler Program and especially the Historian Program were insanity, brought on by desperation to perpetuate the existence of the human race. But the insanity was all around him now, and twenty-firsters had no excuse.

So 3326 would sit in the garage that was now his home, and dutifully fulfill his part in his missions. His teammates were good people who deserved Philip's best. Maybe he couldn't do it for the Director, or for the Traveler Program, but he could do it for them. He would place his bets and dole out lottery numbers and try to ignore how wrong everything around him felt. He would feed his turtle and watch her lumber slowly around her terrarium, and those were some of his happiest moments, because everything Poppy did made sense. She ate, she slept, she explored. She, too, was trapped in an unnatural environment, and it didn't trouble her a bit. He could make her comfortable and happy and live vicariously through her for a while, a simple creature with simple needs that could be fulfilled.

Trevor couldn't understand it when Philip threw away the yellow pills that anchored him to this timeline, making it so that he couldn’t see visions of other timelines, but it was the obvious choice to Philip. The only choice. If there were some timeline where things were going well, he wanted to know about it. If there were some universe where he was happy, he needed to be able to see it; if he didn't have access to such a thing, even distantly, he feared he would go crazy. Where he was made no sense, but maybe there was another place, just beyond the veil between parallel universes, where it did. Maybe answers lay there that he could apply to here. But all he saw in other timelines was other people's joy, other people's human connections, and he was always alone there at the center of it all, merely an observer. It seemed an unfathomably cruel life to sentence someone to ... but the Director, being a computer, was incapable of compassion, and Philip had never believed in God.

Was it inconvenient to try to navigate through the countless timelines he was seeing at any given moment? Sure, but at least as long as he could see them, there was some hope. He'd had no choice about the life or the timeline he was born into. Unlike every non-Historian, he was never even given the choice about what he wanted to do with his life. The world he came from in the future was all wrong. The twenty-first was all wrong. It had all always been wrong. He had to try to find the place that was right.

When he saw a vision from an alternate timeline of Carly in his bed, his heart skipped a beat. Love? Would romantic love actually be possible even for someone like him, some sort of connection with someone who knew him and where he came from, understood him, truly cared about him and his existence? Or if not all of that, at least a small part of him? Marcy and David were deeply in love. Mac had his host's wife, with whom he was also in love. Carly had her host's son. Even Trevor had various connections in the outside world. Philip was so terribly alone. Love -- any kind of love -- could that be the thing that saved him? Because death felt so near all the time, and if he couldn't escape it, maybe he could at least thus make his life have been worth living. If his final weeks or months were filled with any kind of joy or connection ... maybe even he could know happiness in his lifetime.

So it was that when he met Trinity, they gravitated toward one another like twin stars. She was also lonely, having clearly been through something so traumatic that it broke something inside her, as he had been broken. Her faith in the Traveler Program, or in the Director, or maybe -- he suspected -- in life itself. Whatever it was, there was a sameness that bonded them immediately.

An Archivist gave his team a brief orientation on their new team member, in which she assured Philip repeatedly that an "I" team member was not a replacement for an Historian -- a dead giveaway that in fact she was. Another update would kill Philip, and the Archivist said Trinity's presence would negate the need for further updates for him. Compassion for him, from the Director? Never, but perhaps from the Director's programmers. Possible, but unlikely, as they'd never demonstrated any before.

Yet as he got to know Trinity, he began to gather that she really hadn't had Historian training. She knew a lot about the future, but that was normal for any new Traveler -- studying the missions of Traveler teams that went before was a fundamental part of any Traveler's training. She also had an eerily accurate prescience about certain things even he could not have pinpointed: the exact trajectory of a bullet or a punch in a battle, for instance. Every member of the I-team could do that.

He didn't know what a vague descriptor like "Intel" indicated about the true nature of her specialty, and she was forbidden from telling her teammates, which made perfect sense to Philip, since as an Historian there were things he was also forbidden from telling his teammates ... but he had no secrets from her, from the first moment they met, and not by choice. She already knew everything about him. Everything. How had she learned some of these most intimate details about him?? Things no one knew, things even the Director would have no way of knowing, since they happened out of the reach of any recording device. Some of them happened only in his mind. "Intel" ... had the Director figured out some way of teaching people psychic ability??

He wasn't asking any questions. He had her, and he desperately needed her, as she clearly desperately needed him. She would weep in the bed they shared, clinging to him, and when he whispered "What's wrong?," she would just shake her head and cry harder.

He softened his voice further, putting his lips right against her ear, so nothing and no one but her could possibly hear him. "You can tell me," he breathed, so softly. "I know we're both supposed to keep secrets about our specialties, but I promise I won't ever tell a soul anything you tell me."

She just clutched him harder, hanging on for dear life, and said not a word.

Of course he thought it might lead to something romantic. Their host bodies were close to the same age, even if he suspected with a number as low as hers, her true self might be very very old, as old as Trevor. Philip had never cared about something as shallow as that. Their spirits were already connected. For the first time in his life, he finally got to experience what people were talking about when they said that from the first meeting it was as if they'd known each other all their lives. So why wouldn't their relationship cross from friendship into something more?

But the first time he bent to kiss her, he felt her hesitation, her discomfort, and he withdrew, burning with the pain of it, a pain he would never, ever tell her of. Of course the first person he ever fell in love with didn't want him back, though sometimes she insisted she did. She said all kinds of silly things like that: that it was all she'd ever wanted, that she'd wanted it for so long (they'd only known one another for six weeks), that he was the hottest guy she'd ever seen. Hilarious. But he knew what he felt, what he always felt, when they got close. She loved him. He could feel that, palpably. But she did not want a physical relationship. Not even a kiss.

It didn't matter, he told himself. Maybe Marcy and David had a relationship this close, but he doubted it. He could never have believed it was possible to be known so completely by someone. He could never have believed it was possible for two people who needed each other as profoundly as he and Trinity to find each other and connect. It was magical, truly. Who needed a physical relationship when he already had this level of emotional intimacy? He was disgusted with himself for his greed. He already had it all.

So he was beyond disgusted at his own jealousy when he met other Intel specialists, to see how emotionally intimate she was with them, too. Two in particular -- Ayanokouji and Shinei, both handsome young men -- seemed so attuned to one another and to her that they seemed to scarcely have to say a word to be fully understood by the other two. During one battle in particular, Philip heard Ayanokouji make a single sound of not even distress -- concern, maybe -- and the other two turned and took out the opponents who were then targeting him, with that characteristically perfect aim.

"Is Ayanokouji your ... boyfriend?" Philip could not help but ask her that night back at Ops. Maybe much of the emotional agony that plagued her was being separated from those two, who had been assigned to other teams and had to stay with them.

"Huh??" She positively grimaced at the notion. "Ew, no! We're just friends."

"Hm. Seems like ... a little more than friends," he pressed gently.

She considered. "Siblings, then."

"Siblings." Her word, her tone, rang in his mind for weeks thereafter. There were volumes hidden in that one little word, clearly; he could hear it every time he recollected it. In the end, he realized: she had no word for whatever those three were to each other. But she offered no word for what she and Philip were to each other, either. Maybe that was just how she did relationships.

Anyway, despite her angst, their angst, he was happy now that he had her. To be known so deeply, loved so profoundly ... it was everything he'd ever wanted. As he did with Poppy, he did everything he could think of to make Trinity happy, and though he couldn't describe her as happy, her angst lifted at times and they had fun together -- a lot of fun. He'd never met anyone like her before, so free, flinging herself full-heartedly into every bit of fun they were able to concoct to share. He hadn't laughed so openly and unself-consciously since he was a child. She might not want to kiss, but as they skipped down the street (yes, he really did skip this time), she took his hand shyly, and gripped it tight when he smiled and tightened his hand around hers.

Mac and Carly were present for her Arrival, which Carly obliquely described as "really weird," though she didn't elaborate. Marcy was taken aside after the little orientation provided by that Archivist, and she looked tense and troubled afterward. Trinity lived with him at Ops, which implied her host had no family to return to. But when he asked if that bothered her, she said only that she was "used to it," and seemed entirely unconcerned.

So what could have happened between her Arrival and the day a week and a half later when they coalesced as a partnership, to account for all her pain? What indeed could have? It couldn't have happened in this century. It must have happened in the future, before she Arrived.

Back in bed late that night, he put his lips to her ear. She shivered and giggled. He lowered his voice below a whisper again, only a breath: "I know I'm breaking Protocol Two by asking, but the future you came from .... It was bad?"

She'd been squirmy and giggly, but at his words, she grew suddenly still.

"Very bad?" he breathed then.

"Guess it ... depends on your definition of 'bad,'" she said cryptically, and stared emptily through the ceiling until he fell asleep.

Being with her was the one thing that firmly grounded him in this timeline, because he wanted more than anything to be here with her. Still, now and then, he looked for clues in the images from other timelines he couldn't help seeing ever since he stopped taking the yellow pills, and found himself more confused than ever. None of it made any sense: Trinity, imprisoned in a makeshift cell in Ops, the rest of his team angrily making accusations she didn't quite deny. Trinity, standing in a circle with eight other I-team members, her friend Shinei standing in the center of the circle, everyone but Shin with a gun pointed at the head of the one next to them, not one of them looking surprised or even particularly troubled about the situation.

Trinity, cuddling with Trevor, sitting on his lap, Trevor looking as at home as if he'd been doing it for decades. Philip fought the burning jealousy that surged through him every time he thought of this one. Of course it was really Trevor she wanted and found hot. And Trevor, who was usually the standoffish one whenever it came to romantic physical contact, shy and uncomfortable with it, an old, old man who had spent lifetimes in different bodies with the same woman, the love of his life ... somehow, when it came to Trinity, all his shy standoffishness, all his loyalty to the woman he spent all those lifetimes with, disappeared. Trevor was as happy with Trinity in that vision as Philip was now. Philip didn't share his visions of other timelines with the others almost ever, but this one he would never, ever tell another soul. In this timeline, he'd gotten Trinity first. He was keeping her.

Finally, the most inexplicable vision of all: no longer simply an observer, he saw a vision of himself looking mistrustfully at Trinity. He was sitting at his desk while his other teammates talked to her. He alone seemed to harbor this mistrust, but Philip knew what that look in his own eyes meant: that was a mistrust so earned and profound, he considered Trinity his enemy. He considered her THE enemy. What on earth could any of it mean?

Clearly, he'd hit on something when he asked about the future she'd left. So in the following weeks, he volunteered stuff about the future he came from after conspicuously turning off all cameras and putting cell phones in another room so she would know they were safe from the prying eyes of the future.

"Because I don't think it matters anymore," he said. "I know it's forbidden to tell other Travelers about the future you came from and compare how things may have changed since our Arrivals, but ... the truth is, everything I know as an Historian indicates we're going to fail, so ...."

"We will fail," she said distantly, as if speaking from another lifetime. Another world. Infinitely far away.

He waited, but when nothing more was forthcoming, he prompted, "I mean, I know the Director will keep trying until the end --"

"Yes, he will keep trying," she said that same way. "He'll keep trying forever," and here it was, he'd hit on it! The source of the agony she suffered. It couldn't be more plain in her voice. But why -- why this, of all things? If the Director really would keep trying forever, then maybe there was hope --

She suddenly stood up straight and said, "Yes, Ma'am," responding to some order he couldn't hear, as if via a comm, and ... who could she hear besides someone on their team via their team comm? There was no female on their team who would give her an order.

She grabbed her gun from the desk. "Yes, understood," she said. "Within range. Confirm."

And ... and shot herself in the head.

Philip stared in horror as her lifeless body crumpled to the floor, the only real friend he'd ever had. He just stared for several minutes unmoving, having completely left his body ... or was it hours? Days? He couldn't function, couldn't even think ... and then his own comm activated.

"Guys," Marcy said, the fear obvious in her voice. "An earthquake just hit off the coast, caused by underwater Traveler mining operations in efforts to mine more uranium to power the Director. It will cause a tsunami that will level the coast and everything inland right up to the foothills in twenty-three minutes."

There was silence over the comms, as Philip felt the first slight lift to his heart since his beloved stopped breathing. At least soon he would be able to join her. He knew what this meant.

... As apparently Mac didn't. "Evacuate the area immediately," he ordered. "Get to higher ground!"

"There's no point, boss," came Trevor's ever preternaturally calm voice over the comm. "There's no way to get far enough inland in time."

Philip managed to stir himself, enough to crawl to Trinity's side. He picked up her body and held it close to him, then kissed her lips. "Sorry," he murmured with a smile. "Sorry. But I know you'll forgive me."

Chapter Text

Marcy was surprised when the Archivist requested a meeting with her individually after the meeting to orient her team to their new member and her abilities. Did the new team member have some sort of special medical needs? She was young and healthy enough to have been allowed into the military, so it seemed highly unlikely. Anyway, if the Archivist wanted to meet with a team member individually, she'd have expected it to be the team leader, or maybe Philip, since it sounded like he and the new member had similar specialties. Maybe it would be something as simple as that this particular host had Type 1 diabetes or something and required Marcy to always carry insulin with her. Maybe a deadly allergy requiring an epi-pen.

So she was doubly surprised when the Archivist -- her host a Corporal at the base where the entire I-team Arrived -- took on a severe tone as soon as they were alone, in contrast to the cheerful, friendly tone she'd had with the whole team. "What I'm about to tell you doesn't leave this room," she said shortly. "Ever. Understood?"

Marcy nodded and sat down slowly. What on earth ...?

"For starters, your I-team member is a member of your team, dedicated to serving you and all your missions. However, she is also a member of the I-team, and she will sometimes be participating in missions with that team and she must be always able to contact those team members as necessary. She will attend a meeting with other I-team members once or twice a week that will last several hours, but we'll be careful not to schedule a meeting at the same time as a mission. In any case, since she's a member of two teams, she will have two comms: the one you implanted just as you did for your other team members, the other under her other ear. Obviously, you need to know about it because it will show up on scans and we didn't want you asking any awkward questions or delaying her treatment as you investigate it.

"Avoid letting any other member of your team know about it, but if you must, tell them she has a dormant comm that is activated only in an emergency. Only if absolutely necessary do you tell them the truth: which is that her I-team comm is used as frequently as your team comm. Please don't let this make you self-conscious or let it change any action you would otherwise take or anything you might otherwise say. Telling teams the truth about this other comm tends to make them avoid or even ostracize their I-team member, making it difficult or impossible for them to assimilate fully into their new teams. For some reason it tends to make their teams think they're some sort of spy for the Director. This is absolutely NOT the case. We really don't care what you guys say. At all. But most team members have a hard time believing that, so we've learned to avoid telling them about the other comm in the first place, except those who need to know: their team Medics.

"Your new team member is not an Historian, but she has had training from birth like Historians do, and she has unique special abilities. Also, I'll be blunt: she is of more value to the Traveler program than every other member of your team combined, including you, so know that you are to take whatever heroic measures you must to save her life. If this means draining the blood of another team member to provide her with enough, do it without hesitation. If it means harvesting organs from other team members for her, do it, even if it kills them."

Marcy's mouth dropped open. The Archivist didn't even seem to notice, continuing, "Also, here are some military grade nanites, for use ONLY on her. " She handed her a vial of the black fluid. "You may not ever, under any circumstances, use them on anyone other than Trinity or another Intel specialist. There is one exception: if I-112's life is in danger and you must choose between saving him or any other I-team member, you save him. Period. Even if he's in pieces, you save what you can of his head, keep it alive, and bring it to me or another I-team member. They'll know what to do with it. Do you fully understand me?"

Marcy blinked, stunned. She was never one to question any order. She believed wholeheartedly in the Traveler program. But this went against -- well, everything she believed in, starting with her Hippocratic oath. She said so: "I took my oath as a doctor before I ever took an oath as a Traveler; 'First do no harm' takes precedence. Using a human being to harvest organs from, or keeping someone alive in such a state as you described about I-112 ... that's harm."

"I understand what you're saying, but you're wrong. If you truly understood what we're doing with the Intel program, you would understand that in fact you would be fulfilling your Hippocratic oath far more completely by following these orders. I'm going to break Protocol Two here and tell you the Traveler Program is not going well. The Intel Program was an idea introduced decades ago, in the early days of the Director, but it was an idea that was discarded ... until now, because ... we're getting desperate. So know that in following these orders, you are contributing whatever can be contributed toward saving humanity. The Intel Program is our only hope. I mean it."

She looked her seriously in the eyes, and Marcy saw that this Archivist believed everything she was saying, 100%. The Archivist went on, "I helped train these I-team members. I Arrived with them. I helped conceive and implement the program. I know of what I speak.

"Not to mention that you will be grateful for having an I-Team member once you've seen what she can do. She'll keep every member of your team alive far longer than if she weren't on your team. That said ... it is within her jurisdiction to order the death of one of your teammates, or of any other Traveler, and if she does ... you will not be asked to kill, but you may be asked by her not to save a life, and in that case, you follow her order, understood?"

Marcy's eyes darted around the room. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. She had suspected from before they even Arrived in the twenty-first that Philip had his doubts about the Traveler Program, but Marcy and the rest of her team were true believers. She'd always expected to feel that way. For the first time ever, a bit of doubt crept in. "She has a license to kill??" she asked, bewildered.

"In so many words. Protocol Three is suspended for any I-team member. But their training is good enough that no one is likely to notice except a Medic. You may notice that someone has been shot from behind, or poisoned. Something that differs from the official cause of the wound as reported. If an I-team member is involved, don't question it. Although if there is any doubt, you may ask them directly. Just abide by whatever they tell you to do."

It would not occur to Marcy to directly question a superior, so all she could do was stare in disbelief at the Archivist.

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" the Archivist pressed.

Marcy nodded silently. The Archivist left the room. Marcy sat where she was, trying to process all she'd heard, ultimately concluding what she always did: that she lacked so much knowledge about every detail of the Traveler Program that she could not possibly accurately judge. A little knowledge really WAS a dangerous thing. It would be pure folly to make radical decisions based on the tiny bit of compartmentalized knowledge she had. That Archivist believed everything she was saying. That had to be good enough for Marcy.

Still, that Archivist was not wrong about the effect of knowing about the other comm. Marcy could not seem to help but be careful what she said around Trinity. If her whole team knew, Trinity would indeed be left out and avoided, and then how could she be accepted into her new team, enough even to participate effectively in missions? So Marcy did as ordered and kept the secrets that had been entrusted to her.

Anyway, Trinity really showed very few signs of having a second comm. Marcy and her entire team were used to seeing other Travelers suddenly begin responding to some voice only they could hear. It wasn't hard to tell when they were hearing something from another source, either. Only rarely did Marcy notice Trinity get a distant look, her eyes moving as if listening to something other than what was happening where she was, and though once she looked a little troubled, the other times she was unmoved and went back to interacting with Marcy's team normally within a minute, though not infrequently she excused herself soon after and disappeared for most of the day. Philip did once note that he heard her talking to herself late at night. He thought she was talking in her sleep. Marcy knew better.

Marcy was also relieved when she didn't come across any signs of assassinations committed on the sly. Trinity seemed constitutionally incapable of something like that. Shy, kind of awkward, she didn't seem to fit into the Traveler Program at all. Marcy didn't exactly have a militaristic nature, but even she was better capable of taking and following orders than Trinity, who sometimes verged on the dangerously insubordinate. More than once, Marcy saw her give lip to that Archivist.

It couldn't be Philip's influence, could it? Trinity and Philip became an item virtually as soon as Trinity Arrived. There was a buried sullenness in Philip, a passive resistance, that Marcy had always worried could turn into full-blown defiance under the right circumstances. Actually, it already had, when he tried to utilize some other drug to wean himself off heroin and he only ended up addicted to that other drug, a drug which imbued him with confidence and dampened his capacity for self-restraint. Marcy knew Philip and Trinity broke protocol to share more with one another than they should. Maybe Philip's attitude was catching.

Still, Marcy gathered that that was another way in which the Archivist had been truthful: Trinity and the other members of the I-team must really be that important, because she was never disciplined for any of the insubordination or backtalk she engaged in. The Archivist might get mad, but it never went beyond that. Even in the future Marcy came from, the Director wouldn't hesitate to overwrite a Traveler who went rogue, or even one who consistently refused to follow orders. Trinity's entire little squadron of herself and eight other I-team members made very clear how unhappy they were with certain orders they were given, sighing, rolling their eyes, muttering under their breath, all stuff Marcy and her team would never have dreamed of doing ... but they got away with it. They were like an elite team of geniuses who were a giant pain in the ass but talented enough to be worth it. They were the Top Guns.

Yes, at least Trinity was not the type to engage in subtle criminal acts or underhanded violence. Not so with her best friend Ayanokouji. During a mission involving several teams and their I-team members, a Traveler was wounded. Marcy was frantically getting out her portable medical equipment to treat her, since she seemed to be going down faster than her wounds would indicate, when Ayanokouji appeared at her side and put his hands over hers.

She shivered. He wasn't just creepy. Wasn't just scary. He was a monster; she could feel it at his first touch. "Don't worry," he said in the calm monotone in which he said everything. "I'll take care of this one." He directed her attention to another Traveler, whose forehead was bleeding copiously as wounds on the head always did, but which in reality was only a little cut.

Marcy stepped back uncertainly. He nodded at her meaningfully, as if ... as if he expected her to understand that it was an order. She took another step back, and another, then reluctantly went to treat the other Traveler. The one under Ayanokouji's care was dead in three minutes.

If nothing else sowed seeds of doubt in Marcy about Trinity, the I-team, and the entire Traveler Program, that did it. Marcy had worked before with the Traveler who died; she was a good Engineer and a good person, totally dedicated to the Traveler Program. She had made countless sacrifices for it. And now, at the hands of Trinity's best friend, she was dead, just like that.

Marcy took Trinity aside that night into the bathroom at Ops where there were no cameras. "Your friend killed 3432 today," she stated baldly.

Trinity looked askance; clearly, she already knew this -- or at least, wasn't surprised.

"Was he following orders?"

Trinity hedged. "Sometimes we ... make our own orders. Especially him."

Marcy's eyes narrowed. She tried to keep her cool, but her voice rose as she said, "3432 was a dedicated soldier and an excellent team member. What possible justification could he have had for killing her??"

Marcy was aghast when instead of shame, outrage, defensiveness, denial, something that indicated some semblance of humanity, instead Trinity grew disinterested and kind of ... snotty?? "Guess that's not yours to worry about."

"How dare you?" Marcy shouted, and then her team was coming inside to find out what all the ruckus was about. Mac managed to pull her away from Trinity to talk to her privately outside, telling her what apparently he'd also been told at some point: that they were not to question any action taken by any member of the I-team. "Ayanokouji committed murder today!" Marcy shouted. "I saw it happen! He killed a great person, someone totally loyal to the Director! How can you justify that??"

"I don't!" Mac insisted conciliatorily. "I don't. But Marcy, we have our orders. I'm sure he had his, too."

"He didn't! She just told me he 'made up his own orders' to kill her!"

"That's what she said? In those words??"

"YES!"

"Maybe that's his specialty. There is no way for us to know everything that goes into every decision made by the Director --"

"He is a MONSTER," she said. "Full stop. He is. I can tell. There is so much blood on his hands. Who knows how many people he's murdered in cold blood?? And he's the one given a license to kill? What the hell is the Director doing??"

He shushed her wildly, pulling her deeper into the alley, lest any camera pick up their conversation. "Marcy, I know. I've had my doubts, too--"

"Yeah, look at us! You shushed me because you're afraid of what the Director will do if he overhears us questioning anything about the Program! You’re afraid we'll be next on Ayanokouji’s hit list! Is that the way the Director does things now, just kills any Traveler for any reason? For NO reason?? Is that the kind of program we're serving?? that we gave up our lives in the future to be part of??"

He looked at her reproachfully ... because he couldn't deny it, and they were stuck here now in the twenty-first, under the watchful eye of the Director, completely at the mercy of the psychopathic best friend of their brand-new team member. Marcy remembered the Archivist's strident insistence that I-team members' second comms weren't used to surveil Traveler teams. "She doth protest too much," Marcy muttered.

She took an old receipt and a pen out of her bag. She held it against the wall of the alley and wrote a note, covering it with her other hand from prying eyes, then beckoned Mac to look where only he could see. "I-team have second comms," she'd written. "Spying."

Mac didn't want to hear it. He wished she hadn't said it. He looked like that a lot, which only made sense, because as their team Leader, now he had to decide what to do about it. "I'll look into it," he said at last with a sigh. "But we took our oath, and in the end, we have no choice but to do what we said we were going to. The mission comes first."

Chapter Text

Mac ended up the same place he always seemed to end up when he encountered a problem neither he nor any member of his team knew how to solve: talking to his fellow team Leader, Boyd. She was the first Traveler from another team they met after arriving in the twenty-first. He remembered well going to her to ask what to do when their very first mission went wrong, how determined she was to follow all the Protocols, stay out of it, and make them figure it out on their own, but that was a long time ago. All of them had witnessed too many flaws in the system since then, too many things fall through the cracks, too many things go wrong. All of them had lost a little faith in the Director's ability to steer them right, even as they lost a little of the fear drilled into every Traveler that any misstep could result in death via an immediate overwrite of their consciousness. The future's hands were full enough already, and only good had ever seemed to come of consulting with Boyd in her steady wisdom. That wisdom was exactly what he needed right now. He hoped she would be willing to help him and his team one more time.

He expected at least a little of her customary resistance when he went to the police station where she worked and caught her eye, so he took it as a good sign when she immediately beelined for him and greeted him with her measured smile. "Agent McLaren," she said, "I'm glad you came to consult with me about that case."

Case? Oh, so she was very open to discussion, pretending she the police officer and he the FBI agent had a case to discuss. He wondered if there was any way they were wanting to talk about the very same thing. She took them into a conference room and shut and locked the door. "No cameras in here," she told him, gesturing him to sit.

He did, considering how to begin, when, "How's your new team member working out?" she prompted.

"Actually ... that's what I'm here to talk to you about," he said, and in her knowing nod, he knew. She did want to talk about the same thing he came to her about. He didn't have to explain.

They sat silent for a long few seconds, letting it be communicated in the silence: their doubts and fears, which seemed to mirror one another's. They were equally troubled by things they'd noticed since their new team members arrived. They started talking at the same time. He gestured for her to go first.

"Actually, mine hasn't been much trouble," she said. "Not much help, either, to be honest." Mac smiled faintly. "He's always disappearing just when I want him around. But he's incredible with any kind of weaponry. Superhuman. He's so good that to be honest, sometimes -- sometimes I've wondered if he's some kind of robot, if our new team members' consciousnesses are not ... organic."

"I doubt that," Mac said after considering this new possibility. "My new team member fell in love with our Historian from practically the moment she Arrived, and though I've had doubts about her -- or more, her other best friend--" Boyd nodded hard -- so she'd noticed something about Ayanokouji, too "-- I've never doubted that her love for him is real. She seems hardly functional when he's not around. It seems like a pretty ... 'organic' relationship." Did it, though? He'd heard of love at first sight, but the suddenness and intensity of their love was beyond anything Mac had ever witnessed.

"So," Boyd said, and a lot of energy seemed to leave her body. "Ayanokouji."

"My Medic says she saw him kill someone right in front of her."

"I've seen him kill three people, confirmed, and I have reason to suspect him in seven other deaths."

It was hard to shock Mac anymore, but his jaw dropped. "All Travelers?" he managed to ask.

"No, but homicides come through us here at the local PD before they go to you feds, and there's been a definite uptick since he came to town. Traffic cams and other evidence place him at or near the scene in every case."

"My Medic confronted our new team member about it, and apparently she didn't deny it. My Medic told me she said he 'makes up his own missions.'"

She nodded, troubled but unsurprised, that distance so often in her eyes vivid in the light from the windows. "The officer who brought him in for questioning suddenly died on duty. The officer who brought in Ayanokouji to question him in the officer's death had to stop a random attack on his family that night. I'm afraid for my own family now. My wife ...." Her eyes filled with tears. "Well, you understand. My host may have been the one who married her, but I love her now, too. And our child. There's things I just can't ... risk. So I turned to the only place I could think of: the future. On camera, I made clear he's a suspected serial killer, and a prolific one at that. Nothing. The killing spree continues."

Mac sat back. This job ... it was impossible. "So either the Director knowingly sent back a serial killer, who is killing Travelers in addition to twenty-firsters ...."

"Or the Director isn't in control anymore."

"But who could have the kinds of resources required to create a consciousness transfer device, establish TELLs, infiltrate existing Traveler teams ...?"

Boyd shrugged. A long silence fell over the both of them. "Do you ever wish you hadn't taken your oath?" she said at last into the silence.

He'd been contemplating this very question a lot lately. Russia declared war on the States months ago, and word had it it was caused by bungled Traveler meddling. If China joined in, as they were obviously thinking of doing, Mac and Boyd and Hall and every team at the mass Arrival, not to mention possibly every team in the States, were done for, especially here on the West Coast where their attacks would be concentrated. "No," he said finally. "It may seem like there's no hope sometimes, but there definitely wasn't any hope in the future. We were fifty years from complete annihilation then. At least the food's good here in the twenty-first, eh?" He nudged her, and was able to make her smile.

Given where they left things, Mac wasn't surprised to see Boyd walk into his office at the FBI satellite office two weeks later. He was very surprised to see Hall walk in after her. Mac scowled, but he showed them to a conference room. "No cameras," he said as he closed the door behind them.

"I know you're not happy to see me," Hall said immediately. Mac couldn't deny it. "I'm not exactly thrilled to see you, either."

"You tried to commandeer my team," Mac hissed.

"I know, I know, but I thought we buried the hatchet on the last couple of missions, didn't we? Not to mention I saved your wife. And I need your help to neutralize that kid." Hall's expression grew dark. "I found poison at our base of operations. I found a loaded gun that was set to backfire the next time it was fired, and that kid had it where Kyle was going to definitely take it for our next mission. I thought it'd be good to be back up to four members, but if we don't take out Ayanokouji, before you know it, I'll be down to zero."

"You're going to kill him?" Mac said uneasily.

Hall didn't seem uncomfortable with the idea, but Boyd said, "No. We're going to capture and interrogate him, out of sight of the Director."

"Yeah, but then what?" said Hall. "Just let him out and hope a stern talking-to has put an end to his homicidal impulses?"

"We have to determine if he really is working for the Director," said Boyd, "because if not, then we have to do whatever we can to get the Director back in control."

"And if so?" Hall regarded her with that characteristic swagger. There was none of Boyd's delicacy in this man, none of her caution, none of her shyness. "If we determine he is acting on orders of the Director, what do we do then? Do I just let him take out the rest of my team one by one?"

Boyd hesitated. "Then ... I guess we cross that bridge when we come to it. Because if we let him keep going, in a few years, Seattle will be down to zero."

Marcy was on board. So were Carly and Trevor, though they decided it would be too much of a conflict of interest for Philip, so they left him in the dark. Every member of Hall's and Boyd's teams were part of the operation, too, utilizing every bit of the considerable skill each member brought to the team, and still, Ayanokouji seemed to know within three minutes that he was being followed, heading to a busy area of town where it would be impossible to capture him out of sight of the Director. "I told you we should have done it back at my base," Hall said, characteristically critical.

"It's in an even busier area of town than this!" Carly snapped. "We would never have been able to transport him anywhere else except in a body bag."

"I'm good with that," Hall said, taking aim.

"Not here!" Mac hissed. "Do not murder someone in plain sight! Half of the members of all our teams will become suspects!"

"I know, I know," Hall insisted, his gun still trained on Ayanokouji, when suddenly, the question became moot as Ayanokouji -- shot himself in the head! Every member of all three participating teams lowered their guns, mouths open as they listened to the screams of shock issuing from bystanders. What -- what?!

"What just happened??" Marcy cried, and Mac could hear it in her voice: even knowing he was a killer, she felt responsible for his death because she was the first to say something about his predilections. She felt guilty.

Hall was shaking his head. "He -- over his comm, I heard him say 'They're onto me. No solution,' then not three minutes later, he said, 'Within range. Confirm.' That's literally it! That's all he said. He shot himself right after."

Everyone was deeply shaken, even Hall. "I didn't mean for the kid to kill himself!" he kept saying. This was yet another of those experiences in this century that would never leave them. They would be haunted by this for the rest of their lives ... but at least he should be the last death for a while. The problem had solved itself.

Or so Mac thought, but when they got back to Ops, Trinity was in a state unlike any they'd ever seen, Philip trying frantically to calm her down. She turned on them as soon as they arrived. "It was you!" she screamed. "You did this! You made him kill himself!!" She lunged at Mac. Every member of the I-team was an incredible fighter. It took four people to subdue her, and she still kept getting free. Boyd handcuffed her, then cuffed her ankles as well.

"This isn't gonna work," Hall stated the obvious. "She's not calming down, and we can't leave her like that forever."

They managed to construct a makeshift prison right there in the garage as Philip pled with them to instead leave and let him try to talk sense into her. "Nah, we've got questions we've gotta ask her," Hall said unapologetically as they closed the prison doors on her. Boyd offered to remove her cuffs, but Trinity was practically feral now. She cleverly tried to catch the hands of anyone who got too close in the chains of her cuffs to trap them and make them her hostage. "Jesus," Hall muttered.

Mac got right to business. "One Twenty-One, we know your friend Ayanokouji killed people. Lots of them, including Travelers."

"It's his mission," she snarled, now trying to get out of her handcuffs herself, and coming troublingly close to dislocating her thumbs in order to accomplish it.

"From the Director?" Boyd pressed.

"Of course!" Trinity said scornfully. "Who else would it be from? The Faction?"

Everyone looked at each other. "What's the 'Faction'?" asked Luca.

Trinity just shook her head.

"But that's not possible," said Marcy. "The Director can't take a life."

"That's why he has Ayanokouji do it," Trevor suggested, and Mac believed it at the look Trinity gave him, as if he was on the money. Whatever else could be said of her, she didn't have much of a poker face.

"That's it?" Mac pressed, and Trinity nodded.

"But why so many?" Boyd asked.

"To be clear, you're saying these are direct orders from the Director?" Marcy pressed. "But you told me he makes up his own missions."

"He kills anyone he wants! And if that death didn't have the desired effect on the future, he's ordered to kill another one."

"Then why my team?" Hall asked, not buying it.

"He knows," Trinity said with a wicked smirk, looking right at Kyle, who looked as baffled as everyone else.

"You're gonna have to be more specific," said Mac heavily.

He figured she'd just throw out more wild accusations. Instead, she looked like she was trying to remember something, and finally told Hall, "Check his ... backpack. Actually, check his phone right now."

Hall grabbed Kyle's phone without asking. "What part? What am I looking for?"

"Texts with Luca."

Kyle and Luca were backing toward the door. "What the -- this?" Hall read. His expression didn't change, but his whole demeanor did. He looked at them in disbelief. "This is you two talking about me? About mutiny?" Mac had only ever seen bravado out of Hall. He assumed he would look that way until his final breath, but tears actually filled his eyes. "After everything we've been through together?"

"You should really try treating your team members a little better, Hall," Trinity growled. "LET ME OUT!"

"She used to seem so sweet, but suddenly she's like a wild animal," Marcy noted, bewildered.

Hall, Kyle, and Luca left, obviously needing to have a long talk. Trinity shouted after them, "Ayanokouji was trying to save your life, HALL! He's always trying to save your life! And now he's DEAD!" She burst into hysterical tears.

"Guys," Trevor said, that infinite patience in his voice. "It sounds like we're questioning things we shouldn't. We already know we interfered with a Traveler's mission from the Director, and it led to his death. We should stop now. We should let her out."

"Wait. Are you sure it's the Director giving him this order?" Marcy pressed.

"Yes!" said Trinity impatiently.

"How do you know?"

"Because he sends it to him through me!"

Everyone took a step back. This mousy little oddball was receiving orders directly from the Director?? Kill orders??

"And how did you know about what would be on Luca's phone?" Boyd's Tactician asked.

"I can't tell you! Let me out!"

Trevor wasn't waiting for permission anymore. He took the keys to the cell from Mac and let Trinity out. She rushed into Philip's arms. He held her tightly as she sobbed, looking reproachfully over her shoulder at the rest of them. "I do have a question, though," Trevor said when her sobs had quieted a little. "One maybe you can answer. How old were you when you were sent back to the twenty-first from the future?"

Trinity contemplated. Maybe it was because one of her best friends was already dead, or maybe she just couldn't think of a good reason not to tell him: "Nine."

Every jaw in the room dropped open wide. Philip released her, though she clung to him, hard. Of all the shocks they'd all encountered in the twenty-first, this one topped them all. The future was sending back children to perform missions?? Shocked, every one ... except Trevor, who just nodded sadly. "'I' doesn't really stand for 'Intel,' does it?" She shook her head, refusing to let Philip go, her head pressed into his chest. "Just one more question," Trevor said softly. "How old are you now, do you think? I mean, inside?"

She hesitated for a long moment. "Fifteen," she finally said.

Chapter Text

"And your other friends? They're fifteen, too?"

She nodded. Philip lost every bit of color.

Trevor turned to everyone else in the room -- the adults in the room. "This idea was introduced in the early days of the Traveler program. As you all know, I was one of the early test cases for consciousness transfer technology, so I was there when they were trying out all kinds of different ideas. Historian training came out of the Iterator concept, because at the time the Iterator program was deemed unfeasible ... and inhumane. But I guess things must be going pretty bad in the future, if they decided to implement it after all, huh?"

Trinity nodded and looked down. Trevor nodded, too.

Mac seemed to be the first to regain the power of speech. "'Iterator program'?"

Trevor nodded. "Correct me if I get anything wrong, Trinity; this was a few lifetimes ago for me, so I may not remember everything, or they may have made some changes when they actually implemented it."

Trevor gathered his thoughts, and began. "I'm not sure how many of you know this, but the only reason we have to send Travelers into hosts sequentially is because of the vast time difference from the future of hundreds of years. If there were a consciousness transfer device here in the twenty-first ... which I'm guessing there now is ...." He eyed Trinity, but she didn't confirm or deny. "... Then we could send a consciousness back to any point we had a TELL for. So theoretically, everyone in this room could all go back and try again, and again and again, until we got it right. This was initially how they planned to execute the Traveler program.

"There were two problems, and they were big ones: a) the few test cases they tried this with developed temporal aphasia after four or five Iterations -- the same disorder my wife died of. It happens when your consciousness is transferred too many times. Others of the test cases committed suicide even before they developed the aphasia. A lot of people wish they had a do-over in life; these people actually did. Turns out it's hell to be the only one who remembers a reality no one you know or love does. It's like entire years of your life have been completely erased.

"They determined only children had the mental resilience to withstand it ... at least until their minds had grown up, even if their body remained the same age; then they would develop temporal aphasia, as well, losing the ability to properly perceive the passage of time. This is how they discovered children can be used temporarily as Messengers; their mental elasticity is far greater than that of adults.

"But to do this would mean that they would have to start training Travelers from birth and they would have to be ready to perform in the field while they were still young enough to Iterate several times, which led to the second major problem: They would be sent back to the twenty-first on a mission that would ultimately give them a terminal illness, all before they reached the age of consent.

"Everyone here volunteered to be a Traveler -- even the Historians, despite having no choice about having extensive memory training from birth. The Iterator program would breed human beings to be, essentially, child kamikazes, like strapping a child to a bomb to steer it to its destination. After some experimentation, they dismissed the idea. Which is how I know they must be getting desperate. Very desperate."

Everyone looked at Trinity, who had finally let Philip go and sat down hopelessly. "How ... many times have you Iterated?" Marcy asked, her voice small. All the furious accusations they'd pummeled her with, right after losing one of her best friends ... they were all regretting them now.

Trinity counted them out on her hands. "Eight," she said emptily. “I think. I dunno. I lost count.”

"Are things at least improving in the future??" Carly demanded.

Trinity shrugged at first, then wordlessly shook her head.

"So this is it?" Philip asked softly. "We're doomed?"

She shook her head. "If the Director still exists by the time there are too few of us left to accomplish much anymore, he'll try again with another cohort of Iterators. And again. And again, as long as there is a Director and consciousness transfer technology."

"How bad was it?" Boyd asked quietly. "Because even in my time, the reactor was failing --"

"Every person still in our dome plans to have their consciousness sent back to the twenty-first right before the reactor completely fails, so they can live out their days here," said Trinity.

"And in other domes?" asked Boyd's Tactician.

"We're only still in contact with three others; there isn't enough power for a wider range. They plan to do the same. But you were wrong about one thing, Trevor. We won't die of temporal aphasia. The Director will declare Protocol Omega for my cohort before we reach the age where that could start happening. But chances are that so many of us will have been killed in the field even before we reach that age that we’re essentially useless to the Director, anyway. We will probably have already been replaced by the next crop of kids. Any day now, maybe." She had a thousand-yard stare Trevor had seen on her face many times; now he finally knew what it meant.

"None of this makes any sense," Carly complained.

"Actually ... it makes perfect sense," Trevor said evenly. "Everyone thought missions would have a far greater effect on the future than they have, but we've all seen they haven't. That is the sequence of events as I'd have expected them to play out, if the Director has made multiple attempts, all of which failed."

Mac shook his head. "All the distrust of Travelers from the authorities in the twenty-first. I couldn't understand it. We're human, too! I thought they'd be able to see that. But then we went and did the exact same thing to you, Trinity. I'm sorry about your friend. So sorry."

She was still upset, but she shrugged, not looking at them. "He was able to go with Shin, so he'll be there in the next Iteration, which probably won't be long now. We're past the point of no return."

"Wait, the what?" Marcy said sharply, though almost everyone else was talking about all they'd just learned. "What 'point of no return'?" Trevor listened carefully to Trinity's answer to this, too.

"It's not like it's officially a 'thing,' not a thing the Director recognizes, anyway. It's just a feeling we all start getting around the same time, or ... it's when everything's failing, when everything you tried to accomplish has been ruined, everyone you need to trust you has stopped trusting you ... although it seems like maybe you all trust me again, at least a little." She looked at them all wonderingly. "Like it's gotten better after it got bad. That has never happened before."

"What has happened?" Trevor asked curiously. He noticed Philip also listening intently. "How have your previous Iterations gone?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you ... but it probably doesn't matter anymore. It probably never mattered, since nothing has worked. Any Iteration usually lasts about a year, though sometimes much less -- one was only three months. We have certain missions the Director wants us to try to fulfill, and things we decide to do on our own. The most important rule is that we try something new every Iteration, to create more data for the Director. If we've already tried it, we're never supposed to try it again, unless otherwise Directed, like if the Director thinks one thing we did in a previous Iteration has promise but none of the rest."

"How have your Iterations ended?" Trevor asked.

"Usually catastrophic failure," she said with a depressed sigh. "War, total annihilation, pandemic. But there have also been natural disasters, or natural disasters caused by Traveler meddling. Usually it was just all of us here on the west coast or in Seattle: tsunami one time, a massive chemical leak, a multi-pronged aerial attack."

"And you all go to a consciousness transfer device when you get word the world is about to end again?" he asked. She kind of shrugged and nodded.

"And you always make it?" Philip asked dubiously.

"Not all of us," she said desolately. "Our cohort started with fifty. We're down to thirty-five." She looked unbearably sad.

"Buck up," Trevor said, striding over to her, taking her by the upper arms, and gazing smiling into her face. Everyone was shocked, especially her. "It's okay," he said, folding her into a hug. He saw mouths fall open all around the room."I know you're doing your best. We'll do our best, too. If it can be done, I'm sure we'll do it."

"Why would you do that?" Philip asked him, days later. Despite all she'd confessed and how hopeless and desperate she obviously was, Trevor was still the only one who was close and warm with her; everyone else hardly spoke to her anymore. Some maybe still didn't believe her. Others struggled to trust her because she wasn't who she'd claimed to be. But Trevor suspected in most cases, they just couldn't handle the overwhelming horror of what she'd gone through. What the adults of the future they came from decided to put her through. It was their own actions that made it possible -- necessary -- for her to be here, doing this; she'd said so herself. "We can't be sure she's telling us the whole truth."

"Seems like she is, though, doesn't it?" Trevor said. "But I do know one thing she said is true: she's a kid." Philip squinted miserably. "You forget: I've raised several families over several lifetimes. I know fifteen-year-old girls. She definitely is one."

Philip pressed his face hard with his hands. "How did I not know?" he asked desolately. "How could I have gone on all these months not realizing ...?"

"None of us knew. Not even me. She didn't tell you for a reason. She probably told you up front in some Iteration and you were like you are with her now, keeping your distance. But she wanted you to love her and be willing to have a relationship with her, so she kept it to herself."

"But now that I know, all the signs were there! Was I so selfish that I ...?"

"You need to go easier on yourself, Philip," Trevor declared. "In some ways she acts like a fifteen-year-old. In other ways, she acts even older than me. I'm sure Iterating makes you have to grow up fast."

"I'm horrified at myself," Philip admitted.

"I bet you two never even kissed," Trevor said with that mirth that came of living too long to be able to take much very seriously anymore.

"We didn't."

"Then what do you have to be horrified about? I see why she loves you -- you're a teen girl's dream boyfriend: older, handsome, sweet, troubled, safe. Decent. That's all any girl wants. That's what they're looking for in the boys they love in those magazines with the boy bands and idols on them. It's what they need. It helps them grow up and learn how to have a relationship between equals when they're ready. Unfortunately, many of them fall victim to boys who aren't decent and respectful like you were, or the only decent boys they can find are in their imaginations. You're performing an important service, Phil," he said, slapping him on the back.

Philip flinched. He was delicate like that. "... Thanks," he said weakly. Sarcastically.

"She sure needs you now if she ever did, though," Trevor said. "Eight Iterations, point of no return, best friend dead ... she needs all the friends she can get."

"So what was I really?" Philip asked with all the self-reproach only he could muster. "A father figure? An older brother?"

"You were her boyfriend! Just like you thought." Philip slumped. Trevor grabbed his backpack and headed out the door to go to the high school Trinity would never get to experience. If only he could trade places with her, he gladly would.

Anything to save a kid from having to go through this. No one consulted him about the idea of an Iterator program involving children back when they first thought it up, but he'd have vocally told them that no matter what happened, they shouldn't do it. Let volunteers Iterate, not little kids.

Once he saw the fifteen-year-old in her, it was all he could see. If there was one thing he knew about kids, it was that deep down, they were all the same. They all wanted to please adults. They wanted people to be nice to them. They wanted to do well. It took him a lifetime or two to get the hang of it, but after that, he was a great parent, and all it took was having faith that kids would do their very best. If it seemed otherwise, you just had to ask about their motivations, and soon it would become clear they were trying to do what you wanted, even if the way they ended up doing it was misguided. Actually, everyone was like that. Everyone was a kid, to Trevor.

But Trinity was as full of simple passion and energy as any fifteen-year-old girl, once he was able to break through the fragile shell she'd developed over the years of difficult hard work and tragedy. Once she got used to being invited to do it, she loved sitting on his lap, the two of them cuddling, talking about anything and everything. He'd missed this! Young teen girls were exuberant and mercurial and always ready to throw themselves into fun, even this child who had been forced to spend her life training to save the world. It had been decades since he got to cuddle thus with such a girl. Everyone should, was his opinion. The world would be a better place, if everyone let themselves enjoy the simple pleasure of listening to a teen girl tell all about her peers, her fantasies, her favorite entertainment, her latest adventures, the most up-to-date fashions, boys who were cute and boys who sucked, and everything else that consumed their attention.

"Grampa," she said one day. Philip, getting himself some food, smirked as he listened, ghosting around the perimeter of Ops like he usually did these days, now that Trevor had moved in with them to help Trinity better. He'd been thinking of moving in with Philip soon, anyway, and now he had the best imaginable reason. If the future had sunk as low as to implement the Iterator program, humanity must be at the brink. Trinity and the other Iterators were already here, doing their jobs. It was too late to save them from that fate. All Trevor could do now was try to help them succeed so they could stop Iterating as soon as possible.

"Yes?"

"If I'd told you at the very beginning of my Iteration about -- about everything ... would you have believed me? And would you keep it secret?"

"You thinking of doing that next time around?"

She nodded.

"Good! I think you should. So just say this. I'm going to tell you something I've never told anyone else, so I'll know you could only have learned it from me in some other Iteration, okay?"

She nodded eagerly.

"Tell me ...." He thought, remembered back to the first time he met Trinity and what his initial impression of her was, what she indeed could have said to make him believe immediately. "Tell me my first impression of you was correct: that you're a teenage girl, and that the thing I always feared would happen did, that the future went and did the bad thing."

He watched her committing it to memory, something she did with extraordinary skill. It had made all of them -- even Philip -- think she was some version of a Historian, but after memorizing a thing, she could just as easily forget it, which poor Philip never could do. Trevor still saw him flush as he remembered something he shared with or confided in Trinity, believing they were both grownup equals. He was such a kid, still embarrassed by something as small as treating a kid as an adult. Trinity had to kill herself in nearly every Iteration in order to Iterate, she once confided to Trevor at a whisper. She'd killed friends for the same purpose. She'd watched the world end over and over. She'd seen it all. She wasn't to be treated as a child. Anyway, there was no shame in treating kids with equal respect to that which one had for adults.

She'd once killed herself right in front of Philip, which she desperately regretted, afraid he would see it in a vision of another timeline and be traumatized again and again. "But there was no time!" she insisted. "Shin was almost out of range."

"Well, if Philip ever sees it and asks about it, you can explain. I'm sure he'll understand."

"Will he, though?" she asked glumly, watching him skulk in the corner. "He hates me now."

"It's not you," he said. "Anytime someone acts like that, it's themselves they're mad at. Okay? He's mad at himself for not figuring out you were really a kid."

"I'm not a kid!" she protested.

"I mean, a teenager," he corrected apologetically, and she was reluctantly mollified.

"I worked so hard to make sure he never found out! I wanted to tell him so bad it hurt! But I couldn't, because then I knew he'd have nothing to do with me."

"Give him time," Trevor suggested. "I think, if the world doesn't end first, he'll work it out with himself and come around."

She watched Philip intently where he lurked in the shadows. Trevor had spent hours being regaled by Trinity with details about all the things that made Philip perfect. It had given him a new respect for the man. "I wish I could help him," she sighed. "He used to let me help him. He suffers so much. I used to be able to make him feel better."

"You suffer, too," Trevor said. It always startled her when he said things like this. All her life, her own suffering had been made out to be so irrelevant, she seldom thought of it. "And I know he liked being able to help you feel better, too."

Chapter Text

Ayanokouji watched 0099 look over his results after his latest training session disguised as play on the computer module. The other kids thought it really was just play, on the only toys they had, but Ayanokouji had figured out early on through observing 0099 and the other trainers that this was not play, it was training. Recently, the trainers had started letting each module display rankings of every child in the cohort, as well as overall rank. Out of 100, Ayanokouji lingered near the bottom of the overall rankings, at 95. He didn't crack the top ten on any module, though he was aces at the difficult computer games they were allowed to play, especially chess, which didn't impress the trainers, as they only cared about the modules. Trinity, on the other hand, was good at everything except combat. She ranked almost last at that, but she was always in first or second place in the overall rankings, and in the top five at several modules.

0099 looked at him, noticed him watching her. He saw the disappointment on her face. "I know you can do better," she said, ruffling his hair as she walked away.

He couldn't, though. And why?? They'd all been told they'd had their genes specially selected and assembled to create the best, smartest, most talented humans ever made. Supposedly, every one of them was better at all these things than any other human ever born. Even Ayanokouji was supposed to be better at them than any other human. But even among the best and smartest humans, there had to be some that were better than others, evidently.

Adults were always needing fresh new bodies as theirs got old or sick. When they took your body, it killed you. Only fifty from their cohort of one hundred would get to go back to the twenty-first century to try to save the world. Ayanokouji would do whatever it took to stay alive. So the solution was obvious: begin to eliminate his competition. Then he would continue to be one of the greatest humans ever created.

Trinity was the clear first choice. Since she had no skill in combat, she should be easy to kill.

She was always with her best friend Shin. They'd been best friends for as long as Ayanokouji could remember. Shin was always number one at combat. So Ayanokouji would have to wait until they were apart to kill her.

Also, he would have to figure out how to do it. Poison? He was afraid of accidentally poisoning himself. Accident? He was only four and unable to lift heavy things. It would be hard to set up, harder not to get caught and overwritten. Anyway, there just wasn't much that could be used to kill someone in the dome. If he was an adult and a scientist or in manufacture, he would have access to chemicals or heavy equipment, but for now there was very little around. There wasn't even enough fabric to form a strong noose. He would have to kill her with his bare hands.

He caught her alone in the bathroom and jumped her. She shrieked; he covered her mouth. This was already harder than he'd anticipated; she was slightly bigger than him. They grappled. She was the worst in the cohort at combat, right? But she was holding her own. In the end, she pinned him, his legs with her legs, his arms with her arms, breathing hard, looking down at him victoriously.

"That was fun!" she declared, releasing him as she got up. "Thank you for helping me learn combat. I think I'm bad at it because I'm afraid to hurt someone, so when you started it, it made it easy for me!"

He scrambled to his feet, also breathing hard, staring at her. He had no antipathy toward her. Killing her was merely a means to an end. In fact, he admired her tremendous skill. And combat, too?? She was amazing. "Is there something I can help you learn, too?" she asked then innocently.

He might not do well at any of the modules, but there was a skill in him unrecognized by the trainers: he was able to assess any situation quickly, and figure out how to use it to his advantage, a skill necessitated by the threat he perceived to his life due to his lack of other skills. Would she really be able to help him do better at the modules? If so, it only made sense to mine her for any help he might be able to get from her as he sought a better way to kill her. He nodded once, and she grinned.

It wasn't that she'd never offered to help any of the other kids. It was that usually her help was rejected with a sneer -- their pride getting in the way of reaching their full potential. Ayanokouji had no such pride. Trinity just seemed happy to get to talk to someone who didn't reject her. That's why she and Shin were friends: he was the same kind of person.

Ayanokouji asked to learn Encoding first. One of the most valued skills, she raced through each level with ease. He wasn't as bad at it as at other things. Maybe he could take her place as their Encoder if he learned all she knew and then eliminated her.

"It's really just mental imaging," she explained. "If you can get good at that part, the rest comes easily. Also, if I didn't do well at a level the first time, I do it again until it's easy, then I move on to the next one."

That was a good idea, one he'd somehow never thought of, he supposed because all the other kids refused to repeat a level. Now he was realizing that was also due to their useless pride. He would start over every module from the beginning with this in mind. "Then I want to start from the beginning," he said.

She set the module to start from the very beginning, and he sat down inside it. She sat cross-legged facing him, only a few inches away. She was close, and neither Shin nor any adults were in the room ... but no, he had to wait to kill her. "The first part just teaches mental imaging. Watch the screen to see how you're doing. It's biofeedback. You can learn how to focus the image in your mind so the imager can read it."

"But what does that have to do with Encoding?" he interrupted impatiently. "Encoding is translating human experience into numbers, right? So the Director can analyze them?"

"I think so ...," she said vaguely.

She didn’t even know?? She was dumb. Ayanokouji had always thought so. Utterly artless when it came to human relationships, other kids were always making her cry, and she never learned how to protect herself from their cruelty. When they were all being punished, sometimes she'd sit there singing songs, driving everyone crazy, as if she was too dumb to realize they were supposed to be suffering. Were suffering. Maybe only someone that dumb could do well at the modules. She just took their spoon-feeding and never thought about the bigger picture. Ever. In five short years, they would have to be fully trained to go back to the twenty-first and save the world! She was already four! Had she never once thought about any of this?

"How do you not know?" he asked, frustrated.

"I haven't gotten that far. I'm only to the part where I'm learning the shorthand the Director can read." She saw his annoyance, and seemed only to be able to come up with this to say to try to remedy it, as if it could help: "I'm excited to learn how it works when I get to that part, though!"

"But I want to learn Encoding," he insisted. "I need to learn it as soon as possible. Mental imaging is just mental imaging; it's not Encoding."

"Oh. But everything we have to learn builds on something we learned before, though, right? So you have to learn the simpler stuff first and get good at it, before you can become good at what comes next. So try to get really good at mental imaging! Because you have to be good at it to do any of the rest."

He sat back in the module and took deep breaths. Patience. Maybe it was as simple as that. Maybe that was the special skill that made her good at so many things: patience. And no pride. He already had no pride. So if he learned patience ... could he be as good as her?

No. He watched her closely thereafter, both when she was teaching him and when she wasn't. She was simply a natural at nearly everything. So he would have to do as the other kids were doing and pick his specialty. She might be able to ace every module, but most of the other kids worked on simply getting very good at one or two.

He asked the other kids how they picked which one they would focus on. The answer most frequently given was whichever one they enjoyed the most. That would do him no good. He didn't enjoy any of them. Learning any of that was only a means to an end for him. He looked for the module with the lowest overall scores, the one no one seemed to be doing particularly well at, and focused on becoming the best at that one.

He did, however, make some headway in learning how to kill. Everyone had access to the sum total of human knowledge on any of a number of computers around the dome. He went to the one on the far side of the dome from where they lived and trained so hopefully it wouldn't be traced back to him, and researched how to kill someone, only to discover it was surprisingly difficult. Almost nothing was guaranteed except a gun, and then only if you shot the right parts. Poison was a dangerous option, because most poisons were detectable during autopsy. It was hard to strangle someone or otherwise kill them with your bare hands; he'd have to wait to try that one until he was older and stronger. Still, he managed to collect a few methods that might work on Trinity, and he deepened his knowledge about them whenever he could steal a few minutes to go over there and do research.

"Ayanokouji," said 0098 one day as he waited his turn in his chosen module. He looked up at her expressionlessly. "Could you come with me, please?"

He looked around nervously as she led him into a room away from the other kids. Was this it? Had they already decided he was useless to the program and decided to overwrite him? Was there any way to escape? He would keep an eye out for one, but the truth was, in a dome, they would catch him eventually. He couldn't wait until he got to the twenty-first and he had an entire world to roam.

The other trainers were in the room when he got there. He backed toward the door when he saw them, but 0098 shut and locked the door behind him. 0097 gestured him to a monitor. "Ayanokouji, is this your research?"

And there it was, plain as day, everything he'd looked up on how to commit murder. He kept his expression neutral as best he could. He'd have to get better at that. He was breathing noticeably fast.

"I'll take that as a yes," 0097 went on. "Who were you planning to kill?" When Ayanokouji said nothing, 0097 went on, "You're not necessarily in trouble. You're only four. Kids your age do things without thinking them through sometimes, and you are all geniuses, so we're not surprised you were able to get farther along at this research than an ordinary child could. We just want to understand your reasoning. But if you refuse to tell us, you will be punished. So, who were you planning to kill?"

"Trinity," he said immediately.

"Why?"

"Because I'm bad at everything and she's the best at everything, so ...."

"You were eliminating competition," 0098 guessed. Ayanokouji nodded. "You're that desperate to Iterate?"

"I'm that desperate not to get overwritten!" he said. "I'll do whatever it takes not to die!"

"Why would be believe you were going to be overwritten?," 0096 asked, confused. "You know murder is one of the only crimes that could lead to that. Whether you're selected to be an Iterator or not, the plan was to send you back to the twenty-first. It's only a question of whether you would go as an Iterator or as a regular Traveler."

Ayanokouji smirked faintly. "No, I saw what happened to I-089, I-032, I-058, before the rest of the cohort got sent back to the twenty-first. You overwrote them. They're still here, but they're not who they were."

0098 knelt before him. "Ayanokouji, all of you kids are the result of decades of genetic research and manipulation. We would never overwrite you just because you failed out of the program. We send the bottom fifty back to the twenty-first as regular Travelers. Their bodies are then empty, no consciousness left in them. Then we transfer another consciousness into their body, someone who needs a new one. We aren't killing anyone."

"But my brother," he said, and he saw their faces darken. "You did overwrite him. I watched him scream."

"We did," 0096 admitted. "Because he committed a High Crime against the Grand Plan. He tried to kill you when you weren't even yet two! He tried to destroy one of the precious tools we created to try to save humanity, and all because he didn't want anyone else to have the same DNA as him. He sabotaged all the other embryos that share your DNA, as well. There is no place for someone like him in the dome or in the twenty-first."

"I also tried to commit murder."

"You researched it. That's different." So they didn't know he'd tried already to carry out his plan. He wouldn't enlighten them.

"Self-defense has always been the acceptable defense for killing someone," 0099 went on. "You were only trying to save your own life. Ayanokouji, we've always known surviving an attempt on your life at such a young age would likely have an impact on your psyche." Ayanokouji said nothing. His brother making an attempt on his life was far less traumatic for him than seeing his brother killed for the crime. He could understand his brother's motivations, but the adults were capricious, merciless, and self-righteous. His brother was filled with jealousy and desire; they had no feeling as they took the life of the person he looked like more and more every day. It was the adults, following their so-called laws, that he truly feared.

"I am concerned, however, that you were under the impression we killed those in the bottom fifty in the previous cohort," 0097 said. "I guess we'd better have a talk with your entire cohort to make sure no one else is laboring under the same misconception you were."

"They aren't," he said, tired and frustrated. All this time, all this effort, all for nothing?? And he almost killed Trinity, the only person his age who'd ever been nice to him! The Iterator who was so good at everything that she might actually be able to save the world. Why was he so bad at everything?? He would have to learn a lot more before he ever did something so rash again. His ignorance and carelessness had almost cost him his life. "I was the only one who noticed how those people in the previous cohort changed personalities and when."

"You seem very observant," 0099 said shrewdly. He said nothing. "So ... we have a proposal for you," she went on. He looked up, immediately suspicious once again. "You have no particular aptitude for any of the modules ... but we are in need of an Assassin, a specialty you seem ... uniquely suited to. The Director is incapable of killing anyone directly, but he has concluded the need to gather data regarding what effect the deaths of any number of individuals might have on history is vital to our chances of success. The deaths probably wouldn't be permanent, as once you Reiterated, everything would be reset back to how it was at the beginning of your previous Iteration, if that helps."

"It doesn't. It makes no difference to me whether they reset. Yes, I'm interested."

Trinity had decided Ayanokouji was her friend. Now she invited him to eat with her and Shin at every meal, and sat with him whenever the whole cohort gathered together, garrolously regaling him with innumerable minutiae about her life and her friend's, only nothing happened in their lives. They were the outcasts of the entire cohort. Shin had been strange and silent ever since some incident involving his elder brother that transpired when he was two. Meanwhile, Trinity had no social skills. She treated everyone as her best friend and cried when they were mean to her. She was sad that they all refused to hang out with her. She was the oddball geek no one wanted anything to do with. That she was so good at everything clinched it -- not only was she a hopeless geek, but they all had cause to be wildly envious of her? The other kids hardly gave her the time of day.

At first, Ayanokouji was concerned their unpopularity would rub off on him, but the fact was that he was equally unpopular, considered the resident creep, a reputation he would probably never be able to shed, at least with the kids he grew up with. It wasn't like he had any social skills to utilize to change this perception of him, either.

In time, he realized he had nothing to lose from the association, and much to gain. Shin had been consistently number one at combat since they were four, never losing the top spot. Ayanokouji would learn everything he could about combat from him, and everything he could about everything else from Trinity. Besides, there was safety in numbers.

So he could associate with them and be considered their friend as long as Trinity never figured out he'd tried to kill her. Actually, knowing her, it probably wouldn't make a difference.

The only person she had figured out was truly not her friend was I-182 -- Manabe, her main bully -- but there were several people who toyed with her or used her for their own purposes, and Ayanokouji watched it all happen. If you knew what motivated a person, what they wanted, you had power over them ... if you could give it to them or take it away. He was beginning to see his four-year-old self as embarrassingly simple-minded. Murder shouldn't be the first solution to a problem; it should be the last. People were useful. If they were dead, you couldn't use them anymore.

The more time he spent around Shin and Trinity, the more useful he realized they could be, and the more keen he was to keep them alive. He foiled countless attacks and detailed plans to bully his two associates. In a situation where only the fifty most excellent students would be selected as Iterators, competition was finally heating up as other students began to figure out what Ayanokouji had known for years: that if you weren't good enough, your only option was to eliminate the competition, though the rest didn't go so far as to attempt murder. Many of them realized that psychological attacks were as damaging and weakening as physical ones, if not more so. Unrelenting attacks on someone's particular weaknesses had measurable results, as once-excellent students started going down in the rankings.

The trainers allowed this, Ayanokouji suspected, because mental fortitude was considered another important facet of success in the twenty-first. He considered this short-sighted of them, as it soon became clear to him that mental strength had nothing to do with it. Every person was equally vulnerable, not just those who demonstrated excellence. The only reason they seemed to be weaker was because they were more likely to be targeted. If the trainers wanted mediocrity, they were doing a great job.

Ayanokouji wanted the Iterator program to be full of not mediocrity but greatness, because his desire, the thing that motivated him, was to save the world so that he could one day escape all this and find a peaceful place, where people weren't always stabbing people in the back or trying to destroy them or forcing them to compromise their very souls. Just a good, peaceful place where he could finally feel safe, and maybe, someday, even happy. A place where twin older brothers didn't try to kill him in his sleep. That was all he'd ever wanted, and Shin and Trinity might just be able to help him create it.

Ayanokouji had never been able to tell whether Shin considered him a friend too or not. He all but never said a word. He always did what he was told. He never caused any trouble. He was a thoughtful, careful instructor when it came to combat, freely sharing all his insights and skills with Ayanokouji, just as Trinity always did. When Ayanokouji finally asked him why he was willing to be so generous, Shin seemed baffled. "Because I want us to win," he said.

That wasn't all of it, though, Ayanokouji began to gather. There was something he longed for, something he, like Ayanokouji, believed would only be available to him if they succeeded at their mission. Sometimes Ayanokouji caught him staring through the window into the lab, watching the Geneticists working with the embryos that would make up the cohort after theirs, to be implanted just three years before their own cohort was sent back to the twenty-first. He wanted to destroy the embryos that shared his DNA, Ayanokouji figured, just like his brother, especially when he once said while looking longingly through the window, "I wish they would hurry up and implant them."

"Why?" Ayanokouji asked dispassionately.

"I can't wait to meet him."

That seemed odd. "Why?" Ayanokouji asked, a bit of the emotion he tried so hard to keep out of his voice coloring his tone.

"Because ... maybe he'll be just like my big brother. Maybe, if my big brother survives long enough on his missions, and I do, too, we can all three be together in the twenty-first. We're all far apart in age now, but in the twenty-first, we'd all be close to the same age! 0098 said that'll be the first time that's ever happened in human history, that siblings could catch up to each other in age."

Huh. So some people actually liked their siblings. Strange. Ayanokouji had never put any thought into the embryos his brother destroyed that could have been more siblings to him. He couldn't imagine caring about a bunch of embryos, or whose DNA they had. How could Ayanokouji manipulate Shin using this information? He couldn't think of a way. But what they each wanted was similar, so maybe they could work together to manifest it.

Chapter Text

When the cohort turned six, a new punishment was introduced to them. "If you do something bad enough," 0096 told them, "your consciousness will be transferred out of your bodies for a while before it's transferred back in. A little time-out."

Ayanokouji got it instantly. This was early practice for having to Iterate. He'd heard the adults talking about how fear of having their consciousness transferred over and over was interfering with the first cohort's goals. The vast majority of Travelers only had to do it once. Everyone was scared that there would be a misfire, their consciousness sent to nothing, lost in the ether. You were leaving your body behind, after all. One's consciousness automatically fought that; it was like dying, even when you logically knew soon you'd have another body to inhabit.

Only Iterators had to do it again and again. Several members of the first cohort had refused to Iterate again after doing it once or twice, threatening the mission. The trainers were talking about what to do about it, and finally decided the only solution was to try to get the kids used to it from a younger age. So Ayanokouji considered it folly to cast it as a punishment. Why didn't they present it as a reward, if they wanted the kids to no longer fear it? Probably because it was so unpleasant, no one would be fooled for long.

Ayanokouji was the first to receive this punishment. Trinity was furious. His crime was punishing bullies for their bullying. He got punished and they didn't?? She complained bitterly to the trainers, who were unmoved.

Ayanokouji felt no outrage. There was no point. He would have to be more careful from now on, though. He'd have to let Shin and Trinity suffer more. He'd have to carefully observe how much damage he thought they might sustain from one attack versus another and only protect them from the attacks he thought might threaten his own goals.

He looked over at Shin and Trinity at the side of the room, watching his punishment, along with most of the other kids in his cohort. He saw smiles on many of the crueler kids' faces. So his suffering would be bringing some people pleasure today. At least he saw no pleasure on the faces of the trainers; they looked pretty worried, actually.

For himself, he was mostly curious. The only kind of suffering this was for him was the fear of a misfire, but they certainly had the TELL of the corpse of the recently deceased they were transferring his consciousness into, and like they'd told him, he was valuable property for the Iterator program. They seemed like they were being very careful not to lose his consciousness ... only then they did.

He heard their frantic voices. "Where did he go? Where is he??" He could see them prodding the corpse, taking its vitals. They were terrified. He saw this for only a second or two, then he saw the ceiling. Trinity's anxious face came into view, the faces of other kids beyond. "Shin?" she asked anxiously. "Shin, what's wrong??"

Soon, Ayanokouji was in the infirmary, Shin was there beside him, or ... with him. He was right there. He was inside him. No, it was Ayanokouji who was inside Shin. What ...? How ...?

He saw a memory of a boy who looked just like Shin but a few years older, in the consciousness transfer device, smiling at him, uttering reassuring words. Their cohort had been invited to watch the previous cohort get sent back to the twenty-first century, so they could get an idea what it would be like when they went. Shin's twin older brother, Ayanokouji realized. That must be who he was seeing in the consciousness transfer device. Then suddenly he was coming closer -- no, it was he himself running toward him, grabbing his hand, at the moment when they activated the device ... and this same thing happened. They lost his older brother's consciousness, and Shin fell to the floor, face-down this time, his brother inside him, only that time, they realized immediately what must have happened. They put Shin right into the device, discovered the two consciousnesses inside him, let the Director sort the one from the other, successfully sent his older brother's consciousness back to the twenty-first, then gave Shin the lecture to end all lectures about consciousness-transfer safety as he wailed about missing his brother.

That was the event that had left him strange and silent ever since, and it was all down to one thing Ayanokouji could see clearly now, and only because he was there with him inside his mind: having had his brother inside him, so briefly, all he could long for thereafter was for him to be back there once again, because to Shin, it had been an experience of such love and oneness that being alone inside himself felt wrong and unbearably lonely afterward. He and his brother had loved each other very much. It was the first time Ayanokouji had ever felt this feeling people called love, and only via Shin's memories, in which now he, too, drifted in a state of bliss. Yes. This was a feeling for which Ayanokouji had always longed without even knowing it existed. He felt a surge of recognition and sameness in Shin at his thought, total agreement.

It was hours before they were able to figure out what was wrong with Shin and where Ayanokouji's consciousness had gone and that the two events were connected, and then only because Trinity, hovering over Shin's motionless body, remarked how it was just like that time.

0099 started at that. "Could it be ...?"

"No!" said 0097. "We entered the TELL correctly."

"Still, it's worth checking out," 0099 said, and over his protests, carried Shin's body to the consciousness transfer device and pushed some buttons on it. "He's in there," she gasped with relief, setting Ayanokouji's body on the floor in front of the device, double-checking his Time, Elevation, Latitude, and Longitude, and immediately transferring Ayanokouji back into his own body. Both boys stirred at the same moment, sitting up and looking at each other, and in Shin's eyes, Ayanokouji saw ... himself. He saw that Shin knew him now, understood him as no one else ever had, or probably ever could.

They had always sat silently together, but before, it was because they didn't understand each other at all. Now it was because nothing needed to be said. Everything was already known between them.

0099 had some idea this had happened. "Quantum entanglement," she muttered, comparing consciousness scans of each of them that she now took once a week. "It's how consciousness transfer technology works in the first place, and now ...." She looked at them with anxious concern, while behind her, 0095 looked at them with calculating eyes. 0095 had an idea. So Ayanokouji wasn't surprised when he and Shin were approached by the trainers, asking if they'd be willing to help them do some experiments to better understand why Ayanokouji's consciousness had gone into Shin's body.

"You don't need to experiment," Shin told them. "It happened because we're friends." He looked at Ayanokouji. "Good friends," he added.

"But you weren't touching when it happened, like you were when it happened with your brother. It's not a surprise that your consciousnesses became entangled when you were touching your brother at the moment he was being transferred to the twenty-first. It is a surprise that it happened when you were standing twenty feet away," said 0095.

"I felt myself being pulled to him," Ayanokouji offered. "I felt it going toward the cadaver, but then it's like a vacuum sucked me over in his direction, instead."

"This was not a conscious decision on your part?" 0098 clarified. Shin and Ayanokouji both shook their heads.

They did experiment, though, transferring multiple people out of their bodies with Shin standing nearby to see if it would happen again, but it didn't, even when they asked him to try to make it happen.

Ayanokouji watched all these experiments. "It would happen if it were Trinity," he finally said.

They tried it, and sure enough, he was right. They tried it multiple times, with both Ayanokouji and Trinity, and it happened every time. Then they tried transferring Trinity's consciousness to a cadaver while Ayanokouji was already inside Shin... and there were the three of them together inside Shin, the brightness of Trinity's spirit enveloped Ayanokouji, absorbed him in its beauty, and suddenly he could see why Shin loved her so: she was that peaceful place Ayanokouji had been trying to get to all his life. Ayanokouji could not resist it; he let himself be absorbed into that beauty with Shin, and suddenly, the three of them were fused together in perfect harmony. Ayanokouji had happily kept himself entirely separate from all other humans before that day. As Ayanokouji was returned back to his body and he tried to sit up, reeling, he knew nothing would ever be the same again.

The trainers didn't notice what all this meant for and did to the three kids and their relationships. They were trying to figure out how to utilize Shin's mysterious ability for the benefit of the Iterator program. After everyone in the cohort had gotten to experience what getting their consciousness transferred felt like and hated it as much as the trainers expected, the trainers told everyone there was potentially an alternative ... but it would require them to overcome their childish prejudices and fully embrace Shin as their friend, who not only would make the transfer process painless (pleasurable, if anything, according to both Ayanokouji and Trinity), but would more than quadruple their chances of successfully Iterating, they estimated, rather than dying before they could each individually make their way to the consciousness transfer device at the end of an Iteration.

So now, other kids were having lunch with them, buddying up to Shin -- not the easiest guy to befriend and win the trust of. Yet the trainers found that if he had spent enough enjoyable time with almost anyone, he would automatically capture their consciousness when it was transferred ... and in this way, nearly the entire cohort went from hostile competitors to the closest of friends, as they spent time together inside Shin and truly got to know one another's souls. They didn't fuse like Ayanokouji, Shin, and Trinity did, but most of them came to understand each other to some extent. Everyone worked together much better after that.

The trainers realized too late what was happening. "This is not good!" 0099 hissed to 0095 in Ayanokouji's hearing. "You realize what this means, don't you? If they lose anyone in their cohort -- anyone at all -- it could destroy morale completely, in an instant."

"Well ... not Kushida or Manabe and her clique," 0095 said dryly. "He has no interest in bonding with those. We might be able to make him bond with the other holdouts before they go back to the twenty-first, but it's the consciousness transfer device or bust for them."

Of course Shin couldn't bond with the bully who had been tormenting him for five years straight, no matter how much she sucked up to him now. As for Kushida, she was undoubtedly afraid of people cottoning on to her true, manipulative nature, which Ayanokouji had figured out some years before but which most still seemed blind to, and she refused to even try.

Chapter Text

There was a big dome-wide celebration the day the new cohort was "born." A new group of trainers took up residence with them in the area used to train the first cohort. Adults in the dome often went to watch, cooing over the "adorable" new arrivals and wondering aloud if this, at last, was the cohort that would provide salvation for humanity, since as with every cohort, the Geneticists had made some improvements over earlier versions of the same embryo. Ayanokouji couldn't feel a thing about the new arrivals, but he did enjoy the party.

It was only when I-221 toddled up to him and tugged on his pantleg that he felt his first emotion about the new cohort: murderous loathing. Why did there need to be a new, "improved" version of Trinity?? Trinity was perfect in every way already. To mess with those genes would be to corrupt the only pure thing he'd ever known. At last, he understood his brother perfectly. He was glad there were no new versions of himself in the next cohort.

In fact, he'd heard the Geneticists talking to the trainers about it. The Geneticists had considered the I-X10 line one of the most promising and were considering trying to recreate it. 0097 had assured them it was "defective," and they were better off starting over from scratch. Perhaps he was in fact defective, Ayanokouji thought, but whatever reason they had for not trying to make another one of him, he was glad for it.

Only seeing Trinity also coo over her mini-me made his homicidal feelings cool at all. She loved playing with little Eri. Shin delighted in sitting and playing with his little brother Shoto, too, so Ayanokouji simply left the room when his impulses threatened to overwhelm him.

Ayanokouji's successor was the Geneticists' most ambitious creation to date, compiling all they'd learned over decades of genetic research to create the ideal human being: Midoriya.

Midoriya had no predecessor to which Ayanokouji had grown attached, so he had no particular antipathy for him. He was a strange and potentially useful new tool. Ayanokouji tried to befriend him. Maybe he could get him to imprint on him as Shin's little brother Shoto had imprinted on him, and steer him in directions useful for Ayanokouji, only one of Midoriya's special traits was that he seemed entirely impossible to corrupt or manipulate from the youngest age, despite being as amiable a kid as one could hope to meet. Ayanokouji walked away from him after his final attempt nevertheless feeling satisfied: Midoriya was like Trinity, purely good. It would be good to have at least one such person in the new cohort, and maybe, if they hadn't fiddled too much with Trinity's genome, two.

Ayanokouji stood with Shin and Trinity, waiting for the module room to be cleared out of little ones running around getting wild. It was the older cohort's turn in there, but the trainers were having trouble rounding up all the toddlers. Ayanokouji didn't even understand the depth of hatred he felt for those babies, until Trinity put it into words: "We haven't even been sent back yet, and we've already been replaced." Every adult in the dome seemed already almost to have forgotten about Ayanokouji's cohort.

Shin was the only one who had some perspective on it: "Seven years from now, when the next cohort is born, those little babies will be feeling the exact same thing we are right now." He turned away and went to the combat training room.

At least as the date approached when they would be sent back to the twenty-first, the adults in the dome starting showing some interest in Ayanokouji's cohort again. The number of adults who stopped him in the halls to give him well-meaning advice were legion. At first he listened, until he realized these adults knew far less about the twenty-first than even he did, and all their advice was based on fantasy and conjecture, so he was able to shut them up by informing them his role was Assassin and required no other skills or information.

The truth was, no one in the dome truly knew what it was like in the twenty-first. No one had ever come back from then. A consciousness could only be transferred if you knew exactly where and when someone had stood so that you had a TELL to transfer the consciousness into, after all. Thus, you could only travel back in time, never forward. You could study innumerable media from the day that survived through the centuries, read every word any Traveler ever wrote about the experience, and still, Ayanokouji knew they would surely be surprised at every turn. He'd seen Traveler teams already there teasing each other about using outdated jargon or anachronistic fashions. Their training on twenty-first century culture was imperfect, but his cohort in particular had so much more important training to prepare them to perform their duties as specialists that their training on the reality of what it was like to be in the twenty-first was cursory at best.

Still, he felt pretty secure about it. The world had always felt foreign and wrong to him. The only refuge he had was his two best friends, so if he had them there with him, he would be all right. Thus, all that remained was to make sure they all three were sent back together.

Trinity was crying when he found her in a storage closet, scraped and bruised. He knew exactly how she ended up in this state, too, because he'd seen the whole thing: it was Manabe and her two cronies. He'd had a whole plan for putting an end to their bullying once and for all.

Unfortunately, his plan had failed, because Manabe was too good at not getting caught. He'd stolen camera equipment and everything to try to catch her in the act, but then she went in the closet, and then he was caught with the camera and punished, and now here he was, hours later, finally breaking Trinity out. Her lips were blue. Even the blood that had dried on her face was bluish. He pulled her out of the closet and held her close to him, trying to warm her up. Soon he realized she would only make him cold, too, so he found Shin, and the two of them sandwiched her between them until her lips returned to their normal color and her tears subsided.

"Why is she so mean??" she wailed.

Neither of them had any answer for this. They sat in the remote hallway holding each other for over an hour. Ayanokouji remembered a time when even a hallway on the edge of the dome like this one would have been used, someone or other passing through, but there were fewer and fewer surviving humans all the time.

“What do you think it’ll be like?” Shin asked eventually. The other two looked at him. “When our consciousnesses finally go back all those centuries? Will it be like it is in old movies? Like, jumping from star to star, a bridge of light through the -- through the galaxy?”

“We’ll be able to see the galaxy when we get back there,” said Trinity, growing sleepy now that she was finally warming up. “We’ll see the Milky Way for the first time.”

“I think it’ll be like it always is when you Arrive back in your body,” said Ayanokouji dispassionately. “You were in one place, then you’re in another.”

“I think it’ll be like Shin said, like the stars,” Trinity said, yawning.

It was dinnertime, and Trinity seemed recovered enough to eat. Ayanokouji was concerned about what would happen to her health to go to sleep still chilled and with no dinner, so they went to the cafeteria and lined up at the yeast vat. Manabe was there with all her equally mean friends. The two groups regarded each other coolly. Measuringly. "I'm going to kill her," Ayanokouji decided.

Trinity gasped. "No! You'll get in so much trouble!"

"They might send you back early for that," Shin agreed.

"They won't. I'm their only Assassin. So I'm the only one of us who can do it."

Ayanokouji watched Manabe talking with her friends, the total confidence of someone who believed they were untouchable. He hated that confidence. No one was untouchable -- at least, not when he was around. If nothing else, he wanted her to have that impressed deeply into her, as she had impressed it so deeply into his friends.

0099 walked right up to them. "Ayanokouji," she said harshly. "What are we going to do with you?? As my student, all your shenanigans reflect poorly on me, you know."

"Sorry," Ayanokouji said dutifully, without emotion.

"Don't send him back early!" Trinity cried. "Please! I can't do it without him!"

"Well, good news then," said 0099. "As of today, it's been decided that you will definitely be on the team, Ayanokouji. You too, Shin." Trinity's face lit up, so excited for them. That was the kind of person she was, even though 0099 didn't include her. To the contrary, 0099 said, "Toughen up, Trinity, so you can go with them."

Ayanokouji stalked Manabe in the hall. Her belief in her own untouchability made it incredibly easy to get her alone. He stood in a doorway, waiting for her to round a corner. He'd kept his eyes on her, so he was startled to see a pair of eyes staring up at him when he glanced down. Ayanokouji put his finger over his lips as he looked down at little Toga. She likewise put her finger over her lips. "Shhh!" she stage-whispered.

"Shhh," he repeated, more quietly, by example. "Our secret," he whispered. The little ones looked up to their big brothers and sisters with unfettered hero-worship. Including her in this secret would have the desired effect. "Be my lookout, at the other end of the hall. Make a robot beep if someone comes. And don't ever tell anyone you saw me here today. I'm invisible."

She nodded, huge-eyed, terribly excited to be a valued member of a conspiracy, and scampered to the end of the hall, keeping careful watch. How useful. He felt proud to know that another Assassin would probably have been thrown off by a potential witness suddenly appearing, whereas he instantly figured out to use it to his advantage. As long as he didn't do the deed in her full view, Toga would defend him to the end, because he was the one who was kind to her. Manabe was mean to all the little ones in the next cohort. If Toga did see him kill her, however, she'd tell the adults everything. This added another layer of complexity to his errand, but he figured the twenty-first would have even more variables to deal with. He couldn't wait to find out, and put all his training into action.

He'd planned to find a way to also neutralize the other Encoder to make it so they had to give Trinity the spot the two of them were competing for, but then he got caught when he killed Manabe. Oh, the threats and moralizing of the trainers: to overwrite him entirely, to harvest his organs for other I-team members' use, to send him back to the twenty-first on a suicide mission. He just waited for the lecture to be over, because he knew that when 0099 told them he and Shin had been guaranteed spots on the I-team, that meant their competition had already been sent back as Tacticians on regular Traveler teams.

There had only ever been two students training for a single specialization, and every single specialization on the I-team was unique and vital. The truth was, there was nothing they could do except transfer his consciousness out of and back into his body again. He tried not to let on how horrific and upsetting the experience was, so as to give them the impression it was an ineffective punishment, but the truth was, life was full of pain, most of it unavoidable. It was better just to take it as it came. That was why it was so important to save Trinity and Shin from it, though: because it deeply hurt them. Changed them. There was some value in sparing them it, even if there was no value in trying to spare himself.

"Have you no respect for the Iterator program at all?? Or even the Grand Plan??" 0097 must really be mad, if he thought it justified to trot out the ultimate accusation, for which any violator paid the ultimate price: to not be totally dedicated to the Grand Plan.

"No, sir, I respect them," Ayanokouji insisted dutifully. People said they couldn't tell when he meant what he said. They said he sounded sarcastic. Even Shin and Trinity often couldn't tell when he meant something, though they trusted that whatever reasons he had for saying what he did were good ones. He meant what he was saying now, with all his heart, but 0097 didn't believe him.

"Listen to you mouthing off, you little shit," he hissed. "All right, I've had it. You're to be permanently transferred into a body that isn't so fresh and young. That healthy young body is wasted on the likes of you."

Ayanokouji's eyes did widen a little at that. It had never occurred to him they could do that. Here, Trinity would have begged, but he'd learned that never did any good. He tried to prepare himself for this unforeseen and dreadful punishment.

"No!" 0099 said. "He needs to be fully functional to accomplish his missions as a specialist!"

"He may well find his body disabled in some Iteration and still have to complete his mission. It'll be good practice for him. Then when he's transferred back to the twenty-first, it'll be like driving a Lamborghini after having to drive a broken-down old ... what were those big cuboids called that they drove around in the late twentieth?"

"'Van'?" 0096 suggested.

"No, that's not quite it," 0097 said. "It was made by the same company that made the bug-shaped cars." All the adults stood around trying to figure out what he was talking about for fully three minutes. And this was why Ayanokouji dismissed and ignored adults except to figure out how to get what he wanted from them: because they were completely, utterly ridiculous. The world was ending, Ayanokouji was about to have to leave his body for the last time, prematurely, and they were talking about twentieth-century transportation manufacturers.

"Anyway," 0099 finally managed to get them back onto the subject at hand, "That's too extreme a punishment for an eight-year-old. He hasn't finished developing! If he lacks a moral foundation, that's on us, not him."

"He's our Assassin," 0095 muttered. "He better lack a moral foundation."

"Give him one more chance," 0099 pled. "If he's caught trying to kill someone again, then okay, but I'm sure just the threat will be sufficient punishment, and he has to finish his training, fully functional! The future depends on it!"

0097 didn't want to let it go. "He didn't try. He succeeded!"

"You'd rather see me suffer than save humanity?" Ayanokouji said. That shut him up. Phew. But Ayanokouji could tell he wouldn't get off so easy next time. He had to be careful.

When the other trainers finally left, 0099 turned to give him a lecture of her own, and this one would stick, because he actually cared about her and her opinion. She held out her hands. "WHY?? Why did you kill her, Ayanokouji??"

"She's been bullying Shin and Trinity for years."

"And MURDER was the answer??"

"I waited all these years and tried every other option first. But killing her would serve two very important purposes."

"You didn't think we'd resuscitate her?" she asked disgustedly. "We have stores of military-grade nanites set aside just to resuscitate any of you no matter what ails you. You know that's how we've been keeping I-118 alive all these years, despite his condition."

"Of course I knew she would be resuscitated. But I did kill her, even if it was only temporary, and that served the first purpose: to make her realize she's not invincible, and that there will be consequences if she continues to torment my friends."

"Hm." She seemed grudgingly impressed. "And the other purpose?"

"To hopefully make you all realize I'm serious when I tell you you need to make her stop bullying my friends. If I took away your precious Data Acquisition Iterator."

"So you realize she's precious."

"I realize her skill is precious."

She leaned down to look him firmly in the eye. "I know we may be training you to be an Assassin, but murder is not the answer to your personal problems! Like 'em, hate 'em, every single member of the I-team is vital! I can't have you going around killing everyone you find inconvenient! Especially not Iterators! Unless that order comes directly from the Director via Trinity's mouth, you NEVER KILL AN ITERATOR. What-- You were chosen for this specialty because you have a different ... internal makeup than the others. But I thought you truly cared about Shin and Trinity. I know you believe in the I-program. I thought you understood the value of human life."

"I do care about these things. Very much."

"Manabe is a human life you're trying to preserve! You've been handed power over life and death, but YOU don't get to be judge, jury and executioner!"

"I do. That's exactly what I get to do."

"It is not! You assassinate likely targets in order to provide the Director with more data! You don't base your choices on your personal feelings! I've told you this time and again!"

"I'm not!" His voice actually rose; very rare. "Our job is to improve the world, right?"

"Yes. Enough to save it."

"Manabe is a harmful presence. Shin and Trinity are good presences. They make the world better; she makes it worse! I'm TRYING to make the world a better place! I'm doing what you taught me!"

She subsided, regarding him with that undeniable affection she felt for all of them, and finally ruffled his hair. She crouched beside where he sat. "Okay. But you have to look at the bigger picture. The older you get, the more you realize that it's not black and white like that. You think I like 0097? Can't stand the guy!" She smiled at him conspiratorially; he was able to grin faintly back. "But he is a BRILLIANT statistician. He has a sixth sense for correlation and causation. The entire I-program would be lost without him. And when my daughter died, he was the one who said the words that actually brought a little healing to my heart, because he lost his son and he knew what I needed to hear. No one's all one thing. There's good in every person. Every single one. So man up, be a professional. You don't have to like someone to work with them. Do your job and let Manabe do her job."

"She has to stop bullying my friends. She's hurting them in ways they can't take. They're already about to crack under the pressure."

0099 sighed and sat on the floor next to him. She looked around the room, contemplating. "I know," she said at last. "Trinity is an incredibly talented Encoder, but she's mentally weak, and if an Iterator requires nothing else, it's mental strength. We may have to choose her, anyway. We need to pick the one who can get the job done, so do we pick the one who can actually do the job, or the one who will survive it?" She looked sad, as sad as Ayanokouji always felt.

"You pick the one who can actually do it," he said. "Because then at least they can do it a few times, until they crack under the pressure and cease being able to function, because then you get a few Iterations out of them. You can't get even one Iteration out of the one who can't do the job."

0099 smiled. "I love that logical little mind of yours," she told him. He said nothing, letting no feelings show on his face, which, after years of practice, he was finally getting pretty good at. Logically, you took the one who was less good. They could still get the job done, even if it took them longer, and then they could do the job in every Iteration, getting better over time. He wasn't being logical. He was being self-serving, but then, he always was. "We keep hoping her competition will get better at Encoding, but we're running out of time, so you may get your wish. Trinity may be our Encoder. But if so, I'm counting on you and Shin to hold her together when we get back there, because it'll be rough."

"I thought the twenty-first was better than here in every way."

"It's not the twenty-first that's hard; it's Iterating. It's living the same year over and over again, watching everyone you've come to love die and forget you, then having to do it all over again, start all over again, knowing ... knowing you'll probably fail again."

He contemplated this news. "I don't think that'll be a problem for me, as long as I have Shin and Trinity."

"And that's why you have to hold her together. All of you have to hold each other together."

"Then you have to make Manabe stop bullying them."

"I hoped having to figure out how to fight back might make them stronger."

"It's not a kind of strength Trinity possesses. You may as well kill her now instead. It would be more merciful."

"None of you are getting out of this that easy."

How well Ayanokouji knew this. He'd been resuscitated after both his suicide attempts, like every other Iterator who attempted it -- at least ten that he knew of -- then punished severely, for Crimes Against the Grand Plan: Attempted Murder of an Iterator. Even his life was not his own. Now that Shin attracted consciousnesses to him no matter where they were supposed to land, Ayanokouji suspected if he were to try again, his consciousness would simply go into Shin, then there would never be any escape. Sometimes, he wished as fervently for the end of the world as he usually did for its salvation. It was his only hope of an end to this.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a minute or two. "You came immediately to Manabe's rescue, but you left Trinity to freeze to death in a closet?" he finally asked.

"We'd have rescued her, too, if it came to that."

"So you must be monitoring our vitals. How?"

"That's for us to know and you to hopefully not find out before you go back to the twenty-first. So can we talk about that pathetic excuse for an assassination attempt? No gloves? A shiv?? Why didn't you just monogram your name on a blade?"

"Where would I find the material for gloves?"

"Plus you did it on video??"

"No. I made sure it wasn't on video."

"It may as well have been! You round a corner out of sight of the camera and within a minute she's dead?? Don't think humans in the twenty-first are dumber than the ones you know. They'd have caught you just as fast."

"It was my first successful attempt."

He didn't miss her affectionate look. The pride in her eyes as she took in his dispassionate words. "And?" she asked curiously.

"It's harder to kill a person than I thought."

The pride disappeared. "Because ... your conscience bothered you?"

"No." She relaxed. The smile returned to her face. "Because I'm discovering the human body is designed to protect nearly everything vital, and self-defense is an automatic reaction," he went on. "So Manabe was more trouble than nearly any twenty-firster because of all her combat training, but they'll all thrash."

0099 chuckled. "Yes. So what will you do differently next time?"

"Disable before I kill, if I have to do it up close. But hopefully next time I'll have a gun."

"Hopefully you will," she breathed, and enclosed him in a tight embrace.

Ayanokouji's temporary assassination of Manabe had the desired effect. What happened off-camera was what he'd sought in the first place: He made sure he saw the understanding that she was not after all untouchable in her eyes before they dimmed.

She left him and his friends well alone now. 0099 would be dismayed if she understood the lesson he actually took from all this, but it was the same lesson he always took. It was a question of weighing outcomes, choosing between options. Sometimes all options were bad. It was only a question of what you were willing to sacrifice or suffer in order to get what you wanted, what you were willing to let go in order to keep something else. He got everything he wanted, so in his mind, his assassination attempt had been a total success. Plus, he learned more about how not to get caught during his lesson afterward with 0099. And she'd confided that Trinity's place on the I-team was almost guaranteed. What a good day that was.

"You are the Intel team from now on, okay?" 0099 told them all for the umpteenth time. "Regular Traveler teams must not know that they're living through the same year over and over again; it could destroy morale. So you must never use the word 'Iterator' or 'Iteration,' understand? Anyone who gets caught using that word will be transferred out of their bodies again, no exceptions."

Yeah, they were having to do that more and more, to get them used to it. Ayanokouji was starting to like it, to like the feel of getting to be back in his own body once more, because soon, he would have to leave it for good, probably taken over once his consciousness was gone by a Programmer; they were always needing new bodies so they could stay alive and maintain the Director. Human bodies just didn’t last that long anymore, and no one’s consciousness was more important than a Programmers’. But he hated the Programmers, hated the thought of one of them owning his body after that day. He hated everything about that coming day. But he hated everything about the current day more.

Chapter Text

Ayanokouji stood in line at the consciousness transfer device. It was finally time to go back to the twenty-first. They'd spent a great part of the past year practicing how they would handle the attack that had historically killed their hosts. It wouldn't be easy, dozens of drones attacking them from above, coming out of nowhere.

"The first time will be the hardest," 0099 told them, "and that's too bad, because it'll also be the one for which you have the least time to prepare. This first time, you all have to Arrive sequentially, but thanks to Shin, you can Arrive milliseconds apart, so even the last to Arrive will still have ten seconds to prepare, and for the last twenty Arrivals, you can just use your sidearms, as we practiced."

Even Manabe and her cronies were nervous. Everyone was terribly nervous, all except Ayanokouji and Shin. Shin was hoping against hope his brother might still be alive. Even as Shin stood there looking at the consciousness transfer device as if it was his salvation, bringing him to the side of his long-lost brother, his younger brother stood watching them alongside all one hundred members of the new cohort, and his younger brother was wailing about missing Shin. It must be something in the genes. The rest of the little ones were pretty calm, except Mineta was goofing off, as per usual, and Bakugo was kicking up some sort of ruckus.

Shin laid next to the consciousness transfer device, unable to function after the first consciousness went into him. They entered the TELL of the host, but most of the consciousnesses went into Shin. Ayanokouji got right in the device when his turn arrived. He'd spent more time in it than any other human ever had, they told him. It was familiar to him, equal parts remarkable and horrifying.

Then he was there inside Shin, and he could feel Shin was relieved to have Ayanokouji there, his best friend, alongside so many other consciousnesses from their cohort. The mood inside Shin was tense but jubilant. Excitement started spreading among them all, and soon every one of them was consumed with it, eager to finally begin the mission they'd spent their lives preparing for.

Ayanokouji saw the inside of the consciousness transfer device through Shin's eyes when they finally put him in it, and then ....

He was standing on uneven ground under bright light. He staggered. What was this stuff under his feet? Dust? His clothes were tight. He seemed able to shake off the shock of all the newness around him before anyone else. He scanned the waiting Traveler teams, looking for the one that would be his: Hall, Hall .... Precious seconds passed before he finally spotted them, ran to them, took the ground-to-air weapon from them and trained it on the sky ... at exactly the angle from the sun he'd trained to, only the sun was so bright, it was interfering with the precision of his aim. It was so bright! Ridiculously, painfully bright. How on earth had humans evolved under a sun they couldn't even look at?! There was no time to think about that now.

All the Iterators and all the watching Traveler teams took aim at the drones as they came out of the sky. Bombs exploded all around. High-speed missiles hit the ground. He saw someone who looked like the host Shin was supposed to inhabit fall to the ground. This was already a total disaster.

Less so than what happened historically, he thought as the dust cleared once the last drone was finally destroyed. There were many casualties, especially among the watching Traveler teams, but also among the just-Arrived Iterators. Ayanokouji ran to the side of Shin's host. "Shin!" he shouted, shaking him. "Shin!" Shin stared blankly at the sky. Ayanokouji couldn't see any blood.

Medic Travelers were moving onto the field to tend the wounded. The one who knelt at his side looked familiar; she must be on Shin or Trinity's team. She quickly took Shin's vitals, then looked him over as Ayanokouji had. "He doesn't appear to be wounded," she said, confused.

Then Ayanokouji knew what that look on his face was. He managed to flag down the Corporal -- the host 0099 had chosen to inhabit. She hurried over. "I think -- I think there may be consciousnesses inside him."

0099 nodded. "Good. God, it'd be so great if there are; we have so many more casualties than our worst-case estimates."

Hours passed as Medics treated the wounded while Traveler teams and the Traveler General fielded the questions of other people on the base who came running to help after the attack. When Ayanokouji finally found there was nothing else he was particularly qualified to help with, it occurred to him to look for Trinity. He found her cowering behind a building, and sank down next to her on the ground. He touched it, ran his hands over it. It wasn't quite dust; it was grainier than that. He rubbed some between his fingers. Soil, he remembered. They'd learned about this. Plants grew out of it. Sure enough, just outside the fence that ringed the base, he could see grass and some trees growing, right out of the soil! Remarkable. "I had no idea it would be so uneven," he said. "I twisted my ankle trying to walk in a straight line."

She was already crying, and obviously had been for quite some time.

"I think Shin's okay. I think some of our fallen just went into him," he told her.

She jumped up. "You think so??" She ran back out onto the battlefield and found 0099, insisting she help with Shin. "Get him to the consciousness transfer device!" Trinity cried. "Because if he's dead ... it isn't just 'for now'!"

"Well ... we have a contingency for total failure. We might be able to get him back. But I have other things I need to attend to. I won't be able to get him to the transfer device until tonight. You two stay with him while I deal with this mess."

They sat with Shin, holding him in a sitting position. After a while, Ayanokouji noticed he was, in fact, breathing. "Thank god!" Trinity cried, her tears wetting Shin's uniform. A uniform! They were all wearing one, and they all looked alike. How did they get it this green color? There weren't animals with green fleece, were there? So much fabric, all of an identical color. Remarkable.

He looked around, trying to figure out who of their cohort had been lost. He saw four bodies on the ground with a tarp over them. He went and lifted the tarp, looking at them. I-123, I-151 ... he didn't recognize the other two, but he hadn't bothered to memorize the appearance of every Iterator's host.

Their first order was to greet their Traveler teams, so he tracked down Hall again and shook his hand, telling him his Traveler name and his host's name.

"Maybe you could even figure out how to pronounce your own name," Hall told him sardonically as Ayanokouji struggled over the pronunciation, which no one in the future could agree on. His first words to his new team member, a pointless criticism. Ayanokouji was immediately glad Hall was his team Leader and not Shin's or Trinity's.

"Yes, sir," he said. "I look forward to learning that from you." All team Leaders were polyglots. "But to be fair, 'Hall' is a lot easier to pronounce."

Hall snorted. "Huh, a wise guy. Wonderful. Well, I'm your team Leader. Meet Kyle, our Historian. And this is Luca, who's kinda our Tactician and Engineer now, until the Director sees fit to give us a few more members. What about you? What do you do?"

"Tactician," he answered immediately. "And Intelligence."

"Ah. Hear that, Luca? Now you've only gotta do one job."

Luca barely smiled, thinly, and kind of nodded.

"So tell me," Hall said shrewdly. "What's 'Intelligence'?"

"You would have to ask," said a woman standing beside them as she checked her weapon. It was the Tactician on Trinity's team. "Since you don't have any."

Hall thumbed her. "Love this gal. A laugh riot." But he wasn't distracted from the question, looking at Ayanokouji with already considerable suspicion. "'Cos I never heard of an 'Intelligence' specialist."

"It's a new program the Director has decided to implement," Ayanokouji explained just as he'd been told to. "Classified. Protocol 2-I forbids me from telling you anything about it ... and forbids you from asking me about it."

"Perfect. Will it at least make missions easier?"

"It's possible, but unlikely," Ayanokouji told him honestly.

"This just keeps getting better," Hall said with that sarcastic sneer that was always in his voice. "Great. Well, I think we've done all we can do here. Let's head back to base. I've got a lot to tell you about how I run things. I need you up to speed immediately."

"Yes, sir."

Trinity's Tactician gave him a sympathetic look as they headed out.

Ayanokouji learned that night from 0099 that Shin was fine and that all four consciousnesses of their fallen comrades went into him! Ayanokouji knew probably no one could tell, but in fact he was overjoyed at the news. Every member of the I-team was extremely valuable. "I've already put 'em in the consciousness transfer device. I guess they'll have to wait out this Iteration; it'll store their consciousnesses until the rest of us are ready to go back, too," she murmured to him when she arrived at Hall's base. "All right, gotta give your team their orientation."

On her way out, fully an hour later, she was fuming. "You gonna be all right with this son of a bitch?" she asked Ayanokouji, thoroughly disgusted with Hall's critical and combative response to every single thing she'd told him about his new I-team member. "I could've done three orientations in the time it took to deal with this guy."

"I'll be fine," Ayanokouji said blandly. "He doesn't bother me. I'm just glad Shin and everyone are okay."

She smiled, patting him on the shoulder, then kissed his cheek. "At least we all made it," she muttered as she took her leave.

Hall didn't bother Ayanokouji. Hall made clear what he expected from his team members was that they have no needs, no feelings, and no life outside the team. This was fine with Ayanokouji because he in fact didn't have any feelings, needs, or life.

Within a couple of days, however, it became clear it was not fine with the rest of the team, and what they wanted was Hall dead.

"I'll do it," Ayanokouji said immediately.

Luca huffed a brief, mirthless laugh. "You'd have to answer to the Director."

"I won't. Protocol Three is suspended for any I-team member. I'll do it." Chances were his team might work with Trinity's and Shin's at some point, and if so, Ayanokouji wanted to spare them having to deal with Hall. No one liked the man. Everyone felt he made the world a worse place. He was an ideal first target for Ayanokouji, not least because, being on his team, living with him, with everyone else there on board, so that the only people who might know and who could interfere would instead back him up, would be the perfect first real assassination for Ayanokouji. He was eager to get some real-world experience.

He heard his new teammates talking about him later that night as he bedded down. "Is the new guy for real?" Kyle asked, the first time Ayanokouji had ever heard a smile in his voice.

"Doesn't seem like the way the Director usually does things," Luca agreed.

"We sure it's the Director?" Kyle was starting to sound positively giddy at the idea of finally being rid of Hall.

"No."

Hm. It had never occurred even to 0099 that one of their challenges might be that their teams didn't trust that the Director's orders were behind their new I-team members' missions. That alone could make their jobs exponentially harder.

He tapped the comm 0099 implanted before she left, and was immediately treated to the chatter of the other I-team members, discussing their crazy first day. They talked all about their teams, who was mean and who was nice. They talked about the casualties and fretted over who was hurt and whether they would heal. They told war stories about that battle with the drones, and Ayanokouji heard every person's perspective on it. He wasn't the only one shocked and ultimately delighted by the brightness of the sun. He fell asleep to the comforting sound of the cohort's chatter, the sound he'd fallen asleep to all his life.

It really was hard to kill a person. Hall was so shocked to see him there, and see his intention, which he did -- Ayanokouji would have to move more quietly next time. "I knew the Director didn't really send you," were his last words. Ayanokouji let him believe it. The truth would have been much more painful for him.

Luca and Kyle were stunned he actually did it -- and upset. "You could have given us some warning!" Kyle cried.

"I ... did. I told you last night that I would do it."

"Verify before you take an action that extreme!" Luca exclaimed. He was getting tearful as he spoke, then burst into full-blown sobs as Ayanokouji watched, baffled.

"But you told me to --"

"I know what we said!" he spat. "But sometimes, it's just talk!"

Ayanokouji decided the best thing would be to leave them alone for now. He went for a walk, stumbling immediately again as soon as he stepped off the concrete floor of their base of operations onto the grass outside. Was it all right to walk on grass? Why would they put it near pathways if it wasn't? Perhaps to keep you on the pathway? Was it poison?? He hurried onto the sidewalk and started walking down the street.

So many people! People everywhere. Bright, colorful lights on buildings. Glass-fronted rooms facing the street, inside which people ate and worked. Ayanokouji had never liked people, but for anyone else from the dome, he imagined this really would seem like paradise. He wound up looking out over a river and simply stared for an hour at the lights twinkling and shimmering on its surface. He'd made it to the twenty-first. His mission had finally begun.

Or maybe not. He had to confess to 0099 three days later that after his for-some-reason unexpected assassination of their despised team Leader, the rest of the team had shunned him and finally kicked him out of their base. "I need a place to live," he told her, embarrassed by his failure. "And ... I guess a new team."

"Well, I for one am glad that jerk is gone," she said, and he could smile. 0099 was a good person, and a good teacher, a good trainer, and a good leader. He was proud to serve under her. She did a little research. "Their team didn't accomplish too much after this point in history, anyway. So ... you could join Shin's team. They could use some new members, too."

He was glad to get to be with Shin again. If only his new team Leader, Boyd, was as happy to have him there. "How did Hall die?" she kept asking him. She must already know something, but he really didn't want to have to kill her -- he liked her so much! So did Shin. He wouldn't do it unless he absolutely had to, to preserve the mission, and he took note. No one liked Hall. Everyone wished he would go away. So why was his demise following Ayanokouji around so doggedly, hampering his every move? Shouldn't dead people simply cease to be a problem? But Hall was even more trouble dead than he was alive. He thought of 0099's words about no one being all one thing, how there was good in everyone. Even Hall? It was hard to believe, but maybe it was true. He'd thought being an Assassin would be an interesting, satisfying job, taking out the trash, cleaning up the world and making it shine more brightly. Instead, somehow, even this very first successful assassination had made the world grow a little more dim.

He was depressed, he realized after a couple of weeks of struggling to motivate himself to put any effort into missions, in spite of how exciting and interesting he'd expected to find them. He was the team Assassin. This was the only thing he was trained at, the only thing he'd ever shown any real aptitude for, except chess, which had no real-world applications he'd ever been able to divine. And already, instead of making the world better and more beautiful, it was making it more ugly. His dream of a beautiful, safe world was getting farther away, not closer.

Shin was even more depressed. "My brother was one of the first in his cohort to die," he said, and wept bitterly. "He died over a year ago."

At least Trinity was okay, the same beautiful, bright presence she'd always been. It was the only thing keeping Shin and Ayanokouji going sometimes. She talked nonstop about how nice and handsome her team's Historian was. "He's so, so nice. He's a heroin addict, so sometimes he comes out of the bathroom all redfaced and sweating!" She giggled hysterically. "He confessed to me about his addiction only four days in, because we live together, just the two of us, at our base of operations," she said dreamily. "So he figured I'd find out eventually. He thinks I'm another adult, so he talks to me like another adult. He bought me fast food my very first night! Saying he was sure I was traumatized by the casualties at my Arrival. Here, look at these pictures I took of him in his sleep." She had dozens. Ayanokouji and Shin tried to show appropriate interest, but it was just nice to get to listen to her talk and see her so happy, even if they weren't.

Ayanokouji had figured the time he had to spend with the I-team would be the worst part of going back to the twenty-first, but actually, it was the best. At least then, everything felt somewhat familiar, and he was among ... maybe not friends, but at least people who were used to him and didn't watch his every move distrustfully, like Shin's team. He had infinite respect for Boyd, but presently she kicked him off her team, too, and he had to go live with Trinity.

... Which was great, of course. Her Historian was in fact very nice, and very cool. He let Trinity and Ayanokouji sit in her room and talk for hours just the two of them, and he never seemed offended or annoyed. He didn't exactly seem to trust Ayanokouji, either, but ... oh. It was because he was a Historian. He'd probably seen in an Update that the Iterators were coming, so at least he trusted that they were acting on the Director's orders. He seemed already so cynical about the Director's orders that he didn't bother to question them that much, anyway, as if they were all equally bad in his view.

Sometimes the three of them had a grand old time watching tv and eating pizza together. What a life! The food was amazing! They got to do whatever they wanted. He started to feel happy again, and a lot of it really was thanks to that Historian. Her team Leader was nice, too, the polar opposite of Hall. He let them have lives, and feelings, and needs, and tried his best to make sure they could fulfill them. Only their Engineer, the old man in a teenager's body, would simply stand at the edge of the room, watching them thoughtfully, like he suspected something about them, but to Ayanokouji's knowledge, the old man never said anything about whatever those suspicions were.

"I think this is a slumber party!" Trinity crowed when once Shin got to come over and spend the night with the two of them. Soon they were jumping on the bed, giggling madly, then laughing out loud, then screaming joyfully. It was a good thing they were all so good at combat, including in close quarters; their fast reflexes saved them from many disastrous collisions ... but that just made it the more fun. Ayanokouji was trying to see how high he could make the bed spring him, if he might be able to get his head to touch the ceiling, when he realized Shin had stopped jumping and was simply standing on the bed, staring out the window that looked into the room, so Ayanokouji stopped, too, then they all three were just staring back at Trinity's entire team standing there, staring in at them.

They all three jumped off the bed and reported to her team Leader, Mac. "We're sorry," Ayanokouji said anxiously with a bow. Was what they were doing really wrong? There was nothing bouncy and fun like that in the future. It hadn't occurred to any of them that they might get in trouble for it, but the looks on her team's faces ... something was very wrong. Could it cause some sort of harm? Maybe they felt like Hall, like it was wrong for a Traveler to have so much fun. All three of them stared anxiously at Trinity's team, awaiting their judgment, or punishment.

Trevor especially looked disappointed. Crushed, even. He looked away. "They're kids," he said simply.

After close questioning by Trinity's team about the Iterator program (which the Engineer already seemed to know a lot about), exactly how old they were, how they felt about what they'd been assigned to do, and other things related to being an Iterator, they smiled nicely at them and let them jump on the bed all they wanted! But the three of them just huddled in the room and whispered together.

"0099 said this could happen," Shin noted. "She said it wasn't a big deal, because it'll all reset when we Reiterate and they'll forget again."

The other two nodded. They knew she wouldn't be mad. But still, lesson learned. All it took for them to figure out all the secrets about the Iterator program they were supposed to keep locked up tight was a few minutes jumping on a bed?? Was Trinity's team especially brilliant, or were the three of them especially transparent?

"They are brilliant ...," Trinity said judiciously, "... but I think it was the jumping."

They finally asked Philip once everyone else had left, since they knew he would be nice, and he was more forthcoming than the rest, at least with Trinity. He smiled sympathetically. "Well ... kids jump on beds. They all do it. Even when you tell them not to."

"Did you??" Shin asked wonderingly.

"No ...," said Philip, that melancholy ever-present in him evident in his expression. "We didn't have anything springy and fun like that."

"Yeah, us either!" said Ayanokouji. "It IS fun!"

Philip smiled wistfully. "Yeah. For a kid. I know I'd have loved it when I was a kid, but I was an adult by the time I came to the twenty-first. I've jumped on a trampoline, but it's a kid thing. Kids can't get enough of it. But honestly, Trevor suspected it almost as soon as you Arrived. He shared his suspicions. Then when we saw you jumping, we knew he was right."

"How did he know before??" Trinity demanded. "I act like a professional, don't I??"

Philip squeezed her upper arm, and she blushed. "Yes. Very professional. When there's a mission, you're all business. But kids are kids. They're into kid things. They get upset by things that don't upset adults, and vice versa. The rest of us just thought you were an unusual person, Trinity, but as we met more of you guys on the I-team and you all shared certain characteristics, we then thought something about your specialty made you all that way. Only Trevor had ever heard of the Iterator program. It never would have occurred to the rest of us that the future would send children to do a stressful, difficult, dangerous job." His expression darkened. "Never in a million years."

"Well, we're not really children," Ayanokouji argued. "We've been training since birth," he said proudly. "And we're very good at what we do."

"You are very good at what you do," said Philip nicely. "But you are still children. And since you never got to have a childhood in the future, it only makes sense that once you got to the twenty-first and had more freedom, you'd make up for lost time. Tell you what: I know of something even better than a bed. So if you could just hold off on breaking the bed until it arrives, I'm sure you'll decide it was worth the wait." He smiled mysteriously.

"It breaks it?" Shin asked sadly. Of course having fun broke something.

"It can, if you do too much of it, especially with your adult bodies. But it's still all right, probably. If not, I'll order another one, but beds are a pain to install and comparatively expensive, so I'd rather not have to keep ordering them, and like I said, this other thing is better."

A trampoline arrived a couple of days later. Carly set it up in her small backyard for them, and they jumped on it all the time. As summer came on, Mac took them to a water park, and soon they were there every day, only leaving when they had a mission or some other order they had to follow, arriving at the coordinates with wet hair, smelling of chlorine. They clued the rest of the cohort into the existence of the water park, and soon all of them were there every day, if their teams would let them. Ayanokouji was glad once more that he'd killed Hall.

0099 didn't complain about that, as long as they followed orders and arrived on time. She was, however, troubled that Trinity's team had figured out they were kids, after three of them came and read her the riot act for conscripting little kids. "I suppose it was inevitable at this juncture," she sighed. "But I didn't expect anyone to have heard of the Iterator program. So Trinity, you're going to have to be extra careful, especially of 0115. Please try to keep kid activities out of sight of your teams in future Iterations, okay?"

They all happily agreed to this, and spent a glorious summer going to movies, eating fast food, going to the water park, jumping on trampolines and playing in ball pits and bounce houses. Then they discovered the amusement park, and there were constant arguments between Iterators regarding whether they should go to the water park or the amusement park that day. Factions broke out regarding which was better. Battles over this could get vicious.

Ayanokouji simply watched. People confounded him. On three separate occasions, Kyle and Luca had taken it upon themselves to go to 0099 and insist that Ayanokouji was a dangerous murderer who should be tried and convicted for High Crimes Against the Grand Plan for killing a fellow Traveler in cold blood.

0099 managed to put them off every time, but Ayanokouji knew they also made these accusations on camera where the Director could see it, hoping, apparently, that Ayanokouji would be overwritten: capital punishment. He thought about this all the time. They themselves had planned to kill Hall. He thought he would win their goodwill and perhaps their loyalty by doing it for them. It had had exactly the opposite effect, and to this day, he couldn't understand it. Next time, he'd let them kill Hall.

He had his chance one September day when the sky grew inexplicably dark. Dozens of drones appeared unexpectedly, armed with FOABs. His comm activated. "Get to shelter immediately!" screamed 0099. "All of you! Get underground!" The sky went white, and he wondered if this was the last time he would ever see it.

Chapter Text

"Thank God," 0099 gasped when she found Shin in the rubble in the Goldmine. He often hung out down there underground while everyone else was on the rollercoaster or other, more exciting rides. He liked the dark, and he was into mining. He liked seeing the samples of all the rare minerals in the displays around the room. He would sit down there with whoever else needed a break or was hungry, eating a waffle cone or soft serve.

0099 carried his body with the help of a wounded Manabe to a tank, which drove over the rubble that was now the city to the mountain bunker that housed the consciousness transfer device. Kushida and Manabe's friends were in the tank, too, unconscious. When 0099 got Shin inside the consciousness transfer device and read the information on the display, she let in a slow breath. "Everyone's here. We're all here! How did you do it??" she marveled.

It was nothing he did. The trainers had worked with him, trying to increase his range for collecting consciousnesses. They'd measured it at 400 yards just before they were sent back to the twenty-first. They also tried to teach him to do it consciously, perhaps even to snatch someone's consciousness out of their body just before their demise or something like that, but the attraction of other consciousnesses to his was a force of nature over which he had no control.

No, there was just one reason why all the other consciousnesses went into him: The water-park/amusement-park wars had ended when the water park closed for the season, and everyone was at the amusement park that day.

"Shin," 0099 murmured as the device started lighting up. "You lie there staring when there are consciousnesses inside you, and ... I know you can't move, but I don't know why. I don't know what you're feeling. I don't know if you want me to leave your eyes open like they are or if you want me to close them, and when you're catatonic like this, you can't tell me. So please, once we Reiterate, after the battle's over and you've gotten settled in, come find me. We'll talk about it." She stroked his cheek.

Shin heard Manabe crying. "I know your wound is bad, One-Eighty-Two," 0099 said sympathetically. "Transfers go fast when they're in Shin; we don't have to wait for people to get in and out of the device, we don't have to recalibrate. Once everyone's gone out of him, you're next, and then you'll be reset to normal, just hang in there. In the meantime, double-check the TELLs for me. I always preload the TELLs at the very beginning of any Iteration so they're ready when an Iteration ends, but please make sure nothing seems out of the ordinary."

0099 eyed the device anxiously as it slowly powered up. "I still hear bombing," she muttered. "Please let this bunker hold out until we've all Reiterated." She bent over Shin and looked him in the eyes. "Okay guys, it's almost time. I don't know if you all can hear me, but if you can, get ready for that first battle again. You'll have a little more time to prepare this time, but it'll still come quick. Remember that we lost four last time; let's try for zero this time. Also, if you're in a position to, please help cover the targets of those four as well as your own, since you now have practice at this battle and they don't. Good job this Iteration, guys. Let's make the next one even better."

No one but Ayanokouji was as familiar with the operation of the consciousness transfer device as Shin, the sounds it made at each step of its progress. It was nearing full power. 0099 conferred with Manabe; both of them pressed buttons frantically. "Are we go?" 0099 shouted over the sound of a tunnel caving in.

"Yes!" cried Manabe.

"Verify!"

"We are go!" Manabe screamed, crying.

Shin Arrived on the battlefield. He didn't know if the other consciousnesses inside him had heard 0099's order to go after the targets of the four who died in this battle last time, but he had, and he was able to take three of the four down himself, in addition to his own. He'd have all four next time, plus he might be able to help out Anju, who had been assigned two targets because they were close together, but they were actually harder to get from her angle than his.

He quickly looked around the battlefield for casualties after all the targets had been downed. There were only two this time: one who was wounded but would survive, and ....

Shin knelt beside Kujo, who was bleeding profusely, but he still was able to clutch Shin's hand tightly. "Man, am I ever glad to see you," Kujo gasped.

Shin looked around. "What happened?"

"Propeller off a falling drone got me."

"We should analyze video of the battlefield and see what we can do to avoid things like that." Some of the watching Traveler teams had been wounded, too.

Kujo nodded, but tears started leaking out of his eyes. "This is the worst pain I've ever felt," he cried.

Shin looked over his wounds. He would not survive them. "Let me help," said Shin, taking out his weapon.

Ayanokouji had talked at length with Shin and Trinity about all the things he was learning during his training as an Assassin. He'd been quite clear on two points: one, that guns were the most effective and most lethal readily available weapon in the twenty-first, and two, that a well-aimed headshot was the most painless and instant way to kill someone. He felt Kujo's consciousness slam into him as soon as his gun discharged. Shin collapsed on his body instantly. Kujo's gratitude flooded him, and their consciousnesses twined with mutual gratitude and relief.

0099 was able to get Shin to the consciousness transfer device hours sooner this time. "Good to see this place back in one piece," she said gustily. "Well," she went on, patting the device, where it would hold Kujo's consciousness for the duration of the Iteration. She helped Shin step out of the device. "I guess he'll have plenty of time to think about what he could have done differently before his next attempt. ... Can they? Do they think while they're in there?"

"Ask the four who were stored there during the last Iteration. I think they can while they're inside me, but I don't know about when they're in there. Was Manabe able to go, too?"

"Yep, we all made it back."

Shin nodded.

0099 regarded him appraisingly. "Our hero. You single-handedly saved the whole cohort. Even the Director didn't see that attack coming until it was almost too late."

"I was just there; I didn't do anything special."

"Still." She ruffled his hair. "I thank God every day that you grabbed your brother's hand when he was being sent to the twenty-first. They estimate our cohort's chance of survival is twelve times higher than the previous cohort, entirely thanks to you. They plan to do something similar with your little brother."

Shin got quiet.

"Sorry," she said. "I know that's a sore spot with you."

"Why ... why was my brother one of the first to die?" he asked, and his eyes filled with tears.

She got up and started powering down the device. "Why was Kujo hit this time when he wasn't last time? Why did the four casualties from the first Iteration die that time? Our presence alters history. Everything we do differently from how it happened in a previous Iteration changes how the timeline proceeds. Maybe he was just unlucky. I heard your brother was a good, dutiful soldier. For whatever that's worth." She seemed to be trying to maintain a professional distance, but suddenly she grabbed him in a tight embrace. "I'm so sorry, Shin," she murmured, and he heard tears in her throat. "I'm sorry your brother died. You know ... I have contact information for the last vestiges of his cohort. I know he's lost to time ... but they'll remember him. Maybe they can provide you some closure."

He didn't trust himself to speak, but he nodded into her shoulder.

He knocked on the door of the first address she'd given him. A red-haired woman in her early thirties opened it. "Yes?" she said gruffly, mistrustful.

"I'm I-112, Shinei Nouzen. My brother was Shourei, I-012. I heard -- I -- heard --" Tears were already threatening to choke him.

She just opened the door wide. "Come in," she said gently.

He sat on her couch and looked around. She brought him some tea. "Try it," she urged. "It's sweet. I make it that way. I found the recipe online. This is how they always make it in the American South, I hear."

He sipped a little, then set it down. It was good. Of course it was good. Every morsel of food in the twenty-first was far better than anything out of the yeast vat. But the pain in his heart made him unable to enjoy it just now. "My brother was one of the first to die," he said in the blunt way he was learning to speak. After his brother died, he hardly spoke at all. It was training that got him out of that habit. He was quickly promoted to leader of his squadron and had to give his team lots of orders, so he'd found his voice -- at least, when he wasn't talking about anything personal. The tears were once again already threatening to overwhelm his ability to speak. "Can -- can you tell me ... anything ...?"

She smiled in her no-nonsense way. "I remember when you grabbed his hand while he was in the device; I was sent back after him, so I saw the whole thing. I'm I-034, by the way. My host's name was Natasha Romanoff. That was freaky, when you collapsed, everyone screaming ... I thought the consciousness transfer device was gonna explode or something, the way the trainers were carrying on. His consciousness went into you?" Shin nodded. "Incredible. I hear that's how you guys are Iterating generally."

He nodded again. "Good," she said, and her voice suddenly turned desolate. "Because we had two misfires as we Arrived, then lost eight more in the first Iteration. Fifteen in the next. It's incredibly difficult to get back to the consciousness transfer device when the clock is counting down to the end of the world. It's way outside of town, inside a mountain. Most of the time, people just couldn't get there before whatever ended that Iteration killed them. If there's only one kid they have to get there, that's way better ... although I guess if you die, they're screwed."

"That's why keeping me alive is Priority Alpha."

"I thought keeping all of us alive was Priority Alpha."

"Beta. I'm the only Alpha. At least, in my cohort."

She just nodded. The look in her eyes ... he had never seen anyone so jaded. "I guess I've died a bunch of times now, then, huh? And then you guys reset?"

"This is only our second Iteration."

"Oh. Well, good for you. By that time, we were already half done. Your brother was a good guy. He was close with a good friend of mine, who's ... lost, actually. There was a blast that knocked out power to the consciousness transfer device for a split second while he was transferring, and he just ... never Arrived. We don't know where he went. All we know is that the Director claims it wasn't a misfire. Claims his consciousness is still around somewhere. If we could just find Steve, Bucky and I would feel so much better ... we're the last ones left of our cohort. We didn't used to get along -- like, at all. Bucky and I had to train together even though we hated each other, and Bucky and Steve were best friends, but then they had a falling out, and Steve and I couldn't stand each other from the beginning. These two factions formed, Tony and Peter and I and some of our buddies, against Steve and Bucky and Scott and some of their buddies ....

"It all seems so silly now. All fifty of those people were the most important people in my life. All of them always will be, the people I love and cherish most. Bucky and I are the only ones who remember any of them anymore. Every time we Iterated, things reset to how they were when we first Arrived, except that our friends didn't Iterate with us, so as far as the future is concerned ... they never existed. Because even the future they came from has changed too much to remember them." Now she cried, too -- bitter, bitter tears.

"That'll happen to us, too," Shin said emptily. She just nodded, then took his hands, and they cried together on her couch.

"Guys, that was a close call last time," 0099 told them at their first meeting after officially announcing the start of their second Iteration and calling for a big round of applause for themselves and each other. "If Shin wasn't there and didn't happen to like being underground, we could have lost the whole cohort instantaneously. So we need to come up with a plan. Shin, I do believe that would fall under the umbrella of Combat Strategy. Collaborate with anyone you think could help. We need a plan to collect every consciousness and still give us time to get to the bunker twenty-two minutes away."

After the meeting, Shin looked around the room, considering everyone's specialties and who he thought might be able to help. In the end, he selected Ayanokouji, Manabe's friend Nanami, Theo, and Raiden, who all reported dutifully to his side, except of course Nanami, who whined until 0099 ordered her to help Shin.

"Realistically, our best chance is what we did last time," Raiden said with his usual straightforward honesty. "I know we'd rather not die first, but --"

"But it's much quicker for all the consciousnesses to be inside Shin," Ayanokouji said dispassionately. "Quicker to collect, quicker to transfer."

Shin nodded. "So since you're our Assassin ...."

Ayanokouji simply nodded, easy as that.

Shin turned to Nanami. "I figured we needed help from the Mapping specialist to plan a route and establish travel time to the bunker."

She rolled her eyes, but nodded.

"There could be meetup points anyone in a given area could report to, where 0099 could pick us up," Theo suggested. "Then she could just follow an established route." He looked at Nanami, who made a note of it.

"We need to get everyone used to killing each other or themselves," Ayanokouji said without feeling. "Any reluctance could be the difference between success and failure."

"Yeah," said Raiden. "That would be even better, if people only had to get within range of Shin rather than reporting to some specific location. We could confirm when we're in range via comm."

"Please map it out using the fastest route, and create two alterate routes, as well, in case the ideal one is blocked," Shin told Nanami, who sat down at a computer and got to work. "And set up some kind of GPS mapping system 0099 can use while driving to see when people come into range. Something that activates easily when she needs it."

"It would be best if we all learned to drive, too," said Theo, "in case for whatever reason we need to get ourselves there."

"Okay. Please ask 0099 for those resources."

"She'll just tell us to have our teams teach us," said Ayanokouji.

"Okay," said Shin, and poked his comm, trying to make the announcement, but there was a lot of chatter, and no one heard his soft voice.

"QUIET!" 0099 yelled over the comm. "One Twelve has an announcement!"

He explained the reasoning behind his order as best he could despite feeling shy to be talking to so many people at once. When he was done, 0099 came over to their group. "You've got a plan? Tell me." They shared their ideas with her. "Perfect. Shin or Ayanokouji, please teach everyone how to kill themselves properly. But not before they double-check that you're in range, Shin, got it? Make sure everyone remembers that."

They all nodded. Ayanokouji got right to work teaching people how to do this in small groups. His other fellow I-team members were also hard at work, utilizing military resources, making new plans for how to approach their specialty differently in this new Iteration, and the like. Their entire cohort had made it to the second Iteration, a first. He felt proud of himself and his teammates. If he could possibly prevent things going for his cohort the way they did for Shourei's, he would.

The first person Ayanokouji had killed in the first Iteration was his team Leader, and it had been a bad experience for him all around. He confessed to Shin and Trinity at a whisper that in fact his conscience had bothered him. This must be why Ayanokouji seemed happier now that after the reset, Hall was alive and well again, despite how mean that guy was. Ayanokouji had no intention of killing him this time. He and Shin simply agreed to try to keep Hall away from Trinity wherever possible; he could leave her depressed for days with a single sentence, and would not hesitate to do it, would not begin to comprehend why he shouldn't.

Thus, Ayanokouji was back where he belonged with his team, and Shin with his ... only what happened to Ayanokouji last time was beginning to happen to Shin this time.

"That was some battle, huh?" Shin's team Leader Boyd said to him a few days after his Arrival. "Tough to come into the twenty-first and lose someone straight off the bat, huh?"

Uh-oh. Growing up, his lack of affect and his inability to form close friendships had resulted in his frequently being accused of having no empathy. They said that's why he and Ayanokouji were such good friends: people thought they were the same just because they went around with a similar expression and were quiet, but they could hardly be more different. Eventually, his cohort came to know better, but he'd been quite nastily dressed down by several adults over this in the future, and now it was starting again. "Yes, ma'am," he said.

"You don't have to call me 'ma'am.' That's not how I run my team. I'm just Boyd."

"Okay."

"So, uh ... were you ... close with the guy who didn't make it?"

Shin regarded her expressionlessly. There was no way he would be able to drum up something resembling sorrow regarding his teammate's death, because Kujo had immediately afterward been inside him, alive and well. No one knew better just how alive and well than Shin. Shin was no kind of actor; he didn't have it in him. Anything he could say would only make this worse. "Yes," he finally tried, when she wouldn't let it go until he answered. "We trained together in the same squadron."

"Huh. You seem remarkably ... okay about it."

Ayanokouji had had to go live with Trinity after Boyd came to distrust him, once she believed him to be a murderer. Boyd's team Engineer crept out of the shadows, watching this exchange, and then he knew. It seemed like Boyd hadn't, but the Engineer had seen Shin kill Kujo with his own eyes.

"Everybody dies. Eventually," Shin tried.

This was the wrong thing to say. He could see Boyd's revulsion at this blithe statement in the face of his teammate's death.

What was he to do about this situation? There was nothing he could say to Boyd to make her understand or trust him again. Even if he could tell her all about the Iterator program, it would probably require Kujo walking up to her, once again alive and well, and telling her himself why Shin did what he did and how grateful he was, before she could hope to trust Shin again.

Ayanokouji was depressed by Kyle and Luca's rejection and distrust of him after he killed Hall, which surprised Shin, because Ayanokouji was rejected and distrusted by nearly everyone all his life. Shin assumed he was used to it. It probably also went with the job description of Assassin. But now Shin was experiencing it, and it stung. He'd been eager to serve under Boyd again in this Iteration. He liked and trusted her as a Leader. She was warm and caring and competent. They'd developed great camaraderie after one mission that nearly killed her entire team, and Shin had saved the day. She came to trust him with her life after that. He considered her a great and reliable friend, and loved that she thought of him the same way. And now, for the foreseeable future -- maybe forever, if this was the Iteration that saved the world -- that was hopelessly lost already, mere days into this Iteration.

Shin approached Manabe after their next I-team meeting. Usually she greeted him with a cold sneer. This time, seeing him coming, she averted her eyes and tried to affect an air of cool. "Would ... you be willing to acquire some data for me? For us all?" Shin asked awkwardly.

She rolled her eyes. "What data?" she asked shortly.

"Video from every angle of our Arrival. If we study it, we can avoid casualties in future Iterations."

"The Historian and the Medic from my team died both times!" she hissed. "I'm sure all you care about is your friends, but it's a bitch trying to function without a Historian or a Medic!"

"No. I want to avoid all casualties, our regular Traveler teams included."

She turned on her heel and turned up her nose as she walked away. Thus, he was surprised when she threw down a USB drive in front of him at the next meeting. "Every available angle, including satellite data," she snapped.

She scowled as he picked it up, but he smiled. "Thank--" he began, but she was already gone.

When 0099 asked them at the end of the meeting if there was anything else they wanted to discuss, Shin held up the drive. "I asked Manabe for data on our Arrival. I figured if we study it, we can avoid casualties in future Arrivals. Practice more. Figure out which of us is best suited to taking out which drone. We only had the one video angle to work with in the future, but there's more data now. Our strategy is not optimal."

"Great. Thank you, Combat Strategist," 0099 said. "Please analyze the data, come up with whatever you believe is the ideal strategy, and get everyone together to train. Everyone, make time for those training sessions. They will arguably be the most important thing you ever do in this century." She nodded at him approvingly as they all left that day.

He expected resistance to his training session requests, but everyone always showed up on time. He was a bit halting, completely unused to commanding any unit except the combat team he trained with, the Spearhead Squadron, but against all expectations, no one rolled their eyes or made fun of him or tried to take over leadership, not even Manabe and her cronies.

He had reviewed all the data extensively and come up with the approach he thought would work best: dividing the entire cohort into groups based on their particular skills and where they were standing when they Arrived. He didn't take into account whether those groups got along or worked well together, so he expected argument, but Saki, one of Manabe's cronies, simply listened and then practiced executing his orders, working with people who were his friends and decidedly not hers.

"Because if you look at the angle of approach of this group of drones, you five have a direct shot," he explained anxiously, freezing a video on a frame that demonstrated this clearly. "And then if one of you misses, another will have an opportunity to get it. In fact, if -- if you're willing, I think it would be good if you each fire at your own target and then fire at every other drone in this group of them, clockwise starting from the right. If you all do that, your chances of missing any of them will be minimal. If you down them as soon as they enter your line of sight, they'll fall here, in these trees, and miss all the watching Traveler teams. Be-- because it's, you know ... because we want to keep them alive, too--"

"We get it," Saki interrupted. "Let's practice again." Saki even let Shin's good friend Raiden, who was in Shin's squadron, correct her form, explaining how a different stance would be better when taking aim at enemies coming from above. Usually she would have been full of scorn and revulsion for Shin or one of his friends, but she took the correction without comment.

Raiden sidled up to Shin when the training session was over, and waited until he saw Saki leave. "That went ... surprisingly well," Raiden noted.

Shin nodded.

"I didn't think anything short of imminent death would compel any of that clique to allow me within ten feet of them," he said with a chuckle.

"Well, isn't it kind of imminent?" Shin noted calmly, cueing up the video for the next training group.

Shin had abruptly lost all antipathy for Manabe. Hearing her dutifully working to save the rest of the cohort as the bunker was coming down around her ears, letting Shin and the rest of the cohort go first though her wound was fatal and she must have been in agony .... Ayanokouji used to rant about how she thought she was invulnerable. Shin knew vividly now, even if no one else knew it, that Manabe could no longer think of herself as invulnerable, and this loss of her innocence made him sad.

He had never been fortunate enough in his lifetime to have confidence like that, but it was nice that there were people around who could, and now, already, only two Iterations in, all that was going away, for all of them. There was a tension and a seriousness in the whole cohort now, after they were all suddenly killed or seriously wounded in a surprise attack. A whole summer of nothing but amusement parks and movies in this bright, hopeful, sunny world had given them all a false sense of security, but that event had brought home to all of them that this was serious business. If they hoped to ever have another such summer -- or for any human to get to have another such summer -- they would have to succeed at this terribly difficult job.

He wasn't sure how his mysterious ability to attract consciousnesses worked. It didn't work on anyone else around the dome. When other people there died who were not in his cohort, their consciousnesses didn't go into him. Would his overcoming his antipathy toward Manabe be sufficient to make him able to collect her consciousness now, too, or did she have to feel the same about him? And what of her friends? Kushida? They were all at a greater risk of dying and everyone knew it ... unless Shin himself died, as Natasha noted. If he died when everyone else was inside him, Manabe and Kushida and Saki and the others whose consciousnesses didn't go to him might be all that was left of their cohort.

"How's it going?" 0099 asked Shin after the next meeting. "Where do you put our chances of success at our Arrival battle at our next Iteration?"

"If it's exactly the same next time as last time, honestly ... a hundred percent. Very small margin of error."

"It will always be exactly the same every time," she said. "By its nature, it has to be. It's where it all ends that is likely to change as we and other Traveler teams try new things over the course of the Iteration. Good job, One-Twelve," she said, slapping him on the back proudly as she turned to go.

"But ...," he added, and she turned back to listen. "My team Engineer saw me kill Kujo, and now no one on the team trusts me or will include me."

"Can you conceive of any solution?"

"No."

She nodded, considering. "You did the right thing for Kujo, by the way. But unfortunately, that wasn't the only person who saw you kill him. I've had three other team Leaders come talk to me about it. You're persona non grata this Iteration, I guess," she said, giving him a sympathetic look. "And after you've performed so heroically. It ain't right.

"But it's the job, I'm afraid. I'm always going to be persona non grata, if it helps," she went on. "They know I command all fifty of you, so anything they don't like they blame on me. Sometimes I feel like my whole job is trying and failing to soothe upset team Leaders. Just know the rest of us know who you really are, and appreciate you. Profoundly. There's a reason you're the only Priority Alpha person in the entire cohort, including me."

"Sure, until all of us are dead and there's no one left to remember any of us."

She stopped moving for a long minute, and finally sat down, gesturing him to do the same. "You've figured it out, that none of us will be remembered, except whoever's left at the very end through the final Iteration." He nodded. She nodded, too. "I accepted this job knowing that. I thought it was worth it, to save the world for the rest of humanity, even if I'm erased from history, but you never got to make that choice."

"I kind of did. I could have failed out and become a regular Traveler."

"Yes. They'll all be remembered, since they went before us. Whatever we do can never overwrite that. And honestly, Shin, if there ever comes a day when you want that ... God, what am I saying? We'd be lost without you. But ... I believed in this program. I did. I raised every one of you and came back to the twenty-first with you to do this job with you. I was gung-ho. I was a true believer. I thought you would all come to be true believers, too.

"Instead, I see the toll it's already taken on us, on you kids, that it took on you, Shin, when you were only two and your brother was sent back, and ... now that we're here, and I see how it's going, I just ... wonder sometimes if the best thing would be to send you all back farther. We had to rely on digital data that had survived four centuries to get our TELLs for our initial Arrivals, but now that we're here, I'm sure we could scrape up some time-dated photos that would give us a TELL for longer ago. You could even go back to the nineteen-eighties! You could live a good, long, happy life and just ... forget about the future.

"Shin, sweetheart ...." She took his hand and squeezed it. "Please don't ever tell anyone I made this offer, but ... if anyone deserves it, it's you. You've done everything we ever asked of you without complaint. You've had to do things the rest of us can't even conceive of. You've literally borne the burden of keeping your entire cohort alive. You've saved us enough times already. You can have your reward. We'll muddle through without you somehow. And if you couldn't survive in the past without Trinity and Ayanokouji, I'd let them go back, too." He could see how deeply she regretted making this offer even as it came out of her mouth, but she didn't take it back.

He only had to think it over for a few seconds. "No," he decided. "This is all I've ever known. I like combat. I like doing what I'm good at. And I want all of you to live. I couldn't abandon you, knowing ... knowing how fast my brother's cohort died without someone to collect consciousnesses. And ... I do believe. I want to save the future. It's all I have left to live for, now."

She nodded, trying to look professional, but then her face creased, and she wept. She folded him in a tight hug. "Thank you so much, Shin. Thank you for being the person you are."

He only lasted a couple of weeks on Hall's team before Hall's rough treatment of him created such friction between Hall and Ayanokouji that 0099 decided it would be better if Shin just went and lived with Trinity and joined her team. He felt better as soon as he set foot once more within the walls of that old garage, the bed they jumped on that revealed their secret to the rest of the team, that nice Historian, all the interesting vehicle parts Shin loved learning more about. He and Trinity spent countless hours holed up in her room whispering together, and just as in the first Iteration, Philip didn't seem to mind.

It was all pretty great, except that it turned out Carly was one of the people who had seen Shin kill Kujo. He once overheard her talking about it with their team Leader. "Could you have been mistaken?" he asked her. "It was, what, at least sixty feet away."

"No mistake. That was not just a killing; that was an execution."

Hm. Well, leave it to a Tactician to know the difference. Apparently Ayanokouji knew what he was talking about, and Shin had done it properly.

Still, Shin did his best to stay out of her way and not appear to be some cold-blooded murderer during missions, so everything was going fine ... until she presented her tactical plan for their next mission.

It was a mission he'd participated in in the previous Iteration. Her plan was optimal based on the intel she had, but as it played out in the previous Iteration, it had proven to be disastrous.

"No," he spoke up, knowing 0099 had told every Traveler team during their orientation that any I-team member outranked any regular Traveler. "Let's do it like this instead," he suggested, and outlined his plan.

He had never seen Carly get mad, but she was a force when she did, he now discovered. "Since I'm the Tactician, let's do it my way instead," she said dangerously.

"I'm also a Tactician; my specialty is Combat Strategy, and I outrank you, so let's do it my way," he said. He said it without any feeling or hostility, so he really expected that to be the end of it. Even his bullies now deferred to his expertise. They'd all been taught to defer to anyone in the cohort who had more training or expertise in any area. They'd gotten over any sense of pride about that long ago. If even Manabe would have (grudgingly) deferred at this point, he figured surely an adult would.

He was wrong. "I don't take orders from murderers," she hissed.

Philip was standing up from behind his desk, looking anxious. "Carly--" Mac said warningly.

Carly pointed at Shin. "I saw him murder another member of the I-team minutes after their Arrival," she told everybody. Oh, no.

Trinity was looking at Shin with helpless fear. "It's not -- it's not what you think," she tried to defend him.

"And YOU!" Carly shouted, now pointing at her. "What are you people even doing here? I haven't seen you contribute much of anything. You just hang around Ops all day cozying up to our Historian. Maybe collecting information?"

"I haven't told them anything," Philip insisted.

This didn't slow Carly down. "How do we even know the Director sent you? I never heard of a sixth Traveler team member. Never heard of an 'Intel' team. Never heard of any plans for anything like that, either, not a whisper. I know the future has changed since we got here, but what are the chances it's changed that much?"

"Shin is my best friend!" Trinity cried passionately. "And Kujo was one of his best friends! It's not what you think! He would never hurt him! It was the opposite!"

Uh-oh.

"A mercy killing??" Marcy demanded incredulously.

"He was not going to survive," Shin offered, and that was it; the room erupted in wild accusations and shouting.

After trying unsuccessfully to calm Carly down, Mac came over and spoke directly to Shin: "I think you'd better leave."

"I figured. But you need to do the mission my way. That's an order."

He knocked on Natasha's door a second time, and she welcomed him inside. When he explained what had happened, she told him instantly that he could stay with her. "It'll be nice," she insisted. "Nice to be a part of things again. Maybe I can help out. I hate feeling like I've been put out to pasture. And believe me, I've had those Iterations, where everybody thinks you're the bad guy. I was the team Assassin, so ... that was pretty much every Iteration for me."

Shin lit up. "My best friend is our team Assassin!"

She lit up, too. "Oh. Oh, good! Then you don't automatically think I'm the devil."

0099 tried to run interference for any trouble the I-team stirred up, so none of its members would have to face any consequences directly, but there was no escaping the hearing fifty concerned Travelers called regarding what they'd seen Shin do, because all it took for a quorum was fifty. Shin and 0099 knew the Director wouldn't overwrite him no matter what any Traveler involved decided, but they had to go through the whole song and dance simply because those were the rules they had to pretend they too had to follow.

"Ayanokouji killed twenty people in the previous Iteration, and he's already up to eighteen this one, and it's you they're worried about?" 0099 said irritably as the two of them walked together into the conference room.

0099's planned defense of Shin -- that they were mistaken about what they thought they saw -- was out the window instantly, as a Traveler from Saki's team loaded up video of the incident. Shin averted his eyes, overcome with sorrow. Kujo died. He missed him. At least he would probably get to see him again soon.

The video was high def, from an unmistakeable angle. 0099 eyed Shin, who stared straight ahead jadedly. The whole thing was annoying and exhausting, on top of having to kill Kujo. He had work to do, but he had to stand here dealing with a bunch of pointless bureaucracy. Everyone looked at Shin when the video was done playing, and they seemed disgusted by the impatience and irritation he wasn't entirely succeeding at hiding.

Mac stepped forward. "He also admitted to my team that it was a 'mercy killing.' He did not deny having murdered him."

"By definition, that would not be murder," 0099 said with an irritated sigh. "I told you all that there were aspects of the I-program you could not know about. Make your accusations on camera all you want; the Director will not punish my Intel officer, because he was adhering to his duty as honorably and diligently as he always does. Say what you like; I know his capabilities and his nature. I know he's an excellent soldier. Seeing this video doesn't change that. I already knew exactly what happened. So unless you all mean to force us to break Protocol 2-I and tell you things you know you're forbidden from knowing, then I guess you'll have to take our word for it that what I-112 did was well within the scope of his duties, as ordered by the Director."

"The Director can't take a life," argued Carly.

"But he can suspend Protocol 3 and give a Traveler permission to take a life, something all of you are personally familiar with," 0099 said impatiently. "Look, we don't have time for your well-intentioned but misguided outrage. I-112 and I have important jobs to do. So do all of you. So get back to doing them, as you let us get back to doing ours. Okay?"

"It's not that simple," said Boyd. "He is technically a member of my team. And now his best friend's team Leader is dead." Kyle and Luca had finally killed Hall, and Ayanokouji was bummed. "How am I supposed to trust --"

"You trust him because the Director trusts him," 0099 said, her voice getting louder and sharper. "How can that not be enough for you people?"

"Maybe the Director's not in charge anymore," Boyd said quietly.

"I can assure you that he is," 0099 said coolly. "For other reasons I can't share with you. I-112 wanted to save a friend from suffering any longer than necessary from a wound he could not possibly survive. I admire his courage and compassion. End of story. I don't want to hear another word about this from any of you. And if I do, you'll be the ones who have to answer to the Director. We are adjourned."

It was wonderful, living with Natasha, for many reasons. It was amazing to finally be known and understood by someone in the twenty-first. She was only now fifteen or sixteen inside, she estimated. She didn't remark on the kid-like things he did. He didn't have to hide anything from her or lie to her. She had zero judgment about his mercy killing of Kujo, only interested in all the details. Even better, he got to hear about her cohort's adventures, and about his brother.

"This is great," she said one day, sitting on her couch in her nice house -- a parting gift from her team Historian, though he didn't realize at the time that he would die within weeks after she moved in. Getting to live in a nice house instead of a garage or warehouse with Hall was another benefit to living with Natasha. "History has forgotten all my I-teammates, but if you hear their stories, and you make it to the end, then in a way, they'll be remembered, too." Her eyes got wet. "Because they were incredible guys. Just incredible. It's a travesty that Bucky and I are the only ones who remember."

She told him countless stories about her and her friends and their adventures. It all sounded so much cooler than anything he and his teammates were doing. "It sounds like ... you've lived more life than could fit into just fifteen or sixteen years," he finally told her.

She smiled and looked away in that casually cool way she had about her. "Well ... being an Iterator, you know ... our lives are pretty eventful. It's not everyone who lives through the end of the world multiple times, right? Not even regular Travelers. You'll get there. In just another couple of Iterations, you'll have lived as much as us!"

He tried to smile.

She showed him pictures and videos of all her friends. "I stole these from Vision. All of this has been overwritten, of course, but the Director has all the records of every timeline, and I was able to get these from the previous timelines, because I'm a hacker, too, not just an Assassin. There's Steve," she said, gazing at the image of him fondly. "Oh, and there's your brother! See, I told you they were friends. Your brother was in his squadron."

"'Squadron'?" Only Combat Strategists had squadrons.

"Yeah, Bucky was our Combat Strategist, and Steve was his commander."

"I'm our Combat Strategist!" Shin told her excitedly.

"Whoa, no way!" she said. "What were the chances that your group of three best friends would have the same specialties as our group of three??"

"Was Steve your Encoder too, then?" Shin asked eagerly.

"Oh, no. Steve was our ... he was good at everything, see? So they kind of made him a jack of all trades. He had lots of specialties. Because he was special." She stroked the image of him on the screen.

"Just like Trinity," he said. "She's the Encoder, but she's good at everything, too."

"Wow, we really are the same," she marveled. "And Encoder, that's ... wow."

"Was I-021 your Encoder?"

"Huh? No, it was I-094." I-194 was the one who was almost Shin's team's Encoder. "We lost her early on, though, which is probably why we didn't fare too well. We wrote a program we called Vision to try to take over Encoding, and it got us through, I guess. But we couldn't have done it without Steve, either. Couldn't really do without anyone," she admitted.

"I don't think we could, either. But especially not without Trinity."

It was seeing her friends on video that really brought them home to Shin. She had hundreds of hours of footage of them, and they watched them together all the time, until he felt like he knew her cohort almost as well as his own. He especially watched the footage of his brother over and over again, memorizing every second, but because he died at the end of their first Iteration, there wasn't nearly as much footage of him as many others.

They all seemed so grown up, though, so professional, not like the bunch of kids he felt like he and his cohort were. Steve especially ... he was so mature and wise and good, so kind. Trinity wasn't mature, but they both had that brightness of spirit that just ... made the world seem worth saving.

"It was a power failure during transfer, when his consciousness was lost?" Shin said one night when she paused the video to microwave them some popcorn, a still of Steve and Bucky after a battle there on the screen, big as life.

She grew still and silent in the kitchen. "Yep."

"So his host died as scheduled?"

"No. We had a mass Arrival, just like you guys, and Bucky saved his host when he wasn't saving himself. We didn't -- didn't know yet that ... he wouldn't be coming at all. So his host is just out there in the world, walking around. I see him sometimes; he lives around here. After Bucky saved his life, he befriended him for a while, until he realized Bucky was too fucked up to be much of a friend," she chortled. "As if any Iterator isn't fucked up, though," she added quickly, so as not to make it seem like she was speaking ill of Bucky, her last remaining teammate. "We all end up like that."

"Why doesn't Bucky ever come around?" Shin finally thought to ask. "Why haven't I ever met him?"

Natasha sighed. She had an amazing poker face, even better than Ayanokouji's, but he'd learned that when she gazed far away with her head tilted like this, though on someone else it might look merely thoughtful, it meant she was sad. "He knows he can come over any time he wants, but he's ... broken. He and Steve were best friends from birth, as far as I can tell." Again, just like Shin and Trinity. "And his specialty ... I don't think they did it with you guys, because it was such a disaster, but they tried to train him as a super soldier. It messed him up bad. Then when Steve died ... I think Bucky is just waiting around to die, honestly. But he claims he sees visions of other timelines, and he claims Steve is in all the others, which is impossible, but so ... maybe what he's really waiting for is for Steve to come back." Shin recognized it in her demeanor: despair. "Bucky is the only friend I've got left ... well, except now you," she said with that smile she could turn on any time, anywhere, to serve her specialty. "But I don't even really have him anymore."

His heart bled for her, but there was nothing he could do to help her feel better. Well, except for maybe one thing: "Seeing other timelines is real, though," he said. "Trinity's Historian sees them, too."

"Really?" She was keenly interested. "What causes it?"

"After they get an Update, Historians have to take these yellow pills that anchor them in this timeline, but he stopped taking them."

"What? Why??"

"I'm not sure ...."

"Well, if he doesn't want 'em, can I give his to Bucky? Maybe it'd make him better."

"I'll ask."

Philip was as agreeable as always to his request. "They're probably wondering why I haven't picked up any in so long. You can come with me to the pickup spot if you want."

They walked together down the street. They started talking at the same time. Philip told him to go first. "Is it hard, to see so many timelines at once?"

"Yeah," said Philip. "You've probably noticed I've been sticking close to you. It's because people and cars are in different places in different timelines. It can be hard to tell which one is the one I'm in right now. I have to focus pretty carefully to be able to discern, or just try to avoid everything I can see. But that's impossible downtown, where there are so many people and so many cars. So as long as I'm close to you and I know you can only see this timeline, I know I'll probably be okay. But if you see a car coming for me or something, please tell me." He chuckled.

"I'm your seeing-eye person," Shin suggested.

"Something like that. And you work well for that, because for some reason ... this is the only timeline I see you in. Out here on the street, anyway. Sometimes I see you in other timelines around Ops."

Shin made sure to look out for Philip then, ignoring the question implied by his observation. Of course Shin knew exactly why this was the only timeline he saw him here in: because this would be the only time he would have to follow this route and accompany him to the pickup location. He would know how to get there himself in every other Iteration, and thus in every other timeline. Philip only had to show him this once. There would come a day when Shin had personally experienced everything which to Philip seemed to be only phantom images from other timelines.

"What else do you see in other timelines of me and Trinity?" Shin asked, pretty sure the concern he felt at the idea was not in evident in his voice. If Philip saw the wrong thing at the wrong time, all their secrets would be revealed.

"All kinds of crazy stuff," Philip told him, but his tone was light enough that he at least didn't seem to know anything he shouldn't. "And, um ... the thing I was wanting to ask you about is ... in a lot of them, Trinity and I are ... an item." In this Iteration, he'd never figured out they were kids.

Shin felt his own mouth twitch with a smile -- a rare event. Philip was eyeing his face carefully and probably saw it. "So I was wondering if you thought ... that might actually be a possibility, if you think she'd be open to that," Philip went on. He was blushing. Such a shy, sweet guy. Trinity would be beside herself with joy if Philip actually asked her out; her obsession with him was only increasing the better she got to know him.

Shin considered. "Trinity is young at heart," he said carefully at last. He wanted to make sure Philip knew he couldn't date her or anything like it ... but she would never forgive Shin if he ruined all possibility of some greater intimacy between them. "She wouldn't be ready for something like that, but she adores you. She'd love to be your best friend. And as her best friend, I can tell you, she's the best best friend in the world."

Philip was smiling, seeming filled with joy himself, quite content with his answer. "That works great for me."

Daiya, another of Shin's friends from his squadron, had a house in his host's name, so he bought a trampoline and everyone went there to jump on it. Summer was coming on again. Daily trips to the amusement park and water park resumed, but the wars over which was better didn't; rather, everyone found out where Shin was going that day and went there, too. They still had a lot of fun, but every one of them would at random moments suddenly stop and stare intently at the sky, dropping everything until they eventually stopped staring and remembered how to have fun ... or at least forgot how not to.

Still, they were all keen to make sure such a surprise attack was avoided this time around, if that was possible. Everyone was constantly bugging Manabe to gather any intel she could get her hands on regarding planned attacks, until she snarlingly refused anyone who approached her for anything. Everyone who had access to any relevant information was always collecting it and sharing it with the entire cohort.

So it was troubling when the attack didn't come from the air, it came from the sea. "Multiple ships en route to adjacent littoral space armed with eighty cruise missiles!" 0099 suddenly screamed into their comms. "Everyone, make your way to the nearest spot on the route. I'll get Shin and we'll pick up your consciousnesses as we go, but it'll be close. Be ready to self-terminate!"

Shin hurried out of the movie theater with his friends Anju, Kurena, and Ayanokouji. "Should ... we self-terminate?" Kurena asked, her voice quavering. Of the entire cohort, Kurena was the one still most like a child. Shin hated the idea of her having to do something like that, even as he knew one day she would surely have to. Hopefully not today, though. "There's not going to be room in the van for a lot of people ...."

"There's room for four," Ayanokouji decided. "And I'll need help getting the rest. I'll terminate you if necessary."

0099 screeched to a halt next to them in a high-speed military transport. "Get in!"

They all piled in. 0099 was cursing as she peeled out, having to stop immediately at a red light. "No one has any idea what's coming. They're all in my way."

Ayanokouji pulled out his sidearm and started shooting pedestrians in the crosswalk. Others scattered and ran, screaming. "Well done," 0099 told him, gunning it around the cars that were also pulling away to avoid the transport with the crazy gunman hanging out the window.

"I'll be out soon," Ayanokouji said calmly. "I could use more ammunition. And Shin, strap yourself in."

Shin knew then how Ayanokouji intended to proceed. He strapped himself into one of the benches along the side of the van as ordered instead of going to help Kurena and Anju riffle through the weapons cases and boxes loaded up in the back of the transport. "No ammo for that weapon," Anju told him. "But try this."

Kurena rushed to hand Ayanokouji the rifle Anju had just handed her. He threw his sidearm on the floor and took aim at Daiya, who was standing on the street trying to wave them down. Shin then noticed the four others standing with him and heard them over the comms saying another was on her way before the first consciousness slammed into him, the next four in quick succession, and he was no longer able to move or respond. He felt another hit him a few seconds later.

"Got 'em all," Ayanokouji said calmly, before shouting back to Anju, "I need something fully automatic."

"I'm looking!" She kept handing Kurena more guns she thought might be better suited to his purposes. Kurena delivered them to him, then tried to load more ammunition into the semiautomatic he handed back to her.

"I thought you were an Assassin," Kurena grumbled. "Supposed to be a sharpshooter or something."

"Yes, but we're in a moving vehicle and there are a lot of targets," he responded coolly as he took aim at another group of Iterators standing along the route. Shin saw the looks of bewildered horror as they watched Ayanokouji lean out the window with a gun aimed right at them before they fell.

"Do you have to shoot them all in the face?" she growled. Shin knew her well enough to know she must be deeply disturbed by it all, and trying not to watch.

"They need to be totally dead, not just wounded, at the first shot, and they're all looking this way, so yes."

"Nobody's doing this right," 0099 muttered. "You taught them all how to self-terminate, right?"

"Yes. Easier said than done," he replied.

"Fifteen suicide attempts, and now they can't even do it to SAVE their lives?" she muttered under her breath. "They didn't really think we'd have room for all of them in this van, did they?" she said then irritably at normal volume.

"I don't think they're thinking too hard about logistics," said Ayanokouji. "Except probably our Logistician," he added dryly.

"... Who is just coming into range," said 0099, telling everyone whose comms were now appearing within range on her GPS that she was ready for them. "Yep, he self-terminated," she said, watching the map Nanami made her as Shin requested, as the circle representing the Logistician turned from blue to red. "But you'll have to get the rest."

Inside himself, Shin felt the fear, the horror, of his comrades' consciousnesses at having just watched one of their own gun them down. Presently, however, as more and more joined them, and they saw how it was in the van, Ayanokouji's care and determination to collect every one of them, the mood was lifting. Somehow, when they were all together inside Shin and merging where they found common ground, the mood always soon became exuberant. They were getting excited about the next Iteration.

All was going well until suddenly 0099 cried out. "NO! We're out of time, and we still don't have One Fifty or One Oh Two!!"

"Just get them!" Kurena cried. She was friends with them both. "I'm sure we'll have enough time!"

But 0099 looked at the map and the clock, and just gunned it onto the highway, giving orders over her comm. "One Fifty and One Oh Two, you will have to self-terminate on my order! Stand by."

Shin heard them over his comm, anxiously begging for an alternative.

"They won't ever come in range if you head straight for the device," Ayanokouji said with no evident concern.

"I know," 0099 said desolately. "Our only hope is that somehow Shin will be able to get them, anyway. Maybe his range has increased."

"They could drive themselves to the bunker!" Kurena shouted, starting to cry.

"They'd have to go ninety the whole way to make it in time," said 0099, "but that is a better option. One Fifty and One Oh Two, belay that order! Drive yourselves to the bunker at top speed, repeat, attempt to drive at least one hundred miles per hour the entire distance to whatever extent you can do so safely!"

0099 herself was speeding down the highway, steering around other cars, going onto the shoulder when necessary. Fortunately, most people simply tried to get out of her way. She glanced in the rearview. "Oh, great! Isn't this just what we need right now??"

The other three looked out the back window. "Three cop cars??" Kurena said, sounding actually kind of impressed.

Ayanokouji craned around to see better, peering, and said, "Five. At least." He put his head out the window and took aim, then came back inside. "No good. I can't do anything with this angle or this gun. The bulk of the van is between us, anyway, and they're shooting at me."

"Good thing I just found this," said Anju, pulling out a shoulder-fired missile launcher. "Kurena, hold onto me so I don't fall out."

Kurena grabbed Anju's belt with one hand and wrapped her arm around a strap with the other. Anju pushed open the back doors of the transport van, kicking a weapons case out to slow down their pursuers, took careful aim, and fired. A police car exploded spectacularly, crashing into the one beside it, blocking the entire highway with a wall of wreckage and fire.

"I estimate they won't be able to catch up again for another five minutes," said Ayanokouji.

"Great job, girls!" said 0099 proudly. "They would have taken out our tires, and then ... we might not have made it."

Kurena and Anju beamed at each other.

"All right, strap in, everybody, I'm going to pick up as much speed as possible to put more space between us and our pursuers."

Anju, Kurena, and Ayanokouji put on seatbelts. Kurena was sitting right next to Shin. "You all right, Shin?" she asked worriedly, then looked around. "Is he always like this?"

"Always," said Ayanokouji.

"One consciousness goes in him and he's down for the count," Anju agreed.

Kurena looked at Shin. "Why?"

When there was only one in him these days, he could usually move at least a little. But any more than that and he couldn't tell where his hands were or whose he was trying to move, couldn't clearly separate himself from anyone else in there. Anyway, all the emotions and thoughts and memories swirling around inside him made it essentially impossible to function. Just his own sometimes threatened to overwhelm him. He'd heard the others say it was the same for them. So to take on those of others as well as his own overwhelmed him completely. But he could never hope to form those words right now to explain and put her at ease.

0099 slammed on the brakes the second they pulled up in front of the bunker's entrance, and grabbed Shin roughly out of his seat. She and Ayanokouji hauled him down the stone tunnels as fast as they could go, banging him on any number of things along the way. He might end up with broken bones, but he didn't need this body anymore, anyway, and they simply didn't have time to be careful. "Leave the bunker doors open for One Fifty and One Oh Two as long as you can!" 0099 called back to Kurena and Anju, "but when I give the order, you MUST shut them securely and come to the consciousness transfer device!"

0099 and Ayanokouji all but threw Shin into the device and started powering it up. "They're not going to make it," said Ayanokouji with his customary calm.

"Shut up!" 0099 shrieked. "You shut up, Ayanokouji, and start double-checking TELLs!"

Ayanokouji started double-checking TELLs. Kushida appeared and helped, apparently having beat them to the bunker, which only made sense -- she could have headed there as soon as she heard that 0099 was trying to pick everyone else up via Shin, since she knew he wouldn't collect her consciousness. She also would never consider taking any risks in order to help out someone else in the cohort, so she probably made excellent time. "What's this one?" she asked. "I-zero? What's an I-zero number doing in here? The TELL is for way longer ago than ours."

Ayanokouji glanced at it, shrugged. "We don't have time to figure it out. Don't worry about it."

Manabe and her friends, who were already at the bunker when they arrived, watched as Ayanokouji explained to them what he was doing, how to power up the device, and what else he knew about how to operate it. At least those four had made it on their own. They still had a chance to make it to the next Iteration with all fifty again.

"And you!" 0099 pointed in Shin's face. Her tears started falling on his cheeks. "I told you to come talk to me about how you want me to treat you while you're catatonic and you didn't follow my order! I'll penalize you for that next time around!"

"T-minus ten seconds," said Ayanokouji.

"I mean it!" 0099 yelled at Shin as Ayanokouji started counting down. "Girls, close the bunker doors and get down here!"

Chapter Text

The last thing Shin heard was their cries of protest, then abject weeping, when suddenly he was back on the battlefield, looking around at all his compatriots, who were all looking around likewise. Every eye went to I-150's and I-102's hosts, who stood there looking bewildered. "Why were you all screaming like that?" one of them wondered aloud ... and the moans went up from the whole cohort.

"NOOO!" cried Kaie. "WHY???"

"They just didn't make it in time," some people were saying. Some were beginning to weep aloud, others to cry out.

"FOCUS! We'll mourn after. First save your lives," 0099 said, sounding at least as miserable as anyone else. "Incoming in eight."

Shin could all but hear everyone counting down in their heads. Dutifully, according to the training everyone did with Shin, they took all the drones out easily, without a single casualty, even among the watching Traveler teams, but their success was bittersweet. At least before, they'd have seen the person who died here today again, but I-150 and I-102 were lost forever. Shin could hardly believe it.

He looked wildly over toward Kujo, only to see multiple people greeting him, since after all, even though they lost two, they gained this one back. Shin went over himself. "Good to see you again," Shin told him, shaking his hand.

Kujo used the handshake to pull him into a hug. "Thanks, man," he said into Shin's shoulder, his voice muffled by Shin's uniform. "Thank you. You saved my life."

"Not to hear our Traveler teams tell it," said Shin. "Some of them saw me kill you. They decided I was a murderer. There was a hearing ...."

"What the fuck?? Well, sorry for that, too, then."

"No problem. I'm just glad I don't have to do it for anyone today."

0099 began her usual speech to their teams. Shin walked dutifully to Boyd and introduced himself before turning to listen to the rest of 0099's speech.

"Your new team members will come join you soon, but first, we need to have an emergency meeting; our consciousness transfer did not go as planned. So thank you, Travelers, for coming to help with this operation and helping bring your new team members safely to the twenty-first. I'll be coming to each of your bases of operations to give you an orientation on your new team members later on this week. Come on, guys, into the barrack."

They'd never actually set foot in the barrack before. Well, it had been demolished in every other Iteration so far; now it was barely damaged at all. "Not you two," 0099 told I-150's and I-102's hosts as they tried to follow them in there. "You've been assigned to other units. Please see the General for your new assignments."

The wailing began as soon as the twenty-firsters were gone. Hugging, weeping, confusion ... all ending with demands of 0099 to explain why she hadn't waited until they got there. "Because they were coming!" said Kurena. "I saw them on the GPS, they were almost there!"

"They were still ten minutes out when the first missiles hit," said 0099 dispassionately. "They were not almost there. Even if they somehow survived the blast, the consciousness transfer device wouldn't have; it was almost out of backup power by the time I finally gave up waiting for them and sent myself back. But believe me, kids, I ...," she had to pause to grapple with her own tears, "... I waited for them until the last possible second."

The outrage dissolved. Now it was just crying, even Trinity, though she hardly knew either of them and they'd never been particularly nice to her.

"How'm I supposed to keep track of how old we are if I'm dead??" Kujo complained as they all got settled to have the first meeting of the Iteration. "How many days did that one last??"

No one seemed to know, until the Logistician said, "Well, we always Arrive on March ninth, and the last one ended on September twenty-eighth, so ...."

"Two hundred-three," said the Calculator instantly.

Kujo got out his phone and did a little math. "So we're ... I missed my tenth birthday!!"

"So did we," said Kurena cynically.

"Did we??" said 0099. "We have to remedy that. We didn't have you around to remind us, Kujo! We'll have a party this Saturday. No missions then, and you shouldn't be so deep into the Iteration that you have any other responsibilities yet. We'll do it up right, a birthday party any ten-year-old in the twenty-first would love."

As the rest of the cohort discussed this excitedly, Ayanokouji remarked to just Trinity and Shin, "It'll be the first time this Iteration that I disobey Hall."

"Will he be mad?" asked Trinity anxiously.

"Just a lot of lectures until he finally gives up."

"You seem really ... happy to see him again," Shin noted.

Ayanokouji considered, as if it never occurred to him to think about whether something made him happy. "I guess so," he finally said, as if surprised himself.

"Why??" Trinity complained. She hated that guy.

Ayanokouji thought a little. "I respect him as a Leader. I respect the way he does whatever it takes; that's my own approach. I like that he's not overly cautious. I like how loyal he is to his team and to the mission. I like that he's straightforward."

"He's probably mean to you if you ever talk back," Trinity said, making a face.

Ayanokouji smiled faintly. "No ... there are limits to his power. I'm mostly immune to his methods. It does make him angry at first ... but in the end, he comes to respect me as an equal when I tell him my opinion. The other guys on our team don't do that, so he loves them, but he doesn't respect them. I've got to think of a way to keep him alive this Iteration. I think I'll kill Kyle. I don't think Luca could do it on his own. I'm getting better at figuring out how not to get caught, especially after seeing how Kyle and Luca went about it last Iteration. They were never caught, never even suspected."

"Because I was," Shin said with a sigh. "I was their suspect, because they saw me kill Kujo."

Kujo looked up at the sound of his name and nodded thanks once again at Shin.

"That helped," said Ayanokouji. "But they were extremely careful. I can't usually afford to be that careful; my body count has to be higher than that would require ... but still, I learned a lot. I can't be that careful with everybody I kill ... but I can be that careful with Kyle. Just so long as Luca and Hall don't suspect."

"You get better and better at it every Iteration," Trinity said generously.

0099 overheard. "You're ALL getting better and better, at all your specialties, all the time. We always knew your training would have to continue after you Arrived. Nine years is simply not enough time to train anyone to do the jobs you're here to do with as much skill as we require of you. And I'm proud of everyone here." She smiled at every one of them individually.

"So, well done on that last Iteration! We accomplished nearly every goal the Director set for us. We worked around a lot of obstacles, and I know you all learned a lot. And wow, that Arrival -- kudos." She stood there clapping for them, then encouraged them to clap for themselves. "A thing of beauty. Not a single casualty ... except for the two we lost the previous Iteration."

The room got silent.

"We will miss Myna and Chise for as long as we live, I know." Immediately, people started to cry. "But we will never forget them, and they'll live on in our hearts forever. Won't they?" There was now some wailing. "Tell you what, this Wednesday, before your party, we'll have a proper funeral for them. We don't have their bodies, but we'll have a memorial. Anyone who wants to share memories of them or tell what they meant to them, please do; you have until then to gather your thoughts. We need to send them off properly. As we'll do for anyone who is ever lost, right up until the very end."

"If you'd left open the bunker doors, they might have been able to make it!" cried Kaie. "Manabe and Kushida and everyone beat you there!"

"Manabe and Kushida and everyone beat us there because they were already halfway there by the time we picked up our last consciousness," 0099 said with an edge, "which is why you all need to figure out how to properly self-terminate! What was that last time?? I give an order and NOT ONE of you except Keisei followed it?!"

"I've been thinking it would be easier, at least the first couple of times, for everyone to shoot each other round robin," Ayanokouji said, customarily emotionless. "Then maybe it'll become easier for us to shoot ourselves."

Everyone agreed this would be a little easier.

"But let how it went as we completed that last Iteration be a lesson to you all that Shin WILL collect you. Except the ones we already know he won't. So have a little faith," 0099 said sternly.

"Maybe we should all just get in a car and head there," Koenji suggested.

"Maybe you should," said 0099. "It would make my job easier, even if we did end up having to terminate you along the way. Especially if you went straight to the interstate. Shin, Keisei, Ayanokouji, Nanami, please come up with a new plan when we're done here today. In the meantime, you all need to become experts at operating the consciousness transfer device yourselves, in case anything ever happens to me. We'll start having classes next week, a few of you at a time, out at the bunker."

Assignments were handed out, training sessions were scheduled, comms were programmed. Ayanokouji turned to Trinity. "Bet you're happy to see Philip again."

She melted. "Yeah," she said dreamily.

"He asked me in the last Iteration if I thought you'd be open to dating him," said Shin.

Her eyes lit up. "He did?? What did you say??"

"It doesn't matter what he said then," said Ayanokouji, "since everything reset and he won't remember the conversation anymore. But what do you want us to answer if he asks us now?"

"Tell him yes!" she shouted. "Yes yes yes!!"

Shin went to Ayanokouji's base of Operations to pick him up for the memorial. Hall moved his base of Operations around a lot, but this warehouse they started in every Iteration was especially grim. He could hear Hall giving Ayanokouji the third degree. "Do you work for me or do you work for her?"

"Both," said Ayanokouji, and Shin could hear in his voice that he'd answered this question before, that he'd had this conversation with Hall before, in other Iterations.

"Sounds like a conflict of interest," Hall pressed.

"It's not. The I-team is here to help you. You're also going to be given missions that help us. Because we're all on the same mission: to save the world."

"Hm. Just as long as you remember that."

"I never forget it, not for even one second."

There was a smile in Hall's voice as he answered. "Good. When will you be back?"

"When it's over," Ayanokouji said shortly and unapologetically, turning and walking out without giving Hall a chance to waylay him any more.

Ayanokouji fell in with Shin and they headed together for the military base that served as the I-team's base of Operations. Neither of them said anything most of the way there. "I can't believe Myna and Chise are gone," Shin said at last. "Natasha told me how quickly her cohort died, and I knew we'd lose someone sometime, but they were part of my Squadron, and I just ... I just ... can't believe it. I'm numb."

Ayanokouji was silent for a long time. "That's probably for the best," he said as they finally arrived at the military base. They went into the Administration Building on the base and down the hall where they did all their supplemental training and had all their meetings.

Shin cried at the memorial. He had no intention of speaking, since he was so bad at it, but then nearly his entire Squadron shared memories of them, and he ended up getting up to say something as well, about what reliable Squadron members they were, about their unique talents in battle, about how glad he was they were among those who came back with him to the twenty-first as Iterators.

It was the first-time stories that really got everyone (except Ayanokouji) weeping: the first time they interacted with Myna or Chise when they were all babies, the first time they had to learn a difficult skill together. Even Manabe and her cronies were over there crying their eyes out, though they'd bullied Myna, too. That seemed strange. Kushida was also crying, but that wasn't strange at all; she could turn on the waterworks instantly if it gave the sort of impression she was hoping for, and she surely didn't want to come across as an unfeeling monster like Ayanokouji was, standing unmoved beside Shin.

Shin was certainly not the only one who noticed Ayanokouji's indifference. Kurena marched right up to him as soon as everyone was done speaking. "Don't you care about anything??" she demanded.

"I care deeply," Ayanokouji immediately replied, "I'm just bad at showing it."

"I couldn't hold the tears in!" she exclaimed. "If you really felt something, you wouldn't be able to, either!"

Other Iterators standing near them were murmuring in agreement with Kurena. Chise and Myna's deaths were terrible, but their memorial had been a tremendous bonding experience for everyone else, and everyone was eager to find a way to give their deaths meaning. Bringing the cohort together was of value. That was a meaning they could ascribe to their deaths. People who usually barely got along were hugging and crying. Ayanokouji was killing the vibe. Shin watched curiously. Did Ayanokouji really care deeply? It wasn't like him to lie.

"It's unfair of you to accuse me of something you know nothing about," Ayanokouji said, and his expression -- or at least, his attempt at one -- was unlike any Shin had seen on him in the past. "You can't know my feelings."

"But we can," said Raiden, "because we've been inside Shin with you, and I noticed then that you don't feel anything about other people."

"Nobody had died then," Ayanokouji said calmly.

"You should feel GUILTY for not crying for them!" Kurena went on, furious.

"I feel terribly guilty," said Ayanokouji in his emotionless way, not bothering with attempting a facial expression this time. This declaration was met with outrage from virtually the entire cohort, hissing that he was a monster and a liar and a creep.

"All right, all right," said 0099 unconcernedly. "Everyone handles grief differently. Ayanokouji's lack of evident emotion doesn't take your feelings away. Focus on yourselves and your own way of mourning. Let's each light a candle for each of them."

Still shooting disgusted looks at Ayanokouji, people did as she said, lighting two candles each until the collection of candles was virtually a conflagration. "This is a good representation of the light that each of you brings to the world. It's dimmer than it would have been when Myna and Chise were with us ... but if we stand together and combine our lights, it's still very, very bright, isn't it?" said 0099. People nodded, tears shining in their eyes. "So take care of yourselves, train carefully and follow safety procedures, don't get cocky, and let's do our very best not to lose anyone else at the end of this Iteration, okay? I love you all. And we all love Myna and Chise, don't we?"

There were more tears, cries of "We love you!" People looked at pictures Theo had drawn for the occasion of the girls the way they looked as kids back in the future and talked more about times they had with them. Ayanokouji just ate cake.

He did seem to really enjoy the birthday party, though. 0099 got them an adult-sized bounce house and ball pit, a trampoline, strange party games involving whacking a colorful animal-shaped container until it released the candy inside, and pinning an equine's tail back on while dizzy, all while blindfolded. Plus, tons of pizza and cake and ice cream and pop. Ayanokouji especially loved the trampoline; he was even learning to do some tricks. 0099 really didn't want him to do any flips, but he snuck in a few while she wasn't looking.

Eventually, even Ayanokouji got tired, and he and Shin sat companionably together under a tree, watching Trinity nearly take out the entire cohort with the stick she was waving wildly, miles from the pinata. Shin chuckled, but Ayanokouji just watched expressionlessly.

"Is it true that you care deeply and are simply bad at showing it?" Shin finally asked him. He couldn't sort one consciousness from another when so many were inside him, but from what he had gathered over the course of all their years of friendship, it was a blatant lie.

"No," said Ayanokouji. "I've been watching Kushida," he said, nodding to where she stood by the refreshments table, cheerfully chatting up Kurena and her friends. "She is the most talented manipulator I've ever seen. She can make anyone believe anything. Being suspected of being a murderer has hindered my ability to properly do my job in every Iteration, so I need to be able to lie. I can't do it like her, with smiles and a pretense of friendship; I don't have it in me, any more than you have it in you. But I have to get better at it. It didn't go well at the memorial." Now he was feeling something: bummed at his failure there. "But that was my first effort. And even if I'm never able to successfully lie to the cohort, I just need to be able to convince our regular Traveler teams and twenty-firsters."

Shin nodded.

"Why ... didn't they believe me?" Ayanokouji asked hesitantly. The cohort believed he was a monster, but Shin and Trinity knew there was a vulnerable child inside him just like in the rest of them, even if he was different from everyone else in certain ways. "Did you find it believable?"

"No. What you were saying was belied by your demeanor. You acted the opposite of how you were saying you felt. And yeah, they've known you a long time. It'll be hard to fool them."

"I'll have to find a way to work around that," Ayanokouji said thoughtfully. "Because I don't think I'll ever be able to sound like I care."

Shin took Ayanokouji's hand. How could the rest of the cohort not see him as Shin and Trinity saw him? He couldn't sound like he cared because of how honest he was, a truth he was always telling that went deeper than what he tried to lie about at the memorial. When push came to shove, it was Ayanokouji you wanted on your side. Cool-headed, reliable, logical, he always came through. "Thanks for making sure the whole rest of the cohort could come along to this Iteration. I know it can't have been easy to kill all our friends, even for you," said Shin.

"I knew you were catching them as they fell."

Shin smiled and squeezed his friend's hand. He really did care in his own way, but Shin and Trinity were the only ones who could see it, so maybe it wasn't so bad that history would forget them all, if no one was ever really going to know them in the first place. Except each other. They always had each other.

In order to avoid a repeat of the previous Iteration when Boyd came to distrust him, Shin tried to act extra pleasant and dependable, but that itself made her distrust him. She was so sincere, she instantly distrusted anything that smacked of insincerity in anyone else. He overheard her describing him as an "eager beaver" to her teammate, so he went back to just being himself. She hadn't seen him kill anyone this time, after all.

The beginning of any Iteration was about the same as any other. Now that they had some practice at it, Shin was settling well into his team, Ayanokouji into his. It was Trinity, this time, who arrived at a training session in tears. "Philip hates me now!" she wailed. "He hates me, and I didn't even do anything!!"

"What happened?" asked Ayanokouji.

"Nothing! We were just sitting there in Ops like usual! I think he was about to confess to me about his addiction like he always does about this time in every Iteration, when suddenly he got up and started staring at something at his computer that wasn't there! That's what he does when he's seeing another timeline. I don't know what he saw, but then he looked right at me, and the look in his eyes .... You guys!!" she wept. "It was HATRED!"

Shin and Ayanokouji got right to work on the problem. This would not do at all. "Were we there in Ops talking about something in some other Iteration on that day and at that time?" Ayanokouji asked, all business.

Shin thought back. "No. At least, nothing I can think of. And during the first Iteration, I think you were living with me and Boyd at that time."

"Do you talk on your comm in the part of your base where he was looking?" Ayanokouji asked her.

Trinity thought, tears still standing in her eyes. "No," she finally said. "Almost never, because he's always out there in the main part of the room at his desk where he was looking. Not by this point in the Iteration. I almost always do it alone in my room." She covered her eyes and sobbed. "Oh, Philip!"

She could hardly focus during training. 0099 sat her down afterward and talked to her about not getting too attached to anyone in any Iteration, but Shin could see in her eyes she already knew such advice would be useless with Trinity. Trinity was love. Her love only deepened over time; it was a fundamental part of her nature. She was even coming to love her bullies ever more deeply. It was a good thing she was an Iterator, Shin realized. It was the only way she would always have Philip, as long as she lived, because even if he died in some Iteration, he'd be alive again when they reset. "I'll have a talk with him," 0099 promised at the end. "We need our Encoder able to focus."

0099's talk with Philip backfired. "Now he distrusts me and every member of the I-team," she sighed as she prepared for Shin's consciousness transfer device training session. "And that's a real shame, because I was hoping we might be able to use his ability to see other timelines to our advantage. It could be incredibly helpful, if we could get him to trust us."

"What did you say to him?" Shin asked.

"Well, I guess it was my fault. I know you guys are starting to struggle to remember whether you've told a member of your team something yet in this Iteration, or whether they've told YOU something yet. Philip was spooked when I mentioned his ability to see other timelines, as if I was reading his mind or surveiling him somehow, so I guess he hasn't told Trinity about that yet in this Iteration. Trinity has mentioned he doesn't trust or like the Director. I did gather, though, that what he saw might have had something to do with Trinity's direct line to the Director; the only thing he let slip was something that might have been a reference to that, and she hasn't told him anything about her specialty in this Iteration, so ...."

Shin thought and thought about what to do, but controlling people's feelings was not in his wheelhouse. It was, however, coming to be in Ayanokouji's, as he honed his skill at manipulation with as much diligence and excellence as he approached everything. Together they brainstormed and still failed to come up with anything promising. "I know who to ask," Ayanokouji said at last. "Kushida."

Kushida's specialty was "Human Resource Acquisitions." "That could also backfire," Shin told him. "Kushida has always been bitterly jealous of Trinity. I really doubt she would help her get back in Philip's good graces. She would probably just figure out a way to steal him from her. She might even do it in every Iteration simply out of spite."

"True," said Ayanokouji.

"I think ... maybe Trinity just has to live with it."

Shin saw the sadness on Ayanokouji's face at the idea. It was almost unbearable to contemplate, but they couldn't think of anything else.

Trinity seemed to have no hope it could be otherwise. She was subdued at Iterator meetings, contributing nothing. Often when Shin looked at her, there were tears in her eyes. All he could do was hold her hand and let her let her feelings out when they were together.

He also came to her base of Operations to hang out with her often to see if he could identify any windows of opportunity. At least the rest of her team seemed to trust her well enough. Whatever Philip had seen, he didn't seem to have shared it with his team, except maybe the old man, who still stared at them from the edges of the room from time to time.

It felt cold there even to Shin. From the first Iteration, Philip had been their ally, a friend, a helper. He reminded him of his big brother: someone you could count on, someone older who would give you help and advice but not treat you like a little kid. Shin was so used to Philip not minding at all when they sat together in her room and whispered that it continually threw him off to see Philip out there, staring in at them suspiciously through the windows that ringed the room.

Trinity was utterly miserable. Shin hadn't realized until this moment just how much she depended on Philip, but of course she did, if even he and Ayanokouji did. She'd been with them all day every day in the dome; that was what got her through then. Now that she had to be separate from Shin and Ayanokouji most of the time, it was mainly Philip who had gotten her through the first two Iterations. Now, he was her biggest obstacle.

"Trinity, if there's anything you can do to neutralize your Historian's interference, please try," 0099 told her at their next meeting. "He's been going behind our backs, speaking to members of every Traveler team that was present at our Arrival, sowing distrust about the I-team. It's on the cusp of ruining this entire Iteration, and god knows we don't want to waste one. We can't afford to."

Trinity had no skills whatsoever in this area, which 0099 should know, but 0099 had always seemed to regard Trinity's artlessness when it came to people as a childish habit or a stubbornness she could overcome. She didn't realize it was a fundamental part of her. Trinity just nodded, getting teary again.

The idea came to Shin at the end of the meeting. He couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before. "Come with me," he told her and Ayanokouji, and led them down the streets toward Natasha's house. Natasha was older and wiser than them but had faced the same kinds of problems. Plus, she had skills of manipulation to rival Kushida's, without the personal vendetta against Trinity.

He'd intended to rekindle his friendship with Natasha, of course, as soon as the Iteration was well underway and he had everything set up with his team just right and his befriending some random person wouldn't make Boyd suspicious. Natasha was his best friend that he met in the twenty-first, a big sister as Philip had been a big brother. She was a mentor, a confidante, right when he needed one the very most. Knowing her in the previous Iteration had made his life better in every way, and he knew he'd made hers better too. His presence had soothed some of her suffering.

They turned the corner down her street. Who should they immediately come face to face with but Natasha and Bucky! And -- "Steve!" Shin burst out. What --? How --?

Natasha frowned. "Who're you?" She looked questioningly at Steve on her right, Bucky on her left, as if wondering if he was a friend of theirs.

"I -- I'm an Iterator, too. I-112. This is I-121 and I-110, my best friends, because you -- I see you're with your best friends now, too. We ... you and I had that in common ... in my previous Iteration, only Steve was gone, and somehow now he's ... back." Shin stared, bewildered.

"Steve?" Natasha asked dubiously. "Why would he have been gone?"

"There was a malfunction during transfer to your last Iteration, and his consciousness was ... lost ...."

Now face to face with Steve, he could feel it, feel him. He'd felt this presence before: inside him with the rest of his team's consciousnesses before they got sent back the most recent time. Forty-two was far too many consciousnesses to be able to sort out one from another, but he recognized it now. Steve had been inside him. "He -- I --"

Shin turned and started walking fast in the other direction. He heard Natasha behind him say, "Have either of you ever seen this kid before?"

Ayanokouji and Trinity caught up to him. "Who were they?" Trinity asked, breathless.

Shin just shook his head and broke into a run. Natasha and Bucky had Steve back. She didn't need Shin anymore.

He was heartbroken. His best friend in the twenty-first, his mentor, gone, just like that! He and Trinity commisserated over the loss of their friends.

"I don't really understand why you ever made friends with anyone who doesn't Iterate with us," Ayanokouji told them. "Isn't it painful, when they don't remember your shared past? And when you know they're going to die and forget all over again?"

Shin had thought that's how it would be, too. He'd thought the regular Traveler teams and twenty-firsters would seem like NPCs, doomed and disposable and annoyingly predictable, but it wasn't like that at all. Rather, in a dangerous, unpredictable world, the things they did again and again every Iteration were soothingly reliable. But they didn't just repeat the same actions every Iteration. As every Iteration unfolded, everything got more and more different from every previous Iteration. It was always new. They were just as much their friends, at least in Shin and Trinity's minds.

He said so. "It's hard when they don't remember the friendship you had before, but you do, and how deeply you know them helps bring you closer together much faster." Trinity was nodding. "A new friendship is kindled, sometimes better than before." True of Boyd and her team, anyway, and Philip, and other twenty-firsters he'd come to care about ... but probably not with Natasha. His heart broke all over again.

"You know what they like and what upsets them, and the dead giveaways that you're a kid so you can hide them, and anything you regret saying or doing is erased. You can do it more perfectly the next time!" Trinity said brightly.

Ayanokouji took in the information. "But how quickly they were able to break your hearts," he noted. "And now your reaction times are slower, your memories are spotty, your performance is compromised. All due to random misunderstandings or misinterpretations on the part of these people you claim are so kind. Is it really worth the friendships, to have to go through that?"

Shin thought Ayanokouji had a point, but Trinity burst out, "Of COURSE it is! Of COURSE! It's worth everything!!" She hugged them and wept on their shoulders. "How could I do without either of you?? We lost Myna and Chise. I can't ever, ever lose either of you! And I can't lose Philip! OH, PHILIP!!" She wailed inconsolably.

Shin and Ayanokouji's eyes met over her head. Shin could see it on his face. Ayanokouji would think of something. He would get the job done, just like he always did.

Kurena had discovered laser tag. For some reason, she believed Shin's combat skills wouldn't translate to that arena. She believed she, or even one of the other people she invited to the laser tag party she cooked up, would be able to beat him.
She was dead wrong. Not only did he smoke the entire cohort effortlessly, but he was given an award by the laser tag place, for highest score ever. They took a picture of him that now lived on the wall of the laser tag place. Shin stood there expressionless, looking incredibly awkward, holding a sheet of paper they filled out with his name and date and score, all five employees standing around him, grinning and pointing at him, obviously wildly impressed. They all said they didn't even think a score that high was possible. Neither did the score-keeping software, evidently -- it didn't even have space on the display for the first digit of his score, assuming no score would ever go over 99,999,999.

A regular Traveler would be strongly discouraged from attracting so much attention to themselves, especially for superhuman feats, but as usual, Iterators got a pass. As soon as they Iterated again, that picture would be gone, his high score forgotten, and that was a shame, because the entire cohort was so into that picture, looking at it every time they went there, taking selfies with it. They were prouder of that accomplishment by someone in their cohort than anything else they'd ever done, which seemed incredibly strange to Shin. They were nearly all still alive, right? That was a much bigger accomplishment.

If they had Vision, would they be able to save and retrieve some of those selfies, so the morale booster could persist beyond this Iteration? If only ... if only he could still be friends with Natasha. But he couldn't. She didn't remember a thing about their friendship, of course. She was a loner by nature, suspicious and standoffish. She was uncomfortable with intimacy and gave everyone the slip anytime they started getting too close.

It was a magical, extremely specific set of circumstances that made it possible for him to be friends with her that once. If he hadn't also been an Iterator with two best friends, their group of three sharing two of the same specializations as her group of three best friends; if she hadn't been missing not just one but both of her best friends, since Bucky didn't even come around anymore once Steve was gone; if Shin hadn't been so desperate that he had to beg her for a place to live ... if it weren't for all these factors, he would never, ever have been able to get past her innumerable walls and defenses to get to know the precious being that was Natasha. That set of circumstances would never arise again. She wasn't the type to want to resume such a relationship even if you managed to convince her you'd been so close in the past, either. Natasha got by on what she needed and nothing more. She traveled light through this life. He was happy for her, that she had all she needed once again. But he needed her.

Deep in these thoughts, staring down at the sidewalk as he walked, he stopped when he saw a pair of feet, just standing there in his way, and looked up wonderingly ... right into Steve's face. Steve smiled. "Hey. Can we talk?" he said.

Shin looked around wildly for Natasha. "How -- how did you find me?" To locate one person in the city, headed to a place he almost never went (back to laser tag for another party) ... that was more in line with the skills of their cohort's actual Intel specialist. Philip could probably do it, because he was quite the hacker, but it would take significant effort.

"Bucky and Natasha have ... skills," he said obliquely. Shin looked around all the more excitedly. "But they said once they found you for me, they'd go and have bobas." 'Bobas'? Shin looked at him quizzically. "You have to try 'em. Just down the street on tenth. But I wanted to talk to you, because after we met on the street that one time, I couldn't shake the feeling that ... I know you. I know you. Why do I feel like I know you inside-out?"

Shin looked askance, the terrible disappointment filling him again. He was happy for Natasha, he kept reminding himself. But he couldn't help resenting Steve's return and how it took away the best thing Shin found for himself in the twenty-first. "Because you've been inside me," he said, trying to keep all emotion out of his voice, and mostly succeeding. "The consciousness of anyone I feel a connection to is attracted to mine and comes into me once it's untethered from its body. I'm guessing your consciousness was still lingering somewhere near the consciousness transfer device, so after Natasha showed me videos of you from other Iterations and talked so much about you, and after I found out you were close to my brother, I guess I felt a strong enough connection to you to collect your consciousness, too, at the end of my last Iteration, and you got sent back along with all the other consciousnesses inside me."

Steve looked at him, politely dubious. "But I Arrived with the rest of my cohort."

"I heard someone say there was a TELL already entered into the transfer device for much longer ago than our Arrival date. I guess it was yours."

"... Okay. But it's not possible to see videos from other Iterations."

"While you were absent, Natasha and Bucky found a way to utilize your Vision program to access them via the Director."

"That's not --" He paused, thinking it over. "I wouldn't have thought that was possible, but I guess theoretically --"

"They were desperate to have you back. They would have done anything."

Steve still regarded him appraisingly, but then suddenly said, "Let's get those bobas now."

Shin was eager to go with him to the boba place if only to see Natasha again, but Natasha and Bucky were nowhere to be found when they arrived. Shin craned his neck, scanning the parking lot, the nearby streets. "Where are they?"

"Both of them have the ability to disappear without a trace at a moment's notice. Or maybe they saw some other kind of store that caught their fancy on the way. Come on, my treat. They have forty flavors. Between the three of us, we've tried thirty-nine. Are you brave enough to try wasabi bobas with strawberry coffee? Because then we'll have all forty."

"Sure," Shin said, still deeply distracted. Natasha must be so close! Just out of sight. She did that all the time to other people in the Iteration where they were friends, but never to Shin. It was much more frustrating than he'd even guessed.

Steve, noting his distraction, chuckled. "If we do that to you, you'll never have another boba as long as you live. Here, how about coffee with licorice. Or chocolate? Your choice."

Shin managed to order -- though wasabi and strawberry actually sounded pretty good -- and sat down with Steve outside at a picnic bench in a nearby park. "So ... how's your Iteration going?" Steve asked him conversationally.

"It could be better," Shin answered more honestly than he intended, but his resentment for Steve was rising again.

"Yeah ... mine, too, since we lost the rest of our cohort. Now we're down to three."

"I know."

They sat in silence for a minute. Steve seemed to be enjoying the summer day, despite the sadness that pervaded him at the mention of his lost cohort, as it did to Natasha, whenever she talked about it.

"Shourei was your brother?"

The mention of Shourei strangled Shin's irritation instantly. Shin looked at him, wide-eyed. Steve got a look in his eyes ... of regret mixed with pain mixed with love. "He was in my squadron. Amazing fighter. Always got the job done. Brilliant Operations Specialist. But mostly ... a great friend." Steve glanced at Shin, who was hanging on every word. "I see him in you, actually. Certain expressions ... and of course I remember when you grabbed his hand when he was in the consciousness transfer device." He shook his head. "We all thought we'd just watched a kid die."

"I was fine. He went inside me. That's where he went. That was the beginning of ... that was the first time it happened."

Steve nodded. His suspicion seemed to be slowly dissolving. "Heavy responsibility, isn't it? To have a bunch of consciousnesses inside you?"

Shin shrugged. "I can't move after the first one goes in, so it's not my responsibility. I'm just a vessel. Someone else has to get me to the consciousness transfer device."

Steve finally turned to face him head on. "... And now I know you're really an Iterator, and really Shourei's brother, because that's just the kind of thing he would say." Steve's smile reached his eyes now. "How old are you now?"

"Ten."

Steve shook his head. Shin couldn't help being annoyed by the look in his eyes, like he was thinking, "Oh, you poor innocent child." He wasn't a child! They were both Iterators! Steve wasn't that much older -- only five or six years older than him. "So you've only Iterated once?"

"This is our third Iteration."

"The previous two were over pretty fast, then."

"Five months the first time. Six the second."

"Wow." Steve looked troubled by the information -- Natasha had told Shin her cohort never had an Iteration that lasted less than a year -- but in the end, he managed somehow to come up with an optimistic statement to make on it -- just like Trinity would have. "So you're already making things better, then," and his smile ... it was so warm. Suddenly Shin could absolutely see why Natasha and Bucky were lost without Steve. Charismatic, optimistic, warm and kind ... once they'd had him, how could they do without him? This was why Shin and Ayanokouji absolutely had to fix whatever was going on with Trinity's Historian and all his suspicion of her, absolutely had to do whatever it took to keep her alive and well until the end.

"Can I ask a favor of you?" Steve said then. Shin looked at him. "If you should ever need anything, any help with a mission, or even something personal, would you let me know? It's been Protocol Omega for us since they sent you guys back, but I still want to help. I'm only sixteen; I'm not ready to retire." He gave an impish grin. "And if you don't want the Director to know about it, that's fine; Natasha and Bucky can keep it on the down-low."

"That's a ... 'favor'? To you?" The skills of the people who hacked the Director, the people who could disappear without a trace, and the jack-of-all-trades of their entire cohort, at Shin's disposal? He was falling for Steve now, too. What a guy.

Steve wasn't giving up the pretense that this wasn't an incredible gift from him to Shin. "Please."

"Yes." Yes. Plus another Assassin? One who might be able to give advice to Ayanokouji on how to do it better and not get caught? Or who might even be able to carry out some of the assassinations so he wasn't always carrying such a heavy weight of suspicion from the authorities and their regular Traveler teams? Someone who might be able to get some of that suspicion off him? Shin was sure he could think of a dozen ways to utilize what was left of his brother's cohort right now; hundreds if he had some time to think about it. "But --" said Shin. Steve tilted his head quizzically. "The Iteration could end any time, and if I didn't have this asset of your help anymore ... there will never be another circumstance where I could win Natasha's trust, and maybe not yours, either. So how ... how could I convince you I'm your friend again in another Iteration?"

"You tell us something only we would know, a code phrase," came another male voice. Shin turned around. Bucky! It was Bucky, emerging from behind a small stand of trees.

"Or a secret we would only have told our closest friends." Natasha! She appeared from behind a dumpster.

Steve nodded at him warmly, in agreement with the other two.

"I mean, I could quote entire conversations from your past Iterations. I watched them enough times with Natasha to memorize them," Shin offered eagerly.

"We're not Historians. Even we probably don't remember them that well," said Steve, chuckling.

"Yeah, that would probably just creep us out," said Natasha, and Shin looked askance, deeply missing the old Natasha from the previous Iteration. She had every word of every one of those videos memorized. That Natasha was Shin's first casualty of an overwritten history, aside from Myna and Chise. That Natasha was lost to time, lost to everyone, even Bucky. Only Shin would remember her, or even know she'd ever existed. This Natasha didn't even really seem to believe that Natasha had ever existed. Didn't seem to want to believe it. Wanted her to be forgotten, that precious, wonderful person that she was, whom Shin would always hold close to his heart.

Steve Rogers, I-018. The I-X18 line was the Geneticists' most ambitious project, when they first created it. I-X00 through I-X17 were a careful balance of desirable characteristics, but with I-X18, they worked specifically on increasing the excellence of the consciousness itself. I-X00 through I-X17 were eighteen distinct combinations of qualities, each very different from every other, in hopes that each one would provide something special and important to the effort to save humanity. Multiple tries were required for each, as the Geneticists discovered that any significant lack of balance between physical, emotional, mental, and even spiritual qualities created an embryo that was not viable and died during gestation or shortly after. They had to conclude there were other such qualities that had to be present in balance that they never precisely identified, as some of their creations still were not viable despite those qualities they did identify being in balance.

It remained a thorn in their sides, however, that physical characteristics, which would be lost when the consciousness was sent back to the twenty-first, had to be fully represented in the mix. So I-X18 was their attempt to carefully, so carefully, tip the balance just enough to borrow from the physical to increase the qualities that would go with the consciousness back to the twenty-first.

All of their first attempts -- dozens, perhaps hundreds -- were not viable. Steve, I-018, was their first successful attempt.

Shin had read all about the entire history of the Iterator program from a genetic standpoint when he used to watch the Geneticists work on the next cohort, eager for his younger brother's arrival. It was the only way he had of trying to satisfy that need to meet him already. He couldn't even see the embryos that would be the next generations of his line. He could only see the Geneticists that would bring them to life, so he read up on the entire history of the I-X12 line, and when he came to the end of information about that, the I-X10 line and the I-X21 line. It was in reading about Trinity's line that he realized there was some great gap in information that came between his line and hers, a missing link that would explain what was being said about her, so he read up on everything between, and that was where he learned about Steve.

Of course Shin knew I-118; he had grown up with him. He was familiar with his physical weakness, which precluded him from being a part of Shin's squadron, though he often sat on the sidelines and watched, in order to learn combat for a future when he had a body that could engage in it. Shin was familiar with I-118's regular medical treatments. And he was familiar with his suffering. "Once you go back to the twenty-first, all this will be over," 0099 would assure I-118, but that was another thing Shin read about when he was reading up on the Geneticists: as with the I-X10 line, they were considering scrapping the I-X18 line and starting all over from scratch, because the governors of the domes had deemed the I-X18 line cruel and inhumane. Thus, Steve, I-118, and I-218 might be the only representatives of that genome that would ever exist.

Indeed, the only reason even I-118 existed was because Steve was so extraordinary -- they were already going to scrap the genetic line until Steve proved to be so amazing. He really was like the Trinity of his cohort: good at absolutely everything except anything physical, and a simply remarkable human on a fundamental level. They had terribly high hopes for him and his ability to save humanity. Shin always remembered one line from one of the Geneticists' reports because it seemed to him such a childishly optimistic view for an adult scientist to possess: "It is possible -- dare we hope? -- that all it will take to right history's wrongs is a single human being, and if so, of all our efforts, I can say with confidence that I-018 is the likeliest candidate." Other Geneticists defended the inhumane results of their experiments by suggesting that all of Steve's suffering and weakness were what led to his greatness later on, forged into a diamond by the pain and difficulty.

But then I-118 proved to be a disappointment. He did Iterate with them rather than getting sent back as a regular Traveler, but he'd achieved nothing particularly remarkable, and his specialty was nothing particularly useful. 0099 argued that all his suffering made him less effective rather than more so. They increased his basic health level for I-218, enough to function normally, if only just, and already I-218 -- Izuku Midoriya -- was showing great promise.

Meanwhile, back in the twenty-first, Steve, though surviving to the end of his cohort's Iterations, did not single-handedly save the world. His cohort arguably didn't improve the future at all. So they shut down his entire line -- along with the whole concept of enhancing other aspects of a consciousness at the expense of the physical -- which meant I-118, Midoriya, and Steve were the only three of their kind left ... and though Shin had always felt sorry for I-118 and thought it would have been more merciful if they'd never forced him to endure such an existence, now he was so glad the I-X18 line existed. He'd never bonded deeply with I-118 -- though he was a pleasant enough fellow that he was able to capture his consciousness from the first -- but even if Steve hadn't been able to save the world, he sure did make it a better place to live.

Shin would have to introduce him to Trinity. Maybe somehow between the two of them, they would find a way to save the world. Shin was not an optimist like that Geneticist. After learning about human history, he'd concluded at age seven that what led to humanity's demise was its own fundamental nature. He'd always harbored serious doubts that saving the world was even possible. Humanity was selfish, greedy, destructive. Humanity lacked foresight and empathy. He'd seen it over and over again, in almost every human he'd ever encountered ... but then he met Trinity, and then he met Steve. They were not selfish or greedy or destructive. They were full of empathy and thought always of the consequences of their actions. Their existence seemed to make up for the flaws of dozens of ordinary humans. So if there were enough Trinitys and Steves in the world, or if the power of their goodness were amplified sufficiently ... maybe it really could be saved.

At their fifth meeting of the Iteration, walking down the hallway with the Spearhead Squadron, Kaie stopped and looked out the third-floor window down at the grounds of the military base where they met each week. "Isn't that ... Trinity's Historian?" she asked, bewildered.

The entire squadron stopped and watched him creep through the base, hiding behind buildings and trees sometimes, looking at things that weren't there. "What's he doing?" asked Kurena as they watched him make his slow way to the building where they now stood.

"It doesn't matter," Theo said with a shrug, heading on toward the meeting room. "He's a Traveler. The General will get him out of trouble if he gets caught."

Anju hurried to catch up to him. "But we don't want him to see us meet ... right? No one's supposed to be in this building except Iterators."

"It's fine," Ayanokouji said abruptly, moving to follow Theo, in a final way that made everyone take one last look out the window and follow, and Shin knew Ayanokouji must have decided Philip's unexpected visit might somehow be helpful.

Trinity was already there in the meeting room when they arrived, sitting in the encoding device, looking miserable. Ayanokouji sat down at the table and said nothing to her about it. The Spearhead Squadron all seemed to be thinking of saying something to Trinity about her Historian being here, but Ayanokouji's stare straight forward, saying nothing, when they knew he was best friends with Trinity, and their commander Shin's failure to mention it to her, either, seemed to convince them to keep quiet on the subject. But Shin noticed Ayanokouji sat next to him, facing the door of the room like Shin.

0099 got the meeting underway. "How are your Iterations going, guys? Anything of note to report? Anything out of the ordinary?"

Most people were finding that this was the first Iteration that was going pretty smoothly. Trinity looked even more miserable, to hear how well everyone else's Iteration was going, when this was her first bad one.

"All right, let's Encode and get our assignments from the Director; then we can plan the week ahead," said 0099.

Trinity lay back in the Encoder. Anju sat next to her, poking buttons on the device. "We'll start with One Hundred, like usual," said 0099.

I-100 started describing his perceptions about the new Iteration, when Anju said, "Hold." Everyone waited. This was a little unusual so early during an Encode, but it happened at least once per session, so no one thought much of it, until three minutes on, Anju said again, "Recalibrating."

0099 frowned. "Am I seeing things, or have you had to recalibrate five times already?"

Anju shrugged and nodded.

"Is she crying??" Kurena demanded incredulously. Everyone looked, only to see Trinity crying there in the Encoder.

0099 got up, alarmed, looking wildly at the readings on the interface. "Vitals are normal. Brain function is normal. Hormones are a little off, but within acceptable parameters--"

Shin saw movement at the door: Philip peeking into the room. If Shin saw it, he knew Ayanokouji surely saw it. Ayanokouji spoke up loudly. "It's because she's upset that her Historian distrusts her this Iteration. She loves him."

Many kids giggled. "Trinity has a boyfriend!" Kurena sang.

"None of you have boyfriends," 0099 hissed. "You are all ten years old, so act like it!"

"We'll be eleven soon!" Mikuri said brightly.

"Not that soon," 0099 growled. "And I see it's time for a lecture on the subject. That goes for you too, Trinity! I've told you kids time and time again not to get attached ...."

"But it's hopeless with Trinity, because it's her nature to love deeply no matter how much pain it brings her," Ayanokouji went on, still unnaturally loud. Ayanokouji then looked pointedly at her bullies, who scoffed and looked away. "She's not going to date him. She doesn't even know what that means. But she loves him more than anyone she met in the twenty-first, and because he hates and distrusts her now, she can't focus."

"Emotional problems are not an excuse for--" 0099 forced herself to subside as Trinity's crying grew audible. "Okay. You're all still only ten, and I know all of you do your best and will always do your best to do your jobs no matter what's going on in your personal lives. At least this is not a life-or-death situation, but all of you, keep in mind: we do deal with many life-or-death situations, and to allow your emotions to get the better of you during one of those could mean the end, for you or someone else here. So please all do your best to learn to leave your emotions at the door when it's time to work, as best you can. Okay? But for today, I guess ... let's just get our assignments, and we can finish Encoding later. Record your observations on the Iteration as soon as you get home so you don't forget anything. I guess it doesn't really matter to the future when we do it; they'll get it at the same time either way. Can you handle that much, One Twenty-One?"

Trinity nodded, still crying, but she managed to choke out their assignment information. "Is it error-free?" 0099 demanded over the sound of Trinity's ever-louder sobs. "Trinity!"

"Yes!" Trinity wept miserably.

"Okay, get her out of there," 0099 told Anju, who started the completion sequence for the Encode.

Beside him, Ayanokouji activated his comm, but it must have been only to speak with 0099, because Shin couldn't hear it through his own comm, so it couldn't be the setting that addressed the whole cohort, or the one he used to speak just to Shin and Trinity. "I need to speak with you in the hall alone right now," Ayanokouji said softly, though well loudly enough for the comm to pick it up clearly.

0099 looked up, looked right at Ayanokouji, nodded, and got up. "Back in a second," she told the cohort. "Go over your assignments, everyone."

As soon as she got into the hall, however, everyone heard her yell, "What the hell are you doing here??"

Shin got up quickly, following Ayanokouji to join her in the hall ... where they encountered Philip, who stared at 0099, outraged. "These Travelers are children??" he hissed.

"Have you been standing out here eavesdropping on proprietary information, breaking Protocol 2-I??" 0099 demanded.

"Sure have," said Philip. His eyes were fire. "I never trusted the Director. I know him too well. Better than any non-Historian. But I never, in a million years, thought--"

"Don't blame him," 0099 said bluntly. "He's just a computer. He does what he's programmed to do. What I and the other trainers and Programmers told him to do."

"Sending children back to do your dirty work has to be the most diabolical--"

"More diabolical than what was done to you and the other Historians?"

"I dunno," Philip said defiantly. "How exactly have you tortured these kids?"

0099 sighed. "Okay. Come into my office. Guess I have to break Protocol 2-I ... again. But I really hope you can keep everything I tell you today to yourself."

She went to her office just a couple of doors down the hall. Ayanokouji followed them right in, so Shin did, too. "Who invited you?" 0099 demanded.

"We know more about the situation than you do," Ayanokouji sat down before even 0099 or Philip did. "So we can clear up any misunderstandings."

She shook her head, but she was too distracted by the problem of Philip to argue, and Ayanokouji knew it well. Shin sat down, too.

"All right, 3326," 0099 said. "Guess I better start from the beginning."

Chapter Text

Philip couldn't believe what he was hearing. He'd had serious doubts about the Traveler program from the first. Historians saw it all. His teammates were beginning to see the cracks, all the things the Director screwed up, but he saw it for the first time at age six, studying various Traveler histories. Troubled, he asked his trainer for clarification as to how, exactly, the tragic loss of an entire Traveler team had been allowed to happen, when it was so clear the Director could have seen it well ahead of time and prevented it. "Did you memorize the information?" his trainer asked him, and when he said he had, she said, "Then no further action is required on your part."

That's when he knew, and over the years, he only saw more and more things that confirmed his doubts. This, though .... Nothing he'd ever learned in his training had suggested the Director was even capable of concocting an idea like the Iterator program, much less carrying it out. The number of caveats the Director would have to make about not taking a life ... only Philip, a programmer himself, realized there would only have to be one: suspend Protocol 3 when it came to Iterators. Let them kill ... and let them die. The little kids carrying the weight of adults' sins on their shoulders, and made to pay their price.

He couldn't help the tears that leaked out as 0099 dispassionately described all the atrocities that had been committed on these kids since even before they were conceived: genetic experiments going back decades. "Your DNA might even be in some of these kids," 0099 said, ... impishly? As if there could be something amusing about any of this? "Mine, too. The Geneticists took DNA from every human alive when the program was first conceived, then every human born thereafter, so if they decided there was something useful in your genetic code, you may be looking at your progeny ... after a fashion."

Philip looked at the two young men -- no, the two kids -- sitting next to him. One had eyes so cold, Philip couldn't help but recoil, but the other had soft, warm eyes. "I'm sorry," Philip choked out. "I'm so sorry for what we did to you."

"You did nothing," 0099 said briskly. "You are completely innocent of all blame in the matter, as I am not. Just please understand ... we adults from my future are no more monstrous than those from yours. We simply accepted this stain on our souls in order to try to save humanity. We created and used children to do it for us. But not because we enjoyed it. We know what we did. We know how horrific it is. But it's come to that. Make no mistake. If these children were still back there in the dome, they would be dying a slow, terrible death. Here, they're having pizza parties and going to the water park every other day." She shot the two boys a look. "And saving the world. Which I truly believed we would. I have my doubts, now that I've been here a while. So please, just ... they're here, now. Good kids. Trinity especially is as pure and gentle a soul as you could ever hope to meet. They perform their duties, but they also finally get to be kids. Even this life they have to live is far better than whatever their lives would have been like in the future they came from. So please, help me make their lives as good and happy as possible, for ... for as long as their lives may last."

Philip gazed at her, trying as hard as he could to bear up under this news, and finally broke down weeping bitterly as the two boys stared at him, bewildered.

"But why was he crying?" Philip heard the warm-eyed boy ask 0099 for the third time, and heard her try to explain as they went back into the conference room. Then suddenly there was Trinity, skipping out of it, looking at him trepidatiously but hopefully, and he smiled at her through wet eyes.

She skipped all the way home, regaling him with odd details about the weekly Iterator meetings and what it was like being an Encoder, which, he was beginning to gather, was her specialty. "Was that that machine you were sitting in?"

"Uh-huh!" she said proudly.

"Does ... does it hurt?"

"Um ...." That she even had to think about the answer crushed him. "It's just ... hard. It's just a little hard. I'm really good at it, though! I'm usually much, much better at it than what you saw today," she insisted shrilly. "Much better! I was the best. It was between me and another girl, and -- and I -- for whatever reason, I ... was the one who got to Iterate."

'Got to.' That was how they'd conditioned these kids to think of it. They tried that on the Historians, too, but by the time they were about eighteen and learned they had to receive regular Updates, which would kill them after the third or fourth one, they were all so hopeless and jaded it ceased to work. You could convince a little kid of anything, though.

"It was Ayanokouji," she suddenly confessed. "He made it so I could Iterate with them. Because he's my best friend. Him and Shin."

Her best friends. That cold-eyed murderer. He didn't have to see him kill anyone to know; Philip had looked in the eyes of murderers before. That kid definitely was one. What had they done to him, to make him a murderer? They needed an Assassin, so they created one.

"And you," she said shyly, slipping her hand into his, looking up at him so anxiously, her heart laid right out there for him to see in every heart-wrenching detail. How could he ever deny this fragile girl any such simple thing she wanted? He felt terrible for doubting her before, and hurting her consequently. "You're my other best friend," she whispered.

"Oh yeah?" he said nicely. "We've been friends in other Iterations you've lived through?"

She nodded proudly. "Yes! You're so nice. You've been so nice to me and my friends in every Iteration!"

Even that murderer? Did he only recently become a killer? Or did other versions of himself find a way to look past his murderous nature?

He stopped at a Chinese restaurant, his favorite one in town. She should definitely get to taste truly good food, not just fast food, which was what the two of them had been living on pretty much since her Arrival. "Here, I think you'll like this place," he said.

"This is the first real food you buy me every time!" she burst out, and he felt embarrassed at being so predictable, until he saw how her eyes shined. "Because it's your favorite Chinese restaurant in town, and you think I should get to eat truly good food instead of just fast food even though you and I love fast food, and it's so, so sweet! You're so kind, just like that! You always try to introduce me to every good thing you've found in the twenty-first! Thank you, Philip, for your sweet, sweet heart."

He blushed bright red, and not just because everyone in the restaurant was staring at them, wondering what was wrong with her or what she was trying to get out of him with this over-the-top flattery. He also blushed because everyone listening thought he was dating this innocent girl. "I'm not!" he wanted to tell them all insistently. But that would be even weirder. In the end, he couldn't say anything at all, except to stutter out his order at the counter.

"Here!" Trinity cried. "Here, take this fortune cookie! You have to take this one!" she took a specific one from a little bowl they had of them next to the cash register and handed it to him. He would wait to open it. "Open it right now!" she insisted.

He opened it. 'The love you have found is real and long-lasting,' it read. He looked up from the fortune into her beaming face. He felt his own face crease into an expression it never had before, equal parts embarrassment and pain and pity and charmed. "You're the one who's sweet," he said, more quietly than she had managed to say a single word since entering the restaurant. "I'm so sorry I distrusted you."

She was completely over it, evidently. She lived in the moment, unlike Philip, who was constantly lost in bitterness over the past and fear for the future. She regaled him all the way home with details about all her thoughts and feelings on every subject since first Arriving in the twenty-first, about 65% of which revolved in some way around him. Why did this girl develop such an obsession over some nobody Historian like him? She admitted he wasn't famous in the future, nor particularly noted for any of his adventures, except the ones the future was mad at him for, like when he broke Protocol to save a little boy from a terrible fate -- twice.

"And I know all about your heroin addiction," she bragged as they walked past the dealers on the street corner, many of whom suddenly gathered their wares and beat it now that she was drawing attention to them. That would undoubtedly come back to haunt him next time he tried to buy drugs here. "Oh, look, your favorite one is here today! Go ahead and get some; I'll wait."

"No," he said, steering her away from the drug dealers firmly and hurrying them toward home. Some other version of him had bought drugs in front of this little girl?? No, that's right, she said he never figured out she was only a child in the previous Iteration. Still, they were close enough friends that he not only did it in front of her then but told her which dealer was his favorite?? He'd never even told Marcy anything like that. "So what, um ... what ... was our friendship like, in other Iterations?" he asked her. "It sounds like we were pretty close?"

"Best friends," she announced, strutting. "Very best friends! You said you'd never met anyone like me before, that I was so non-judgmental you felt like you could tell me anything. You had so much to say! So many thoughts and feelings bottled up in you from your whole life! You said you felt so much better after letting it all out. You cried and cried." Philip winced. "But I could see how much better you felt after that! You were even handsomer," she said dreamily. "But now, I know all those things about you, okay? You don't have to go through all the pain of telling me it all again, because I already know it. But if you do want to tell me again, that's fine! I like to hear anything you say." She beamed up at him, when suddenly her face fell. "Oh, but you -- you were looking at something in another timeline, and then you looked right up at me and suddenly you hated me! What did you see?? So I can make sure I never, ever do it in another Iteration, so you never, ever distrust me like that again!"

"Please just tell me immediately what's going on, that you're a child and you're Iterating," he said. "I always want to know everything. I'll keep your secrets from other Travelers. That will prevent my ever distrusting you again."

"But -- but still! What did you see??"

"You and your two best friends were sitting at my computer, going through my stuff, trying to crack my passwords -- and succeeding! -- while the me of that timeline was out somewhere. And you said contemptuously of me, ‘That’s what he gets.’"

"But -- but I never did that!" she moaned. “I would never, ever do that!! That’s so not me! I would never feel that way about you!”

"I guess you haven't done it yet," he said. "But ... why would you want to break into my computer?"

"I can't think of anything! I know you don't like it when anyone touches it."

He smiled lopsidedly. She really did know him well. "Well, I guess it won't have the same impact since you've had Chinese food before," he sighed as they got back to Ops and she started helping him put equal portions from what he got each of them on plates ... in a practiced way, he now noticed. He'd assumed they had similar habits, but now he realized, she surely learned to do it that way from him.

"I don't even like it that much," she admitted instantly, and he had to smile at her forthrightness; that was a quality he loved in anyone, hard to come by. "In my first Iteration, you told me it was because I'm a kid so my palate isn't developed yet, that for some reason kids don't like things like cabbage. But I'm eager for the day when I like it as much as you do!" she said then brightly.

He chuckled under his breath. "Well, try to choke it down," he said.

"More for you!" she said, and he recognized himself in her tone, that that was the retort he'd had for her in another Iteration. As strange as it was to meet someone who was living through the same time period over and over, it was far stranger to see the echoes of oneself through them. In them. He was surely her primary influence, besides her friends and 0099. Kids became their elders. They absorbed their beliefs. They took on their values. Minutiae of their elders' lives, or small moments that involved the child, could form a major part of that child's entire personality. With each Iteration, he was sure he would see more and more layers of his past selves as they formed who Trinity would become. Him, a nihilistic, depressed addict who, before her Arrival, had had exactly two friends: his turtle Poppy, and his drug-supplier/gambling addict/lawyer Ray, who never failed to take advantage of any weakness he perceived in Philip to force him to give him gambling tips. Philip had to be the worst imaginable influence for this cheerful, impressionable child.

"No," she said as if she could hear his thoughts, choking down an egg roll valiantly. They made them by hand at this restaurant, chock full of cabbage. "You're the best possible influence for me! Because you're the best, nicest person I ever met!" She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Even Shin and Ayanokouji. I love them very much, but they're not that nice. You are, though!" she cried at full volume again.

So he'd said what he was about to say before, and she'd anticipated it. Was every conversation with her going to be like this, her responding to his very thoughts before he even had a chance to voice them?

"But it's not like ...," she said then. She had a fairly obvious rote tone to her voice when she was repeating something she'd said something to him in a past Iteration, but this ... this felt new.

"It's not like what?" he prompted.

"It's not like I'm going to live long enough to need any other influences."

He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her words replaying in his head over and over, the infinite repercussions and implications of them playing themselves out in his mind. Did a person who wasn't going to live long not need better influences? Did the shortness of their life preclude the need for them to be steered good directions? The nihilistically logical side of him frankly had to say yes. Good influences were there to create a good, mentally healthy, well-balanced adult, one which she would almost certainly never become.

There was a kind of peace in coming to this conclusion. Maybe it really was okay for him to be her primary influence. He truly loved having her around. Just to have anyone around was great, frankly, someone to talk to. On one hand, her conversation might not be that nuanced due to her being a child, but on the other hand, she was a genius, so she was capable of very high level conversation in many areas. Anyway, her childlikeness was one of the best and most charming things about her. Had he ever been hopeful like her? No. He'd already learned both the basics of history and many of its details by the time he was her age. He'd seen how the patterns repeated. He was all too aware of the depth and horror of human greed and folly. Part of him wanted to save her from the inevitable heartbreak when she learned the world wasn't all she'd thought by clueing her in now, feeling like to do otherwise would be irresponsible and cruel ... but if she really wasn't going to live to adulthood, then he could with a clear conscience let her believe whatever she wanted to. Anyway, hadn't she also seen enough to cure her of any false hope by now, if she ever could be cured of it? Maybe this was just how she was. Maybe she had good reasons to see things from such a sunny perspective. Her buoyant nature was soothing and infectious. It simply made him feel good to be around her.

Besides which, she was hilarious. Silly, light-hearted. She never took anything too seriously, which was an excellent antidote to his tendency to take everything too seriously. She had certain goofy habits that were funnier every time they happened, like speaking for Poppy in a variety of bizarre cartoonish voices (apparently Poppy had far more intelligent observations on the fleeting nature of time and the implications of time travel than he ever would have guessed), and suddenly bursting into songs she made up herself as she went along, which never made any sense but were invariably side-splitting. And she was nice, simply a truly, fundamentally nice person, which as he spent time around her, he began to realize was depressingly rare.

It was kind of hard to be around her at first when she clearly had already had certain conversations with him. It made him feel tedious and predictable. But within a week, she was already remarking that most of their conversations had never happened before, and after two weeks, he could tell none of them had ever happened before.

"'Let me count the ways I love you ...,'" she intoned one night as they sat in front of the tv eating popcorn. "No, I can't count them," she interrupted herself instantly. "Too much like what I do for work. Uck." She stuck out her tongue. Philip just watched her and laughed, waiting for whatever hilarity might next ensue. "And anyway, there's more all the time!" she exclaimed.

He smiled. Wow. He had never expected to feel this way in his lifetime. He'd seen people all his life talk about how the high opinion their pets or children had of them made them feel great about themselves. He'd never had any children (and Protocol 4 prohibited it, so now he never would), and Poppy didn't seem to have any particular opinion of him, so he'd only wistfully listened to them talk about it, but he got to feel it now. It really did make him feel amazing. He might be nobody in the eyes of the future -- a future which would likely forget Trinity had ever existed -- but to this one girl, he was a hero, a great man, and that was worth a lot. He might not be worth much to anyone else. Trinity might not be worth much to anyone else -- anyone who would live long, anyway. But here in their little world together, they could be everything to each other.

Everything about her nature soothed pains he'd suffered from his whole life. She was entirely a good presence for him. When he started thinking that, conversely, he must therefore be an entirely bad presence for her, she could tell, and would stridently insist everything about him was entirely good for her, too, and since she was so forthright, he knew it was the truth.

"I hope you always feel that way about me, in every Iteration," he said. He liked the idea of other Philips out there getting to feel so happy ... but the most important thing was that he got to feel this right now, this thing he'd expected to be always out of reach for him.

"How could I not??" She was setting Poppy off on another 'wild jungle safari' that entailed her having to make her slow way through a maze formed out of pillows and chairs with blankets over them.

"Well ... because you'll be a teenager soon! And then your opinions about everything are likely to change."

"Nah. I'll always love you just as much. Unless it's more! It'll probably be more."

He just smiled.

"Why will my opinions about everything change? Which of your opinions changed? And from what to what?"

He thought back. He could remember it all, of course. For a Historian, it was not a question of what he remembered, but of how he would edit and interpret all the memories for the sake of clarity and brevity for the listener. Oddly, however, until this moment, it had never occurred to him to think about the answer to those exact questions.

"I don't know," he said honestly at last. "It's kind of like a whole other person forms when you hit puberty, and lives inside you with who you were as a child, like you're both of those people after that. I was naïve and obedient and had faith in my occupation up until I was about ... your age, I guess. Then I started having doubts. But when I became a teenager, I straight-up rebelled."

She gasped and stared at him, momentarily forgetting about Poppy. "You did?? Why?? Did you get in trouble?"

"Um ... no, because I was no threat. They knew I couldn't do anything. They simply took all my well-researched and incisive criticism and complaints about the Historian program 'under advisement' and waited until I gave up trying to change anything. After which I passively resisted, for years."

"But why??"

"Because I believed so much of it was wrong. Just fundamentally wrong. I resented that I'd been forced into this life without my consent. I was so envious of regular people who could forget a bad experience! I couldn't seem to form relationships with any of them, because I would quote them verbatim on something they'd managed to convince themselves they'd never said, and I couldn't understand how they could just outright deny it. God, I was consumed with resentment all through my teen years."

"Well, you still kind of are," she said casually, and Philip burst out laughing.

"It's so obvious?" he murmured.

"To me."

He just giggled to himself. Trinity was amazing. He'd always taken everything so seriously, especially himself. She made him able to just let it all go. She knew other versions of him! This him was not all there was. He could be something in this timeline, and that didn't doom him to being that forever, in every timeline.

0099 had expressed concern that learning that different versions of himself were living the same period of time over and over again and then dying would destroy his morale and make it hard for him to continue to do his duty as a Traveler. She insisted that all regular Traveler teams's contributions were vitally important to the Iterator program. He might have thought that was just lip service, except that both of Trinity's best friends seemed to fully believe it was so -- as did Trinity. But they needn't have worried. It didn't make him feel worse; it made him feel better. He felt doom looming at the end of this timeline. But the presence of the Iterators meant this wasn't the end. There were other Philips, engaging in different missions each Iteration in order to help the I-team. Maybe there were even happy and successful Philips. Maybe there were Philips out there who did manage to kick their heroin addictions. Maybe there were even Philips who had as sunny a view of life as Trinity did. The Philip of this moment, after all, had never imagined that someday he would be living with an Iterating ten-year-old who adored him and made him feel ... hope. For the first time in his life.

"I hope ...," she said softly, and he was reminded how profound the influence of any adult was to a child. She took his words utterly to heart. "I hope, even if I do change as I grow up, that I'm always excited to be alive. And that I never love you any less."

"I really, really hope for those things, too," he said.

Before long, their relationship seemed as natural as if it had always been there. He'd been told many times in his life that he would make a wonderful parent because he was so gentle and attuned to others' feelings. Now he saw that it was true. And he liked it, in all the ways he'd heard parents describe. It was very satisfying to teach someone about the world, to pass on what one had had to learn the hard way. It was so fun to introduce someone to awesome things they'd never experienced before. And it made the world seem new again, to see them experience things for the first time with wonder and excitement.

He did try to be a good influence ... but not having to try too hard turned this parenting experience from something that would otherwise have been excessively heavy and anxiety-producing to something fulfilling and enjoyable. He and Trinity were just two messed-up kids in a messed-up world, trying to make the best of it, and he was in a position to help her navigate it a little better. They would walk down the street hand in hand, her skipping along, excitedly telling him all about her latest thoughts and adventures. They systematically explored the whole city, going into each shop to enjoy the wonders found therein, and as his team Historian, he was in a position to buy her anything her heart desired -- which was quite a lot; little girls loved trinkets, it seemed. They went to movies together, amusement parks, beaches, water parks, other parks, botanic gardens, aquariums, and even took a few little roadtrips when she was quite sure there would be no missions while they were gone. They sampled every kind of cuisine, learned other languages, tried various sports (not his favorite kind of activity, but he was willing to do it for her). They went to zoos and petting zoos and farms to meet and interact with every kind of animal. They visited a butterfly pavilion and a natural history museum, libraries ... they did everything either of them could think of.

All the while, she kept her eyes on the sky, pausing sometimes in the middle of a sentence to stare up at it hauntedly.

"That's where it came from?" he asked her after she did it the fifth time. "The end of the world? It came from the sky?"

"The first time. And kind of the second, too -- from the sea, but airborne missiles." Though she was in the body of a grown woman, these days he heard only the child in her voice when she spoke ... except for right now. Now, she sounded older than her years. "The first time, we all died, except Kushida and Manabe and her friends, because they were shunning the rest of us, surfing, and the drones didn't attack the water. So they survived, along with Shin, and the rest of us went into Shin, and that's the only reason any of the rest of us are still alive, because he was underground at the amusement park where all the rest of us were."

"Drones?"

"Yeah. All at once. Turned the city to rubble. I hear."

"Sounds like a miracle, that you all survived."

"... Yeah. It seemed normal to me at the time. I thought we would all always survive ... but then we lost Myna and Chise last time, after Ayanokouji shot all the rest of us in the face, and I realized it was kind of a miracle. I mean, it was scary, when we all died all of a sudden. There were only a few seconds of warning, just enough time to look up at the sky, not enough time to do anything about it. Scary. But we were all fine in the end, and it didn't hurt or anything, so I guess I came to think that's how it would always be, but after the way the second Iteration ended, I realized ... it's bad, the end of the world. Really bad. I was dead after Ayanokouji shot me, but Ayanokouji and Shin lived through the whole thing, and I heard them describe it, and it was a miracle as many of us survived that as did. And now we have to learn to kill ourselves so Shin can collect us, but it's really, really hard to do that, even knowing he'll catch us, and --"

"Wait, WHAT??" What?? "Your friend shot you all in the face??"

"Yeah. Pretty much all of us. He had to, or there wouldn't have been time to get us all -- I mean, almost all -- before the missiles hit." Philip had heard much about how Shin collected their consciousnesses. He supposed he could understand the efficacy of someone killing them, or of them having to kill themselves, but still, to ask this of children ....

Even now, knowing this, he couldn't regret that Trinity was here, Iterating. If he were a less selfish person, perhaps he would be able to wish the world would simply end for good to put a permanent end to her suffering, not to mention his own, but her very existence was such a magical, beautiful thing, and she was happy most of the time, and she made him so happy, he couldn't but be glad that they were all still alive and kicking to experience these wondrous days as long as they may last ... but he was beginning to understand some of her hauntedness, her few dark moments.

Philip had come to see, in the last year or so since he Arrived in the twenty-first, how stress did truly age a person. Simply trying to exist in the twenty-fifth aged even a child, living in such an unnatural, unhealthy environment. When the twenty-first took all that away, Philip was able to see how stress alone impacted a person. He watched his host visibly age after particularly stressful experiences, especially when they stretched on a while. And he could even see it in Trinity, despite her youth, inner and outer. She looked a little older even than she did at the beginning of this Iteration, when they first met. If she Iterated to the end of her consciousness's natural life, how old would her twenty-two-year-old body look then?

"You know, we could go meet your host's parents."

She made a little face. "Why? What's it like having a 'parent'?"

"I wouldn't know, either," he admitted, "but it could be interesting."

She considered it for only a nanosecond. "Nah," she said bluntly. "Sounds like a drag."

He smirked. She loved anachronistic slang. At first, he pointed out when her colloquialisms weren't actually in common use anymore, but that only made her use them more. "Copacetic," "tip top," "cool cat," "tubular" ... any time she was reminded of these kinds of old-timey phrases, she instantly put them into frequent rotation in her vocabulary until she forgot again. Philip hadn't truly gut-laughed since he came to the twenty-first, but it happened a lot when Trinity was around, and it took him by surprise every time. She was a miracle.

He only wished his team could see her the same way. They harbored a continual distrust of her, for the same kinds of reasons he developed such distrust of her when she first Arrived. As artless as any ten-year-old (she was eleven now, she told him proudly), it was all too obvious when she was lying or covering for her I-team. She wasn't great at hiding when she'd had a conversation in a previous Iteration, barely paying attention, providing what she'd already decided in a previous Iteration was a sufficient response (and usually in fact wasn't) while seldom deigning to even look at the person she was responding to. This was generally interpreted as dismissive insubordination, but with an added whiff of deceit -- not the way to win one's teammates' trust.

Still, he put in a good word for her when he could ... which only put distance between himself and his teammates. He tried talking to Trinity about how to improve her diplomatic skills, but she only said something about that being a "Diplomacy Specialist's job" and went right back to decimating her opponents in the latest MMORPG she was addicted to.

So he did his best to appear 100% on his own Traveler team's side whenever he saw them, with some success ... until the day Carly and Marcy burst in unannounced while Philip and Trinity still slept ... in the room with windows on every side, through which they saw them sharing a bed.

Philip leaped out of bed and went quickly to try to do damage control, but he could already tell by the looks on their faces that he would fail. Carly looked judgmental as hell. "Sleeping with the new team member?" she said coolly.

"You should talk," he muttered. She and Mac were totally sleeping together when they first Arrived, though he seemed to be the only one who noticed. Carly looked quickly at Marcy, who didn't seem to learn anything new from the exchange. Relieved, Carly shut up, and had the decency to stop acting so judgmental.

Not so with Marcy. "I wasn't supposed to tell you guys this, but I-team members have another comm, so anything you do or say could make its way back to the Director," she said coolly. "Word to the wise."

"I know," he said quickly, to try to forestall any discussion of how this made members of the I-team inherently untrustworthy, but it had the opposite effect. Carly's shock at the news was replaced by even greater shock that Philip already knew this and it hadn't stopped him from trusting Trinity with what they seemed to think were any number of secrets. Somehow, saying that one little thing had just convinced them both that he was breaking Protocol 2 all over the place with Trinity ... which he was, so it was hard to plausibly deny.

His even quicker, more desperate response to their reaction only made it worse. "They don't use their other comm for anything except to coordinate missions." Not true at all. They also used them to sing songs together, play games, plan parties, tease each other, gossip, tell secrets ... they used them for just about everything, EXCEPT surveiling their regular Traveler teams, whose activities were so predictable and irrelevant to the I-team that they could never care enough to bother to surveil them, but he couldn't tell Marcy or Carly any bit of that, and their core concern of surveillance was accurately addressed. He hated having to lie to his team ... and so did Trinity, but it was part of the deal for an Iterator ... and now also for Philip. Too bad. He sucked at lying. "Which -- which I'm sure their trai -- Archivist told you when she told you about the second comms."

Carly was back to looking judgmental. "You know, just because you're having sex with someone doesn't mean you have to take the fall with them," she said shrewdly.

"And it doesn't mean you have to tell them everything," said Marcy before Philip even had a chance to respond. "It doesn't mean you have to tell them anything! I keep secrets from David, because I have to! It's for his safety as well as ours. He knows I can't tell him everything. You're so tender-hearted, Philip. I'm afraid she's using you."

Philip clutched his head. "Oh, my God. You have no idea how wrong everything you just said is --"

"Oh, yeah?" said Marcy baldly. "Then why are you lying to your own team to protect her secrets?"

"You already got in her pants," Carly piled on. "Just how much loyalty to her do you still need to prove?"

"Loyalt -- This isn't about--" he spluttered, then paused, took a deep breath, and collected his thoughts and his frayed nerves as best he could. When he could at least make an attempt to sound relatively calm, he said, "I don't need to prove anything -- to her. She trusts me. So why do I still have so much to prove to you, my own team?"

"I see you guys together all the time, you know," said Carly. "I work all over town, and everywhere I go, it seems like there you two are, talking and laughing and playing around."

"We hang out!"

"It's so much more than that."

"It IS more than that. She's the best friend I ever had! And I need -- I needed -- someone."

Marcy glanced down at his arm, at where the tracks were just visible at the edge of where he'd pushed up his sleeve. She got it.

Carly didn't. "You have us!"

"NO! I don't. You both have people in your lives, people you care about. I had NO ONE. And Trinity didn't, either! No one who --" No adult she could trust, or tell things to, or learn things from. "I fill a role for her that she desperately needed filled. And she does the same for me. Why does there have to be something wrong with that?" he pled.

"There doesn't," said Marcy bluntly. "Unless it's compromising your team's trust. Or your ability to do your job properly. Or it's causing you to break ... any number of Protocols."

In addition to Protocol 2, she meant Protocol 4: that you must never create a life. "We are NOT HAVING SEX, and we never will!" He shook his head, getting angry. All the distrust of Trinity, when already her job was terrifying, unfair, overwhelming, and impossible. And all the distrust of him, when he had been as loyal and dutiful as it was possible for a human to be, at his own expense. "As for your trust ... that's on you. After all we've been through together, you still can't trust me? You can't trust that I'll do the right thing? Trinity trusts me." She trusted him utterly, a kind of trust he deserved, that he nevertheless couldn't get from anyone else, and it was so wrong that he couldn't. Not even his own team, for whom he risked his life all the time.

"Because you don't trust us," Carly snapped.

"Yeah," agreed Marcy. "You know all her secrets, and that's okay for you, but even you will still keep them from us? Why can't we know them, too?"

"Because it would change the way you treat her. Which would hurt her and make it difficult or impossible for her to do her job. And it could change the way you see everything we're doing here, even though fundamentally, nothing has changed. Do you trust the Protocols or not? Protocol Two: Leave the future in the past. There are specific Protocols for Historians and I-team members, too: Protocols Two-H and Two-I, things we are not allowed to tell you about our specialties. There are reasons for those Protocols. I know all her secrets because I followed her to the I-team's base of operations and demanded their Archivist tell me everything, about which she of course swore me to secrecy. And once I knew everything, it all made perfect sense. I initially distrusted Trinity even far more than all the rest of you ever have, sooner. And everything I learned quelled every bit of my distrust. So even though I know the I-team does things that seem suspicious, can you please -- please, just trust me?"

He felt tears stinging in his eyes, and wondered if they could tell. It was the best thing about Trinity, of so many good things: she was not susceptible becoming like so many other people, not susceptible to all the doubt and distrust everyone else was, all the backstabbery, the shifting of alliances. She suffered for it, bullied and turned against by her I-teammates, teased and mocked and used and betrayed by all the ones who were prone to that sort of behavior, but no matter who did it to her or how often, Philip was sure she would never become like that herself. She seemed constitutionally incapable of it ... as to a lesser degree was Philip. She was the friend Philip had always longed to meet and gave up hope could ever exist. Maybe only genetic manipulation could create such a perfect person, but whatever the cause, she was here right now, his best friend, and nothing could ever compel him to give her up.

"We're already way past being able to trust her," said Carly frankly, "and it's already going to affect her ability to do her job."

He stared at them anxiously, pleadingly, for a long moment, and finally slumped. "Fine," he sighed. It was true. They couldn't go back now, only forward. When the level of distrust got to this point, there was nothing for it but to spill it all.

He took a deep breath. It was hard to hear. It was even harder to say. "They're kids, all right? All of them eleven years old. Because the monsters in the twenty-fifth discovered only children can handle being able to Iterate over and over again, which means to go back and live the same time period over and over again. This is their third time through, which means you and I have already lived this period of time over three times, and failed. It always ends in catastrophic failure, in which their fellow team members die, too. They have to keep doing this until most of them are dead, then the Director will replace them with a new crop of little children, and another, and another, trying again and again forever. There. Ya happy? Because I wasn't. I cried for days when I found out. But there's nothing we can do about it. We're side characters in this story now. Our missions since the first I-team Arrived are to assist with Iterator missions, not the other way around."

They both stared at him, jaws dropped.

"They've been treated as tools, which I get, because that's how Historians are treated, too. Trinity never had a father figure, an older brother to look up to, nothing, just trainers controlling every aspect of her life, training her up as fast as they possibly could so that she would be ready to perform missions starting at age nine. I am that father or brother figure for her, and that matters, because though I'll have forgotten all this when she Iterates again, she won't. She'll have had a friend, someone to help her figure out this world, this life, at least a little, at a time in her life when she really needs such a person. And I have someone too. So if you could just back off and let us have this one, small thing in this godforsaken world --"

"Okay!" said Carly. Carly was a soldier, a fighter. She didn't cry. When there was something she didn't like, she fought it. Pummeled it into the ground, if necessary. But her eyes were wet now. "Okay. My God. We had no idea."

Trinity came out of their room just then, in the frilly pink soft jumper she loved to sleep in, with Pokemon on the front. Marcy and Carly took in the sight, and it was plain on their faces: they knew everything he'd just told them was true. "Marcy and Carly?" Trinity said, genuinely confused, which meant they'd never burst in unannounced like this in another Iteration. "Why are you guys here? We don't have a mission today."

"She always knows ahead of time when there's going to be a mission," he explained to them.

"We -- we were going to ask you guys if you wanted to come to a movie with us," Carly stuttered. "It just opened today, first showing in an hour. Scifi. Looks badass."

"Seen it," Trinity said, yawning, and headed back to bed. "It's just okay."

It ended up being a good thing that Marcy and Carly learned her secret, because it turned out it was very important for an eleven-year-old girl's development to have an older-sister figure, too, to help her figure out how she wanted to approach being the woman she was just beginning to become. Trinity loved pink and punk, cool scifi video games and movies, and cute sweet things like rainbows and puppies and unicorns. She simultaneously admired and reviled Marcy's style, finding it classy but too slick. Carly's, however, was just the combination of edgy and cute that was right up Trinity's alley, so the two of them went out shopping for clothes and accessories that Philip wouldn't have had the first clue how to advise Trinity on, being more of a t-shirts-and-a-grungy-old-jacket kind of guy ... probably because he had never had anyone older to help him figure out fashion, or even to acknowledge it was something he might find interesting.

In the process, Carly, at least, began to see some of what made Trinity so wonderful. "I'm learning more about fashion, too," Carly told him after one such shopping trip while Trinity prepared in the bathroom to give them a fashion show. "Kinda ... getting in touch with the pre-teen girl I never got to indulge in being at her age. I had sisters, but they were older. Trinity's the little sister I never had. If I'd had a little sister when I was a teenager ... maybe I wouldn't have spent all my time learning how to beat people up." She smirked wryly.

"I'm really glad you know how to beat people up, though," Philip told her. She'd saved his life innumerable times, thanks to her skills in that department. She laughed. Just like that, knowing Trinity's secrets and getting to know her better had brought him closer than ever to Marcy and Carly. Everything about Trinity made the world a better place.

On the morning of October twenty-third, Trinity jumped out of bed. "It's October twenty-third!" she cried, and hopped around the room. "You know what that means!"

"I ... don't, actually," he said. "Is it your birthday?"

"No, our birthday is all different days, just depending on how long the previous Iteration lasted. It means that as of today, this is the longest Iteration I've ever lived through!" She leaped and did a pirouette.

He sat up quickly. "It is??"

"Yes! It's our longest Iteration yet!"

"That's -- that's good!"

"It's GREAT!"

"That -- that means civilization has lasted longer than it ever has! Since historically, before the first Traveler Arrived, that meteor hit."

"From your perspective, yes!" she exclaimed, and when he looked askance, trying to figure out what on earth that meant, she interrupted his thoughts by breaking into song, something she knew never failed to entertain and engage Philip. "It's the longest Seattle's ever last-ed," she sang, to a tune with which he was not familiar, which meant she'd just made it up. The song continued, and he sat back to listen, closing his eyes, the better to memorize every minute detail to entertain himself with endlessly. "It isn't falling in-to the o-cean! It isn't riddled all over with bombs." He couldn't help giggling, despite the song's macabre nature. "No typhoon, and no tor-nado! AND NO TSU-NAMI!!!" she finished on the highest note she could hit, at ear-splitting volume. Philip almost fell off the bed laughing while she giggled hysterically.

"Have all those things already happened?" he asked wonderingly.

"No, not yet! They're just the likeliest possibilities we were told to expect."

"Ah. Well, that's ... good, I guess. Hopefully they never will."

"It would be kind of cool if they did! As long as we survived them all."

He chuckled uncomfortably. "... Really?"

"Sure! I'm happy to have been born when I was so I could Iterate, so I can see all the ways the world ends!"

This child. The world ended long before she was even born. She was created for this. To her, it was the most normal thing, for the world to always be ending.

"It's too bad tornadoes don't happen in this part of the world almost ever; I've always super wanted to see a tornado!" she said, going on at some length about all the kinds of disasters she'd always hoped to witness, then going so far as to rank them in order of how much she wanted to see them.

"... Are you glad for the ones you already witnessed?" he had to ask.

"Well, I didn't really get to see anything either time, so not really," she grumbled.

"So the end of the world ... doesn't bother you?"

"It's not permanent! That's the whole reason I'm here! And today is proof that it's working!!" She beamed and danced around the room, making up another song on the subject. Philip leaned back and watched, brimming with contentment. She was right. All that mattered was this moment, all the joy and feelings herein. That they had each other, and the world around them.

"What do you want to do today?" he asked eagerly when her song came to its rousing conclusion. "We can do anything you want."

Every day began thus, with her declaring it a new record for how long Seattle had ever lasted, and usually making up a song or a poem on the subject that didn't rhyme. It was because she never failed to end the first couplet with the date, and then struggled to rhyme it. Eventually, she seemed to recognize this pitfall and started ending the couplet with the day of the week, but then usually only got as far as to rhyme it with another day of the week, before she finally gave up trying to rhyme at all. One time, disastrously, she ended the first couplet with "Seattle," and then he got to smother laughter as he listened to her try to find words to rhyme with it.

He would have thought she would have been able to create a halfway decent rhyme scheme, but it seemed God really didn't give with both hands, even to a genetically engineered genius. Philip loved waking up to these terrible poems and ridiculous songs. Trinity's presence made him able, for the first time in his life, to see each day as a gift, instead of the curse he'd always considered it. He would roll over of a morning and see the light filtering through the garage door, and he would feel ... happy. He knew the world was coming to an end. Even if Trinity didn't have personal experience to prove it, he could feel it in his bones. But he willed it to last through another day, another week, another month, another year. A whole lifetime. For him and her and everyone they loved.

She really believed they would save the world. Not her and her cohort. But she believed if she and every other Iterator that came before and after her tried their best, they would usher humanity through this difficult period in history, and the world would be saved.

"Or maybe Iterators will always be there, to keep humanity going. Wouldn't that be weird??" she said eagerly. "All those ghosts or aliens or whatever that they make movies about, people who live among them and control their lives that they never see?? What if it's already like that??" She rolled around laughing so hard at this idea that she and her fellow Iterators were the monsters people had been making scary movies about all this time that she complained that her stomach hurt from laughing too hard.

Philip couldn't laugh. He could imagine it all too easily. In fact, once she said it, he couldn't imagine anything else. Unless history took a turn that made it impossible for the Director ever to have existed, that's what would happen, since humanity was so determined to destroy itself.

Somehow, she was okay with it. She was okay with every part of her fate. As long as she and her two best friends lived through to the final Iteration, she was more than satisfied with her life. "Because no matter what happens, I'll always have you!" she gushed.

"Well, you always have to help me get to know you again."

"I know! I love that part of every Iteration! I'm getting better at it all the time. There are certain things I can say that make you --" She cut herself off, literally putting her hands over her own mouth to hold it in.

"That make me what??" he asked, alarmed.

"Nothing!"

"No, tell me."

"No, you won't trust me ever again!"

"I won't remember in any other Iteration, but if you don't tell me, I might find it harder to trust you right now," he teased.

"Well," she said, a newly emerged self-consciousness plain in her tone. "You just -- you're just -- you're a little superstitious, okay?? Or a little ... I dunno. You believe in fate and what's meant to be more than you like to admit. I know you think you're a scientist and whatever, but there are things I can say that you've been waiting to hear all your life, and it ... as I figure out what those things are, it becomes easy to make you trust me."

Philip chuckled and sighed, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. It was a good thing he'd known her as an unself-conscious child, or this bombshell would make him run screaming. "Oh, lord. It is actually a little harder to trust you now."

"No! Why??"

"I had no idea you were so ... Machiavellian. I guess your best friend is Ayanokouji."

"No! What does that have to do with anything?? Nothing, that's what. 'Machiavellian'??" she moaned. "No! I just -- there's just -- I need you, and --"

"-- And you're a genius and capable of figuring these things out so why wouldn't you use every advantage at your disposal ...."

"You make it sound so evil!! We've always been taught to utilize whatever skills and advantages we have! Why wouldn't we??"

"Well, because if you care about someone ... don't you let them think whatever they want to think and feel whatever they want to feel, instead of twisting it to your advantage?"

"Says the guy who felt guilty that he didn't cure me of my optimism by telling me how unlikely we are to succeed," she retorted. "Says the guy who wouldn't even talk to me at first because he was so concerned I have only 'good influences.'"

Whoa -- he'd said these things out loud to her before in some other Iteration?? "You have a point," he said at last weakly.

"Anyway, now that I know you need me as much as I need you, why would I hold back? There's so little time in any given Iteration! We don't have time to waste! We need to get as close as possible as quickly as possible -- wouldn't you rather it was like that, too?"

He had to admit he would.

"And do I have this you's permission to do that to yous of other Iterations??" she wheedled, trying to make a cute face. And it was adorable, when he could see it as a child doing it. As a grown woman, it was downright creepy.

"Yes," he had to say. "But --" he said as she squealed with delight. "I also know myself well enough to know that if the me of any Iteration discovers you've been deliberately manipulating me, whatever the reason and whatever permission this me gave you, I'll struggle to trust you at all."

"Then I'll just try to keep the secret really, really well!" she exclaimed brightly.

He shook his head, his smile faint. "It makes me nervous. The betrayal I would feel would equal the joy I feel now. Exceed it, probably. I might well lose all hope. Please ... please, Trinity. Be careful with my heart."

"I will!" she sang, the very picture of heedlessly overconfident.

"Trinity," he said warningly.

"I will!" she snapped abruptly. "Of course I will! But I also have a job to do, and now part of that job is befriending you. I'm a professional, aren't I?? So I'll do it right. Trust me."

"You're also a child with a lot to learn."

"Quit calling me a child," she said crossly. It was part of her becoming an adolescent. Things she took as a given before now gave her pause. She questioned everything now, and found so many things suddenly wanting. "I know more than any of you regular Travelers ever did," she said peevishly.

"Hey."

"I'm sorry!" she said immediately. She knew he worried regular Travelers were superfluous now. "I didn't mean it! I do know more than you, though. But you're very important! Not as important as us, though."

He couldn't help it. He laughed and laughed. Her frank honesty ... he'd craved such plainspokenness all his life.

"So the guy who sent you back to the twenty-first was a jerk?" she asked one night while they played cards.

"... Who?"

"Your trainer or whatever?"

It took him a second to realize who she must mean. " ... 3123? I've told you about him before?"

"Yeah, about how he made you go back, and --"

"He didn't make me go back. No one made me go back. We're volunteers."

"Well, you said that, like me, you had a choice, but you didn't really have a choice ...."

"Oh. Yeah, I suppose that's accurate."

"And that he was a total jerk."

"Manipulative and insincere," he said succinctly.

"Yeah. But he was your trainer?"

"Mm ... more like the guy in charge of deciding when a Historian is fully trained and ready to go back to the twenty-first."

"So, who were your trainers?"

"Other Historians, mostly, a couple of Archivists. Why?"

"Was there competition, between you and other Historians?"

He chuckled mirthlessly. "Maybe to see who could figure out a way to escape our fate. No. Camaraderie, sometimes, since other Historians were the only ones who could have any inkling what you'd been through. At the time." The only ones who understood how diabolical the whole Historian program really was. Until now, when he heard 0099 say it straight out. "Historians tend to get along with each other fairly well. But you guys don't, huh? Because they pitted you against each other?"

"I guess. So was it possible to fail out of the Historian program?"

"'Fail out'?" He considered this. "Um ... I think the Director already knew who would be suited to the program."

"Ah. Because he tried a bunch of different people, then went back and tried again and again until he got the good ones."

"No! No, that's --" Wait a minute, was that possible?? He didn't even have to think it through for a split second before he knew it absolutely was. "Oh, my God." He leaned his head back against the couch, reeling.

"In the future, the Director surely started writing over the recent past long before they ever sent anyone all the way back to the twenty-first, I've always thought," she mused. "Because of course. Before you send people four centuries back, you first see if you can fix it from the present. "How many times have you relived different parts of your life without realizing it?" she pondered, as he tried to keep from gagging.

"Oh, my God," he said again, leaving his body. "Oh, my God. You're right."

It explained everything, primarily certain gaps in the information they were taught, particularly regarding consciousness transfer technology and how exactly it worked, and how Travelers were supposed to behave. It had all been too pat, too perfect, as if the second they Arrived in the twenty-first, every Traveler suddenly became a good, obedient little citizen, following every rule. But it also explained how the Director knew exactly how to motivate and manipulate him, how he ended up here, serving the Director and the Grand Plan, despite his lack of faith and devotion to any part of it.

Philip was sickened and appalled. Whatever remaining faith he'd had in the Director evaporated completely. He was nothing more than a pawn in a pointless game a computer played against itself to try to save the world. He was so depressed, he could hardly function. "I'm sorry," Trinity would whisper, stroking his hair comfortingly. "I'm so sorry I told you."

"So you know it for a fact?"

"No, it's just a guess. But ... a pretty good one, I think. I'm sorry, Philip. I'll never tell you again."

How did she carry on, when she was also nothing more than a pawn, and she'd known it all along? Maybe because she had more autonomy than any regular Traveler. The I-team had a lot of rope. If he'd known from the beginning how it really was, would he have felt okay about it like she did? No. He'd have deliberately 'failed out' as soon as he truly understood.

"Were there any Iterators who deliberately failed out of the program and got themselves sent back to the twenty-first as regular Travelers?"

"'Deliberately'?" she asked, energetically making them dinner as he lay on the couch, unmoving. "Umm ... I-161 had confidence problems. She would choke when the pressure was on. That's why she failed out, but I don't think it was deliberate. I think they ended her line, which means I-061 probably had the same problem."

Philip groaned. She wasn't useful to the Director, so he simply rubbed out her genome.

"Other than that ... no, I don't think so. Why?"

"Since I don't remember all the times parts of my life were written over, who was Iterating?" Philip asked, staring hopelessly through the ceiling.

"I dunno. I do know they must have done a lot of experiments to figure out how Iterating worked before sending back the first cohort, though, and he probably made adjustments to his orders to everyone in the future as he did that. He could write over anything that way."

Philip groaned, rubbing his eyes. "Do you think the Director did it over and over again with you guys, too, like you think he did with me, to get it right?"

"No, or everyone in our cohort would have been perfect. I'd have been more perfect."

"You are perfect," he sighed.

"No." She brought him his food and worriedly helped him sit up. "Ugh, this is all my fault. I'm so sorry. Can you eat? You need to get a little pudgier. You're too thin."

He could hardly eat, hardly perform his duties as part of the team. Mac had mostly relegated him to staying in Ops and contributing to missions remotely, not like he'd ever been as good in battle as the rest of his team, even the team Medic. He tried to eat some of this meal she'd kindly made them.

"The Iterator program was an experimental program. The Programmers and the Geneticists were always working with the Director on it, just kind of feeling their way forward, trying to see what worked. So there was no sense overwriting anything they'd done yet. They didn't have enough data to even know what worked yet."

Philip's eyes narrowed. "The Programmers," he hissed.

"What?" She seemed to harbor no antipathy toward them.

"They're the ones who started all this! Every terrible idea came from them originally."

"But you -- well, another you -- liked one of the Programmers okay, I think. Grace. I mean, she was a pain in the butt, but she meant well. Trevor liked her a lot. And I think you came to respect her. She understood computers better than she understood human nature, so she didn't always take human feelings into account when she did things. But she cared about saving the world at least as much as the rest of us. I knew some of the Programmers. They weren't bad."

"I liked and respected a Programmer?"

"Yeah. She was the one who was primarily responsible for creating the Director. She really loves him. Proud of creating him. He's just a tool humans use, to try to save the world."

"So what you're saying is there's no one to blame but myself."

"Philip," she cried, agonized, and hugged him around the neck. "I'm so sorry! How do I make this better? What could I say, in some other Iteration, to make you feel better about life? Because I love you! I'm so glad you exist, and that you were a Historian and came back to the twenty-first so we could be together here! That's everything to me! So I'm sorry I can't be mad about the same things you are. I'm happy about everything that makes you mad."

He smiled faintly. "That actually does help a little." At least some small bit of good had come of the travesty that was his life.

"How do you do it?" he couldn't help but ask her. He tried to resist -- she was just a kid -- but he was sinking fast, and his habitual overwhelming concern for the feelings of others was sinking with him. Like any drowning man, he was grabbing onto anyone else around, even if he only ended up pulling them down with him. "How do you go on, day after day, serving a program that will let you be erased from history if you don't make it to the final Iteration? Which so few of you will." He tried to temper the sting: "Then future mes will never have known you. And I hate it. I wish every me could know you like this. You deserve to be remembered. Maybe better than anyone."

"It doesn't matter if you remember me, or if anyone does. All that matters is that I'll remember you! And every day we spent together," she said brightly. "For as long as I live."

The sob burst out of Philip suddenly, without warning, and he clutched her tightly. She really meant it. It was all he'd ever wanted, for someone to love him so generously and selflessly, to value him so highly. He'd assumed he could never be loved this way, asking nothing in return, not one thing, not even for him to be aware she'd ever existed. He wept on her shoulder, wracking sobs, and she just held him too, like it was to be expected, a perfectly normal thing, for a grown man to turn to this innocent child for comfort, for a reason to exist.

He did worry that she wouldn't love him anymore as she grew up, but her assurance that she'd probably only love him more seemed to be holding true. She was already a tween when she first Arrived in this Iteration, and he watched the incredible transformation from child to teenager happen before his eyes, the new personality develop. Total agreement turned to doubt; mindlessly following orders turned to questioning them. Goofiness sometimes became snottiness. She was still sweet, but she was developing a mind of her own.

She complained about orders given by Mac and 0099, well-intentioned but annoying words of advice and caution from Trevor, Marcy, and Carly; she even sometimes complained about Philip's similarly well-intentioned concern. Her ever-brash straightforwardness took on a rude tone sometimes ... but she was quick to apologize if she thought she might have hurt his feelings. She became no less awkward, but more self-conscious. She started to doubt the rightness and justifiability of her own thoughts and feelings.

Every member of the I-team was 'born' on the same day, so they were all the exact same age. Philip watched Ayanokouji and Shin grow up, too, since they often came over to spend time with Trinity in the only base of operations where no one would give them a hard time for acting like kids, since now Trevor and Mac knew their secret, too; Philip had told them everything one night when Mac yelled at Trinity and made her cry for acting 'unprofessional' during a mission. It was hard to tell how Shin might be changing internally; he spoke so seldom and showed so little expression on his face. As for Ayanokouji, Philip was frankly afraid of what kind of monster he would become once he had all the general bad behavior and lack of impulse control of male teenhood to add to his homicidal nature, but Trinity told Philip that, to the contrary, Ayanokouji was increasingly troubled by all the killing he had to do. "He tries to find bad people to kill now," she said casually.

"Why?" Philip asked, alarmed. "Who was he killing before?"

"Whoever was most convenient," she said.

How unconcerned with her best friend's kill count she was had always bothered Philip, but she had never been troubled by the death of any non-Iterator. She'd told him point blank that as long as Philip and the rest of his team survived, she didn't really care who died during any particular Iteration. For all that, however, she resisted doing any killing herself. Philip thought over and over again about an exchange he glimpsed during a joint mission with Hall's team. Trinity took aim at someone they were fighting, and then just stood there. "You're locked on; fire!" Marcy had said, baffled, but Trinity still didn't pull the trigger. Instead, Ayanokouji turned and took the person out. Philip had seen something similar play out a couple of other times, though sometimes it did end up with her pulling the trigger after all, usually when Ayanokouji had his hands full already. He suspected one of the reasons she so loved Ayanokouji was because he saved her soul from having to commit some of the bad deeds she was ordered to. If only Philip’s soul could also have been saved.

Trinity babbled garroulously at him all the time about everything, partly because she was just like that, partly because she thought it could cheer him up, and partly, she said, because she finally had time to tell him things the world had ended before she got a chance to tell him in the past.

This was how he learned about Vision, and he had an idea. "When you first Arrive in any Iteration, I've always recently been given access to a quantum supercomputer -- to help you guys, I now realize. Probably the same computer that helps you access the Director when you're Encoding. If you guys were to load Vision onto that computer, then leave some hint on my computer about what Vision is and how to access it ... I bet I would find a way to figure out how to use consciousness transfer technology to send that information back farther -- far enough to predate your Arrival, which would mean no matter how many of you die, I would always have access to the Director's records of you, and history would remember you."

This was exactly the kind of bold, well-intentioned idea he always ended up getting in trouble for, and he knew it, but he was filled with the conviction that if he did anything in his whole, worthless life that had any value, this was it. If he could pull it off. It would require a lot of planning and good execution on the part of those kids, but they were professionals. He was sure they could do it.

"NOO!" Trinity cried instantly, to his confusion. "No! That must be what we were doing in some Iteration that you saw that made you hate me!! And more importantly, there's things I want to do differently each time! I always want to improve how we get to know each other! There's lots I want to control that way, about the whole team, and other teams, how they perceive me and stuff. Knowing you, you'd probably tell other teams that we're kids, too," she growled. "I won't do it!"

“But -- but don’t you want to be remembered?”

“I told you, I only care that I remember you!! You HATED me at the beginning of this Iteration!” she howled. "It almost killed me! I'm not going anywhere near your computer, in any Iteration!"

"Well, you -- but you -- but everything ended up okay --"

“Why did you have to come up with that idea!” she yelled accusatorily.

“You’ve already decided not to do it, so it’ll be fine!”

“It happened this Iteration because you came up with the idea in this Iteration and you must have talked me into it in some other timeline!”

Philip stared, calculating fast. He could do complex math problems in his head in less than a second, but he was struggling to figure out all the twists and turns and paradoxes of time travel that came so easily to her. “I -- but how, if you never actually did it, and I hadn’t even come up with idea yet --”

“NOOO!” she yelled. “Never, ever come up with an idea like that again!”

It was time to take matters into his own hands. Shin referred him to a woman from the first cohort who was completely useless to him -- in fact, she sent him on a wild goose chase that wasted precious weeks of this Iteration -- but then he followed a guy he saw hanging around with her and talked to him and he was helpful. Extremely helpful, in fact, as well as annoyingly handsome and likable. Steve went so far as to take Philip to Vision, and let him speak to it.

“Do you have consciousness transfer capability?” Philip asked it.

“No. The only consciousness transfer device in this region lies outside of the city limits.”

“But -- but are you able to send information backward through time?”

“No. Time moves only forward.”

“Yeah,” Steve interrupted, “Vision doesn’t actually know he’s kind of a time-travel device. He’s not even a supercomputer, just a bottom-of-the-line quantum computer. What makes him special is that members of our cohort combined their knowledge to figure out how to make him keep a record of anything we directly uploaded into him through every Iteration. So … kind of an ordinary computer, really, except that he stores information from every Iteration.”

‘Stores information from every Iteration.’ Yes. Philip had a plan.

He was not as sad as Trinity was when the Iteration came to an end. In fact, given his tinkering with Vision, he felt almost as if he was Iterating with her … but better. Twenty-firsters talked about how there were things they ‘couldn’t unsee.’ They were referring to the inevitable trauma of being alive, that scarred a person more and more until one day, they couldn’t survive another such wound. Philip felt like he passed that point when Trinity intuited he’d spent his entire life as the Director’s pawn. He wasn’t sad to die, especially since the him Trinity was soon to meet would be fresh and comparatively full of hope again, enough faith left in him that he could be a good friend and helper to Trinity. There were things you couldn’t unsee. But this entire Iteration, all its wonders and all its horrors, he would unsee. Except that he’d made a record of its wonders for future hims to cherish. As the earthquake tore the garage down around him, he smiled.

Chapter Text

Philip started when his computer made the soft chirp that indicated an incoming email. He almost never received email. That wasn’t how Travelers communicated, and he didn’t have any twenty-firster friends except maybe Ray, and Ray usually just showed up at his door. Anyway, this was his special email account, accessible only via one of the deeper Internet layers Travelers knew about. He opened it, confused, infinitely more confused as he read the words over and over, despite having memorized them the first time:

“Hey, buddy, it’s you, from the future. I guess I should say something that shows I’m really you, so, let’s see … you had that crush on 3322 you swore to never, ever tell anyone about, except that then you confessed it to 3382 once in a vulnerable moment and he promptly went and got with her, so … I hope that’s enough proof for you. It’s not like you don’t know time-travel is possible, especially when it’s just information, no mass. If you want to find out how I did it, go to this address and access the computer there labeled ‘VISION.’ Here’s the password.”

Philip looked behind and around him. Was this some kind of prank? Only then how could this person know that intimate and humiliating detail from his past? Especially since 3382 was long dead. He quickly accessed the entire codeset of the email along with its path, memorized it instantly, and permanently deleted it, hoping no one had intercepted it on the way enough to use that detail against him in the future.

He debated whether to go to the address at all. It had to be a prank, right? But what if it wasn’t? So he found himself slipping into the second-floor office of a long-abandoned warehouse on the east edge of town and logged into the computer labeled ‘VISION,’ only to be greeted with a series of bewildering bombshells also supposedly left by his future self that left him reeling, all this about ‘Iterators’ who were actually children genetically created to have to live through the same period of time over and over to try to save humanity.

Well, if it was a work of fiction, it still brought him to tears. But he did recognize certain quirks of his own writing style that probably no one would ever think to try to imitate. And anyway, as his future self noted among these documents, whether it was true would soon be proven, as these ‘Iterators’ were supposed to Arrive in a week. This was highly unlikely, as there had been no hint of a suggestion that something like that might be in the works. The Director was pretty predictable, really. At no time in Philip's entire life-long history with the Traveler program had there ever been a mention of something like this. New team members? Who outranked their team leaders?? Children, no less? It wouldn’t happen.

So when Carly came to Ops and announced the news, Philip crept huntedly from behind his desk, staring at her bewildered. Should he tell them what his future self had said? No. Perhaps whoever sent the information to him was trying to make him trust these Iterators when they didn’t really deserve it. He would keep an open mind when he met them and judge for himself.

… Only it was immediately apparent to him that everything said in the missives sent by his future self was true. They were children; twelve or thirteen years old, would be his guess. Such a possibility would never cross his teammates’ minds, so they didn’t also see it … except that Trevor of all people seemed to have his suspicions, which Philip asked him about one night shortly after Trinity’s Arrival.

“So our new team member … what do you think?” Philip asked Trevor after everyone else had left Ops to go back to their Protocol Five and Trinity had gone to an I-team meeting. Trevor seemed reluctant to say much on the topic, so Philip blurted out, “Do you think they could be kids?”

Trevor’s head shot up. “You think so, too? So you know about the Iterator program?”

“I … do,” Philip said carefully. It was 3382 who made him so circumspect, he was beginning to realize, 3382 who made him hesitant to trust even Trevor, though Trevor was the most trustworthy person he’d ever met, and in retrospect, 3382 had already proven himself not to be many times over by the time Philip made his confession to him, so in the next instant, Philip spilled it all to Trevor.

When Philip got done telling the last of it, Trevor looked away. Philip thought he looked kind of pissed -- did he think Philip was lying? -- but then Trevor said, disgusted, “So they went and did it. I think … deep down, somewhere in me, I always knew they would. Once humanity has a compelling idea, they can’t seem to resist trying it out, no matter how cruel or catastrophic.”

Then Trevor told Philip what HE knew of the Iterator program, and it was … so much worse than what future-Philip had told him, though what he’d said had been heartbreaking. The thing future-Philip stressed was to “trust Trinity unless she gives you good reason not to, but watch out for Ayanokouji. Most of the Iterators are good kids,” although there were copious files containing photos of many members of the Iterator team and irrelevant biographical data, as well as a long memoir of the time he’d spent with Trinity, containing many selfies of the two of them, the inclusion of which still baffled him. Sure, personal relationships inevitably evolved out of the working relationship between all his team’s members, but they did their best to follow the rules and keep things as professional as possible. They certainly weren’t making and keeping loads of selfies that the Director might see and disapprove of. Did Future Philip not care at all about maybe getting lectured about Protocol One? It looked like this other Philip had seen some cool sights with their new teammate and had some good times, but why did he think other Philips would particularly care? Had Future Philip grown so soft over the course of his days as a Traveler? Was the Philip of this moment on the cusp of growing so soft? He hated the idea. He came to the twenty-first to do his job, nothing more. What else even was there?

“What … do you think we should do?” Philip finally asked hesitantly. Trevor was the wisest person he’d ever known. Twenty-firsters might worship youth, but anyone from the future knew well to cherish the wisdom of their elders -- especially given as few of them as there were in the century they came from. Philip was completely out of his depth, but Trevor would know what to do.

“Well, I guess first we should look at this Vision of yours.”

Trevor spent much longer looking over all the documentation left by Philip’s future self than Philip had, asking questions about this and that: “Why do you suppose other-you left a record of that?” he would ask, and “What kind of significance would this event have to you, that made you tell about it in such detail?”

Philip had only glanced at every page sufficient to memorize it. He’d contemplated some of the things he’d seen there since, of course, but Trevor’s questions got him thinking down different pathways. After all, the only person who might have any insight into why a Philip of another timeline would document what he did, the way he did, was the Philip of here and now.

When Philip was flummoxed, Trevor eyed him in that diffident way he did when he already knew more about you than you knew about yourself, and said carefully, “Because the only reason I can think of as to why someone would leave records like this is because they cared deeply, and wanted it to be remembered.”

Philip set his jaw. He’d had the same thought. Future Philip was so soft! “Yeah,” he finally said. “Maybe that other me had been traumatized in ways that made him … stop caring about the protocols. Because ….”

“… Because the Philip of that Iteration has no fucks left to give,” Trevor finished for him. Any other member of their team or any other might chastise Philip for other-Philip’s unprofessionalism and warn him not to become like him. Not Trevor. Trevor understood … everything. But he surprised even Philip when Trevor then declared, “Good! It’s good to imagine a Philip out there who isn’t so afraid of the Director and isn’t so careful about every rule. You’re a little bit paranoid, Philip,” he said gently, patting him on the shoulder. Philip shrugged off his hand irritably, but he couldn’t help but smile. Trevor smiled, too. “I like the thought of this new team member helping you relax a little.”

“I don’t think that me was relaxed,” Philip had to say then.

“Oh?”

Trevor was too interested in his answer, but there was no going back now. “I think that me had given up all hope.”

The two of them sat Trinity down that night when it was just the three of them in Ops. She’d looked pretty bored, actually, since she Arrived -- part of how Philip knew she was a teenager or almost a teenager. She looked happy when her friends came to pick her up for I-team meetings, and bored and impatient the rest of the time. She looked intrigued now, though.

Philip had thought a lot about how to introduce this topic to her. Trevor had copied everything on Vision onto portable physical media so they would have ready access to it at all times. Trevor wanted to just show it all to her immediately, but Philip thought if she didn’t already know about it, future-him might have had a good reason for keeping it from her. Better keep things light to start.

“So, Trinity, uh … a week before your Arrival, I received a surprising email … from my future self.”

She’d looked eager to hear what he had to say, but her face gradually fell over the course of his sentence, ending with rage. She stood up. “You did it??” she demanded.

Trevor was surprised. “Did what, Trinity?”

“Did you go messing around with Vision??” she demanded.

Trevor and Philip were stunned silent.

“I told you not to!” she cried, and turned for the door. “I TOLD YOU NOT TO! No matter what you say, we’re never, ever going to access your computer, so DON’T ASK! I TOLD you not to do it, but you did it, anyway! I’m so mad at you!!” She burst into tears as Philip and Trevor looked at each other, bewildered. “I’m going to go talk to someone who understands! My BEST FRIEND AYANOKOUJI, THE SERIAL KILLER you hate so much! HE’LL do what I ask!” She ran out the door as Trevor and Philip stared after her, stunned. The minutes ticked past, without either of them being able to come up with a single word to say.

Finally Trevor turned to him, and with a wan smile, shook his head. “Teenagers, amiright?”

Philip and Trevor spent many hours dissecting and discussing the implications of the brief encounter with Trinity and what they might mean about the information future-Philip left behind.

Trevor leaned back at last, grabbing another slice of the pizza they’d ordered when they got hungry in the middle of the long conversation. “Sure am glad for that memory of yours, Philip,” he said, typically kind, and Philip smiled. Getting to be on a team with someone like Trevor never failed to make Philip feel a little better about life. “Or we’d have spent half the evening arguing over what exactly was said.”

Philip also grabbed another slice of pizza. He’d been so thin in some of those selfies future-him left, his face lined and drawn even though his smile was broad. He looked like he’d aged twenty years in three months. What on earth had happened to that other Philip? It terrified him. “I’m most concerned about her calling her best friend a serial killer,” Philip sighed. “Future-me warned us about him, too.”

“Yeah, I’d really like to get the skinny on that.”

“Is it hard to make her trust me? It seems like I can’t say anything to her without her flying off the handle.”

“Teenagers are mercurial. When she finally cools down and comes back, everything might be different. Or it might be exactly the same. Some of them hold grudges like you wouldn’t believe.”

“That’s good to know, because pretty much everything I know about teenagers is anecdotal. The teenagers I grew up around were all Historians, and we weren’t much like other teenagers.”

“Don’t worry, I can handle ’em.”

But when she got home, she would only talk to Philip. “I love you, grampa,” she said, herding Trevor out the door. Trevor and Philip shared a look. ‘Grampa’?? “But Philip and I need to have a long discussion.” Trevor waved helplessly as Trinity shut the door in his face. She also grabbed a slice of pizza, then sat down with Philip.

“This is kind of cool,” she announced unaccountably. “I’ve been starting every Iteration the same every time. This time is totally different.” Her expression suddenly became furious. “But if you got the email before I Arrive, this is how I’m gonna have to do it from now on.” She sighed. “All right, what’d he tell you?” she demanded brusquely.

Philip’s eyes went to his computer. Hers followed, so he carefully didn’t look that direction again. “Mostly … mostly it was tales of sightseeing we did together, along with a lot of selfies.”

She smiled. “That was such a great Iteration!” she gushed. “Oh, but -- so -- so he told you about Iterators?”

“Yeah, he and Trevor.”

“Oh. Good. That’s good, that we won’t have to keep going through that every Iteration! How you found out was always this big thing … when you found out. One time … well, anyway …. But, so, what exactly did he tell you? Can I see?”

“Um … no. No, it’s all on Vision, which … you and your friends don’t know where it is or how to access it, do you?” Future Philip had said so. In fact, oddly, Future Philip had made note that if Philip should need to keep a secret from Trinity that he wanted other Philips to know, Vision was ideal, and why would he need to keep secrets from Trinity? Future Philip certainly didn’t seem to.

She could tell he was keeping secrets from her right now. She eyed him measuringly, then casually looked away. “Hm. So what did he say about me?”

Philip tried a winning smile. “That you’re wonderful and we’re best friends and I should trust you.”

“Mm. But you don’t trust him, huh?”

Philip looked askance.

“But he is you,” she said. She stood up, came over, and tenderly took his face in her hand. “It’s so good to see you again,” she said with a shocking depth of feeling, and kissed his head, and in her tone --

“What happened to me?” he blurted out. “In pictures, even in just the things I wrote -- something happened to me, didn’t it?”

She didn’t have much of a poker face. Now she was the one keeping secrets. “The world ends every time, Philip,” she tried.

“You’re all right,” he retorted.

“Well, as you’ve told me before, I was created for this. But … I’m not really all right … anymore,” and she burst into tears, falling into his arms as if they’d done this countless times in other lifetimes, and even he thought he could feel a glimmer of familiarity to it.

“I’m so mad at you,” she told him often. “Why would you do this thing when I specifically asked you not to? BEGGED you not to.”

“You know I can’t answer that question, Trinity,” he would tell her every time, but her familiar tone, how well she seemed to know him, made falling into a friendship now easy.

As was the fact that she’d just turned thirteen. She was so open and genuine, so free and emotional. She did try to keep secrets, but she was terrible at it. He was beginning to see how another him came to find her so charming. She injected so much energy and fun into life at Ops. She had infinite gossip about her I-team members and a band she was just getting into -- waxing on for hours about how hot they were and what was said about them in online forums -- infinite ideas for things they could do to pass the time, places she wanted to go, games she wanted to play … his time was filled rather enjoyably ever since she Arrived. “We’ve got to make the most of every Iteration!” she exclaimed. “Because Shin says since the last one was so long, maybe this one will be short. Murphy’s Law. Is that some kind of law of physics?” she asked in all sincerity, and he couldn’t help cracking up. He was really beginning to see how another Philip could have enjoyed her presence so much.

But there were times -- even when she was in the middle of laughing and having fun -- when she trailed off, staring at nothing hauntedly. It might be fifteen minutes before she seemed to remember where she was and came back to the present. He’d seen this kind of behavior in old people, who seemed to have a lot of life and a lot of traumas behind them, enough to get too tangled up in to be able to interact with the present. Never in a middle-school-aged kid.

Usually he let her think in hopes she might come to some healing conclusion, but she seemed no better after such moments than before; worse, actually: angrier, more bitter. Strange things for a kid so young to feel.

The next time it happened, he said her name, then again, then again, until she finally realized he was talking and looked up at him, her expression far beyond her years. “What are you thinking so hard about?” he asked nicely.

She looked down and then away and didn’t answer.

“You said you’re not all right anymore right before you started crying that night after we talked. What made you … not all right?”

She looked pissed and like she was trying to hold it in, an expression he’d seen on his own face countless times. The Director didn’t hold with such feelings. If you weren’t all-in on the Grand Plan, the punishment was execution by overwrite. Your life might depend on not letting that rage out. “All the cameras in here are off.”

She scowled, most irritable. “What difference does that make??” she burst out. “The Director doesn’t care how we feel. At all. It could never change a thing.”

Must be nice. “Then what is it?” he asked gently.

“We … we have to get to the consciousness transfer device before it’s too late every time the world ends so we can Reiterate. And so far, we’d done really well, compared to the first cohort; we’d only lost two. We’ve done so much better than the first cohort mostly because of Shin. Consciousnesses are attracted to him; he can collect them. But this last time … we lost seven,” she said, and broke down in helpless tears, dripping freely down her face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I just can’t believe I’ll never see them again! Maybe … maybe their consciousnesses are still around somewhere! Shin was able to collect Steve and send him back! But … Shin says that was just because he was already in the consciousness transfer device somewhere, and the rest …. We learned how to kill ourselves and everything! I mean, kill each other, because it’s too hard to kill ourselves. We all stood in a circle here in Ops and shot each other. We all succeeded. But there were others who were supposed to do the same thing in some other place once Shin got close enough to them to collect their consciousnesses, and they … some of the ones who were supposed to pull the trigger just didn’t, and now ….” She wept. The sobs coming out of her sounded to Philip like the sorrow of all of humanity for all of the last century of suffering and war and death, far too much for one young girl to bear.

“They make you kill each other?”

She looked up quickly. “Don’t go yell at 0099 again!” she cried, seeming glad to latch onto having one thing to be upset about that she might actually be able to prevent. “It’s not her fault, and she already regrets it! She’s good! Just leave her alone.” She dissolved in tears again, and Philip could hear in the sound of it that this was a wound that would ever widen until it killed her. Nine of her friends were gone. From here on out there would be more and more. There was a reason they didn’t send kids this young to war. They couldn’t handle it emotionally. These kids weren’t meant to handle it. They weren’t even expected to be able to survive it, Trevor had told him. But their deaths were the only factor that went into the Director’s calculations, nothing about the unfathomable suffering that came first.

Philip was used to this feeling, the weight of an unsolvable sadness settling over him. He was good at letting it happen, at accepting yet another straw, knowing someday soon one would come that would finally break him. But Trinity ... Trinity was already broken.

Chapter Text

“He definitely didn’t just leave it on Vision; I’m sure he brought a copy here, I just need you guys to help me find it.”

Ayanokouji liked this new, no-fucks Trinity. It was a nice antidote to the increasing number of fucks he seemed to be acquiring against his will. “Us snooping around on his computer ... isn’t this the thing you most wanted us never to do, that made him distrust you in the previous Iteration?” he said.

“Yeah, but now that that Philip sent an email back to himself that predates our Arrival, it’ll always already be here before we Arrive, so he’ll already know about Iterators, the secret’s already out, and it doesn’t matter anymore,” she said impatiently.

“He still might trust you less, if he sees us doing this in future Iterations,” said Shin.

“No! I already know how it’s going to go from here on out. We’re already friends. I hardly have to do anything anymore to win him over. His previous self already did all the work. I just need to know exactly what he told himself.”

“Yeah ... why is he hiding it from you?” said Shin.

“That’s what I need to find out,” Trinity growled, opening drawers and riffling through piles of things with abandon. “It won’t be there,” she told Ayanokouji, who had begun looking on shelves that still held mechanics’ tools. “It’ll be somewhere near his computer. Ooh, or maybe where he keeps his heroin! I’ll check there.”

Yet after much searching turned up no portable physical media devices, Shin simply stood staring at his computer. “He must have already transferred the files. He may have destroyed the media he brought it here on,” he said.

“He should have,” said Ayanokouji. “Having an object lying around with copious files on another timeline is a really bad idea. Imagine if another Traveler found it.”

“Imagine if a twenty-firster found it,” Shin returned.

“What’s his password?” Ayanokouji asked Trinity, sitting down in front of his computer.

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t have had to bring you guys here,” she growled.

It was only to be expected, Ayanokouji supposed, that Trinity took the untimely deaths of seven members of their cohort harder than anyone else, especially since one or two of them had actually been nice to her. Most of the rest of their cohort had seemed at first to take it worse. The wailing at the funeral had set Ayanokouji’s teeth on edge. Meanwhile, Trinity was entertaining wild hopes that their consciousnesses might still somehow be recovered, despite Shin assuring her he would know if any were still floating around inside him. Her denial was taking its toll now, though. The rest of the cohort had mostly come to terms with it and moved on, taking the hard lesson that they’d damn well better pull the trigger when the time came, but Trinity was angrier and sadder and more hopeless with each passing day. It was in the nature of a beacon of hope in a hopeless world, Ayanokouji supposed, to gradually dim until her light was entirely doused. He wondered what would happen to Trinity when that day finally came. So much of what had carried her this far with such a light, fun-loving spirit was simple denial.

She was always fragile. He was surprised to feel a twinge of something -- pain? -- thinking of her fragility. Some people were hard to kill. Hall, for instance. Ayanokouji had to shoot him three times before he even lost consciousness, then utilize all his considerable knowledge of human anatomy to finally get the job done completely. Now he had enough experience to know he would have died after the second shot, if he’d been given twenty-five minutes to bleed out, and within ten minutes after the third shot, even if someone had employed heroic lifesaving measures. Ayanokouji had just been impatient, and inexperienced. There were others, however, who crumbled at a single, ill-aimed shot, dead instantly, or almost instantly. Ayanokouji could swear even seeing his intention to shoot was really was did them in. Just knowing there were people as bad as him in the world, or that the world was so cruel that someone like themselves could be victimized by such a person, completely and immediately took away their will to live. Ayanokouji was so very good at destroying things. If only there were a way to employ that encyclopedic body of knowledge to be able to save one single thing.

He gazed at Trinity. Life was strange. It was here, then it was gone ... then it was here again. Seeing people he’d killed up and walking around again in another Iteration had given Ayanokouji a skewed perception of life, in which no one ever really died. But he was watching Trinity die before his eyes, and he knew it would be permanent with her, because her body had already died many times. What was dying now was her soul. Sometimes, given what they had to do and face, he wondered how she was even still able to function, like an animated corpse. But he liked corpses, and fragile things, and bright, shiny, temporary things. He liked Trinity, and everything about her, especially that he’d hated her at first. That he could love something after having hated it so much actually meant something. Once he crossed that boundary with someone -- once the hate he felt for everyone was pushed past -- they were inside his heart, where they would always remain: Trinity and Shin. He then thought of them the same way he thought of himself: not with a sense of liking, maybe, but tolerance, a constant of his environment ... until Trinity was no more. What would become of him then?

“What does he care most about? At this point in the Iteration?” Shin prompted her.

She thought. “He was friends with Marcy ... but I don’t think that would do it. He is really haunted by having left his host’s friend to die. Try something to do with ‘Stephen.’”

Ayanokouji tried a few things -- adding dates, Traveler numbers. Nothing worked.

“He never told you his password?” Ayanokouji asked.

He asked it without affect, as always, but she took it as if he’d asked it with judgment. “I always know his password from the time we’ve been here six weeks! But even every Iteration, they’re often different from other Iterations.”

“He’s good at security, then,” said Shin. “What are the passwords, though? What are the common themes?”

Trinity thought. “They’re often bookended by some obscure emoticon. Even one he made up himself ... or, I guess there’s no way to know, since he’ll have memorized every emoticon he ever laid eyes on. But as for what lies in between ... I guess ... poets! They’re poets.”

Shin shook his head. “No wonder you’re in love with him,” he muttered.

“Or poems. And he’s usually quoted them recently!”

“So what poem has he quoted recently?” Shin prompted.

“I don’t know!” she cried. “It’s not like we had time to study poets! I usually don’t even know the quote came from a poem until he tells me or I see it somewhere else, or ....”

She suddenly dove wildly into a stack on the desk and emerged triumphantly with a book of poetry. Ayanokouji simply took it, riffled through it, and started trying things, mostly to do with the poet’s name and the title of the book. “Standard orientation on the emoticon?” Ayanokouji confirmed.

“Yes,” Trinity said, going through the book page by page, scanning it anxiously for something familiar. Her face set when she happened upon one, and she set it down in front of Ayanokouji. “Try this one,” she said flatly. It was a poem about the secrets one keeps and how they’re to protect others rather than oneself.

He tried a few things ... and they were in.

“He’ll see all these attempts to log in if he checks the log,” said Shin.

“Too late now,” Trinity said callously. “That’s what he gets for trying to keep from me what he’s saying about me!”

It took considerably more effort to find the folder, which was also password protected ... but between the three of them, they had a feel for how he composed his passwords now. Trinity knew him well; they cracked that one in twelve minutes. Then they were in.

“First things first,” said Shin, taking out a series of large flash drives. They downloaded all the files onto them as they perused them.

Ayanokouji was disappointed. He’d expected something more solid, fact-based, something relevant. He looked at Shin and Trinity, expecting similar reactions, only to see tears in Trinity’s eyes. She leaned close to look at the selfies Philip had included of the two of them, then she wept. In silence, Shin switched out one flash drive for another and wordlessly handed Trinity the full one. She held it close to her heart, and cried out loud.

As Ayanokouji picked Trinity up from her base of operations for an I-team meeting, she was yelling at Philip: “If not you, then who??”

Philip looked at Ayanokouji. “How ’bout one of your best friends there?”

She recoiled violently. “EWW, no! We’re JUST FRIENDS!”

“Like you and me?” Philip said pointedly.

“No! I told you I’m in love with you!”

“And to me, we’re just friends, and that’s how it’s always gonna be.”

“Not if you never found out how old I actually am!”

Philip’s expression hardened. “Good thing the me of another Iteration is looking out for me.”

Hm. Philip had always seemed so soft to Ayanokouji, the easiest possible victim, but he was hard as stone right now. No wonder he managed to last through to the end of every Iteration. He had an inner well of strength. “Not if I have anything to say about it,” Trinity muttered, swiping her jacket off the chair to go with Ayanokouji.

“Trinity,” Philip said warningly.

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Real mature. I don’t think you’d be able to fool me regardless, since that's how you act.” He turned back to his computer, patently unimpressed.

Trinity squealed in outrage. “I’m a professional! Don’t treat me like a little kid!”

“Then stop acting like one.”

“I’ve saved the world three times already!”

“Not from what I’ve heard. Sounds to me like you've failed to save the world three times already.”

Trinity’s jaw worked with fury. “I have so many bad words I want to call you.”

Philip had the audacity to smirk slightly. “Trust me, I know bad words you’ve never even conceived of. Every one that survived to the twenty-fifth century. So I won’t be impressed.”

“You’re so mean!”

Philip dropped what he was doing and turned to face her with a serious expression. “No, you’re the one who’s being mean right now, Trinity. I’m disappointed. Other-Philip told me you’re sweet. I’m trying to be patient due to your age, but honestly, you are getting on my last nerve.”

Tears sprang to her eyes as she made a sound of disbelief, and she ran out. Philip just watched her go, rolled his eyes, and turned back to his computer. Ayanokouji followed her. “Do you believe him??” she fumed.

“If you want to date someone, I think it’s better to be nice to them. Or make them very vulnerable and desperate first.”

“He already is, and it’s not helping!”

“That’s when you show them the kindness that’ll make them trust you forever after. It’s not when you yell at them.”

“He deserves it!”

He definitely didn’t deserve it, it was just that Trinity had a lot of feelings she felt a desire to take out on someone, and Philip was kind and gentle enough to be safe to do it to -- another reason Ayanokouji was glad he himself wasn’t kind or gentle. “Have you given up on befriending him this Iteration, then?” he asked conversationally as Shin joined them.

Trinity was aghast. “What?? Are you stupid?? Of course not!”

Ayanokouji glanced at Shin, but Shin didn’t appear to notice anything amiss. He was never fully present anyway, his mind somewhere else. Infected with memories and feelings from other consciousnesses, Ayanokouji assumed, like mental germs he might never be able to get rid of. As Trinity kept ranting, Ayanokouji turned to Shin. “After our last mission together with your team, Hall told me to tell you he wishes you were the one assigned to his team instead of me.”

“He’s so mean!” Trinity snarled.

“It’s his version of a compliment,” Ayanokouji explained to Shin. “To you.”

“Oh. Okay. Because he didn’t have anything good to say about my performance at the time.”

“He was just tense. You were all he talked about after we got home.”

“Okay. Gonna kill Luca again this time around?”

“No.” He killed Kyle the second Iteration, assuming without a partner in crime and his bad influence, Luca wouldn’t act on his own, but he was wrong; just before the end of the Iteration, Luca found a new partner in crime and killed Hall. So Ayanokouji killed Luca the third Iteration, assuming Luca’s years’ worth of resentments toward Hall were the instigating factor, but Kyle up and killed Hall right after Ayanokouji killed Luca while he accused Hall of having killed Luca, or let it happen, or not caring enough about their team to keep him alive, something. “I’m just gonna let nature run its course this Iteration. It’s too hard to bother with, along with all my other assignments.”

Except that at the weekly meeting when Trinity was giving their assignments from the Director, 0099 said impishly, “And who’s on Ayanokouji’s hit list this week?” when they got to him.

Trinity paused longer than usual. “Save Hall,” she said then.

0099 frowned, confused. “Kill Hall?”

“Save Hall.” Trinity made it appear on the screen.

Other Iterators had been having quiet conversations until they got to their turn, but they were starting to pay attention. “... Okay,” 0099 said at last, baffled. “... Does the Director have any specific instructions as to how he wants One-Ten to make that happen?”

“I know how he wants it to happen,” Ayanokouji interrupted. Probably no one but Shin noticed how then he sighed, bummed. 0099 looked at him quizzically. “He wants me to kill both Kyle and Luca.”

0099 scowled. “What?? But won’t that put a huge target on you? Who else is Hall going to suspect other than the new team member?”

“Yes. It’ll raise suspicions,” said Ayanokouji.

“Several members of everyone’s teams are in law enforcement! This could raise red flags with them, too! One-Twenty-One, please ask the Director how One-Ten is supposed to accomplish this without arousing the suspicions of basically all your regular Traveler teams.”

Trinity was silent for a few seconds. “Your discretion,” read the screen, in a cute font. Some of the girls giggled. Ayanokouji had studied Encoding for a time. He wouldn’t even begin to know how to make words appear on the screen in a particular font. Only a genius could do it, since she wasn’t utilizing existing fonts; she was projecting her own mental images onto that screen, letter by letter, inventing the font as she did so.

“Trinity, could you please cut that out?” 0099 growled. “Your best friend is in danger here. Quit playing around.”

Trinity made a cutesy ‘sorry’ emoji appear.

“Trinity!”

The emoji disappeared.

“For God’s sake,” 0099 growled. “On task! One-Ten, we’ll strategize after we’re done Encoding. And One-Twenty-One, you and I are going to have a long talk immediately after that.”

Something flashed on the screen, too fast for 0099 or Ayanokouji to catch it, but some among the cohort did; they were chortling and oohing, outraged and entertained. It must have been something very rude indeed. “And now it’ll be twice as long,” 0099 said punishingly.

The strategy session ran long, and when it was over, Trinity was nowhere to be found. “Ayanokouji, do you have any idea how to control your best friend?” 0099 asked irritably when they discovered her absence.

“She’s angry and hurt and she was never cut out for this.”

0099 wasn’t about to let him off the hook. “And yet you made sure she was the one who Iterated.”

“I mean, for being a Traveler. Of any kind.”

“I’m not sure anyone’s ‘cut out for it,’” she mused. “Okay. You have your plan. If anything comes up, comm me, and I’ll be right there.”

Trinity popped out from behind a hedge as he headed home as soon as he was out of 0099’s sight. “Nine-Nine is such a pain in the butt,” she complained. Ayanokouji thought about things they’d learned before they were sent back to the twenty-first, about how when humans hit puberty, they started being full of feelings they didn’t understand and acted out, how they became unpredictable and difficult. He saw this playing out in Trinity ... though he and Shin were about the same as ever. Ayanokouji wondered what that meant about himself and Shin. Yet it was Trinity who seemed like she had something wrong with her. Well, more wrong even than he and Shin. What could he say to Trinity to help her? He wasn’t the guy anyone ever went to for help with their emotional problems, unless their emotional problems were being caused by some kind of threat he could neutralize. Shin was no more help than Ayanokouji. It was Philip she’d always gone to, and now she herself was alienating him.

“Why are you being mean to Philip?” he had to ask.

“Why am I being mean?” she retorted, instantly incensed. “It’s him who’s being mean!”

“By ... refusing to date you?”

She burst into tears. Ah, so it was close to the surface after all. He filed away the information for when he might be able to use this kind of weakness and vulnerability to his advantage when dealing with someone else.

In fact, she was so overcome that presently she sat on the curb and wept. Ayanokouji stood near awkwardly for a little while, then sat down next to her. He passed the time waiting for her to explain herself by strategizing how to kill Kyle and Luca. He was on the verge of asking her if there were any missions coming up that week that he might be able to use to cover up some friendly fire, before realizing when she was in this state, she’d be so enraged at the mundane question that he’d have to wait out her yelling at him for fifteen minutes at least, so he saved the question for later.

“He’s the only person I’ve ever loved,” she wept at last. “I mean, in that way. I loved him from the very beginning. He once said that after I became a teenager, my feelings about him would change, and they DID! I love him so much more now! I loved him like an older brother before, but now, I LOVE him love him! And now is when he suddenly won’t cuddle or sleep in the same bed with me anymore!”

“Why?”

“Because he -- because I -- because I MIGHT have stolen a kiss, that’s it! And he was so mad and now he doesn’t trust me at all anymore! That jerk,” she snarled.

Ayanokouji contemplated her illogical rant. “If you love him, why are you cruel to him?”

“He’s cruel to ME!” she squealed, outraged.

“He’s established boundaries, and not only do you not respect them, you criticize and yell at him about them.”

She jumped up. “I’M NOT GOING TO LIVE THAT LONG! IF I’M EVER GOING TO HAVE A BOYFRIEND, IT HAS TO BE NOW! AND IT HAS TO BE HIM!”

Ayanokouji nodded. Now it made sense. “Okay. But you’re alienating him, and he already knows how old you really are. So if you want to date him, you’ll have to keep it secret.” Her face brightened in that way he was so familiar with: careless, heedless, sure that mere optimism would make everything go her way. “No,” he said immediately. “You can’t approach this the way you used to with him. That only worked so well because you were completely sincere. Your relationship will be based on a lie. So you’ll have to approach it as you would a mission. As a professional. Strategize. He’s smart and observant, and he can see other timelines. You’ll have to strategize and plan carefully, then execute your plan.”

She was all eager hope now. “Like you have to execute Luca and Kyle?” she asked eagerly. “Who’re you going to kill first?”

“Do we have any missions this week that I could use as cover for friendly fire?”

She thought back to the Encoding session. “Um ... no. But you and I could invent one,” she said slyly.

He smiled faintly. He’d never expected Trinity to be a valuable partner in carrying out a murder, too. She was incredible, the best friend a kid could ever have. “Okay. Let’s get together with Shin and come up with a plan, then I’ll run it by Ninety-Nine so she can cover for us if necessary.”

She scowled. “Ninety-Nine! Why is she such a hardass??” she complained.

Ayanokouji felt content as they began walking again. They had plans to solve both their problems. Everything would be all right now.

It went horribly wrong. Shin targeted Kyle; Ayanokouji got Luca. They had it all set up so that Kyle and Luca were some distance in front of them and all of them were out of eyeshot of any other team member. But then Mac and Hall happened to come around the building at exactly the wrong moment and saw more than they should. With 0099’s help, they still might have been able to convince them it wasn’t they who shot them, but they saw in time to get Medics Boyd and Marcy, who were able to save Luca. Luca told them straight out that Ayanokouji shot him. “They shot us both,” he said, looking at Ayanokouji reproachfully. “In the back, in cold blood. They’re murderers.”

Ayanokouji and Shin were prepared to take the fall. Via their comms, they quietly strategized with 0099 to make it seem like they were merely rogue Travelers, off mission. 0099 was going to imprison them and everything, in order to prevent Mac or Hall calling for a trial and risking their trying to get Ayanokouji and Shin overwritten.

Instead, it was much worse. Hall and Mac told every other team with an I-team member what had happened and that I-team members might well try to kill their existing team members. Every I-team member was booted out of their team’s base and had to go live in the barrack.

Ayanokouji kind of liked it; it was like when they were kids again, all sleeping together in the same room. But everyone else had gotten used to whatever living situation their teams provided, and all the other support and relationships provided by their regular Traveler teams. There was much weeping and carrying on in the barrack. Trinity especially was undone: pale and drawn, her eyes and nose usually red from having recently cried. It was Philip. She couldn’t bear to be without him. “He hates me again!” she wailed. So much wailing, all around him. Ayanokouji, meanwhile, went over and over his assassination attempt in his mind, feeling more ashamed the more holes he identified in it. It was a dumb, simplistic plan. Of course it didn’t work. He’d do much better next time.

Trinity would slip out every Tuesday night after lights-out. After the third time, he was waiting when she got back, only an hour later. She saw the question in him, though he knew it didn’t show on his face. Another wonderful thing about having such an excellent friend: she just knew this thing he would have to explain at length to someone else. “Every Monday night on Vision, Philip updates the e-mail he sends back to himself. So I go every Tuesday night and add a killswitch.”

“So he’ll never get the email.”

“It’s the most important part of our plan, to never let him find how old I really am.”

“I hope the world doesn’t end on a Tuesday.”

“Me too,” she snarled. “Then I’d have to waste another whole Iteration.”

It ended on a Thursday. Ayanokouji had time to turn to Trinity to try to celebrate this fact with her, but she was too anxious about gearing up to pull the trigger at the right moment so everyone was able to Iterate through again.

“It’s okay; I’ll just kill you all,” he said in hopes this would reassure her enough that they could celebrate after all, but then she got anxious about that. Everyone was always so anxious about killing and being killed, even when the situation was completely under control. It was annoying. So the second 0099 commed that Shin was in range, Ayanokouji shot them all and then himself, and found himself on the battlefield in front of the barrack once more.

Chapter Text

As usual, everyone looked at the host of every remaining I-team member to make sure they were acting like themselves, not like their host. Once it seemed like everyone had made it to the new Iteration, people cheered and high-fived. “Yes, we rock!” said Kujo.

“We’re getting this down to a science!” cried Kurena excitedly.

“You did very well,” said 0099. “Good job. And I trust everyone remembers our previous failure and will do everything in their power to prevent such a thing happening again this time.”

“That whole Iteration was a complete waste,” Theo growled, hopefully too quietly for the watching Traveler teams to hear.

0099 was speaking in code so the watching Traveler teams wouldn’t know what she meant, but she wasn’t exactly being subtle; Ayanokouji saw Mac and Hall share a glance. Even 0099 was getting careless?? But it seemed like they all were. Even before his disastrous attempt to kill Kyle and Luca, Ayanokouji had sensed a new sort of distrust of him emanating from Hall, from Boyd, from lots of people. People had always looked at him like they thought he was a murderer; now they seemed sure. What was he doing differently? He couldn’t think of a thing, but he would have to try to figure it out asap.

Now that they’d successfully Reiterated, Trinity was eager to celebrate. She beamed at Ayanokouji, looking happier than he’d seen her look in a long time. “I’m gonna have a boyfriend,” she sang softly.

She would. And he would have to find a way to successfully kill Kyle and Luca, as he was sure the Director would request of him again this Iteration. The previous Iteration lasted only three months. Ayanokouji wouldn’t be surprised if the Director deliberately ended that Iteration early so they could try again sooner.

When they joined their waiting Traveler teams after downing the drones, Carly was looking at him and Trinity with open distrust, almost disgust, like she found them and everything about this whole situation strange and off-putting. Why? He tried to look at it from her perspective -- not his strong suit -- but even he was able to see the whole I-team behaved like they were living under a different set of rules, in a reality separate from the one everyone else was -- as indeed they were. The I-team had been through all this enough times that it showed. Could they change that, do better? Could they learn to act the part of newly Arrived Travelers? They were a bunch of middle-school-aged kids. Scientists and soldiers all, not actors. He doubted they could do much better than this. If he’d known their teams’ trust would dry up after a certain number of Iterations, he’d have taken better advantage of that trust before, but it was one of the frustrating realities of life, that you tended to only master something when you didn’t need it anymore, or realize something important when it was too late.

He’d have to rely on other things he’d learned. He’d stood over many dying people, watching after delivering the killing blow to make sure they actually expired. He’d heard them beg for an explanation, beg for help, beg for mercy. They all acted certain ways in that vulnerable state that were surprisingly similar to how people acted when they were at the end of their rope emotionally, like Trinity. If he were the one to deliver help or mercy at such a moment, even to a person he’d just tried to kill ... what would become of their relationship? Trinity trusted Philip utterly, because he caught her when she was falling, when she was at the end of her rope and lost her grip. Would it be that simple to make someone trust him? Maybe even someone who’d distrusted him before? He hoped so, since everyone except Shin, Trinity, and 0099 distrusted him. He needed something, a way in, or he would continually encounter obstacles as he tried to do his job, and he might again ruin the relationships with their regular Traveler teams the other I-team members had forged, as well.

Sure enough, the Director’s orders for him were the same as at their last Encoding session in the previous Iteration. Everyone’s orders were the same. They were to pick up where they left off before everything went awry.

Ayanokouji got his first opportunity unexpectedly. He’d just left Trinity at her base of operations and started for his own when he saw Luca, skulking around in the alley behind Trinity’s base. That was odd. Had Luca and Kyle decided they wanted to do some harm to Trinity or her team? Ayanokouji raised his gun. “Luca,” he called. As soon as Luca turned at the sound of his own name, Ayanokouji fired, then ran to his side, hoping no passersby heard or saw anything. He activated his I-team comm, the line only Shin, Trinity, and 0099 could hear. “I just took out Luca,” he told them. “He was skulking behind Trinity’s base. I wanted to make sure he didn’t make some sort of preemptive move and hurt her.”

0099 was bewildered. “Has he ever done that before?”

“Never, to my knowledge.”

“Well ... what changed?”

“I’m trying to figure that out.”

Trinity ran out just then to join him. Thinking fast, Ayanokouji switched guns with her. “It would cover everyone pretty well if you say he attacked you and you had to shoot him in self-defense. Traffic cams will place him here of his own volition, probably behaving in a way that seems suspicious. Mac would probably buy it.”

“That’ll do for now,” 0099 agreed. “In the meantime, until someone arrives on the scene, let’s see if we can think up something more solid. Sounds like you’ve already achieved half of your assignment for the week, One-Ten,” 0099 said then proudly. “Good job.”

“Yeah, I didn’t want to waste the opportunity when I saw him here,” said Ayanokouji.

They ended up having twenty minutes before someone found them -- Hall -- and in those twenty minutes, as they discussed it, the excuse they’d come up with started sounding more and more plausible. What indeed was Luca doing there? He himself had no beef with Mac’s team, so maybe he really did intend to hurt Trinity. Between them, they managed to invent believable dialogue Luca and Trinity supposedly exchanged before she was ‘forced to’ shoot him. Ayanokouji showed her how far away he was when he fired, and the angle, so she could convince real cops of her story.

Hall was furious and made all manner of unfair accusations of Trinity, which Ayanokouji rejected, saying how well he knew Trinity and that she could never kill anyone in cold blood. “In missions, even when she’s supposed to take someone out, I often have to do it for her,” Ayanokouji told him. This was true. “Or, she prefers if I do. She’s not a killer. She doesn’t have it in her.”

He finally managed to get Hall out of there to let the police do their work. Once he got Hall to their base and let him break down there, he went outside and fed information to Trinity through the comm to make her story to the cops more believable. Ayanokouji heard when the cops told Trinity that Luca had a record and had been in jail for several months not long before. He heard when they decided that thus, it made sense that he might attack an innocent young woman, and he heard 0099, Shin, and Trinity all breathe a sigh of relief. “Good work today, kids,” said 0099. “Let’s call it a night. Comm only if it’s important.” They all turned off their comms. Ayanokouji went back inside.

Kyle had just gone to get them all some food. Hall was a wreck, sitting on his bunk, cursing and weeping, saying, “But why? Why??” and Ayanokouji had an idea.

He approached. Hall was brought low ... but not as low as Ayanokouji needed him to be. “You and Luca have been together from the beginning, your last remaining original team member.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Hall growled.

“And you’re the leader. His survival was your responsibility.”

Hall looked up, furious ... or no, he was trying to look furious, but that wasn’t what was on his face. What was? ... Sadness, Ayanokouji finally decided. Great sorrow. There was the smallest twinge in Ayanokouji’s heart, seeing that look on Hall’s face, a look that never appeared there. Hall always had his game face on. A twinge? Was this that empathy others were always talking about? It was unpleasant. It kind of hurt. Ayanokouji decided he didn’t like it. “Are you going somewhere with this?” Hall hissed.

“It was your fault. If only you’d kept closer tabs on your own team members. ... What was he doing there, anyway?”

“How am I supposed to know?? What the hell were you doing there, Luca? That brat says he attacked her -- he would never do that! That’s not Luca!”

“You don’t know Luca as well as you think,” Ayanokouji said. He’d discovered in previous Iterations that Luca and Kyle texted about their plans to kill Hall. Hall had taken Luca’s phone from the scene. Ayanokouji pointed at it. “Check his texts.”

Hall stared at him. At any other time, he’d have something to say, some way to resist Ayanokouji and his suggestions, but he was that weak and vulnerable right now. Slowly, Hall did as he said ... and wept at what he saw there. “I can’t believe it,” he kept saying, swiping through the copious texts. “Luca -- we were together all that time. I’d have died for him. He knows that! I just ... can’t believe it.”

“I think Kyle will still try to kill you. That’s what he did ... historically.” Once, anyway.

Hall scowled. “What’re you doing here, rubbing it in? Are you just here to turn me against Kyle?”

Hm. Everything had been going so well. Maybe he shouldn’t introduce a new subject while he was breaking someone down; it distracted them enough to make them able to think for themselves again. But Hall was still fragile enough that this could be salvaged. “No. I’m here to save you.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Why? They were just words, same as all the others ... except that this one time, they were 100% true. That made a difference? Ayanokouji would have to figure out a way to work around that, when what he was saying was a lie, as it so often had to be. A look of wonder appeared on Hall’s face. “The -- the Director sent you to save me?”

Well, true enough. Ayanokouji nodded.

Ayanokouji saw it. A light came over him, like a man suddenly finding religion. People really felt this way about the Director, like he was their God. Ayanokouji couldn’t imagine it.

Human touch meant a lot to people. Only people who trusted each other touched each other. Ayanokouji walked right up to Hall and, as unnatural as it felt, forced himself to pat Hall’s shoulder. “I’ll do my very, very best to save you,” he told him sincerely, and Hall broke down in tears in his arms.

Hall was putty in his hands from then on. He was still the team leader in name only. Ayanokouji was now running the show. It was the easiest thing to conspire with Hall to murder Kyle, who was dispatched within two weeks. “Will we get new team members now?” Hall asked him eagerly.

New team members? How was he supposed to know? “That’s up to the Director.”

He felt proud of his work. The Director would be impressed, surely. Trinity’s plans to seduce Philip were proceeding apace. Ayanokouji was finally coming to see Trinity’s perspective about how great it was to get a do-over. You could do it perfectly the next time.

Only at the next Encode, the Director had private words for him, delivered via Trinity’s lips after everyone else was dismissed: “Hall rendered ineffectual. Methods excessive. Reattempt next Iteration.”

Ayanokouji’s face fell. What -- he’d done as he’d asked! He had so thoroughly destroyed Hall’s sense of agency and self that he was now useless to the Director? It had only taken him a few minutes! Humans were terribly fragile.

0099 patted him reassuringly on the back, and when the Encode was over, she shrugged. “He’s the one who told you to use your discretion as to how to approach it, so this is the Director’s mistake. Try, try again. That’s all we’re doing here, right? Just trying to get it right. Don’t stress over it. Just follow your new orders. It’s all data for the Director, no matter what we do.”

Still, Ayanokouji was despondent as he, Shin and Trinity headed for home. The only thing that made him feel at all better was hearing them talk about their own lives and things going pretty well on that front. “So you’re dating Philip now?” Shin asked.

“Mm-hm!” Trinity nodded, lips pressed together, eyes wide, tone eager and very positive. Ayanokouji took a second glance at her. She wanted them to believe that it was going great, but the look on her face ... what was that, really? Pale, eyes wide, no smile ... fear. She was afraid.

“Has he done something scary?” Ayanokouji asked.

“What? No, of course not! It’s Philip.”

“Then why are you afraid?”

“I’m not! How could I be? I love him! It’s just -- it’s just -- what if he wants to have sex?”

She was terrified. Even Shin saw it. “Tell him you’re not ready for that,” Shin suggested. “Your host is twenty-two. He probably thinks you’re about her age. I think it would seem normal to him for you not to be ready yet. I’ve seen people say things like that in movies.”

She nodded. She did seem reassured, but then, “And he kissed me,” she said all in a rush, “or well, he was about to, then he stopped, so I kissed him, and ... it ... didn’t go very well.”

Ayanokouji cocked his head. He and Shin exchanged a look. “How can it ... not go well?” Shin asked. “In movies ... it always goes well.” Maybe he was as curious for himself as he was for her. Maybe he anticipated being in a similar situation someday. Ayanokouji didn’t.

“Um, I don’t know,” she said. She was red, beginning to sweat, eyes huge; she was very upset. “The mood changed. We’d been watching a movie, and he seemed to be feeling romantic, but then after I kissed him, he kind of cleared his throat, and then he just ... went back to watching the movie.”

Ayanokouji and Shin were silent, stumped.

“I think I -- am bad at it,” she admitted suddenly, turning bright red.

Ayanokouji and Shin looked at each other again. “Is it possible to be bad at it?” Shin asked -- rhetorically, since none of them had any way of knowing. “We should talk to Natasha,” Shin decided. “She told me she’d seduced people as part of her specialty. We just don’t have enough information, but she’ll know.”

It was too hard to befriend Natasha, so Shin befriended Steve again by convincing him he was Shourei’s brother, which went faster this time, since Shin knew what worked before. Soon enough, they were all hanging around in Natasha’s house, telling war stories. “You guys went through so much,” Shin told them in awe when there was a lull.

“We did?? You guys have already Iterated ... what did you say, four times??” Steve marveled generously. “That’s more than we ever did. And so many of you are still alive!” Ayanokouji noticed Shin and Trinity kind of staring into the middle distance, getting lost in memories of all they’d been through. It showed on their faces: they had indeed also been through so much already, and they were only thirteen.

“Yeah. I guess we have been through a lot,” Shin finally said, his voice empty and hollow. Bucky, Natasha, and Steve all looked away when he spoke, seeming to perceive that same odd hollowness. Like they knew exactly whence it came.

“What do you guys do now?” Ayanokouji asked. He’d long wondered what happened when the Director decided one cohort was done Iterating. “Are you still ever given missions?”

Steve smiled wistfully. “Nope. We just get to ... relax and enjoy life, from now on.”

In another Iteration, Steve eagerly offered to help them with any missions, or with anything they might want help with. He cast it in a positive light, but forced retirement was not something he was actually happy about. He might be managing a smile; the other two weren’t. “Put out to pasture,” Natasha said resentfully. “Used up and thrown away. That’s the Director’s style. So be ready.”

“Is it so bad to get to just relax?” Shin asked wonderingly.

Steve was, as ever, more judicious, his response more measured. “Maybe because we trained our whole lives, literally from birth. It’s all we ever knew, so we don’t know how to relax.” He chuckled.

Bucky was not so forgiving of the Director. “We’re only sixteen, and we’re already expected to retire?”

“The world ends soon, anyway,” Natasha said sourly, getting up. “So what difference does it make, I guess.”

She liked to jet when things got intense, but it was she whose advice they were here for. Ayanokouji stopped her: “Romanov, Trinity has a question for you.”

Natasha turned, looking annoyed. Why was she annoyed? “‘Romanov’?” Steve repeated, amused.

“We’ve known each other in other Iterations?” Natasha asked irritably. She was pissed they knew each other before? “Why? What do you know about me?” Ah. That made sense. Knowledge was power, and here she was at a disadvantage, or she was afraid she was.

Ayanokouji glanced at Trinity, but she was looking down, bright red again. It would be ages before she got around to asking her questions. Ayanokouji did it for her, as he did so many difficult things for her. He didn’t mind. She did the most difficult thing of all for him: she made his life tolerable. “Is it possible to be bad at kissing?” he asked bluntly.

Natasha was at the door, but she seemed so amused by the turn the conversation had taken that she came back. “Who wants to know?”

“Trinity,” Shin said. “She was kissing someone, and ... she thought it didn’t go well. The guy she kissed paused the movie because he was feeling romantic, but then he went back to watching the movie after.”

Natasha and Steve were in stitches. Trinity burned redder. Eventually, Bucky said, “You guys, the kids aren’t laughing. Come on. She’s red as a beet.”

Ayanokouji looked at Shin and Trinity. It was true; none of them were laughing. Hm. Maybe the first cohort had had it easier than them, after all, if they were still able to laugh. But Shin and Ayanokouji hadn’t laughed much since they were toddlers, so maybe all the Iterating had nothing to do with it. Trinity still laughed. Occasionally.

Natasha got down to business, but she couldn’t hold in the occasional snort. “Why were you kissing this guy? A mission?”

Trinity shook her head, eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

“A guy on her team,” Shin offered. “She loves him. We all worked really hard to make sure he doesn’t find out ... you know, how old we really are.”

“You guys shouldn’t be seducing older people at your age,” Steve said sternly, so fatherly, but Natasha wasn’t having any of it.

“Okay, Boy Scout,” she told him. “Look, the only advantage to being an Iterator is that we don’t have to follow the usual rules. Let ’er do what she wants.” She turned to Trinity. “Yes, it’s definitely possible to be bad at it. Kind of inevitable, your first few times. You should practice on someone easier. Or disposable twenty-firsters. Ask for feedback. As for sex, tell him you’re not ready, and if he doesn’t take no for an answer, kill ’im.”

Shin’s eyes popped open wide.

“No!” cried Trinity.

Natasha realized she’d misread the situation. She shrugged. “Or, you know, beat him up or whatever.”

“No, that’s not the problem!” Trinity cried. “The problem is that he won’t! He always seems to ... sense it or something.”

“Wait a minute,” said Natasha. “You’re not talking about that Historian with the drug problem, are you? The one who stopped taking his yellow pills?”

“How do you know Philip?” Shin asked, confused.

“We used him, one Iteration, his ability to see into other timelines. It was too unpredictable to be useful to the Director after all, even though somehow he’s able to see into timelines that haven’t happened yet. But that’s probably what’s going on: he probably does know, saw it in another timeline.”

Trinity shook her head. “I would know. He hasn’t seen anything from other timelines that’s clued him in yet. It wasn’t that.”

“Hm,” said Natasha, and sure enough, just like Steve said, she seemed thirsty for this, to get to help out again, to get to be a part of it all. “Some people just have a sense for things. Like Ayanokouji probably knows, am I right?” she said to him. “They just know about you, know you’re not to be trusted.” Ayanokouji nodded. “They make the Assassin’s job five times harder. Ten times. Sometimes almost impossible. It’s like they have a sixth sense and know when you’re around, and give you the slip, even if you know for sure you haven’t been spotted.” Ayanokouji was nodding hopelessly. Shin and Trinity took this in, then looked back at Natasha. “So basically,” she went on, “you’re screwed, if you’re trying to lie to a person like that. You should pick someone easier.”

Trinity scowled. “I didn’t ‘pick someone.’ I love him, and I want to date him, while ... while --”

“While you’re still alive,” Bucky finished for her. She nodded fiercely.

Natasha settled back against the arm of the couch. “I remember that guy. He’s so ... like, out of it in a way, and so right there in another way, so present. It’s like he really sees you. I couldn’t stand the guy. Gave me the creeps.” She shuddered. “I guess because that’s a bad thing, in my line of work, to be seen. But I can imagine how a certain kind of girl would like it in a boyfriend. But it won’t go well for you to lie to him. It just won’t. All roads lead to the truth for a guy like him.” Here she glanced at Steve. When he caught her looking at him, he smiled, then she smiled, and patted his arm. “Like Steve. It’s just what they are. He’ll find out, sooner or later. So you should come clean, or he’ll never trust you again.”

Trinity scowled. “I didn’t come here for another lecture!” she hissed. “Just tell me how to be good at kissing! And don’t tell me to practice by kissing someone else. I don’t want anyone else! Just him.”

“Then tell him he’s the first guy you ever kissed and ask for his help in getting better at it,” Natasha said easily. “Guys eat that kind of thing up. Plus, it’s true, which will help him trust you more. If he’s really that great, he won’t mind.”

It was such a simple solution, none of them could believe they hadn’t thought of it before. Trinity tried it, and said it worked like a charm. She was happy, until the day she came running to the weekly meeting, crying. “He figured it out!” she wept. “I said something totally normal, and he called it ‘immature’! And I was mad and said I’m a professional, and he said that sounded even more immature! I told him he sounds immature sometimes, which he does! He totally does! Every adult does; you’ve seen it!” Shin and Ayanokouji both nodded solemnly. “So I pointed that out, and then he seemed totally sure! He was like, ‘You said ‘adults’ like you’re not one.’ Then he went talking to Trevor, and Trevor told him about the Iterator program again, and it’s all over! He’ll barely even be in the same room with me anymore!!” she wailed. “And he told the whole team I’m a liar, that I lie about everything, even my age and who I really am and what I really do!”

Ayanokouji had never seen her so inconsolable, like she was fraying apart at the seams. This would never do. He’d have to take matters into his own hands. “You admitted your age?”

“No,” she wept. “I told them I’m sixteen, like Natasha and everyone, but it didn’t make any difference!” she cried. “He seemed to feel like that was no different from being fourteen! I don’t get it!”

Once again, she was useless in the Encoder. She wouldn’t tell 0099 what was wrong, which was good. Trinity had never been good at keeping any kind of secret, but trying so hard to keep this one thing from Philip was giving her practice. There was no telling what 0099 would do or say to Philip if she knew Trinity had designs on him, and she could do it in any Iteration, so it was very good that Trinity hadn’t told her.

Ayanokouji thought and thought about how to fix the problem, and kept coming up empty. If something needed destroyed, he was the kid to call on. But he couldn’t knit things together, or make things go right. He had zero skills in that area. Killing or threatening or coercing someone or breaking someone down wouldn’t fix this situation. He was helpless.

Trinity was a wreck. Week after week, it was all she could do to even give them their assignments. 0099 resorted to letting her go after it started taking her ten minutes or more to recalibrate, then having her pick up where she left off at the next meeting. Members of their cohort went weeks without a new assignment, but where once this would have inspired scorn or ridicule in their fellow Iterators, now they all sat silent around the table, simply waiting for Trinity to try to pull herself together long enough to choke out another assignment. There were no sidelong looks, no snickers, no rolled eyes, just staring expressionlessly straight ahead, everyone remaining silent so she could concentrate, hoping to be able to have an assignment instead of having to twiddle their thumbs through another predictable week in the twenty-first.

Even when they left the meeting, there was no gossip. Ayanokouji didn’t understand why, until Kurena said one day as they were leaving, “That’s why I’m glad I’m not the Encoder,” and Haruto said, “Yeah, that’d have been me on day one.” “It’s a miracle she held together this long,” added Raiden. “Longer than I could’ve,” Theo finished. So Trinity wasn’t the only one falling apart; everyone else was just better at hiding it.

Professionals. They’d been told they were ‘professionals’ from infancy, and taught what that meant. It meant you put the mission first, even before yourself and your own needs, except as required to be able to do the job. It meant whether you liked it or not, a professional, who did the job you were assigned, was who you were and why you existed, and any amount of whining or complaining wouldn’t change it. It took all these Iterations for them to be able to really absorb the truth of that. 0099 tolerated a lot of whining and complaining all along. She cared about their feelings. Yet after all these Iterations, it had become clear she had no control over how their lives went. Her life, like their lives, were in the hands of the Director, who was entirely unmoved by their feelings. Iterators were the tools of the Director in the twenty-first, completing his projects, nothing more.

Ayanokouji thought no one was sad when that Iteration came to an end, although he might have been the only one who wasn’t surprised. The Director would do whatever it took to get more functionality out of his Iterators. Killing eight billion people, again, was nothing to him.

Chapter Text

Back on the battlefield, as soon as they Arrived, Trinity turned to Ayanokouji, her expression haunted, her posture fixed. She barely moved. “I’ll do it right this time, with Philip,” she said, staring through the familiar surroundings. “I have a chance to get it right,” she whispered.

Ayanokouji looked around as they all always did after Arriving, seeing what he expected. There was little time at the end of the last Iteration as a massive chemical leak spread through the city. Everyone had to self-terminate as 0099 and Shin drove past their location. Ayanokouji would have been willing to help out and kill some of them from the van window, but he was their first stop, and also had to self-terminate. As expected, some of their cohort just couldn’t bring themselves to do it. They had lost five as a consequence.

Ayanokouji waited for the wailing to begin, only to see mostly no expression on the faces of the other Iterators. A few had tears in their eyes. A couple of them brushed tears off their cheeks. That was all. 0099 moved to the center of their group after dismissing the members of the company who no longer hosted an Iterator and said quietly, “We’ll have a memorial later,” but then Theo said cynically, “Don’t bother.”

“Yeah, so many of us will be dead by the time we get around to it that we’ll have to have another the next day,” said Kushida, dead-faced.

“Don’t talk like that!” 0099 hissed. “Do not give up! I want every last one of you to make it through to the final Iteration! We’ll leave the hard stuff to the next cohort while we all retire here in the twenty-first and live it up!”

Ayanokouji looked at the waiting regular Traveler teams, many fewer now, wondering how much of this they could hear. The familiarly focused, invested expressions of Hall, Boyd, Carly, Mac. They didn’t know how many times they’d already done this. They could still afford to care.

“‘Live it up,’” Manabe ridiculed. “For all two months or whatever until the world ends again.”

“Quiet!” said 0099. “The next cohort will come and make it last longer and longer! If your little brothers and sisters do their jobs -- and I know they will! -- then as far as we’ll know, the world will be just fine and we’ll live to a ripe old age, sipping lemonade on the beach! I expect you ALL to be there with me as we live out the rest of our days in peace! DO NOT GIVE UP! That’s an order!”

“Yes, ma’am,” a few people responded automatically, but without feeling. Ayanokouji looked around. They were fourteen years old now, though they hadn’t bothered with a birthday party for their fourteenth now that Kujo was dead and not keeping track of exactly how old they were. Fourteen, and as jaded and hopeless as the old curmudgeon in the dome. As Philip, in that Iteration Trinity still felt so guilty for. ‘Used up and thrown away,’ just like Natasha said.

For the umpteenth time, Ayanokouji was glad he wasn’t burdened by the delusional hopes everyone else seemed to be. He didn’t feel all that different from how he’d ever felt, as fine as he ever was. Well, a little tireder. It was harder to motivate himself these days. He was pretty good at his job already. He didn’t like the Director or the mission enough to care enough to try to improve anymore. Motivation was a problem in general, for everyone, but that only made sense. Humans struggled with motivation, anyway, he’d heard. And most of his motivation when he was still back in the dome came from anticipation for Iterating and getting better at his specialty. That had all already transpired, so of course he wasn’t that motivated anymore. Otherwise, the things that had motivated him in the past were still the things that motivated him: mainly, Shin and Trinity and their happiness, or at least their okayness. He looked at them. Shin, like Trinity, barely moved. This was not that uncommon for Shin before a battle; he was capable of incredible focus. But his expression .... Ayanokouji’s friends. They were not okay.

At least Trinity was successfully fooling Philip -- mostly by not talking much around him. Ayanokouji was incredibly glad she was finally having the relationship she’d always wanted with him. If only it actually made her happy. She was functional again, though, capable of Encoding, so at least the Director was satisfied. Meetings only lasted an hour these days. There was no chatter, no goofing off, just sitting down around the table, giving their impressions of the Iteration to the Director, receiving their assignments, and leaving. With so many fewer people left alive in their cohort, it went fast. There were no extra training sessions like in the early days. Everyone knew their business. Everyone was good at their specialty and carried out their assignments dutifully. Nothing more. “I hope it ends soon,” Raiden said one day as they all left the base together, looking at the sky. “I’m sick of assignments. I’m sick of this year. I think I’m ready to retire.” His whole squadron -- what was left of them -- was walking together, and no one disagreed.

Chapter Text

Raiden got his wish not four months later, when a tidal wave swept away the whole city. They all had to self-terminate, but Raiden was among the few outside Shin’s range as 0099 drove through town collecting everyone they had time to. Raiden was near the coast. He was gone by the time 0099 got on the freeway. They lost eight that Iteration, the only one in which Trinity successfully kept Philip fooled the whole time, only because it was so brief, Ayanokouji was sure. She wasn’t that good of an actor.

As they all Arrived on the battlefield and Shin’s squadron realized they’d lost Raiden, Theo flung his weapon across the field. “Theo!” 0099 scolded.

“Nope. I’m done,” he said, stalking away. “Win the battle, don’t win it, I don’t care anymore. What difference will it make in the end?”

Shin watched him go, then simply gave Kurena the coordinates of the drones Theo had always targeted. He was that kind of commander: nonjudgmental, understanding. 0099 was over there ranting about insubordination, but Shin got it. Theo had given everything he had to give. He didn’t have any more.

Some members of the I-team were becoming like that generally. Where once an announcement at an Encoding meeting that one had failed to fulfill one’s orders that week would be accompanied by apologies and promises to fulfill it as soon as they could, nowadays some people -- Theo, Kurena, even Kushida -- simply reported they hadn’t fulfilled a particular mission, week after week, defiantly, as if daring the Director to punish them for it. Once, when 0099 asked Kushida why she had failed to complete the same mission for five weeks running, she merely shrugged: “Don’t wanna.” Ayanokouji thought the cynical snickers in response were telling; once upon a time, they would have been shocked gasps.

Trinity no longer cried in the Encoder. It was because she had Philip again and all was well with him. But she cried when it was just the three of them together. “I cry when I’m with him, too,” she confessed to Shin and Ayanokouji. “Late at night, I just -- I remember -- I remember so many things, that he and I shared, and things I still regret -- How I wish I never told him the Director might have made him relive parts of his life until he made him into the Historian he wanted him to be!” and tears filled her eyes again.

“That Philip is long dead,” Ayanokouji told her, as he always did, but this time, he was getting frustrated. How did she not get that ?? “His suffering is over. You can look at it like it never happened.”

“Did it happen?” Shin asked mutedly. The other two looked at him quickly. His expression ... Ayanokouji’s friends were coming to pieces. He tried to hold them together, to squeeze them tight enough to knit themselves back together again, but the pieces were crumbling out the cracks. “All of those Iterations. They’re erased.”

“The Director remembers!” Ayanokouji said, startling himself with the fierceness of his tone.

“And the Director doesn’t care,” Shin went on.

“We always knew it would be like this,” Ayanokouji said desperately. “We knew most Iterators would be erased from history. What difference does it make?? Yes, it happened! It happened, and we know it happened, because we were there!”

“That was the point of Philip’s email to himself,” Trinity said, as if realizing it even as she said the words. “It wasn’t -- it wasn’t to establish our relationship before I Arrived. It wasn’t even to give himself a heads-up. It was -- it was -- to remember us.”

“That’s why he included information about the rest of the cohort. Even people he didn’t like!” Shin said, also now realizing it. He meant Ayanokouji. Philip couldn’t stand him.

They both looked at Trinity, who stood there thinking, seeing things a new way. Ayanokouji couldn’t help hoping she would change her mind about the killswitch and finally let that email get sent, if only to make Shin feel better about whether all those Iterations would be remembered, but when she looked up at them again, there were tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry, guys,” she wept. “I’m sorry, but I just -- I just have to have him. It’s all I ever wanted.”

Shin looked away and nodded, simple as that. But when she left for home, Ayanokouji turned to Shin. “We should add to that email, just in case she ever lets it get sent again. We should include everything we know about everyone in our cohort,” he said, and saw the faintest lightening of Shin’s expression. However faint it might be, it was worth it.

They worked on it all the time. “I’m surprised you’re so into this,” Shin remarked. “Surprised you remember so much about our cohort.”

Ayanokouji contemplated this as he wrote a paragraph on Kujo. “Why would I not remember? I learned as much as I could about everyone who was a factor in my life. It’s the only way to be able to understand them well enough to use them for whatever I needed them for.”

Shin smiled, reading over his shoulder. “Yeah?” he said softly, his tone as teasing as it ever got, which wasn’t much. “You needed to know that Kujo loved animals and was good at drawing?”

Ayanokouji didn’t get why Shin found this so amusing. Or ... cute. Wasn’t that how he was acting? Like it was cute? No one ever thought anything about Ayanokouji was cute, so it was hard to be sure, but he’d seen people act like that about other people. It seemed to be what this was. “Of course.”

Shin let it go, taking Ayanokouji’s place and adding a paragraph of his own when Ayanokouji was done and needed to think more about what else he knew that he could add. Chise, one of the very first to die .... She was only a little girl at the time. He had much more to say about members of the cohort who died more recently. They were more complex and unique. Most of the girls, including Trinity, inexplicably loved pink and unicorns and rainbows back then. Most of the boys loved heavy machinery, things that were fast, and things that exploded. The boys got lucky, Ayanokouji thought, since so much of their jobs involved that stuff much more than rainbows and unicorns. Still, he would include that about rainbows and unicorns. Chise also often bravely bucked the trend and declared that she found purple superior to pink, and there was a stray dog who lived near her base that she was utterly obsessed with, absolutely certain it wanted to be her dog. She spent countless hours feeding it and trying to befriend it. When Shin got up, Ayanokouji sat down and added all this.

Shin read over his shoulder, then Ayanokouji felt something hit his shoulder softly. He tried to brush it away, but found he couldn’t, because it was wet and had sunk into his shirt. He looked, bewildered, at Shin. Shin was crying.

Shin didn’t cry. Shin never appeared to have any feelings at all. When he saw Ayanokouji’s bewilderment, he shrugged sheepishly. “I dunno. It just got me. Remembering those people ....”

“You weren’t friends with Chise at all. You found her tedious and annoying.”

“I was friends with all of them,” Shin said simply, looking over the pages and pages they’d already added to Philip’s email. “Everyone I could collect has lived inside me. Even the mean ones ... now that they’re gone and I don’t have to be afraid of them anymore ... I miss them.”

Ayanokouji frowned, looking down. What was wrong with his friend? What was wrong with people in general? So sentimental. He made a sound of disgust. He knew Shin thought it was because he was disgusted with Shin’s sentimentality, but actually it was because, as he looked inside himself, he realized, he missed them, too.

They had a great time adding to the email. It would have been five times more fun if Trinity had been there to work on it with them, but it was fun even just the two of them. Neither of them spoke much around other people, so when it was just the two of them, they found they could loosen up and chat casually in ways they almost never got to.

“There’s so much,” Shin said, taking his turn at the keyboard while Ayanokouji made notes on other things he wanted to include when it was his turn again. “I feel like I could write forever and still not even scratch the surface of all that’s happened.”

“I’ve been thinking maybe we should tell about what happened in the future, back in the dome,” said Ayanokouji. “What do you think? I know the future would say we shouldn’t leave evidence that we’re time-travelers, but I think the very existence of this email pretty much makes that impossible.”

“If we did talk about the dome, if a twenty-firster found this email, they might be more likely to think it was just science fiction.”

“I wish Kujo was still around,” said Ayanokouji. “He could probably have drawn the dome, the modules, the Geneticists’ lab. Maybe he could even have remembered what some of our faces looked like. Because that future’s gone now, too. We’ve changed it.”

“Yeah,” Shin sighed. “I love that Philip included all these photos. We should start taking some photos, too,” he said. "But Theo can draw all that stuff. We should ask him." Ayanokouji agreed, but neither of them said more about it after that. Involving Theo would complicate something already immeasurably complicated, and involve another party in something even Shin and Ayanokouji absolutely shouldn't be doing ... although Theo was such a rebel, he'd probably have no problem with it. But Trinity would be enraged. As for the photos, Ayanokouji never took pictures except to keep a record of something relevant to his job. He recognized artistry when he saw it, but could never begin to imagine how to incorporate it into photography. Shin was similar in that way. Trinity, though ... Trinity could provide zettabytes worth of photos, if she were on board with this. He was just musing more on this when he could have sworn her heard her voice -- her gasp. He turned idly to look whence came the sound, and staggered back. She was here!

She crept into the room, eyes wide and fiery. “What are you guys doing here??” she hissed. Shin took one look and leapt out of the chair, backing up, too.

That’s right, it was Tuesday night. Time for her weekly killswitch appointment. How had they forgotten? The sun had set, the daylight had faded as they worked there by the light of Vision, and they’d lost track of time.

Ayanokouji was trying to think of a way to spin it when Shin burst out, “We’ve been adding to Philip’s email.” At the outraged, betrayed widening of her eyes, he added quickly, “Not with the intention of sending it! We let your killswitch stand, of course! We never wouldn’t. But we just -- we just thought -- if you were ever willing to let it be sent again, or even if you weren’t, we liked the idea of there being a record of -- of everything, and everyone. Everything that’s been erased, everyone who’s died and won’t be remembered.”

She stalked to the screen and bent over to read, paging through the document now hundreds of pages long. Ayanokouji watched as her expression turned from outrage and fury to sorrow. Finally she sat in the chair and read, riveted, until tears started streaming down her face. “Chise,” she wept. “She did love purple.”

She went back to read from the beginning, only to find that that was the part of the document Philip had written. She sobbed instantly. “Philip!” she cried, touching the screen, the photo of a selfie he took of the two of them at the coast. “He’s gone. That Philip is gone forever! I love him so much! God, how I miss that Philip. He’s still around, but that moment, that whole wonderful Iteration ... ended. Just like all of them eventually will.”

She looked up at Shin and Ayanokouji, her eyes bright with tears. She grabbed their hands, then stood up and hugged them quickly, drawing back to look in their eyes, her face full of such emotion, so many emotions Ayanokouji wouldn’t even be able to name, emotions probably no one but an Iterator had ever had to feel. “I’m so glad --” she began, then burst out with another sob. “I’m so glad I got to come back to the twenty-first with the two of you. I’m so glad it was the two of you I got to go on this adventure with. Whatever happens ... I’m so glad I had you here with me.”

Shin was nodding. Shin didn’t cry. But tears were running down his cheeks. “You, too,” he said, looking into each of their eyes in turn. “It would have meant nothing if you two weren’t here with me. You made it okay.”

His friends and all their tears. Humans and all their emotion. Shin and Trinity were looking at him with an expression he’d never seen on the face of anyone looking at him. What was that? Looking sort of ... charmed, soft, a faint, identical smile on both their faces. Shin reached for him. Ayanokouji recoiled. He could not be a part of this sharing of feelings, and they knew it, so why were they looking at him so expectantly? As if he was about to contribute to the conversation in kind. Then, “Oh, my god, there’s something wrong with my eyes!” Ayanokouji exclaimed, feeling at his face with both hands. It was wet! His eyes were wet!

Shin and Trinity chuckled, bizarrely unconcerned by this horrifying medical condition Ayanokouji had suddenly developed ... which was what made him eventually understand that somehow he, too, was crying.

Shin was not a guy you went to for a laugh. He seldom even smiled. He didn’t appear to have a sense of humor. Even as a little child, Ayanokouji had never seen him get the giggles. But he had them now, bursting out with a fresh set of them every time he looked at Ayanokouji. Trinity was in stitches. “Ayanokouji probably never cried before in his whole life,” Shin teased in his calm, collected way. “Even when he was born, he was probably just like, ‘Wah,’ straight-faced, not a single tear.”

“Why would I have cried when I was born?” Ayanokouji demanded, thrown most uncommonly off balance. “I wasn’t squeezed out of a womb. They just removed me from the gestator, same as you.”

Trinity was literally slapping her thigh as she and Shin dissolved in hysterics before him. “It’s the logical way to be,” Ayanokouji growled.

Then Trinity was folding him into her and Shin’s embrace, hugging him tight, and Ayanokouji felt what it was like to sob for the first time in his life. His friends ... they were all he’d ever had. “Whether we all make it through to the final Iteration or we die along the way, I hope we get to do it all together,” Ayanokouji managed to choke out, and felt the other two nod in agreement.

Trinity was into adding to the email now, too, so the process became as fun as Ayanokouji had known it would with her there. Somehow, working on it seemed to ease much of the pain that had plagued her over the last few Iterations. She became more like she used to be, silly and fun and ridiculous and exuberant. She remembered incredible amounts about every single member of the I-team. They were even able to start adding information about members of the cohort who didn’t get to Iterate, and a whole long section on 0099 and the other trainers.

And oh, the photos. Trinity took innumerable photos of every surviving member of the I-team, photos of the hosts of those who were lost, and added dozens upon dozens of terrible drawings of life in the dome that she insisted be included in the email. Of course they ought to be included. The three of them included all kinds of ridiculous stuff. Anything that crossed their minds, wishes and dreams, fantasies, ideas and plans. Why not? They were members of the I-team, too, so these things were a record of the life of an Iterator, too. Trinity’s ongoing refusal to let them send the email made them feel free to include even some of the most vulnerable, personal confessions and admissions. No one would ever see this email after all, so why shouldn’t they? There wasn’t much left to do in this year of the twenty-first that they hadn’t already done lots of times. Making this record of their time in the twenty-first was a way to relive the best of it and give it new layers of meaning.

The Director was stepping up his assassination requests of Ayanokouji. Ayanokouji knew, even if no one else did, that it was because the Director had decided their time Iterating was coming to an end, and he wanted to get as much use out of the current cohort’s Assassin as possible.

Ayanokouji thought about the approaching end of their missions a lot, but he didn’t think about the assassinations, since they were so commonplace for him ... until one day, stalking one of the literal dozen people he was ordered to kill that week, he suddenly became aware he was being followed.

He stopped where he was on the sidewalk. He’d gotten good at taking out Kyle and Luca. He’d just had to get more creative. He shook his head at the simplicity of his earlier approach, which nearly always involved pointing a gun at someone and pulling the trigger. So direct. So dangerous. There were countless ways to kill people where you were less likely to get caught: sabotage, poison, booby traps. You could take advantage of an existing wound, pretend to help out with first aid and quietly take them out. With some effort, you could throw someone so off-kilter that they were easy to trip into traffic or knock off a bridge. The possibilities were endless.

If only he found the process as interesting as he once did. Now he was just fulfilling his duties rotely. He’d seen all these people, these streets, these situations, so many times. There were little differences from Iteration to Iteration, increasing in number and notability the longer the Iteration got, but for the most part, all the same people did all the same things every day. He was even starting to recognize individual faces when he walked down certain streets at certain times of day. He pretended impulses inside himself didn’t exist, such as the ones that told him he felt an instinctive dislike for one person but did like the looks of that other person and thus shouldn’t kill them -- even as he obeyed those impulses.

Ayanokouji tapped his I-team comm. Oh, the chatter that used to go on on that comm channel at every hour of the day and night. You used to have to comm someone directly to be able to get their attention, and it only worked because a tone preceded your words so they knew someone was trying to contact them directly and they could turn off their connection to the main channel. It was that or shout at the top of your lungs. It was quiet right now, though, except for two guys playing a very casual game of twenty questions to pass the time as they waited to play their part in a mission both their teams were involved in. There was a stutter when someone activated their comm, though, and the two guys fell silent when they heard it.

“They’re onto me,” Ayanokouji said carefully. He’d had suspicions that Hall recently set Ayanokouji’s team comm to be always active so he could overhear anything Ayanokouji said, and once he glimpsed Hall among the people following him, he was sure. He would say as little as he could get away with. Three little words, that told everyone on the I-team exactly what he was dealing with.

“What??” said 0099, horrified. “Ayanokouji? Are you someplace safe?”

“Mm-mm.”

0099 got everyone on the main comm channel. “I need intel on Ayanokouji! He’s north-northwest of downtown proper! He’s in danger! Someone, tell me what’s going on!”

Ayanokouji heard Manabe’s voice. “I have real-time traffic-cam footage. Reviewing. Looks like -- looks like -- oh, my God!”

“What? What??” said 0099.

“Members of the teams of One-Ten, One-Twelve , and One-Twenty-One are stalking him a block away, and they are all armed!” Manabe shouted. “Repeat, multiple guns trained directly on Ayanokouji! Sending links now.” Ayanokouji heard all the murmuring as people received the links and saw for themselves what Manabe was describing.

“One-Ten, get to a more populated area!” said 0099, even as Ayanokouji heard Trinity saying bewilderedly, “What? My team?” “And get a building or a crowd between you and your stalkers!” 0099 continued.

Ayanokouji immediately headed down the street, relieved when his pursuers didn’t shoot before he reached the busy road where at least a hundred people patronized cafés and restaurants just now, a little before eleven in the morning. The sun was at that angle it was when the first chill of fall was in the air, orangey and crystalline. Why would Ayanokouji be thinking about such a thing right now? But the only answer that came to him when he wondered that was that he thought it might be the last time he ever saw it. Every person he’d ever killed came back to life the next Iteration. But if he was killed, it was forever.

“One-Twelve, get to Ayanokouji’s location!” 0099 screamed. “Anyone who can get to his location, anyone in range, do so, but especially you, Shin! Just in case!”

“I’m two minutes out,” came Shin’s calm, commanding voice. “En route.”

“I’m in range,” said Kurena. “I’m across the street. I have eyes on One-Ten and his pursuers. Do you see me, One-Ten?” she asked. Ayanokouji nodded once. He saw her. She was an excellent sniper. She was right there ... and what could she even do? What could any of them do? The problem was not that these people might kill Ayanokouji. That was the type of problem that could easily be erased with a new Iteration. The problem was that they wanted to in the first place, because now that it had happened in one Iteration, it might happen in every other from here on out. After all these Iterations, what changed?

Kurena must be thinking similar thoughts. She said uneasily, “Are we gonna ... kill everyone on all those teams? Or ...?”

“Am I right in understanding that you can’t talk, One-Ten?” 0099 asked. “Privacy is also compromised?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Then we need to come up with a solution. Everyone, brainstorm! I want to hear ideas. What does anyone know about Ayanokouji’s situation? Why are they onto him now?” 0099 demanded.

“Probably because he kills a dozen people a week,” Saki said, a little snidely, but even all her scorn had faded over the years and Iterations, all the loss and failure. If she were an ordinary fifteen-year-old, going to school in the twenty-first, her years as a bully might just be getting started, but instead, she was worn out, too broken to be able to drum up all the contempt that used to come so easily to her.

“Fair, Ayanokouji?” said 0099. “Does it probably have something to do with the increased volume of your kills?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Ayanokouji is listed as a suspect in at least twenty-four murders,” Manabe cut in. She must have started accessing more relevant data after she sent the links and let other I-team members take over watching the traffic-cam footage. “I -- he’s -- he’s listed as a suspected serial killer. It’s -- it’s spread to all the departments: the Metro Police Department, WBI, FBI, even ATF and NSB. He’s all over these reports.” Her voice was shaking. Manabe’s voice? Why would her voice be shaking? She was in no danger. Yet she sounded wrecked. Everyone who spoke did. Horrified. Terrified. Scared for Ayanokouji. He couldn’t understand it. Only people who cared about him would feel scared to lose him, and they didn’t, did they? No one did, he was pretty sure, except Trinity, Shin, and 0099.

“Kushida,” said 0099. “Can you conceive of any solution? How ... how could we get ... how can we ...?” Ayanokouji heard the despair in her voice as she contemplated the scope of the problem. “How can we convince them that’s he’s ... innocent?”

“He’s not innocent,” Kushida said bluntly. Ayanokouji liked that Kushida had finally given up the pretense of being a sweet person and more often behaved in a genuine way now, at least with the I-team. She couldn’t hide her true nature from them forever, even if she could hide it from everyone in the twenty-first. The I-team knew her too well. “He killed all those people. They probably have reams of incontrovertible evidence.”

“Could you delete or alter it?” asked 0099, beginning to sound small.

“Not without expanding their suspicions, because the people who wrote those reports would remember all the evidence,” said Kushida. “And if we killed all of them, that would put targets on more of us.”

She was right. Ayanokouji could see it, see where all of this led. If he was really suspected that strongly of that many murders across that many agencies, there was no containing it. “No solution,” he said simply.

“But -- but you -- ” 0099 said, agonized.

“Within range,” said Shin.

“Within range. Confirm,” said Ayanokouji. It was the only rational course of action.

“NOOOO!” Trinity screamed over the comm. She wasn’t the only one protesting. There were bewildered and horrified gasps from many members of the I-team, who seemed shocked by the direction things had suddenly taken. The members of the I-team were troubled by the idea of Ayanokouji dying? It made no sense.

“Confirmed,” said Shin. Ayanokouji brought the gun to his head and fired.

Chapter Text

Kurena was the first to arrive at Ayanokouji’s side, until 0099 ordered her to go to Shin instead, who’d collapsed in an alley nearby when Ayanokouji’s consciousness went into him. “Ayanokouji’s body belongs to the authorities now,” 0099 explained sadly. “We’re only concerned with his consciousness, and with Shin.”

“I’d rather be with you, anyway,” Kurena muttered to Shin, wrapping her jacket around his lower body to protect it from the cold of the asphalt while hugging his upper body close to her until 0099 rolled up in the van. They lugged his body into the van and took off for the consciousness transfer device, in the meantime hearing over her comm the lunacy that was unfolding in Trinity’s base of operations. They imprisoned her!

“Ayanokouji is fine; Shin caught him! We’re headed to the consciousness transfer device right now, so if anyone makes it to the next Iteration, it’s going to be Ayanokouji! One Twenty-One, you’re not helping our situation!” 0099 shouted over the comm, but it was no use; Trinity was practically rabid.

Shin smiled -- internally, at least; maybe it made it to his lips. Trinity loved Ayanokouji that much, even knowing he was safe inside Shin. Ayanokouji, whom no one loved, except those who knew him best. He was persona non grata everywhere else, although the entire I-team seemed shocked at his sudden demise, and the concerning turn of events that preceded it. Multiple people kept asking 0099 for verification that Ayanokouji’s consciousness was safe inside Shin, sounding scared and upset. Shin could feel Ayanokouji’s bewilderment inside him at the care for him pouring forth from the I-team. Even Shin was surprised. But he supposed when you grew up with a set of people, trained with them, when no one but that set of people knew or remembered so many of the same things, even a sociopathic murderer like Ayanokouji had a place in their hearts. Shin felt Ayanokouji hear that thought, contemplate it, maybe even accept it, but he was nevertheless unconvinced they truly loved him ... except Shin was quite sure he felt an echo of the same feeling in Ayanokouji: a knowledge that the loss of any member of the I-team would leave an indelible hole inside Ayanokouji, as well.

0099 growled and changed the setting on her comm, probably simply tuning out Trinity and all the screaming and shouting at her location. “Could someone monitor the situation and apprise me of any developments that might pertain to the rest of the cohort?” she said impatiently. Two people said over the comm that they would.

Ayanokouji claimed he was unaware of being inside Shin most of the time, but Shin was aware of him. The feeling emanating from Ayanokoujiwas one of ... melancholy, Shin realized with surprise. Ayanokouji was not usually given to such feelings. Despondency, sometimes. Occasionally troubled, worried about how things were going to play out. But melancholy was a more sentimental emotion than Shin knew Ayanokouji was even capable of. Ayanokouji was looking at the light, the angle of the sun, and thinking about the coming autumn, about an end to things.

It was silent in the van on the way back to town after Ayanokouji’s consciousness was safely ensconced in the consciousness transfer device, though 0099 kept grabbing Shin’s hand and squeezing it. The third time she did this, he said, “I’m not the one who died today.”

“I know,” she said, and -- did she just -- did she just brush away a tear?? “I know, but -- but you -- One-Ten is like my --” Kurena looked at her curiously, but 0099 didn’t finish until they’d dropped Kurena off downtown.

0099 parked on the street and turned to Shin. Her eyes were wet. “You and One-Ten and One-Twenty-One ... you’re all my children. Literally. There’s a little bit of my genetic material in all of you ... and in some of the rest, but from almost the beginning, you three ... are inside my heart. I love the rest like students; I love you three like my children. I know I’m not supposed to say it, but you three are my favorites. And to lose Ayanokouji today, and in that way --” Her breath caught. Tears started streaming down her face. “I just -- I can’t explain --”

“The end is coming,” he said simply.

She looked at him, anguish written on her face, and she nodded.

He nodded. “I feel it, too. We all do, me and Trinity and Ayanokouji.”

“I don’t see how much longer we can cheat fate. If all your teams knew what Ayanokouji is and started hunting him today as a result -- now, when he’s such a professional and so good at not getting caught .... And several of the others are starting to have trouble winning the trust of their teams from the beginning of an Iteration. Their teams tell me they seem smug, disinterested, superior ... and then some of them tell me I come across the same way. It's becoming harder and harder to win our teams' trust, not easier, as I expected it to be.”

“It’s because we’ve done this so many times,” Shin said. “There’s no way to hide it anymore. We’re bored. We know what someone’s about to say, and usually what’s about to happen. We know how to handle just about every situation we encounter -- perfectly. It doesn’t seem human. It doesn’t seem like we’re in it with them, because we’re ... not. We’re always thinking about the next Iteration ... or one from the past. We’re never really here. It’s what we are. We’re Iterators. We’re not like anyone else.”

0099 nodded and wept. She hugged him tight to her. He felt her tears falling into his hair. “I remember when you were small, before your brother was sent back to the twenty-first. You were so fragile! So sincere and competent and diligent. I came into this figuring I’d whip all you tools of the future into shape and we’d come back here as conquering heroes. Since you were all designer genetic creations, I thought you wouldn’t seem human to me. I thought the Geneticists would make you tough, just a bunch of super soldiers -- you especially, since Military Strategy was supposed to be your specialty from the first.”

“I never knew that.” And he’d even read all the public information on his genome. He thought all the Geneticists’ research was public information.

She let him go and sat back. “You weren’t meant to. If you try to force someone into something, they tend to resist; it’s human nature. But it was the intent with the particular combination of your genetic material.”

“Was Ayanokouji always meant to be the Assassin, then?”

“No. You were babies; we didn’t imagine making any of you an Assassin, though the Director seemed to have faith there would be one in each cohort ... but it’s always a different genome, every time.”

“And Trinity? Was she always supposed to be the Encoder?”

“No, she was supposed to be the Leader! None of the Trainers was supposed to come back to the twenty-first with you; there was supposed to be one Iterator who rose above the rest, a jill-of-all-trades, who would become your Leader, and that was to be Trinity. And she was. She was the best at everything ... except Leadership. From the beginning, she was ostracized, outcast. I thought if she just worked at the problem for long enough, she’d be smart enough to turn it all on its ear. Tormented by her lessers, we thought she would tire of their pointless shenanigans and take control of the whole cohort.”

“That’s why you allowed the bullying to get so bad, and go on so long.”

She nodded, staring out the windshield as if looking across all those centuries back into their future past. “It seems so foolish now. But no Leader was emerging. We were getting desperate. Ayanokouji was the next closest to being capable of taking on the Leadership of the whole cohort. He certainly was able to let go of the desire to be liked by his peers enough to get the job done, but of course, after his brother tried to kill him, something in his psychology changed. The cohort didn’t trust him after that. He could never be their Leader. So when the third possibility didn’t pan out and the time came for you all to go back to the twenty-first ... I volunteered to come too, as your Leader.”

“I never knew that. I thought the plan was for you to come, from the beginning.”

“No. The first cohort went back without a Trainer ... although it was theorized the lack of an adult presence might have contributed to their failures.”

Shin breathed through the stab of pain through his heart at the thought that his brother might have survived longer had a Trainer cared enough to go back with his cohort. “It was me, wasn’t it? Your third possibility for a Leader.”

She smiled through tears and squeezed his hand. “You are a Leader! Of your Tactical Squadron. An excellent Leader. But an excellent Leader needs excellent followers. It was never you or Trinity or Ayanokouji or any failing in any of you, that made you unable to lead the cohort. I consider it a failing in your peers. They weren’t willing to follow. They’d follow any one of you now ... now that it’s too late. They just weren’t mature enough before to see your inherent superiority, your ability to see the big picture.”

“You didn’t want to come back to the twenty-first?”

A fresh flood of tears poured down her cheeks as she half-laughed, half-cried. “No! I considered it my solemn duty to remain in the dome to train each cohort to send back to save humanity. I did fear that if I came back here, it would shake my faith in the Iterator program. My folly was my failure to realize it should be shaken. We should all have come back to the twenty-first to see the real human cost of the Iterator program -- every one of us Trainers! A program so monstrous that I’ve decided any species willing to implement it doesn’t deserve to be saved. We thought the ends justified the means. But the end and the means were the same; we just didn’t see it somehow, though mathematically it was staring us right in the face all the time. History kept ending up at the same point. It was means like that that led to the end in the first place -- the end of the world.”

She put her arm around him and pulled him close. “You were just children. God, how did we not -- how could we have --”

“Don’t berate yourself. We’ve had this conversation before. You had to begin our training from birth, from before we could consent. But if you’re looking for the consent of the me of today to do that to the me of my infancy, you have it. I’d have done anything to try to save humanity.”

“Why, Shin?” she said. “What has humanity done to earn such devotion from you? Because I’ve never seen humanity be all that kind to you.”

He considered. What, indeed? Then, suddenly, he had his answer. “Trinity,” he said simply.

“She’s been such a brat lately,” 0099 sighed.

“She’s been inside me. I know her soul; it’s a part of mine now. I know it very well -- or well, I guess not, because I’ve never even really been able to behold it. It’s a blinding light, the brightest, most beautiful light imaginable.”

0099 chuckled, and soon it turned to weeping -- bitter tears. “What we did to you kids is unforgivable,” she choked out.

“No. Leaving us to get sick and die in the dome would have been unforgivable. We’ve known a real life here in the twenty-first -- a life worth living.”

“But Trinity -- if she’s really as bright and beautiful as you say --”

“She’s better off here, too. She has Philip. She has stories to live and to tell, a job to do, friends to love. She’s okay. It’s okay. We’re all okay.”

“The ones of you who are left,” 0099 cried, and suddenly, the woman who had always been a mother to him became the child, accepting his comfort. “So many of them are dead, and it’s only going to be more all the time! We’re all going to die!”

“Shh, sh. Everyone dies. It’s all right. We’re all still glad we got to come here and grow up in this time. It’s been -- it’s been amazing.”

“And it'll be all forgotten!”

“Not by us. We remember. The Director remembers. But how is it different for anyone? Every human lives a life full of love and sorrow, hope and joy, pain and suffering, passion and need and desperation, most of which no other soul will ever know the first thing about. Everyone goes through so much, and most of us take it all to our graves with us. It’s the human condition.”

“Do not tell me your lives have been just like anyone else’s!” she hissed.

“No, but that’s what makes them special. There’s never been anyone like us, never been anyone who lived a life like this. I like being unique.”

0099 held his face tight between her hands, coming apart there right in front of him. “I love you, One-Twelve,” she said, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his nose. “I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

“We’re kids, like you said, so it doesn’t occur to them to say it. But I hope you know, all of us love you like a mother, and we always will.”

Shin dutifully went to Vision every Tuesday night to help Trinity update the killswitch, even though he didn’t understand ... well, anything about it. “You still have to update the killswitch? But Philip doesn’t even know about the email, so he’s not updating it.”

“No,” she said grimly. “But the Philip of that Iteration still updates every Tuesday, and Vision remembers everything, so Vision would still send it if I didn’t kill it. That was the longest Iteration, too, so unless this Iteration outlasts that one, I still have to do it.”

It wasn’t the same without Ayanokouji. Nothing was the same since he died ... which struck Shin as odd. Ayanokouji spoke seldom, contributed little except ideas and observations, since to hear him tell it, he felt nothing. If they’d ever asked if he loved them, he would surely have told them no, that they were merely a means to an end to him. He and Ayanokouji had always been well aware Trinity was the heart of their little trio. But Ayanokouji contributed so much that wasn’t evident until it was absent.

Shin missed him terribly, Trinity missed him even more. Shin longed for nothing but for Ayanokouji to be at their side once again ... upon which he realized that he had finally gotten over his brother’s death. Shourei had his time and his life in the twenty-first. Shin had had the privilege of knowing him in the dome, and maybe there was an afterlife where they could meet again, but now Shin had his time and his life in the twenty-first. He had friends who were with him now, upon whom he depended, whom he loved. There was no sense dwelling on the past when he had so much in the present. He thought of Ayanokouji’s wish, that first time he ever cried in his whole life: that whatever may become of them, they get to do it all together. That was what Shin wished for, too.

For it was clear their time Iterating was coming to an end. There were signs even Trinity, the Encoder, didn’t seem to notice, but Shin did. The kinds of missions the Director was assigning were no-holds-barred, end-of-the-line kinds of missions. It wasn’t just Ayanokouji who’d had to step up his operations. Many of the I-team had suddenly had to double their workload. Most seemed to think the Director was making up for lost time from when Trinity could barely give out a few missions each week in a previous Iteration. That wasn’t it. Shin could feel it.

“Is it even worth it?” Shin had to ask Trinity. “Philip knows now, and --”

“-- And he gives me a lecture every other minute about lying to him,” she snapped.

“Yeah. It’s the lying, that has him so upset. But he’s talking to you now, isn’t he?”

“Barely,” she growled.

“So ... it was worth it, then? In that one Iteration when you had him fooled the whole time? Even though having to hide so much of yourself from him made you cry all the time?”

“I’m gonna get this right at some point,” she said, and there it was, he could hear it in her voice, the same kind of dry emptiness afflicting every member of the I-team. It had all been too much. Too much suffering, too much work, too much hiding their true selves, too much loss. Too many friends gone too soon. Too much water under the bridge. It wasn’t that they couldn’t take it anymore, Shin supposed. They could keep going until every last one of them was dead. It was that with each new Iteration, more of what they valued and cared about was stripped away from them, leaving them like Trinity was now, an empty husk. Angry, hopeless. Done. Just done with everything. All they had now was the job. She’d decided making Philip her boyfriend at any cost was one of her jobs, so she focused everything on that, since that was the one job she actually got to choose for herself.

“Because ... I think Protocol Omega is imminent,” Shin shared hesitantly.

“I know it is,” she said, dropping what she was doing hopelessly and spinning the chair to face him.

Shin’s eyes widened as he stared at her. “How ... do you know?” he was finally able to make himself ask.

“Because I’m the only one who talks directly to the Director, right? And so he -- I -- it’s not all ... ones and zeros like everyone seems to think. He doesn’t think or feel or anything, but he’s always processing, and sometimes I’m able to catch glimpses of those processes, why he’s giving people the missions he is, and ... it’s because ... there’s so few of us left, and some of us can hardly even do it anymore --”

Shin simply nodded, looking down. “This Iteration?” he asked dully. Of course. Of course it would happen in the Iteration where they lost their best friend.

“No, not this one. But soon.”

Shin took this in. It wasn’t a surprise, he kept telling himself. He’d known it. But to hear it verified from the lips of the one with a direct line to the Director .... “Then can we do some things I’ve always wanted to do?” he said. She looked curious -- not the excited curiosity of the old Trinity, but at least a semblance of interest in her repetitive life at the promise of something out of the ordinary.

“What?” she prompted.

“We’ve been to the beach lots of times. But there are mountains near here, too. I always wanted to explore them.”

“Yeah, why have we never done that?” Trinity said, sounding bewildered at the fact.

“Because we weren’t allowed to leave the city limits in case the world ended unexpectedly. We always needed to be near 0099 so she could take us to the consciousness transfer device. But if we don’t range too far afield, we won’t be any farther from the consciousness transfer device, anyway, since it's also in the mountains, and ... regardless ... I’m not sure it matters anymore. I only wish Ayanokouji could come with us. But if it really is the end ... he’d want us to go see the mountains without him.”

“He wouldn’t care about mountains, anyway. But I want to go!”

Shin smiled, or he thought he managed something resembling a smile. “Good. Let’s do it.”

It wasn’t easy to find a time when neither of them had another mission to complete, so both of them decided to complete as many missions as possible that week and then take the whole day the following Tuesday, update the killswitch that night, then still have plenty of completed missions to report by the next Encode meeting Wednesday morning.

Shin arrived at Trinity’s team’s base of operations in time to see Philip hounding her suspiciously: “Why? What’s in the mountains?”

“I don’t know; I’ve never been!” she hissed.

“Is that where the consciousness transfer device is?” he asked.

Trinity grabbed her jacket. “Come on, let’s go,” she growled to Shin.

“Are you about to Iterate right now?” Philip pressed, following them out.

“Oh, you’d know if we were about to Iterate, because the world would be falling down around our ears,” she yelled, turning around to face him, but then she started to cry. “You might already be dead! Or I’d have been ordered to blow my brains out right in front of you!” She began to sob. “I’m sorry for that, Philip! I’m so sorry! If you ever see that in any timeline, I didn’t mean to hurt you or traumatize you! It’s just that Shin was only in range for a little while, but I know you still might see it in another timeline because it was a pretty short Iteration, and I feel so guilty, but I had to or I’d be dead! But still, I’m so sorry!”

Philip looked bewildered ... and agonized. He was such a good man, so compassionate. Trinity had really put him through it this Iteration, and he just took it as he took every unfairness and cruelty visited upon him: ever dutiful, compassionate, and kind. Trinity ran outside, still crying, though these days her tears came on suddenly and left just as suddenly, and she acted as though they'd never happened. Anyway, she needed a little time to pull herself together; if Shin went out there right now, she'd just rant and bitch about everything and everyone. Shin felt it was time to say some things to Philip that he’d often thought but never uttered, as he did recently with 0099. Shin didn't want to have any regrets.

“Thank you for your kindness and generosity in early Iterations,” he said. “I know you don’t remember it, but you were kind to us and gave me harbor at a time when I really needed it. It made a big difference to me. We were just kids; we had no idea what we were doing, but you were always nice to us, and I never thanked you, so thank you.”

Philip drew back, the expression on his face ... as if maybe for the first time, he truly believed all he’d been told about Iterators. Such compassion. Such horror. He shook his head. “I -- I’m so sorry for what the future did to you,” he said. “So sorry. That’s not the future I left. The future I left would never have done that to you.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Shin insisted. “What happened to us has nothing to do with you. But you made our time here easier. You made Trinity so much happier. You were nicer to her than anyone in our cohort ever was. You were everything to her. So thank you, too, for taking such good care of my best friend. You were even nice to Ayanokouji, though I know he gave you the creeps.” Philip looked startled, caught between guilt and amusement. “We’re all Travelers, and we’re all doing our best,” Shin went on. “We can only hope it’s enough, and that someday, nobody has to Travel ever again.”

Philip was so stunned that he actually let them go this time. Yet when they were almost to the car Shin’s host owned and Trinity, already recovered, said, “Why do people go to mountains, anyway? What do people do there?,” there was Philip right behind them, saying warmly, “I don’t know, either. Let’s go find out.”

Trinity couldn’t help being happier when Philip was around, even as worn thin as she was by his distrust and anger at all her lying. They had fun driving to the mountains, listening to the radio. “That’s right, this song is released today. You love this one, Philip! Oh, this reminds me of all those super fun days in the early Iterations when we were always going to the beach and the water park, you remember, Shin??”

“Of course I remember. I had a score so high at laser tag, they thought the score counter was broken.”

“Oh, right!” she laughed and laughed. “I wish we’d known about Vision then! I so wish we had a copy of that picture of you with all the employees! You looked so weird, all serious and expressionless! Ha ha, that was the best! Why did you always spend all your time in the Goldmine, anyway?? You’re such a weirdo. Is that why you want to go to the mountains now, to see a mine?”

“What’s ‘Vision’?” Philip asked shrewdly.

“Something I’ve been working very hard to keep you from ever finding out about!” Trinity yelled. “Because the you of another Iteration did EXACTLY what I BEGGED you not to and told the next you all about me and the other Iterators and how old I really was so I could never --”

“-- Trick me into dating you?” he said dangerously. “Is Vision a ... Iterating device?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” Trinity shouted crossly.

“It’s a computer that remembers data across Iterations,” said Shin quickly.

Trinity gasped and flung her hand over Shin’s mouth. “Shin, shut up!”

Shin grabbed her hand off his mouth and managed to get out the coordinates before she got her other hand over his mouth. Philip leaned forward and grabbed her hand away from Shin. “Hey, hey! Do not interfere with the driver while we’re on the highway, Trinity!”

Trinity let go of Shin and crossed her arms, pouting. “Now I’m mad at both of you!”

“You sent yourself a long email that we’ve been adding to for a long time,” Shin went on, as Trinity made threatening gestures, drawing her finger across her neck. He couldn’t help but smile a little at the sight; her ‘dangerous’ expression was so hilarous, as scary as a little baby lion cub. “All about all the Iterators, and different Iterations, and everything we could remember.”

“Now I’ll have to live in Vision’s room so I can set the killswitch every time Philip comes,” she growled. “Or no, I’ll just ask the Director to do it!” she suddenly realized. “He’d never want the email to get sent, so I just have to tell him about it!” She stuck her tongue out at Shin. “So there!”

“So you can be sure to trick and lie to me again and again?” Philip hissed. “I can’t tell if you’re the sweetest girl who ever lived or a psychopath, Trinity.”

She waved him off. “You’ll have forgotten about all this soon enough, and then I can try again,” she said casually.

Philip sat back without as much fury in his expression as Shin expected, as he looked at him in the rearview mirror. Rather, Philip looked calculating, just as Shin hoped. Trinity had never seemed to grasp just how talented a hacker Philip actually was. Now that he had a little bit of information about Vision and knew about the killswitch, Shin thought Philip would be able to concoct a workaround. It was time for all the lies and shenanigans to come to an end. Trinity couldn’t afford to mess around anymore, since any Iteration from now on might be the last. Unless Trinity was right and the Director would put an end to the email.

“Trinity,” Shin said, eyeing her seriously. She refused to meet his eye, conspicuously looking everywhere but at him. “That email contains everything about all the Iterators. Would you really let the Director delete the whole thing and erase all our work of all these months adding to it and let everyone in the entire cohort be forgotten forever just to try and probably fail to date Philip again, when you know he doesn’t want it?”

“Don’t you start with me! This is none of your business.”

“But it is my business. It’s the business of the entire cohort.”

“It’s my life and I get to do whatever I want with it!” she shouted. The gleam in her eye was downright maniacal.

“I thought you cared about what Philip thought of you.”

“It’s too late with this version of him! This Iteration needs to hurry up and end so I can try again with a fresh one.”

"Wow," said Philip.

Shin kept talking. “He’s kind and understanding. That’s one of the things you like best about him. So maybe it’s not too late with this Philip. Anyway, didn’t we want to have fun up here? This is probably going to be the only time you ever get to go to the mountains with Philip.”

“And you!” she said, her eyes looking normal again, at least for a moment.

“And me.”

“And Ayanokouji is ... kind of here.”

Shin nodded. The consciousness transfer device wasn’t far away. Philip sat forward. “The consciousness transfer device is up here in the mountains, isn’t it?” he asked. Man, that guy never missed a thing.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Trinity snapped again, as Shin said, “Yes.”

Philip sat back, nodding. “I’d like to see it.”

Trinity rounded on him. “NO!” she screamed. “No, I need the fresh you the way you are at the beginning of every Iteration, so you better not ever think of Iterating yourself! I need the you of now to disappear forever so all my lies and mistakes are erased forever, too!”

Shin recognized how appalling her words were, even as he himself had seen too much in his short life to feel appalled, exactly. Still, he felt something. Disgust? At Trinity? He never thought he’d see the day, but it had arrived. Disgust. Outrage. “You’re seriously telling the man you love to hurry up and die??” Shin said.

Philip must have seen too much to feel all that appalled, either. Just, like Shin, disappointed. Jaded. Hopeless.

Philip squinted at her. “I see other timelines, Trinity. In some of which I don’t like or trust you at all. I now see why. Maybe you can just sweep away all your mistakes with everyone else who ever lived. But in some way, I of all people will always know.”

Trinity made a horrible face. Shin would never have believed that sweet girl could look so ... demonic. “Then I’ll start slipping the yellow pills into your food!” she yelled.

Philip looked stunned. Horrified.

“ENOUGH, TRINITY!” Shin shouted, slamming on the brakes and pulling the car over on the shoulder of the highway. “Enough! How can you treat someone you love this way?? I was just telling 0099 you were the brightest light I ever saw, but ... maybe not anymore. You seem dark now. All dark.”

Trinity withdrew, shocked. Her mouth worked, but no words came out, until finally, a pleading, “But, Shin --”

“No! Enough is enough. You don’t get to erase all the lives of everyone in our cohort just so you can erase all your mistakes along with them -- only to make them all again! And again and again! Stop being such a monster! I hardly even know you anymore.”

Trinity was aghast. “Shin! You’ve known me since we were two! We’ve been best friends all this time --”

“Yeah. I don’t know this person, though.”

“Well, excuse me for trying to live a little before I die!” she yelled. “Excuse me for trying to get the one tiny thing I want!”

“At what cost?” Shin asked tiredly. “Like the future, ruining the lives of countless Travelers and Iterators just to try to erase their own unforgivable mistakes. Just give it up already. It’s done. If you’re the type of person who would do that kind of thing, then let it be remembered forever. Iterating isn’t a do-over, it’s not a get-out-of-jail-free card. The future did terrible things to thousands of people to try to overwrite the consequences of the bad things they did in the past. Maybe after all you’re just the same as them.”

“So you want me to just take it and take it and never fight back??”

“That’s what I do. Because otherwise, where does it end? Where does it end, Trinity?”

Chapter Text

Philip watched this exchange closely from the back seat. He’d doubted all along that there was really such a thing as Iterators. Not that it wasn’t technically possible, he supposed, but the kinds of resources it would take to create a consciousness transfer device in the twenty-first century, the access to materials and expertise ... it was all but impossible ... for anyone but the Director. That was why he wanted to see the consciousness transfer device, so he would know for sure and be able to put to bed this doubt that had lingered in him ever since he learned about Iterators. Hearing their unself-conscious passion as they discussed overwriting previous Iterations, it was hard to doubt that they, at least, believed it. These kids -- fifteen years old now, they said -- had apparently really relived the same period of time since they were nine years old ... and so had Philip. He’d been there all along, a helpless pawn in the machinations of one girl who had gone mad with power.

Philip had seen twenty-firsters act like her, willing to engage in any amount of cruelty to indulge themselves or make sure they didn’t have to feel anything bad. It seemed to go hand in hand with some sense that hard times were ahead -- or potentially the end of everything. It was more forgivable in a desperate fifteen-year-old girl, he supposed, than some of the full-grown adults he'd seen do it, but he was of Shin’s mind: if pain there was to be, it was better not to spray it out on everyone in one’s vicinity. There was pain enough to go around already, and inflicting one's own on others wouldn’t make the one hurting feel any better.

Trinity had once been something else. The way Shin was talking, she had once been bright and happy and generous and kind. Well, the kinds of things Travelers had seen and endured could change a person ... but Shin had seen everything she had, and he hadn’t resorted to the things she was talking about. Philip had seen plenty himself, and he hadn’t gone dark. “There’s no excuse good enough, Trinity,” Philip interrupted their arguing to say coldly, as she continued to try to defend ever more indefensible plans and ideas. “You choose the kind of force you’re going to be in this world: good or bad. But you don’t get to leave a trail of destruction and still claim you were one of the good guys.”

"But there IS no trail of destruction, that's the POINT!" she screamed. "It's all erased! It never happened!"

"But it did happen," Philip pressed. "I see it, in other timelines."

"I remember it," Shin added.

“SHUT UP!” Trinity shouted, covering her ears. “Shut up, both of you! You don’t know anything!!”

Philip sat back, disappointed. Shin put the car in gear and got back up to speed again. There was no sound in the car except Trinity’s gasping and furious muttering.

Shin stopped for fast food -- something all of them liked. Presently, Trinity was babbling garoulously again, as if nothing had happened. Erasing everything she didn’t like, just like she said. Twenty-firsters acted like this all the time. But Trinity could really do it, really just hit reset and start over fresh from the beginning. Watching her, Philip was struck so powerfully by a truth he’d never seen before that if he hadn’t already been sitting down, it would have knocked him over.

The Traveler Program. He’d always despised and distrusted it, but he could never quite put a finger on why, because the logic was unassailable: humanity was at the brink of extinction. Humanity had figured out how to go back to the past and fix its mistakes. The world had been plunged into ice and darkness. What other choice did they have? When 3112 asked him if he was ready to take his oath, Philip had hesitated a long moment -- long enough that it grew uncomfortable. It was so hard to make himself say yes ... and suddenly he could see why with perfect clarity: The fifteen-year-old monster in the front seat was the same monster that conceived and executed the Grand Plan and the entire Traveler Program: one that failed to understand that the only way to stop making the same mistake over and over again was to face the consequences of it. Pretending it had never happened -- or worse, making it so that it really never had happened -- only made the mistakes and their consequences worse. This was why all their efforts in the twenty-first had only made life in the twenty-fifth worse than ever. All indications suggested it got worse with each new effort. And he was watching it play out in real time, right before his eyes.

“Don’t worry, Trinity,” he said as she playfully tried to shove the straw from her shake in Shin’s mouth. “I would never use the consciousness transfer device now. I should never have used it in the first place.”

She rounded on him. “How can you say that! Then we would never have been able to be here together in the twenty-first!”

“Seems like I’d have been better off if I’d never met you, anyway.”

“Shut up, Philip! You’re the worst!” she said hatefully.

Shin grabbed the shake out of her hand and gobbled some of it down, at which she playfully raged, latching onto the distraction, her only nod to Philip’s words being a muttered, “Mr. Serious back there never lets up, does he?” before bantering and playing with Shin some more.

He pulled over at a trailhead, where they all took a little hike. Standing beside Philip, Shin watched her chase a butterfly through a meadow and told him, “That’s what she always used to be like. She was the happiest person anyone ever met. It made anyone feel happy just to be near her. It’s Iterating that destroyed all that.”

Philip nodded. “Thank you for telling me. And for telling me about the email. I can’t wait to read it.”

“I’d hurry, then. She’s serious about deleting the whole thing. I’ll do everything I can to stop her, but ... as I’ve watched the Iterations go by, each one seems like a copy of a copy, more and more copies, and like the quality is degrading with each. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m just tired of living the same year over and over again. But I think not. I think our reality isn’t getting better as we overwrite history; I think it’s getting worse.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Shin sighed. “It’s out of my hands. I realized that at age two, when I lost my brother. I’m just a pawn in an unwinnable game. I do what I can where I can, but it’s so little. Less all the time, it seems. I’ve started having dreams .... I’ve seen the world end a bunch of times, but in the dream, it’s permanent, and at the center of all the destruction is the Director, calculating and calculating, trying to figure out a way to manipulate even the rubble, just turning it into ever smaller bits until it’s all only sand, then dust. And I ... I don’t really think it’s a dream. I think it’s my mind making what I’m seeing explicit.”

“I saw it, too, just now, in the car,” said Philip immediately. “I saw what you’re talking about. The Grand Plan ....” Wait. If there was one thing you didn’t want the Director to hear you say, it was any word against the Grand Plan. To the future, that was high treason. Philip took his cell phone out of his pocket and hid it far away under a rock before continuing -- seeing as he did that Shin simply chucked his off a cliff. Philip laughed as he returned to his side. “I guess you knew what I was going to say, that the Grand Plan is the cure that’s worse than the disease, but ... it’s still a pain to have to buy a new cell phone. And, you know, maybe we shouldn’t destroy the environment any more than it already is --”

Shin shrugged and turned away hopelessly. “All is lost. It’s all over. I can feel it. Maybe future cohorts will have success where we failed, but when it comes to our cohort ... it was a complete failure.”

Philip gazed at him contemplatively, then turned with him to watch Trinity rummaging under a boulder. “I wouldn’t take it too hard,” said Philip. “So was everything we did. Far more than you, probably, since we didn’t get any do-overs, and we made plenty of mistakes.”

To Philip’s surprise, Shin turned to him and with uncommon passion said, “No, that’s not true! We studied your missions back in the dome. You accomplished so much.”

Philip smiled wistfully. “If we did, then surely you did, too.”

Shin’s face was drawn, blank. He looked far too aged to be fifteen inside. “If you’re right ... it’s our only hope that our lives weren’t a complete waste.”

“We’re more than our accomplishments,” Philip said, putting his hand on Shin’s shoulder. Shin flinched. Was he so unused to human touch? “I remember feeling like that when I was your age, but sometimes the most important things happen in little moments, connections between people, times of joy and sadness and passion. The Director can only think about events and accomplishments, but we’re human. We can see that there’s value in so much more than that. There really is.”

Shin watched Trinity. “Is there, when from the perspective of history, those things never happened?”

“From the perspective of history, most things never happened,” Philip retorted. “Nearly everything that really means something happens behind closed doors away from prying eyes, or even just inside yourself. Whether anyone remembers it is irrelevant.”

Shin seemed to feel a little lighter, as if a terrible weight he’d been carrying for years had finally been lifted, and Philip felt like one of those meaningful moments had just transpired: that he was able to lighten this poor kid’s overwhelming burden. Maybe even enough to make him able to keep moving forward.

Trinity came running back just then, swinging around a giant snake. Philip shouted and ran to hide behind a tree. “Look what I found!” she crowed. “There’s a whole nest of them back there under that rock!”

Trinity was happy and breathless as they finally headed back up the trail to the parking area. “That was fun!” she declared, exhilarated. “Mountains are full of pretty things, trees and rocks and boulders, snakes, outhouses, flies, and nice views. You’re closer to the sky!”

Philip had mostly recovered after the ordeal with the snake, though he was thoroughly convinced she really was a kid after she chased him around with it for a while, cackling with delight. He was drowsing in the back seat. “We should pick up some food on the way home,” he said. “Maybe Mexican.”

“Sounds good,” she said. “Oh, here’s that song again!” she told Philip, turning it up. “Don’t worry, it’s not very popular right now, but soon it gets popular enough that you’ll hear it all you want.”

But Shin pulled off the highway on the way back to town and started up an overgrow dirt road. “Hey, no!” Trinity protested, irritated. “No, we’ll have to come back here again soon enough! I don’t want to be here right now. We’re having fun!”

“He wanted to see it,” was all Shin said.

Philip sat bolt upright. “The consciousness transfer device??” he asked breathlessly.

Shin pulled over half a mile down the road, next to a big metal door. Shin told Philip the code to enter into the cobweb-covered number pad. Philip entered it, and the big metal door banged as the lock released, opening a crack. Trinity pushed open the door all the way. “I’ve actually never been here,” she said with wonder. “Except inside you, Shin. It looks ... different through your eyes. Dimmer, uglier, more mundane. I wonder why?” She went down the tunnel.

Philip followed. There was more to this bunker than just the consciousness transfer device, apparently, as multiple tunnels led off multiple directions. Trinity led him to the right at the fork, then another right, and then there it was, large as life.

Philip stepped closer to it, in awe. It -- it was all real. This really was a consciousness transfer device, right here in the twenty-first century. From here, they could go back even farther -- to any time they had photographic evidence to place someone in an exact location at an exact time. And yes, they could go back over and over and try again -- as many times as they wanted. These kids -- they really were Iterating. He could no longer doubt at all. They’d really lived through the end of the world many times, somehow always making it here before whatever disaster destroyed Seattle got them too.

Trinity looked at the interface of the consciousness transfer device, then started just wandering around, already bored. Was she so jaded that even a wonder of this magnitude meant nothing to her? “All in a day to an Iterator?” he asked her. “I thought you said you’d never been here before except inside Shin’s consciousness.”

“Yeah, but they made us practice transferring a million times in the dome,” she said, and made a face. “I hate this device. I think pretty much all of us do.”

She went back up the tunnel as Philip looked over the device, goggling. He might not understand what every part of it did, but he certainly remembered all the parts from when his consciousness was sent back from the future. They were all here. It was real, functional. He looked at the interface, to see that it read that there was a consciousness already inside, waiting to be transferred! “I-One-Ten,” he read out loud. Ah, yes. Ayanokouji. No wonder Trinity didn’t protest that much when Philip wanted to come to this bunker, and no wonder she came here first, looking at the interface: she just wanted to see Ayanokouji and make sure he was okay, still safely ensconced in the device.

Philip’s wonder soon turned to disgust. This was it, where all the horror of trying to rewrite the past started: with the first consciousness ever sent back to the twenty-first century, T-002. Philip had always wondered what happened to T-001. Maybe they died before they ever got a chance to get sent back.

Philip heard a scream. There was a bright flash of light in the tunnel. He started, then headed purposefully toward the entrance as he heard Trinity continue to scream and he heard a ... struggle? Philip hurried to where they were ... wrestling some ways down the first tunnel. What on earth ...? “Take her, please! Take her to the device!” Shin grunted.

“NOOO!” Trinity screamed, over and over, fighting to get back to the entrance.

“Please take her!” Shin pled.

Philip took her to the device, surprised to find she was easy to maneuver, much weaker than she’d ever been, though she kept reaching toward the entrance. “NO, LET ME GO BACK, LET ME GO BACK, I CAN’T!” she was screaming, though quickly growing hoarse.

Philip heard the metal door at the entrance clang shut, and presently, Shin was there with them. He went straight to the device and started powering it up. “No,” Trinity cried raggedly. “They’re coming! They’re still coming!”

Shin pressed his neck and said the names and numbers of various members of the I-team, especially 0099, then got back to work.

“It fried their comms!” Trinity screamed. Philip had never seen anyone cry like this. Still holding her back from running to the entrance, he could feel her sobs tearing through her. They felt like they were literally ripping her body apart. “That’s the only reason they’re not responding! They’re coming, they’re still coming!”

“What fried your comms??” Philip said urgently.

“A nuclear device just went off over Seattle,” Shin said in his preternaturally calm way. “We saw it happen. Trinity and I received a lethal dose of radiation, but you’re probably okay. There’s food and water here underground, and surely Geiger counters. You can wait it out until the radiation settles, then take the car and drive east.” He tossed his keys to Philip.

Philip gasped. He touched his comm and called for the other members of his team. Nothing. “How -- how big was the blast --?”

“Massive. Total devastation.”

“NOOO!” Trinity screamed. Philip let her go. He himself could hardly function at the overwhelming news. His whole team? They .... they were gone? Boyd and her team, Hall and his team, Poppy, Ray, everyone he'd known in the twenty-first? It was all over, just like that? Except ... except for the Iterators. They could make it like it never happened. They could go back and erase it all. Despite his newfound horror and disgust with the Traveler Program that day, he couldn't help feeling a glimmer of hope as he realized what he was about to witness with his own eyes: Iteration.

As for Trinity, she could barely stand, much less make her way back up the tunnel; he no longer needed to hold her back. She fell to her knees, weeping raggedly. “No, that’s not what happened! They have to come, they have to, it can’t just be us, or -- or it was all for nothing!”

Shin tried to pull her to her feet, but they were both weak. Philip saw that they were already beginning to turn grey. Massive, indeed.

“Come on,” said Shin. “We have to go. There could be more bombs coming that could destroy the bunker. We have to go while we can. If -- if there are any survivors ... they’ll get in the device and follow after us. Philip will help them.”

“No, no ....” Trinity was as wrecked emotionally as if a bomb that massive had gone off inside her. “No, I can’t do it, Shin. Nine-nine! Nine-nine! No, I can’t do it without her! I never got to thank her for everything! Never got to tell her how much I love her ....”

“It’s okay. I told her for you. For all of us.”

“Nooo ....” She sank to the floor again. “Everyone in the cohort, they’re all dead! Not just Kujo and Mina and Chise anymore, Shin! They’re all dead!” She said it as if she was just now realizing it, but Philip had never heard those names before, never heard any indication they had ever been part of the I-team, as if they died so long ago no one bothered to mention them anymore. “Everyone we ever knew and loved, our whole family, they’re -- they’re gone, and they were always going to be! This day was always going to come, when almost all of us were dead, but I thought we would have ACCOMPLISHED something by now!” Her voice, wracked with sadness, rose to a furious scream once more. “HOW COULD IT ALL HAVE BEEN FOR NOTHING???”

“We don’t know what it was for until it’s all over,” Shin said patiently, trying once more to pull her to her feet. “Maybe it will all have been for something after all. Come on, Ayanokouji’s waiting. That’s what we promised him, right? Whatever happened at the end, that we would all go together. He’s going back for sure. The device is powering up, and he’s first in line. You don’t want him to Arrive back at the beginning all alone, do you? So let’s go too, and see ... just see. See what happens. Maybe it was all for nothing. But at least we’ll be together. And Natasha and Steve and Bucky will be there. And I can see my little brother and you can see your little sister when the next cohort Arrives, right? Maybe the future holds things we don’t know about. So let’s go find out.”

He tried his best to get her up and get her in the device, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Shin turned to Philip. “Will you double-check TELLs for me?” he said. “My eyes are still dazzled by the blast.”

Shin climbed in the device as Philip read off the TELLs on the interface. Shin nodded. “That’s correct. And ... would you do one last thing for me?”

Brave Shin. He could barely move anymore, but he just kept on going, doing what was right long past the moment he had to give up all hope. “Anything,” Philip said, his heart breaking to see what these two children had to go through now, and had to go through already far too many times, evident by the way Shin treated the end of the world like just another day at the office, dutifully going through the motions yet again.

“Would you make sure I’m positioned correctly in the consciousness transfer device? Soon I won’t be able to move to do it myself,” Shin said.

“Of course!”

Shin got out his gun and shot Trinity in the head with perfect accuracy despite the difficult angle and some distance between them. She slumped to the floor; Shin slumped in the device. “What the hell??” Philip gasped. Shin just -- he just murdered his best friend?? Only ... there was her consciousness now listed on the interface, too, along with Shin’s. It was all true, everything they’d ever told him. Shin was -- brutally but effectively, as was his way -- fulfilling his duty and sending himself and Trinity back to their Arrival point.

It was hard to function, overwhelmed by so many new, shocking developments, but Philip did his best. He moved Shin so that he was lying properly in the device, checked the TELLs one last time, and then stood back as it lit up and these kids skipped across space and time once more to try to save humanity from itself.

Chapter Text

Philip sat in his chair at his computer, looking around listlessly. It seemed like that was all he ever did these days. He could see the him of other timelines doing the exact same thing. Most of them were sitting in the self-same chair, just in slightly different positions. One was feeding Poppy, one was sitting on the couch staring blankly at the wall, one was lying on the couch, but none of them was doing anything interesting or important. What a life. He crossed four centuries to come back here to the twenty-first, just so he could sit alone in a garage with a turtle, trying to kick heroin. The emptiness was its own kind of agony. Surely there was some better use for him, some happier life for him, something. He needed much, much more, but he’d settle for anything better than this.

His computer chirped. He glanced at the other Philips around the room, but none of them reacted. Really? He was the only one in any timeline to receive this message right now? He looked at it with interest.

It arrived on one of the deep-web channels Travelers used to communicate -- the one via which he usually received missions. A mission would be dangerous, likely horrifying, incredibly stressful ... but at least it would be something to do.

A cursory glance at the message showed him this was not a mission. Well, not exactly. A suggestion, maybe? A set of coordinates, which he instantly looked up. They were located on a military base. Well, great. No easier place to mosey on into than a military base. He guessed he’d better read the message thoroughly from the beginning, despite the overwhelming wall of text:

I-3326, it read. Huh, for his eyes only? That had never happened before. It gave the coordinates, followed by ... what was he to make of this?

Access granted. Access point room 312. It provided the kind of incredibly long password only an Historian could easily remember. Download commenced it read, followed by a date and time. It indicated the download was still underway ... a ridiculously massive set of files, which nevertheless had twenty-first-century file extensions, indicating the files had been created in this century.

Aha! Leave it to the Director to bury the lede: on the second page, it told him how to access these files from the computer at which he now sat. They were still downloading, but surely some of them were already available. He accessed them ... then felt his own mouth drop open wide as he stared in shock at what he saw.

What ... how ... what on earth ... why were there videos of himself with time stamps in the near future? Multiple videos of him doing different things, all with the same time stamp?? Doing things with people he’d never met, but with whom he was obviously quite familiar -- in one case, rather intimately familiar, as they cuddled into bed together to sleep. He covered his mouth with one hand, disbelieving. Had the Director somehow accessed his fantasies and made some sort of video that answered them?? Had he seen Philip’s desperate need for friendship, companionship, something worthwhile to do? Had he seen the intolerable emptiness of his existence and taken it upon himself to fill it? But what -- how -- how could different things all be happening in the same moment? He now saw that there were up to eight videos documenting completely different events that all had the exact same time stamp.

Then he noticed the prefix to the time stamp, a notation system only used by the Director, which everyone ignored, knowing it was just computer stuff, version control or something: “I.4SEA.I-121.4 T-3326 | Philip Pearson.” It was always the same for every one of these videos ... except the number after “121” -- that one was different, changing between 1 and 8. Taking that one little number into account, the timestamp did in fact change with every video. He couldn’t guess what any of the numbers meant, except the SEA probably referred to a Seattle team. Other than his own name and Traveler number, the rest was gibberish to him, but even so, there was only one conclusion he could come to: that the Director was showing him video from different timelines. The future of different timelines. How ... could the Director know the future of different timelines, unless ....

He touched his comm. “Guys,” he said. “You definitely need to see this.”

By the time the rest of his team arrived, he’d seen enough of the videos to rather wish he’d had time to curate before they watched them. Some of them were quite personal. Still, these were things this Philip had never done, and the Director himself had provided the videos, implying Philip wasn’t in trouble for any of the more treasonous things he’d said now and then on video about the Director and the Grand Plan, so he told himself there was no reason to be embarrassed. “There are tens of thousands of hours of videos,” Philip told them, “from surveillance cameras in this room mainly, but also cell phones, traffic cams -- any recording device. And I couldn’t help but notice that in every timeline, the videos start a little over a week from now.”

Mac was baffled. “Are we supposed to watch all this? Is that the mission?”

“It doesn’t say ‘mission,’” noted Carly. “All it says is that Philip was granted access.”

“So you’re supposed to watch all this?” Marcy said.

“Guys, I may be a Historian, but there’s no way I could watch tens of thousands of hours of video in a week.”

“We could divvy up the videos, each watch some of them,” Carly suggested, perplexed.

“Even if all of us spent all day every day watching at double speed, we’d only cover a small fraction of them in a week,” Trevor said evenly.

“Maybe it’s just, like ... background information for another mission,” Marcy suggested thoughtfully.

“That makes sense,” Trevor agreed. “If Philip is right and these are other timelines, that implies the Director found a way to give us a chance to try again multiple times. Maybe he provided this video to make sure we don’t make the same mistakes again.”

“Without singling out the points where we went wrong??” Carly said. “That would be impossible!”

“Well,” Trevor said, “the only thing I do know is that I’d like to watch the videos I’m in.” Only Trevor wasn’t embarrassed to admit this more self-centered desire, though Philip was sure everyone felt the same.

“I can do that,” said Philip, quickly sorting the videos out according to the metadata that identified who appeared in the videos and sending them to different folders they could each access.

“If we still have a week, we’ve still got time to try to figure it out,” said Trevor. “If it really is background, hopefully we’ll figure out what we’re supposed to have watched by the day in our timeline when the first videos begin.”

“Okay. Do that, then,” Mac said, at a loss. “In the meantime ... looks like we’ve got some changes ahead. And a new team member?? Just ... prepare, I guess, as best you can. Otherwise, Protocol Five until then.”

There just didn’t appear to be any overarching point to the videos. It was a data dump, from the Director to Philip, no theme, no sorting; apparently every available video from every single timeline had suddenly been randomly made available to him.

He watched them, of course. He couldn’t look away. The thing he took most from them was how ... rich his life was in them, compared to the life he’d been living up to this point. It wasn’t until a day later that he discovered another set of videos in which another number was different in each timeline: the very first number in the sequence. That one went up to four, and the first three didn’t involve the “Iterators” he was coming to know from the fourth set of videos. In these, the Iterators never Arrived, and his life in the twenty-first proceeded as emptily as it had begun. A gruesome, life-sucking sort of emptiness, like a normal, meaningful life that had been reduced too many times, like a photo where all the detail was compressed out of it, leaving a mere suggestion of a life, or like a copy of a copy of a copy until most of the data was lost unto meaninglessness and all that was left was a smudgy, dirty mess. Those videos were painful to watch. But the ones after the Iterators Arrived were so lively, so full. There were hard times. There was a little arguing and trouble, but even then it was so much better than anything that happened in the videos before the Iterators ever came.

He’d been idly watching the videos on fast-forward with nothing else to do, when he came across video of his entire team -- and Hall’s -- and Boyd’s -- imprisoning the Iterator known as Trinity. Philip slowed the video down and watched closely, gasping and covering his mouth at the end, stabbing his comm as soon as it switched to another feed. “Guys!” he told his team frantically. “Guys, the Iterators! They’re kids! They’re just kids!”

“You’ve all watched the video Philip sent, so I don’t need to explain it to you again, but everything I said in that video from that other timeline is true,” Trevor said. “As a test case for the Traveler Program, I was present when the idea of Iterating was first concocted. I knew they’d concluded only children could survive it. I have in fact always suspected they’d carry it out someday.”

“So we can take from the existence of those videos that the future really did do that??” Carly said, dismayed.

“I don’t see what else we could take from it,” said Trevor.

“And that they mean to do it again,” said Philip. “I got that email from my future self that Trinity talks about in the videos. It’s far less comprehensive than the video collection, but that other Philip said he’s sure we’ll have those new team members before the week is out. We’ve already gotten the mission that precedes it, greeting Traveler 8782. Apparently it’s at that mission that we receive the mission to greet the I-team.”

No one knew what to say, standing around staring, thinking. Mac’s phone rang. He looked at it, muttering something about his wife -- then exclaimed in disgust. “Hall! He’s the last guy we need to deal with right now.”

“Answer it,” said Philip urgently.

Reluctantly, Mac did. After only a few seconds, he said, “I’m gonna put you on speaker,” and did.

“So like I was saying,” said Hall, “did the Director just give your team access to a bunch of crazy videos? Because I gotta tell you, I’m not loving what I’m seeing.”

Philip burst out laughing. He couldn’t hold it in. His teammates stared. He seldom laughed, especially at a time as inappropriate as this. But he’d seen enough in the videos to know that yeah, Hall wouldn’t be enjoying any of that one bit.

“Glad someone thinks it’s funny,” said Hall, characteristically irritable. “I started at the beginning, didn’t know what I was looking at, so I skipped to the end. I guess my new team member offed himself when we went after him? Both our teams, and Boyd’s. We didn’t trust him. Then I saw the part about your new team member telling me there was something incriminating on Luca and Kyle’s cell phones. As soon as I saw that in the videos, I made them give me their cell phones right then, and ... yeah. I found stuff I wish I’d never found. But I guess finding it now means I’m still alive and my own teammates haven't killed me yet. I was barely in the first set of videos, just the first few days. That new team member killed me in cold blood, shot me three times. It’s all on video.”

“He killed Kyle and Luca to save you in other Iterations,” Philip informed him. “Took a liking to you, it seems.”

“So what the hell is going on??” said Hall.

“We’d better get all our teams together,” Mac decided. “Boyd’s too, if her team also received a data dump. Maybe if we pool information, we can figure something out.”

Yet even after talking to Boyd and her teammates, all anyone really knew was that they were likely to get new team members, and that these team members had lived through the same period of time multiple times, trying to get it right. “We were all there every time,” Philip clarified, “but only they remember it.”

“Because only kids can tolerate Iterating like that,” Boyd said thoughtfully.

Philip and Trevor nodded.

“According to the videos, we receive the mission to greet our new team members day after tomorrow,” said Marcy.

“I’ve ... been watching the videos,” Philip said. One Iteration in particular, the longest, he couldn’t look away from. Marcy and Carly and Mac were more privy to what Trinity was going through that Iteration, too; the whole team was in on it that Iteration, so that was the one they, too, knew the most about, since they were in those videos and had watched them. “There’s some that I think everyone present should see before -- before we greet our new team members. Because they give an indication what kind of mental state they’ll be in when they Arrive. They survived it, but ... as Trevor has indicated, it took a tremendous toll. Seeing how they were toward the end of the final Iteration, I ... have my doubts they’ll be capable of helping out much for a while, so maybe, in addition to letting us know what’s been attempted in other Iterations, we got these videos so we could be prepared to ... help these kids.”

“Help them survive their ordeal,” Trevor added. “I’m sure, from the Director’s perspective, he was determined to wring every bit of use from each child he could or the sacrifice wouldn’t have been worth it. But the Director isn’t capable of reliably quantifying human cost, so ... that part’s up to us.”

“Great,” Boyd said, nodding. “Please send us any videos you think we ought to see before they Arrive. I have a couple I want you to see, too.”

“Should I send the one of the kid shooting me three times?” Hall asked acerbically.

“If you want,” Mac said impatiently. He had no sympathy for Hall. “We’ll all review the most important videos before their Arrival.”

“Have any other Seattle teams indicated they received videos like this, too?” Boyd asked. “I mean, it’s not like I know all of them, and I didn’t want to break Protocol Two by asking too obviously, but I did run it by a member of every team I know of, and they didn’t receive a bunch of videos like we did.”

“I asked, too,” said Mac. “Same thing.”

“So maybe just us,” said Hall. “Why?”

“I guess we’re about to find out,” said Carly.

They received the mission to greet their new team members even before they greeted T-8782. It arrived as a packet containing copious biographical information about their new team members, suggested videos to familiarize themselves with before their Arrival -- different from the ones the teams had shared with each other -- and detailed timelapse diagrams regarding the drone attack that killed their hosts, which would take place four full minutes after their Arrival.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Carly said as the whole team reviewed the diagrams. “The very first time they Arrived, they’d have been given less than a minute, and they would have had to Arrive fifteen to thirty seconds after that each time.”

“Not with a consciousness transfer device here in the twenty-first,” said Philip. “Now they can Arrive earlier and earlier each time.”

“They’d have to,” said Marcy. “That many sequential overwrites would kill the host.”

“Plus, they’d be killing previous versions of themselves, if they Arrived sequentially,” Trevor added. “Time paradox. Not a good idea.” He turned his attention back to the diagrams. “If our team spreads out on this hill over here, we can take out this whole quadrant of drones ourselves.”

“The packet says we’ll have the assistance of the soldiers in our new team members’ barrack,” said Philip.

“And Boyd and Hall’s teams,” Marcy added, “and presumably any other team receiving a new team member at the mass Arrival.”

“Let’s just each focus on the drones we’ve been assigned to shoot down,” Mac cautioned.

“No, the packet says to focus on the drones you’ve been assigned to, but also to attempt to secondarily take out the others on a second list once you’re done with your set,” said Philip, pointing out this section. Everyone read it, looked over their own list, then discussed logistics with Carly, who filled everyone in on the drone types, how difficult each would be to take out, and weak points of each model.

Philip sat back with a sigh, taking a break. His heroin addiction made him physically weak, despite his best efforts to make himself exercise sometimes. Trevor took a break just then, too. They looked at each other. “You and Trinity ...,” Trevor said. “Seems like a lot of water under the bridge between you two. Seems like she went pretty nuts there at the end. You nervous to meet up with her again?”

The last available surveillance videos were cellphone audio as she, Shin, and Philip all drove to the bunker that held the consciousness transfer device. Trinity objected, but Shin wanted to let Philip see it. The whole day’s conversation had been disturbing, not least because though before that, there had been audio from three phones, one phone seemed to have been lost along the way. Well, there was video from it, but it seemed to be lying on the ground pointing up, showing only the sky and a cliffside through a cracked lens as the sun set. The video ended with a mysterious flash.

“Yeah,” Philip admitted. “Yeah. I am. To be able to go back and rewrite anything you don’t like about your past, yourself, your actions ... that’s playing God. Most adults would let that kind of power corrupt them. There’s probably no limit to how far a kid might take it. It seems like she didn’t believe there could be consequence for any of her actions. The Iterators lived by a different set of rules, I noticed in the videos. No rules, I sometimes think. So yeah. I think we could have a new Hitler on our hands ... only one with access to a consciousness transfer device that she could use again and again, every time things didn’t go her way.”

“Yeah,” said Trevor, as if he’d been having similar thoughts. “I’m starting to think that’s why we were given access to these videos, so we can stop her, if necessary. It’s too bad. She was so sweet at first. So innocent.”

“So’s everybody,” said Philip, unimpressed. “Then look what we become.”

Video from all the previous Iterations showed an identical situation outside the barrack where the Iterators Arrived en masse: numerous Traveler teams ringing the military base. Only Mac and Carly were present from their own team. The soldiers exited the barrack with their commanding officer, and then the Arrivals began. This was the first time Philip's entire team was present ... but as Philip looked around the field where once upon a time there were as many as fifty teams ... today there were only his own team, Hall’s, and Boyd’s. They all looked at each other. “Something not adding up for you guys, either?” Hall muttered, ever suspicious.

The soldiers emerged from the barrack just as they always did. Just like all the other times, there was the general already on the field -- also a Traveler. The soldiers’ commanding officer came with them. But in every other Iteration, the corporal demanded to know what the watching Traveler teams were there for; this time, she simply came outside and took out a pair of tactical binoculars, training them on the sky, then handed them to the nearest soldier. “Let me know when you see something,” she said. The general invited the watching Traveler teams onto the field with the military personnel, and no one seemed surprised, as if they’d been informed of their participation ahead of time.

“Intel says we’ll have incoming in four minutes, sixteen seconds,” said the general. Philip’s team, Hall’s team, Boyd’s team, all took out their weapons and also trained them on the sky -- startled when the screaming began -- just three of the soldiers: Trinity, Ayanokouji, and Shin.

Their fellow soldiers seemed concerned. When they stopped screaming, the other soldiers and the corporal asked them if they were okay and suggested they go to the infirmary. Trinity took one look at the corporal saying this to her -- the host of the Traveler they referred to in the data dump as 0099 -- and all the other soldiers looking at her with concern, and burst into tears. “NOOOO!!!” she screamed. She fell to her knees. “NOO! I can’t do it anymore! I just can’t ....”

“It’s okay,” Shin was saying, trying to pull her to her feet. “It’s okay. I’m here. Ayanokouji’s here. And look -- Philip’s ... here,” though Shin stared at Philip as if seeing Philip at their first battle of an Iteration was one of the oddest sights he’d laid eyes on in his entire life. Shin’s eyes went to his own team, to Ayanokouji’s ... to their placement on the field. “What -- everything’s different. Why -- why would it be different this time?”

Ayanokouji looked around, too. “Just three teams? Was that ... it, then? Protocol Omega?”

“Probably,” said Shin.

“What happened?” asked Ayanokouji.

Shin eyed all the observers. “Tell you later.”

Ayanokouji nodded.

Trinity was inconsolable, and completely useless. The minutes ticked down, and her wailing only grew louder. It was disturbing. “Focus,” the corporal told her soldiers when the general wouldn’t allow her to order Trinity to the infirmary. “Somebody needs to take out her targets.”

“I will,” said Shin calmly, meanwhile looking anxiously around the field and the sky. He finally went up to Boyd and Mac. “There will be several drones coming from this sector --” he began, pointing at the sky, when Hall interrupted him.

“We know, kid. The Director gave us our assignments. Between us, we’ll take ’em all out.”

Shin stared at him as if he was speaking a different language. “They’re ... difficult to see because of the low cloud cover,” Shin went on. “They emerge from the clouds, but the sun is in another part of the sky not shielded by clouds, so the bright sun also makes aim difficult.”

“Good to know, we’re on it,” Hall said unconcernedly.

Shin seemed completely out of his depth. If Philip had been struck by one thing in all the videos that included Shin, it was that he seemed always competent and capable, always on top of things, completely focused no matter how chaotic the situation. This was the first time he’d ever seemed badly thrown off -- badly enough, perhaps, not to be much help in this battle that he usually won half by himself in every other Iteration. Shin simply wandered back to Ayanokouji, muttering that he hoped, down so many team members, that the Director had given instruction sufficient to make it possible for their new helpers to win the battle.

“No!” Trinity suddenly screamed, struggling to her feet. “No, Philip, you come over here!” she said, pushing him off the battlefield, and then far beyond, back toward the parking area.

“I have a mission!” he spluttered.

“No! You have to stay far away from the danger, because it’s permanent this time!”

Philip had never seen anyone look like she did, face all pink, eyes rimmed red and constantly leaking tears, and as if they always would be. Wrecked, but single-minded. She had but one goal, one mission she’d chosen, and she would stop at nothing to carry it out: Philip. “But my team --”

“I’ll take care of them! Shin and Ayanokouji and I will! You stay back over here.”

Only when he remained where she’d put him did she return to the battlefield. He looked at Mac, who shrugged wryly -- the rest of his team was privy to much of the relationship between Philip and Trinity from the videos they’d seen; none of this behavior of hers surprised them. She would freak out if he so much as took a step back toward the battlefield, so he stayed where he was, and finally took aim -- he could probably still shoot down his targets from here.

The drones came out of the sky right on schedule. Philip aimed for his own, distracted as Shin, with his inhuman skill in battle, took out half of them before Philip got a chance. Even from here, he could hear others exclaiming he’d done the same to their targets. Consequently, between them all, presently there was drone wreckage everywhere, and only three people with minor injuries. Philip returned to the battlefield, where Trinity took his hand, looking around at everyone else anxiously.

The general thanked the soldiers for their good work and ordered them back to their barrack, except the three Iterators. “Good to have you here,” the general said to the Iterators with a nod, as if even he had received some videos of other Iterations. “Thank you for your service.” They only stared at him, utterly bewildered, as if no one had ever said those words to them in their entire lives and they had no idea how to respond.

The three of them looked at each other for a few long seconds, seeming to communicate a remarkable amount of information though none of them said a thing. Then, all three of them broke down crying, holding each other’s hands.

Hall rolled his eyes and looked away. Mac stared daggers at him. “Well, whatever,” said Hall. “That kid isn’t welcome in my base of operations. Ever.”

“He saved your life,” Mac said with disgust. "Several times!"

“And killed me. And every member of my team, at one time or another. I don’t care if he’s supposedly one of the good guys now; he’s not coming back with us, period.”

“Fine,” said Mac.

“Well, they know where your bases are,” said Marcy, “and it looks like they need some time together just the three of them to process what they’ve been through, so ....”

Looking around, though, it was clear no one wanted Ayanokouji staying with them. Boyd said something about Shin being welcome at her base, Mac made clear Shin was welcome at Ops, and muttered something about ‘probably Trinity too,’ but even Trinity had come to seem like another monster in her final videos, to which apparently even Boyd and Hall were privy.

“They can stay with me,” said a female voice. Three people came over a hill, weapons in hand -- apparently they had been asked to help in this battle by the Director, too, though Philip had only glimpsed them in a couple of the videos the Director sent.

Shin’s face lit up. “Natasha?” He looked at the two men with her. “You’re -- you guys are here??”

“Yep,” said the blond man. “Apparently we’re back on,” he said with a grin.

“We were so glad to get another mission after all this time,” said Natasha, also smiling.

Shin took a step toward her, then another, and then ran to her and threw his arms around her. The men with her looked surprised about some part of this -- maybe that she allowed it? -- but she just hugged him back. “The Director sent us videos, of your Iterations, including a time when I guess Steve was lost? And how you got him back for us,” she said. She hugged him tight. “And he sent us videos of our Iterations, too, way more than just the ones we were able to save on Vision. So you can see your brother -- hundreds of hours of Shourei, and all the rest of our cohort.”

Philip had never seen Shin cry in all the hours of video he’d watched, but now he wept out loud. He couldn’t seem to speak; he only nodded.

“Come on!” said Natasha, and led him away with her by the hand, Ayanokouji following. Trinity clearly wanted to go with them, but she’d returned to Philip’s side when Shin let go of her to run to Natasha, and she was once more gripping his hand tightly. In the end, she couldn’t seem to let him go.

“I’ll find you guys later,” said Trinity.

Ayanokouji held up his cell phone. Trinity touched her neck where Iterators had their second comms, but there was no comm there now, and perhaps there would never be again. She took her cell phone out of her pocket, too, and nodded at Ayanokouji. The other Iterators left. Hall took his leave with his team. Philip’s team had always gotten along well with Boyd and her team; they were chatting on the battlefield, mostly debriefing after the battle, and about all they’d learned from the videos they’d been watching. Trevor turned to Trinity. “Seems like this must be your final Iteration?”

She nodded, trying to hold her head up bravely, but she seemed incredibly fragile. “We assume so.”

“Congratulations on making it all the way to the end,” he said, shaking her hand. “What’re you guys gonna do now?”

“I -- have no idea. Natasha and them were in the first cohort. It was Protocol Omega for them ... but she just said they received another mission, so ... maybe we get to participate in missions again now, too. But not you, though!” she said urgently to Philip, then turned to Trevor. “Not any of you! Not until the new cohort Arrives. They could fix it if something happened to you, but until then, you have to be careful! Just stay home watching tv for a few months, okay?”

Trevor looked incredibly charmed. Philip hadn’t known whether to trust this new Trinity, but she seemed cured of whatever madness possessed her throughout the previous Iteration. She was like the old, sweet Trinity right now, only older and undeniably sadder. More mature. She’d grown up a lot.

“Shin took me to the consciousness transfer device,” Philip began.

She turned to him, so shocked, she let him go. “How do you know that?? I figured you’d received your future self’s email, since the world ended on a Tuesday, but that couldn’t possibly have been in the email! Unless ... did you stay in the bunker and go back to see Vision after the radiation had settled?”

“Nuclear annihilation,” Trevor said sadly.

That flash. Now Philip knew what it was. “You guys survived a nuclear attack??” he demanded incredulously.

“And you did, too! You, me, and Shin! And Ayanokouji was already in the consciousness transfer device from when he had to self-terminate earlier in the Iteration. We were all in the bunker that houses the consciousness transfer device, so we were protected. So there’s a possibility that you sent yourself back, too! You might meet another version of yourself in another host sometime here,” she said, seeming happy at the idea, as if the only thing better than one Philip was two.

“I really hope not,” Philip said weakly.

“Well, you said you wouldn’t Iterate with us,” she said, sounding kind of bummed.

“Yeah, I know. I heard it. The Director sent apparently all available video of all of your Iterations. Tens of thousands of hours. So we haven’t had time to watch it all yet, but we’ve watched a lot, so we know you. All you’ve been through. All we’ve all been through together.”

He watched her expressions change, until her lips twisted and she started to cry again. She stood there on the battlefield, weeping out loud. At last, she covered her face with her hands. “It’s over,” she gasped through her sobs. “It’s finally over.”

Trinity spent the first night at Natasha’s house. The rest of Philip’s team had come back to Ops with Boyd’s team to debrief on the Arrival, but they gradually left one by one, and now, Philip was the only one there. The Iterators had Arrived again ... but this time, there were only three of them, they were wrecked, and they seemed quite convinced this was their final Iteration and that there would be no more missions for them, so maybe all the fullness and joy they’d brought to Philip’s life in past Iterations would not be his this time. It was just him and Poppy alone in a garage again.

He fed her a piece of lettuce as he kept his eyes on other timelines around the room, watching all the exciting goings-on of other Philips as they enjoyed getting to know their brand-new team member. The Philip of this timeline already knew her, inside and out, good and bad, and it seemed their relationship had probably already run its course. At the end of the previous Iteration, the Philip of that timeline feared and distrusted Trinity. Even her own friends seemed to. She had transformed from an innocent little girl into an uncontrollable monster. Philip was glad other hims had gotten to have the richness and joy of a friendship with her ... but of course it was just his luck that in the end, the final Iteration would be as empty as his life had always been.

The door to Ops opened. Trinity entered. “Oh, good,” she said, “I just wanted to make sure you were safe in here and not out doing anything dangerous.”

“You can’t just cage me up and make me do your bidding,” he responded, more to her bossy tone than to what he knew her to be right before she Arrived in this timeline, but that figured in. Everything about what he’d seen of the entire history of their relationship across Iterations, which spanned six whole years in real time, figured into his response now. Her expression was as it had been in her previous Iteration: diffident, bullishly optimistic, controlling ... but all that faded away as he looked at her. Somehow, it seemed that seeing the knowledge of their entire history in his eyes brought their entire history to mind for her as well, and though this Philip had not himself lived all those lifetimes, suddenly he could feel them between them, as palpably as if he had. The denial, the bluster, the forced optimism ... it all fell away from her, and she was just ... Trinity.

He looked at her reproachfully. “You claimed to love me more than anything,” he said. “And all you’ve done since you Arrived is try to make sure I stay alive. But in past Iterations, you treated me very badly.”

To his surprise, rather than any of the defensiveness or blame she resorted to when confronted in previous Iterations, she just sighed. “I know. I’m sorry.” She looked up at him, her eyes wet already. “I was so terrible to you!” she burst out, abruptly weeping. “I was so awful to you! I’m so sorry, Philip! I hurt you, and that was the one thing I never wanted to do!”

“Your entire focus seemed to be on lying to me and tricking me into dating you,” he said harshly.

She just nodded. “It was. And I see the Director made sure I never can again.”

“You sound so resentful.” Philip was resentful.

She sniffed. “I guess I ... felt what was coming. We all knew our time Iterating was coming to an end. I didn’t think I would make it through to the final Iteration.” Tears sprang to her eyes again. “I just ... wanted my life to mean something before the end. I wanted to get to have something, the one -- the one thing I most wanted in this world. You.” She looked at him. There was no more denial or bluster on her face, just raw realism, as if Iterating had seared out her ability to lie to herself at all, even sufficient to drum up one more wild hope.

His heart twisted with pity ... but the anger was still there. “But you DID have me, Trinity! We were best friends, for Iterations that -- that one really long Iteration, I -- I wasn’t even there, but just watching it is one of the most meaningful experiences I've had in my entire life! I’ve never known or loved anyone that intimately, or been known or loved by them! Why does it need to be romantic? And what good would it be to be close to someone if you couldn’t even tell them who you really are?”

Trinity’s eyes flicked vacantly to another part of the room, her face hopeless, but full of feeling -- every feeling. “I don’t know, I guess. But I kept trying. The I-team kept trying, over and over and over, and failing, over and over and over. I felt like I had to succeed at just one single thing before I died. I wanted it to be the one thing that actually mattered. You.”

Tears sprang to his eyes now, too, in spite of himself. To want to completely forgive her so quickly after all she did, to feel such empathy after all the horrors she engaged in, he must really be too soft for the Traveler program ... but he loved her. It didn’t even seem to come just from having watched the videos. It was being here with her, both of them being completely honest, as if some part of other timelines really did make their way into one’s soul across every Iteration, as if they really were somehow remembered. He hoped so, for her sake ... and for the sake of all those who were lost along the way and didn’t make it to the final Iteration.

She broke down in tears again. “You’re right! It didn’t mean anything! It was worse than that; it was active harm! I hurt you -- the one person I never wanted to hurt! I thought as long as you didn’t remember it once I Reiterated it would be like it never happened, but ... now you know everything I ever did. You must despise me. You -- must be about to kick me out of Ops for good the way Hall did to Ayanokouji, because you know who we really are, every sin we ever committed, and there are lots. I really believed we would get away with it all, that every bad thing about me and every foolish thing I ever did would be forgotten by time ... but the Director would never be so nice,” she said bitterly.

“No one gets a do-over,” said Philip more gently. “Everyone has to live with the consequences of everything they’ve ever done. Even you.”

“It’s not fair with Ayanokouji, though!” she burst out unexpectedly. “He was so good to Hall! They worked so well together, and liked each other so much! Hall was the only person Ayanokouji ever went out on a limb for! Except me and Shin and Nine-Nine. And look how it turned out, that he did that for Hall. It’s not right.”

“Well, there’s always the future. He did kill a LOT of people, though.”

“He was following orders! It’s not like he wanted to kill anyone anymore, by the end!”

“I’ll talk to Hall. Maybe someday he’ll come around.”

“All I can do is apologize!” she said, agonized. “But it’ll never be enough, will it?”

“You can apologize. You can also be a better person. If you really become a better person, people will treat you according to the person you’ve become, not the person you once were.”

“Even you??” she said hopefully.

He gazed at her. She was now fifteen years old, but they had lived lifetimes together. She had at one time or another been his friend, his child, his coworker, his roommate, his girlfriend, his sister-in-arms. Sometimes, in some Iterations, it had flipped and it was like he was the child. Just about everything he’d ever done, everything he’d ever given, and everything he’d ever received, that seemed to have any meaning at all, had happened between himself and this girl. “The only person I ever liked was Trinity, I-121,” he said firmly. “All the people you were trying to be or pretending to be or trying to convince me you were, I didn’t care about at all. But Trinity, the real girl you are -- she’s my best friend and, I suspect, despite every way in which you've betrayed me, always will be. Will you be her again for me?”

She burst into tears. “Of course! Of course! I’ll do anything for you! But -- but the truth is that -- that’s the only person I can be,” she said, as if the fact was shameful.

“What’s wrong with that?” he asked, charmed in spite of himself.

“Because I’m so dumb and foolish, and I’ve been so mean, and I’m so sad and broken, and I failed to save the world --” She was dissolving in tears. “I’ll never be able to be everything you deserve,” she managed to choke out. “Because in the end, I’m just a regular girl who couldn’t contribute anything important at all.”

He couldn’t stop himself anymore. He went to comfort her. She clutched him tight, her tears wetting the front of his shirt. “Welcome to the human condition,” he murmured, and kissed the top of her head.

Chapter Text

Reluctantly, they made their way to the Encoding room two days after they Arrived the final time. “So what’d I miss?” Ayanokouji asked.

“Um ... Trinity freaked out when you self-terminated. She was so out of control that her team imprisoned her in their base until Trevor figured out once more that we were Iterating. Otherwise, it was a pretty normal Iteration until the end. We happened to be in the mountains that day, to see why people go there, and Philip came with us at the last second. He wanted to see the consciousness transfer device, so over Trinity’s objections, I took him there to see it, so we were already there when a nuclear bomb went off over Seattle.”

“Ah, finally a nuke, huh?” said Ayanokouji thoughtfully. Shin and Trinity nodded. “And none of the rest of the cohort made it?”

“We received a lethal dose of radiation even at that distance,” said Shin. “I estimate we’d have been unconscious within half an hour, dead in two or three hours. So unless someone was underground ....”

“They didn’t survive it,” Trinity said emptily. “Unless like you said might happen, the bunker was also destroyed. Because even if it took them days or weeks to be able to go outside again, if they’d made it to the consciousness transfer device, they’d have been there on the battlefield with us.” Tears leaked from her eyes, as they did every time she thought about their lost cohort and 0099.

“If it was massive enough to kill you at that distance, it’s highly likely everyone on our teams and the I-team was killed instantly, or almost instantly,” said Ayanokouji. The other two nodded sadly. “That’s good,” Ayanokouji said, offering the only thing he could to hopefully lift their mood a little. “It’s good that they didn’t suffer. Did you two suffer a lot?”

Shin shook his head. “As soon as we witnessed the blast, I knew we had to Iterate as soon as possible, so I got us to the device and powered it up immediately.”

“It’s good that Philip was there to help us,” said Trinity.

“Yeah,” Shin agreed. “I’m not sure we’d have made it if he hadn’t been. It’d have been just you out there on the battlefield, alone, for the final Iteration, Ayanokouji.”

Shin gazed at Ayanokouji as though he didn’t expect this news to move him, but it did. To be here alone in the final Iteration? He didn’t have a Philip. He didn’t have a Natasha. His own team Leader had permanently ousted him from his base of operations. Ayanokouji would have been stuck in a meaningless existence with nothing but enemies on every side, who knew what he was and what he’d done, not a soul to vouch for him. “I’m really glad he was there, too,” said Ayanokouji.

They arrived at the Encoding room. None of them wanted to go in, kicking around at the door, but finally Ayanokouji decided he’d rather get it over with, and went inside. Trinity touched the chair where 0099 always sat, then she went down the line of chairs, saying the name of the Iterator who’d sat there as she went. They only couldn’t remember which chair Mina and Chise had sat in. Everyone else sitting there in their usual seat around the big conference table was as vivid in their memories as if they were there with them now.

0099 had always been there to run the meeting and keep order, but after the first few times, there was no particular need for her presence. They could have done it themselves. They just didn’t want to. It was nice to have an adult there to help, to care, to keep watch. To love them. Gone now.

Trinity sat in the Encoder, and Shin and Ayanokouji sat next to her to help her calibrate, which took a long time. The frequencies would be just about to align, when she’d jolt herself out of it, sitting up, and she’d have to start all over again. “It’s just that I’m afraid of what he’ll say,” she admitted after the fifth time.

“We’re all afraid of it,” said Ayanokouji. “But it’s better to know than to sit around being afraid of it, isn’t it?”

She nodded. She laid back, took several deep breaths, and concentrated. This time, she was able to do it. Shin and Ayanokouji sat perfectly still so as not to distract her, and waited, breathless. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes and ran down her temples. Ayanokouji looked away. So the news was bad. Trinity couldn’t even say it out loud in the end ... yet what appeared on the screen was unexpected: PROTOCOL FIVE UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Shin looked at least as bewildered. “Is that it?” he asked incredulously. “It’s not Protocol Omega?”

“No,” said Trinity. “That’s it.”

“No missions? Should we Encode our experiences?”

“No,” said Trinity. “We’re done.”

“‘Protocol Five’?” Shin pressed. “Are we supposed to track down our hosts’ families or something ...?”

“No,” said Trinity. “He means just to live however we want. As long as we don’t do anything crazy that we know would throw history off track, we can do whatever we feel like.”

“No assassinations?” Ayanokouji asked, scarcely able to believe it.

“No. It kind of seems like they might send us a Messenger if we had a mission or if we were about to do something we shouldn’t. Otherwise, we’re supposed to just ... live. Whatever missions our team did that the Director liked and decides to make permanent, he'll assign to other teams.”

“Okay. Decalibrate, then,” Shin said, still profoundly thrown off. They helped her decalibrate and shut down the Encoder, sitting there staring at each other once it was powered down. “Well, this ... isn’t so bad,” Shin declared at last, after he’d had time to contemplate it.

“Then why were you crying?” Ayanokouji asked Trinity, not buying it.

“Because I could feel -- I could see -- all the evidence of all we’d done and how it affected how the future means to proceed. I could feel that we’re really done, and that we ... did what we were supposed to.” She looked at them. “I know maybe that doesn’t help that much, since we don’t know the results of everything we did. But I could see that the future was satisfied with it. We did everything we were supposed to, and now we can ... pass the torch, and I just felt so ... relieved, but also sad.” Tears filled her eyes again.

She went on, “It’s over, and that’s good! But it’s also sad. And I’m glad we achieved our goals, but I wish we could know what effect they had. And I’m happy to be done but I also miss being important, you know? I feel so many contradictory things about every part of it. And I miss our team.” She cried every time she thought of that. She was far too soft to Iterate. Shin had said she became a monster by the end of the previous Iteration. Maybe it was the real softies who turned into the worst of monsters when it all got to be too much.

“I don’t think any human can ever know the results of all they’ve done,” said Ayanokouji. “So we’re no worse off than anyone.”

“We get to live however we want in the twenty-first? Yeah, I think we did all right,” Shin agreed, starting to brighten, but he sobered quickly. “Except for -- for everything that -- happened.”

“We lived eight lifetimes before we were sixteen,” said Ayanokouji. “We’ll probably be processing that for years. Decades, even.”

Shin nodded. “Okay. Well, I’m glad I got to be ... important once upon a time, like Trinity said, even if that time is over. It is weird to retire at fifteen, though, like Steve said.”

“Everyone has their time,” said Ayanokouji. “And for everyone, a day comes when that time is over. Maybe we can contribute again. But in the meantime, we can live. And we’re together. That’s more than enough for me.”

“Me, too,” Shin decided.

“Me, too,” Trinity breathed, and took their hands. “We made it to the final Iteration! It was us -- all three of us! I always desperately wanted that, but I never thought I’d get to have it. As long as I have you guys ... I think I can do this.”

“Then let’s go,” said Shin with a grin. “What we trained our whole lives to accomplish is done. Our lives -- our lives -- begin today.”

“So why did the Director send all that video?” Shin finally had to ask.

“Maybe he finally took pity on us Iterators and allowed it,” Natasha suggested.

“It’s more likely the Programmers did, or the trainers,” said Bucky.

“The greatest likelihood of all is that they decided the Iterator Program would be more effective if they did,” Ayanokouji said dispassionately. “I’ve never known the Programmers or the Director to display compassion, and we all know the Trainers did only seldom. But they would do it for the sake of the program.”

Months passed. Hall still refused to have anything to do with Ayanokouji, but Shin's and Trinity's relationships with their teams blossomed once again -- better than ever, in fact. Knowing the whole history of everything they'd done together, every meaningful moment they'd shared, everything the Iterators had sacrificed, and the truth of how much the Iterators really cared about their team members, erased all the distrust that had plagued them in every prior Iteration, and they were assimilated into their teams more thoroughly than they ever had been -- something they'd always craved and never got to have.

Mac took Ayanokouji aside one day a couple of months after their final Arrival. "I saw the video of how things ended for you in your last Iteration," he said sternly. "I know you're only fifteen, but I hope you understand that law enforcement agencies in the twenty-first are not so incompetent that you wouldn't be discovered again if you were killing, especially so prolifically."

Ayanokouji stared at him. Stared through him. Mac could have no idea how Ayanokouji felt about all that, he knew. Still, it stung. He'd always respected Mac. Ayanokouji had killed multiple people to protect him.

"I've killed more people than I can count," Ayanokouji began, and Mac frowned. That distrust of him, that suppressed shudder when he spoke ... that would probably be how people always reacted to Ayanokouji. Shin and Trinity could win back their trust, but never him. He told himself that was all right, because they needed it and he didn't. But there was an ache in his belly as he went on. "I killed them for the Director. And for you. For Trinity, for Shin, for every Traveler team in the twenty-first. I did it for the reason we all do everything we do: to save humanity." Mac's expression eased a little, as if he'd decided to reserve judgment until he'd heard him out. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

"More people than I'd like," Mac said, characteristically sincere. "At the Director's orders."

"Me too. More than I'd like. At the Director's orders. I've killed so many ...." He stopped. He'd only felt this once before: that day he cried for the first time ever, in Vision's room, with Shin and Trinity. He touched his face. Sure enough, there were drops of water on it again. He looked at his wet fingers in wonder. Mac's expression changed, to one of ... was that pity?? Ayanokouji never thought he'd see anyone feel that for him, as long as he lived. He didn't deserve it. Did he? "I ... didn't mind killing at first. I thought it would be interesting. And it was. Then after a while, it ceased to be interesting. Then it became ... it got to the point where --" His voice was starting to crack. He couldn't even control his own voice?? "I got to the point where I ... I really hope I'm never ordered to kill again."

Mac gave a tentative smile. Wow, what a guy. Ayanokouji couldn't decide if he was excessively kind, or excessively stupid. If their positions were reversed, Ayanokouji would never trust him. But other people were different from Ayanokouji.

Mac put his hand on Ayanokouji's shoulder. Ayanokouji jolted. Whoa. Such a touch really was a powerful gesture. He looked vulnerably up into Mac's face, and began to understand for the first time why Hall became putty in his hands once upon a time. "Me too," Mac said with feeling, and shook his shoulder, a little fatherly, a little threatening. "But you don't get anymore do-overs. If you get caught this time, it'll be the end for you."

Ayanokouji nodded hesitantly. "I won't get caught," he promised, since that seemed to be what Mac was asking him for, but then Mac frowned, and an overpowering wish that it was 0099 Ayanokouji was saying this to blossomed painfully in his chest. She wouldn't have frowned. She'd have smiled with pride, and hugged him tight.

He got the feeling any time there was a suspicious murder, Mac and Boyd checked into whether it could have been Ayanokouji's doing, and as the months passed and he seemed to be holding himself back from all the murders they seemed convinced he was desperate to commit, and also surely seeing how profoundly Shin and Trinity trusted and loved him, even Ayanokouji was now welcome around Shin and Trinity's bases.

It really was a golden time. Missions were rare, and the Iterators' participation in them was optional. The same summer they'd already lived through seven other times passed again in all its beautiful glory. Their teams seemed surprised and rather delighted when Iterators mentioned in passing something that was about to happen that always proved out, like it was a unique form of entertainment to have a few fortune tellers around.

It wasn't the kind of thing an Historian would know, like deaths or important events. It was little, random stuff. They were all walking down the street together on June thirteenth to go to a festival downtown they'd enjoyed so much the first time they went that they went every subsequent Iteration. Trinity had invited her entire team along. Ayanokouji stopped Shin and Trinity just in time as he remembered what always happened right here at this moment, and saw them remember, too.

As one, they looked across the street, where some middle-school bully just then terrorizing a couple of nerdy girls his age suddenly ran himself face-first into a pole. Very few things struck Shin funny, but from the first time he saw it, it left him in stitches. He seemed to find it funnier every time it happened. This time, he was literally bent over with laughter, tears of mirth streaming down his face. "The way he's just saying how stupid they are, and the pole cuts him off--" He held his stomach. "It couldn't have been more perfect if he'd choreographed it!"

Ayanokouji and Trinity found seeing the event mildly entertaining. It was really watching how funny Shin found it that was so enjoyable to them. Philip seemed to enjoy seeing the bully get his, but it seemed to be less seeing what happened to the bully that entertained Trinity's team than noting how all three of them knew this particular thing was about to happen and stopped to be sure to catch it once more, how Trinity and Ayanokouji knew how Shin would react, all of it.

"It's like Shin's watching his favorite YouTube video over and over, except in real life," Carly noted. All the adults marveled over the Iterators' precient abilities, all the things they knew about these months in this city. They knew every store, every street. People, events, little weird details. Sales, weather, funny things to witness or overhear.

"We could just follow them around all day every day and be constantly entertained," Marcy agreed.

Carly had a funny look, eyeing them. Philip, too. Marcy observed mildly, "I guess it's seeing the same things happen again and again that's normal to them, even if for everyone else who's ever lived, it's the opposite."

"Not everyone," said Ayanokouji. "Not our predecessors. And not those who come after us."

"Which ... when is that supposed to happen?" Carly asked shrewdly, that same distrust of the Iterators she had displayed every time they Arrived on the battlefield again after Reiterating. To this day, she remained more distrustful of the Iterators than any other member of Trinity's team, but security was her job, so it only made sense.

"There was never any way for us to know," said Shin. "The idea was that history would have hopefully been changed so much by our actions in the twenty-first that the number and manner of any deaths in the city would change. That's how it was for us. It was the actions of the previous cohort that led to the war that led to the battle where all our hosts historically died. So whatever changes we made that the Director decided to keep will determine when the next cohort Arrives. It could happen any time. We Arrived five months after the previous cohort."

"Five months is about right," said Ayanokouji. It seemed no one else had thought of this, but he'd always assumed it would be this way, since it was logical for it to be so: "Some of our Iterations lasted only a couple of months; at least one lasted over a year. But realistically, most of what the Director wanted us to accomplish in any given Iteration was probably played out within about five months."

"So probably not too long from now, huh," Trevor mused.

"Does that mean we're going to be getting yet another team member?" Carly demanded.

"Maybe," Ayanokouji answered honestly. "The first cohort acted on their own. We were assigned teams. The Director will choose whichever approach he thinks has the greatest chance of success."

"If they do get assigned to teams, I hope my little brother is assigned to mine," Shin said eagerly.

"Me too, with my little sister!" said Trinity. Ayanokouji saw a light of excitement in their eyes he hadn't seen in a long time: something to look forward to. The only thing they'd consistently known lay ahead since they first Arrived in the twenty-first was the end of the world. But now, if every cohort after them did their jobs ... maybe the end of the world would never come. As far as the three of them would know, maybe after all they would get to live happily ever after.

Ayanokouji felt the rest of Trinity's team eyeing him surreptitiously. Afraid of another Ayanokouji loose in the world. "They ended my line," he told them. "I'm the last of my genetic code." As he saw them start to relax, he cautioned, "But the next cohort will certainly have an Assassin," and they tensed up again -- broken by Shin crying out sincerely, "Oh, no! I'll never get to see that kid run into that pole ever again!" and everyone burst out laughing at how upset he was at the idea.

"Don't worry," Ayanokouji said quickly, "we can ask Manabe to --" He stopped, but it was too late; he saw the devastation come over Shin and Trinity again at the reminder of the permanent loss of their entire Iterator team. That was a thing they would never get to experience again that was much more painful. Never to hear their voices, never to hear the chatter over the comm, never to sit down again across the table from them at a weekly meeting. Even Ayanokouji had all kinds of uncomfortable feelings rising up in him. "We -- we can get the traffic-cam footage for you."

None of them had ever just lazed around all day. Even several Iterations in, when they knew their business pretty well, there were always missions, or even just the need to maintain an appearance of being available and invested for the sake of their regular Traveler teams. Even when they spent all day every day at the amusement park or the water park, they were busy; they worked hard and played hard. This was the very first time in their entire lives that they'd ever gotten to do nothing at all.

In Natasha's back yard on the grass in the shade of a tree, they all three lay together, staring up at the bright blue sky, not a cloud in sight on this drowsy August afternoon. Birds chirped. Somewhere someone mowed their grass. Flowers nodded gracefully in the light breeze. Trinity had fussed a great deal to get the ideal ratio of her body in shade and in sunlight so that she was the perfect temperature.

Glasses of lemonade sat nearby for them when they got thirsty, but everything was so perfect in this moment, and he felt so good, Ayanokouji couldn't imagine ever wanting for anything ever again. He reached out and took Trinity's hand where he sensed it near his head, then Shin's. They both squeezed his back.

This was it: the perfect, happy world he'd fought for all his life. To whatever extent such a thing was possible on this earth, he had it right now. If someone had ever asked Ayanokouji what happiness was, he couldn't have answered, until this moment. It was this.

The moment seemed to stretch on forever as the day wore on. He could hear Natasha and Bucky and Steve chatting in the house. Squirrels chased each other in the trees. Various scents wafted past his nostrils that he could identify: freshly cut grass, waffle cones, fast food, flowers.

He would lie like this for the rest of his life, if he could ... but eventually Trinity stretched and sat up, looking bright-eyed and refreshed. Shin sat up not long after, and finally, even Ayanokouji started feeling a little longing to do something else. He had his friends here with him. He lived in a glorious time period. They could do anything! What would they do? They could take a walk, pet the neighborhood cats, go shopping, go out for dinner. He was just about to open his mouth to ask his friends what they were in the mood for when they heard an electronic chirp from inside the house, and Natasha said, "... Huh."

"What?" said Bucky.

"We got a mission. All of us. Even the kids."

"'Kids,'" Trinity repeated irritably. "We're the same age! Now. Although we're way older than our younger siblings than we were when we first came to the twenty-first," she said eagerly.

"No, we're not," said Shin. They started happily arguing over the math, but Ayanokouji was listening to Natasha. A mission?

Natasha came out onto her back patio, and there was a look on her face -- and on Bucky's and Steve's -- that he'd never seen on anyone's face before. Whatever it was, it must be a rare event indeed. Well, only the six of them had ever had certain experiences. This must be another emotion unique to Iterators. His curiosity even made Trinity and Shin stop talking and look.

Natasha was smiling and she probably didn't even know it; there wasn't much that made her smile genuinely. She read the mission out loud: "Report to the following coordinates to greet Travelers I-200 through I-299." Everyone looked at one another with identical excitement on their faces. The future was finally here.

It was quite something to be on this side of the first Arrival of an I-team. A cliff suddenly collapsed at a wedding historically, killing all fifty people standing on it. The Travelers who came to greet them didn't have to do anything; the Iterators should Arrive in time to scramble away from the cliff's edge themselves without difficulty. Still, the watching Travelers came bearing ropes and winches and pulleys and anything else they thought could help, just in case.

Ayanokouji, Shin, and Trinity came with Natasha and Steve and Bucky. The rest of the teams arrived in their own vehicles. Trinity skipped up to them as they debarked. "Grampa!" she cried. "You guys were invited too?? I thought it might be an Iterators-only event."

"Yep, we got the mission too," said Trevor.

"Is there anything you guys have been asked to do for these Arriving Iterators?" asked Boyd.

They all shook their heads. "Just to greet them," said Shin.

Trevor nodded. "Same. Haven't seen you guys around for a bit. Doing okay?" he asked.

"We've just been hanging around with the first cohort!" Trinity told him.

"Catching up on watching videos from all their Iterations, and ours, all together, since the Director made those available to all of us," said Steve.

"And resting," said Shin. "I know we're only fifteen, but we're ...."

"Tired," Bucky finished for him, putting a brotherly arm around him.

"Of course you are," said Trevor nicely. "You worked all your lives. You deserve a rest!"

"Literally all our lives," said Ayanokouji. "I don't remember a time when we weren't working, until now."

The eyes that turned to him as he spoke were the least unfriendly, suspicious of his life. Over the months as they saw no evidence that he'd killed again -- and he hadn't -- their abiding distrust seemed to be giving way to a warmth and trust approaching that which they felt for Shin and Trinity. Could it really be so, that knowing everything he'd ever done made people like and trust him more, not less? It made sense with Trinity and Shin. They too had been misunderstood and misjudged countless times over the Iterations, demonized by Travelers and twenty-firsters alike, when the actions they were ordered to take and the secrets they had to keep were misinterpreted. Ayanokouji had mostly been ordered to kill. But so, at times, had every Traveler, at the Director's orders. Maybe the adults understood even Ayanokouji. It would be a first. But it was wonderful to see the way they treated Trinity and Shin, with all the warmth and understanding they had always deserved.

"Loafing around getting bobas," Philip teased Trinity. "Every time I see you on traffic cams, you're going into the boba place."

"Nuh-uh!" Trinity protested. "That's not true!"

"Yes, you are. You drink so many bobas, you're gonna turn into one."

"Do not! I barely ever drink bobas! It's you who's always going into the Chinese place! Whenever I'm -- whenever -- on some RARE occasions when I happen to be in that neighborhood, that's where you are!" It's not like Trinity had been surveilling traffic cams. Rather, Trinity stalked Philip, a fact Ayanokouji was pretty sure her entire team was fully cognizant of, and if so, they didn't seem concerned. Ayanokouji had heard fifteen-year-old girls tended to become obsessed with handsome young men. Harmless minor stalking was apparently well within expected parameters of their behavior. Ayanokouji supposed her entire team knew she would never physically hurt Philip, and since she had access to their base of operations -- even technically lived there -- her appearing there would also not be unexpected.

In fact, a big part of why she stalked him these days instead of being by his side as much as humanly possible was because she was embarrassed of what she'd become by the end of the previous Iteration, and afraid of how she might hurt Philip if she ever let herself get out of control again. She preferred to worship him from afar right now. Ayanokouji thought that was healthy. She could grow up, come to understand her own feelings better, then maybe embark on a new relationship with Philip as an adult, where hopefully they would be able to forget her trespasses entirely. They were too fresh in her mind and in Philip's right now, though, and Trinity was still too immature. She'd spent her whole life figuring out how to be the best Encoder she could, so she could Iterate with her two best friends. Now she could focus on just growing up.

She still held out hope that Philip would date her one day, after she'd become an adult too. Ayanokouji seriously doubted it would happen. In Philip's mind, she was a kid and always would be. But the idea made Trinity happy, as such fantasies about unattainable boys apparently made most girls her age happy. Ayanokouji took it for a good sign, that she was finally getting to mature like any other girl. Maybe all three of them really would get to have a normal rest of their lives here in the twenty-first, living like any other human in this time period. Maybe the strange start to their lives would eventually fade into a distant memory, that would seem like it had happened in another life, another time and another place. Which, really, it had.

"'Happen' to be in the neighborhood where ... the drug dealers hang out?" Philip asked shrewdly.

"I can go anywhere I want!" Trinity said defiantly. "I'm an Iterator! Highly trained. Nobody could hurt me."

"I wasn't suggesting you wouldn't be safe; I was asking what business you would have in that part of town," Philip went on.

"I like Chinese food, too!"

"No, you don't!"

"I've changed! My tastes have changed as I've grown up, just like you told me they would in my very first Iteration! I like cabbage now!" Because it reminded her of Philip and all those Iterations when he took her out to Chinese food first thing. She still hated the taste of the stuff.

"Then how come I've never seen you going into a Chinese restaurant on the traffic-cam feeds?"

"You don't know about everything I do! But it's not just bobas!"

"We also play a lot of laser tag," Ayanokouji offered.

"You're not helping!" Trinity hissed, suddenly looking positively demonic. Once upon a time, she'd have been terrifying, behaving like that, but now, everyone just laughed.

"We saw the photo on the wall of the laser tag place in the data dump," Marcy told Shin, entertained. "Looking beleaguered in the middle of all the employees celebrating your inhumanly high score."

"Yeah, we finally realized there were a bunch of photos in addition to all the videos, and that was among them. Nice score," said Carly, fist-bumping Shin, who flushed a little. That photo had always embarrassed him, but he was also probably flushing with pride at his mad skills getting acknowledged by the second-most badass Tactician now alive in the twenty-first. "Maybe we can battle each other at laser tag, see who gets the highest score," she said smugly, as if she really believed she could beat Shin, but no one ever would be able to. In all of history, Ayanokouji was sure, no one would ever come close. He was the greatest of all time.

"We do much more than laser tag and bobas!" Trinity persisted shrilly.

"Yeah, I saw you getting fast food, too," Philip teased mercilessly. Trinity made noises of impotent frustration as he laughed and teased her more. He ruffled her hair, which incensed her anew.

"No!" she cried, holding down her hair. "You can't do that to me! I'm a professional!"

"Professional loafer," he teased. They carried on in this fashion as the conversation resumed among the rest of the gathered Travelers, talking shop, making plans, speculating about future missions. Eventually, Trinity and Philip called a truce, and she cuddled under his arm insecurely. He put his arm around her easily as he joined the larger conversation, like a mother hen allowing her scared chick under her wing, even after that chick had grown into a fledgling. He seemed to understand that though she'd left the nest, sometimes she still needed that reassurance. Trinity huddled there a bit, clinging to him, before she seemed to feel reassured enough of his affection to feel all was right in her world once more, and she skipped back to stand with Shin and Ayanokouji.

Besides the six living Iterators, only Hall's team, Boyd's team, and Trinity's team were present. "I guess that makes it pretty clear the new Arrivals won't be joining our teams," Carly said, relieved. "I guess we're all just here to greet them because we're the only teams who know about Iterators."

Trinity turned eagerly to Shin and Ayanokouji. "Do you think Ochaco will be there? And Bakugo? What about Tokoyami? Will Todoroki be there? I hope so! I hope they all got to Iterate!"

"Me too," Shin said with feeling, scanning the faces of the people at the wedding, who were eyeing the watching Travelers in turn like they thought they were a bunch of wedding crashers. Hall didn't exactly look the part, leaning against his convertible with his arms crossed irritably. Or maybe that was exactly what wedding crashers looked like; Ayanokouji supposed he didn't know anything about wedding crashers. "I never studied up on who they were supposed to inhabit, so I have no idea what any of them will look like."

"I can't wait!" Trinity cried, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. "Manabe and Anju and Haruto and ...." Apparently even Trinity wasn't up for reciting all forty-eight names of those they lost. "... And everyone may have died, but since these are their clones, it'll be like they're back with us again!"

"Except me," said Ayanokouji. "They ended my line."

Shin smiled at him. "You're one of a kind."

Ayanokouji felt his lips curve into a little smile in response. "They won't be the same, though," he had to caution Trinity. "We don't know who was chosen to Iterate, but even if it's the same genomes as in our cohort, you're formed by your experiences, too. They're their own people, and will become even more so the longer they're here."

"I know!" she chirped. "But in another way, it'll be like having them with us again."

"Yeah," he agreed.

"I can't wait, I can't wait!" she cried eagerly. In his more muted way, Shin seemed just as excited. All he'd wanted of coming to the twenty-first was to get to see his big brother again. That didn't pan out the way he'd hoped, although the copious videos of Shourei the Director made available to the remnants of the first cohort of their own Iterations was helping him get to spend more time with his older brother in a way. Still, he never got to talk to him again. But if his little brother was chosen to Iterate, he could be with him instead, and maybe Shin would consider that just as good. Genetically, in any case, it would be identical. Ayanokouji had never understood what appealed so much about those brothers to their other brothers. Maybe genetics was all that was required to satisfy them. He hoped so, for Shin's sake.

Trinity put an arm around each of them and beamed at the wedding attendees. The attendees did not return her smile, glancing often at the people watching, with distrust and annoyance. This didn't deter Trinity in the least. She wasn't even bothering to keep her voice down. Who knew what the partygoers were making of her words. They would be nonsensical to them. It didn't matter. They would be dead soon.

Philip pressed his lips together. "I can already hear the strain on the cliff," he said, characteristically worried and compassionate, though he did at least lower his voice. "I can hear the fissures forming. What were these people thinking, all standing right in that one spot? Any basic knowledge of physics and engineering would clue them in that chances are it couldn't take the weight of that many people."

"It's for the photo," said Trevor evenly. He never judged. "They wanted to get a picture of everyone all together with the sea behind them in the picture." Still, he sighed sadly, too. They were all about to die.

... But in another way, to live on, far longer than they historically did. Fifty lives would be saved. Just not the same fifty consciousnesses. Ayanokouji felt like that was still a win.

The screaming began. Everyone except Ayanokouji and Mac averted their eyes. Ayanokouji wanted to see the moment they became a new person. He wanted to see the innocent faces of all their little brothers and sisters, taking in their new, sublimely beautiful world.

The screaming stopped. Ayanokouji knew it was possible that maybe the next cohort had already Iterated many times and it only seemed like the first time to Ayanokouji. It soon became clear that this was indeed their first Iteration, however; all the new Arrivals bumbled and bobbled anxiously away from the cliff's edge, not even seeming to fully comprehend which was the right direction to go toward as they stood there trying to get their bearings for long seconds. They had never seen a sea, or a cliff, earth or grass or rocks or sky. Ayanokouji was thrown back to his first Arrival, the shock of the brilliance of the sun, the uneven ground beneath his feet. The new Arrivals had to process every single thing they could see, smell, hear, and touch for the very first time, as they tried to figure out what it all meant regarding which way to go. Mac and Hall and Boyd finally started calling them to move toward the watching Traveler teams.

The new Arrivals had just all pressed toward the watching Travelers and managed to scramble away from the edge when the cliff gave way spectacularly, falling into the ocean below. Ayanokouji enjoyed watching that rare and dramatic natural event, but the new Arrivals were too disoriented and scared to appreciate it. Still, soon someone took control -- their Trainer, whose students referred to him as 'All Might.' In a loud voice, he urged the new I-team to introduce themselves to the watching Travelers -- who, he said, would be their 'helpers' in the twenty-first.

A few timid thankyous came from the huddle of fifty children in the bodies of adults, but a few took it farther, coming over to shake hands with them, especially the Iterators. "We've studied all your missions," one gushed. "Of all your Iterations. The Director made them available to us. So I know you all worried the rest of your cohort was lost to history, but we Iterators remember." The relief that washed over Ayanokouji at this news was apparently only exceeded by the relief Shin and Trinity felt, judging by the looks on their faces. They beamed at each other. Their brothers and sisters lived on. The kid continued, "I'm Iida. Do you ... guys remember me?"

They all nodded. "Of course," said Shin.

More new Arrivals were coming forward to greet them, now that they were proving so approachable. Toga introduced herself to Ayanokouji as her cohort's Assassin and started asking him questions about how to be more successful at her job, and for the first time in his life, Ayanokouji felt something he imagined his friends got to feel often: wanted, useful, for who he was and what he could do. He was the first one any of the new Iterators sought out specifically for advice.

"We're gonna do WAY better than you guys ever did," Bakugo announced.

"I see he hasn't changed," Trinity muttered to Ayanokouji and Shin, who smirked.

Midoriya now came forward to introduce himself. He was as sweet as ever, but there was a confidence about him, about all of the new cohort. Ayanokouji remembered his I-team feeling that way long, long ago.

Midoriya was the picture of absolute conviction. He said, "You guys don't need to worry anymore. Rest, relax, leave it in our hands."

Every Traveler seemed to feel this: like every Traveler that went before them failed because they lacked sufficient competence, or drive, or desire. Looking at the task before them from the very beginning of the first Iteration, it all seemed so easy. Ayanokouji remembered feeling like that, like the first cohort had made a mess of things, like his own cohort was so much better trained, like using all the latest technology and information from previous Traveler efforts, and unburdened by their own failures, that surely, surely they would succeed where the first cohort had failed. He missed being able to feel like that.

Midoriya nodded at them with pride. "Everything's okay now. We're gonna save the world."