Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The vast, merciless ocean stretched into eternity, its surface silvered beneath the cold, unblinking gaze of a full moon. Across the swells, light shimmered in fleeting ribbons that vanished as swiftly as they appeared, swallowed by the shifting waves. Where sea met land, black volcanic cliffs rose like jagged blades from the shore, hammered endlessly by the surf as if the ocean itself was trying to wear them down.

Far beyond the breakers, a ship loomed against the tapestry of stars. Its shadowed sails hungrily catching in the wind, while the Jolly Roger stood tall on the mast, snapping menacingly in the night air. From its rigging hung oil lanterns, casting a scatter of amber light that flickered across the dark, glassy sea, marking the vessel’s steady, unstoppable passage.

On the beach, a solitary figure emerged from the tree line. His silhouette unmistakable against the moonlight—medium height, athletic build, black skin kissed by silver moonbeams that traced the contours of his close-cropped hair. He moved with the distinctive gait of someone who had once danced through life with the carefree confidence of youth but now carried the weight of experience in each measured step. He paused at the edge of the forest, shoulders rising and falling as his chest heaved, catching his breath against the night air.

His eyes flicked from the looming pirate ship to the shadowed jungle behind. His clothes—once pristine white linen—were now torn and stained with mud and sweat, bearing witness to his desperate flight. A fresh scrape marked his forearm, and though fatigue lined his face, his gaze burned with a sharp edge of determination as he searched for an escape.

He held something close to his chest—a bundle wrapped in oilskin and bound tight with twine, his fierce grip betraying its importance. Though the night air was cool, sweat sheened his dark skin, catching the moonlight like polished stone.

For a moment, he stood frozen, caught between the dangers of the sea and whatever horrors had pursued him through the jungle. Then came the sharp snap of a twig behind him, loud as a gunshot in the silence. The decision had been made for him. He bolted across the open beach, sand exploding beneath his feet as he raced parallel to the shoreline.

At that moment, three figures stepped out from the trees—pirates in weathered leather coats and salt-crusted boots, cutlasses gleaming in the moonlight. The largest, a towering brute with tar-black dreadlocks bound in frayed cord, raised a hand in silent command.

The hunt was now on.

Glancing over his shoulder and seeing the gap closing, the man veered towards a maze of tide pools and jagged rock. The terrain was perilous, but he moved with a dancer’s poise—leaping from stone to stone, twisting mid-air when his footing slipped.

He risked another look behind—his pursuers were losing ground. He was pulling ahead. For a fleeting moment escape felt possible.

Suddenly, a fourth pirate stepped out from behind a large boulder, cutting off the path ahead. In one hand he carried a boarding axe, its blade dark with age. Perched atop his head sat a tricorn hat adorned with exotic feathers and a scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his ear, giving him a permanent half-smile. The chased man skidded to a halt, nearly losing his precious package in the process.

Surrounded now, he backed towards the water's edge. The hunters closed in slowly, cruel grins playing across their faces as they savoured the moment. The cornered man glanced at the cliffs on his right—far too steep to climb—then to the deep water to his left. Whatever decision he might have made was interrupted by the distant boom of a cannon.

A plume of water erupted twenty yards offshore as the ship fired a warning shot. The message was clear: there would be no escape by sea.

The pirates circled their prey, moving with the confidence of predators who knew their quarry had nowhere left to run. The bearded leader stepped forward, hand extended, clearly demanding the package. In response, the hunted man clutched it tighter to his chest, shaking his head defiantly.

Moonlight illuminated his face fully for the first time—young but weathered, with cunning eyes that darted between his attackers, calculating odds that seemed increasingly impossible. His expression was tense but focused, a perfect balance of fear and determination. Despite his predicament, there was something in his bearing that spoke of resilience and resourcefulness.

The scarred pirate lunged without warning, his blade flashing in the moonlight. The man twisted to evade, but not quickly enough. The cutlass sliced across his side, tearing through shirt and skin. He stumbled but remained upright, one hand pressed against the fresh wound while the other protected his mysterious cargo.

Blood seeped between his fingers, yet his expression remained defiant, chin raised as if daring the pirates to finish what they'd started. The bearded leader barked a laugh, clearly impressed by such bravado in the face of near certain doom.

The wounded man's gaze shifted momentarily to something beyond his pursuers—a flicker of movement among the palm trees. Hope flashed briefly across his features before being carefully masked. The leader noticed the glance and began to turn, but the man chose that moment to make his move.

He feinted left, then darted right, attempting to break through the circle. The smallest pirate reacted quickly, swinging a belaying pin that connected with the man's shoulder. He staggered, nearly falling to one knee before forcing himself back upright. The package almost slipped from his grasp, and he fumbled to secure it, momentarily taking his attention away from his attackers.

It was all the opening they needed.

The bearded leader stepped forward and delivered a vicious kick to the man's wounded side. Pain twisted his features as he crumpled to the sand, curling protectively around the bundle. A boot pressed down on his wrist, pinning his arm as someone bent to pry the treasure from his grasp. But, with his free hand, the man snatched a fistful of sand and flung it into his assailant's eyes. The pirate roared in rage, staggering backwards and clawing at his face. The momentary distraction allowed the wounded man to roll away and scramble to his feet, though he moved with significantly less agility now; his injuries clearly taking their toll.

He managed three desperate steps before the scarred pirate tackled him from behind. They crashed to the ground, the man twisting to protect both his wound and his cargo. He kicked out, catching his opponent in the stomach, buying himself enough space to stand once more.

But the effort cost him. Blood now soaked his entire side, leaving a dark trail in the sand. His skin had dulled to an ashen hue, his movements growing sluggish and uncoordinated. Yet, still he refused to yield. Staggering back, he positioned himself in a narrow gap between two large rocks—a natural bottleneck that would force his pursuers to come at him one at a time.

The pirates understood his tactic and paused, exchanging wary glances. Sensing their hesitation, a flicker of hope returned to the man’s eyes. But before it could take root, a sharp crack echoed through the night air and a whip lashed out and coiled around his ankle. The sharp pull that followed yanked him off his feet, and he felt the package slip from his grasp. He lunged after it. Desperately, he stretched out his hand, fingertips grazing the oilskin wrapping—but it was too late; he’d finally lost possession.

Still, impossibly, he fought on. Rolling onto his stomach, he crawled on all fours towards the bundle, leaving a crimson trail in his wake. The pirates watched with a mixture of amusement and grudging respect, allowing him this final, futile effort.

He had almost reached it when the bearded leader unholstered an ornate flintlock pistol. The weapon gleamed silver in the moonlight, its handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The leader cocked the hammer with deliberate slowness.

The wounded man's fingers had just brushed against the package when the shot rang out.

His body jerked violently, blood blooming across his back, spreading outward from between his shoulder blades. For several seconds, he remained frozen, arm still extended towards the package. Then, with agonising slowness, he collapsed face-first into the sand.

The leader holstered his smoking pistol and claimed his prize, weighing the package in his hands with a satisfied expression before tucking in into his coat.

For a brief moment, the four pirates studied the motionless figure before them, their expressions ranging from respect to indifference. Then, without a word, the leader signalled to his crew and turned and strode back towards the waiting boat.

As they walked away, leaving the body where it had fallen, the tide began its slow ascent. Gentle waves crept up the beach, reaching for the fallen man with foamy fingers. The first wavelet touched his boots before pulling back. The next reached his knees. Soon, the sea would claim him entirely, washing away all evidence of the night's brutality.

"CUT!"

Abed's voice cracked like a whip, shattering the illusion of mortal peril that had hung in the air just moments before.

The man face down in the sand—supposedly dead from a pirate's bullet—let out a tired groan before propping himself up on his elbows. Travis Jackson, a performer whose raw talent and dedication deserved far better than the roles he landed, spat out a mouthful of gritty sand and winced as he peeled himself from the ground. The artificial blood covering his costume had already begun to dry, creating a tacky, uncomfortable second skin that pulled with every movement.

"You okay, Travis?" Abed asked, extending a hand.

The actor accepted the help, grimacing as he rose to his feet. "That depends. Are we finally done? Because two days of being shot, falling face-first into sand, and washing fake blood out of places I didn't even know I had has been... let's just say not the highlight of my acting career."

Abed's lips quirked into a sympathetic half-smile. His exhaustion was evident in his posture—shoulders hunched forward, spine curved slightly as if carrying an invisible weight. Dark shadows underlined his eyes, giving him the haunted look of someone who hadn't seen a proper night's sleep in days.

"I don't think any of us have enjoyed it much," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "I really wish Michael hadn't insisted on doing the opening scene in a single take. Sam Mendes and ‘1917’ have a lot to answer for."

For a moment, Abed's gaze drifted across the elaborate set—the carefully positioned rocks, the artfully scattered debris, the meticulous footprints in the sand—all arranged to create the perfect illusion of a desperate chase. Then, a flash of satisfaction broke through his exhaustion, though the light still didn't quite reach his eyes.

"But," he said, turning back to Travis, "you'll be happy to hear that take seemed perfect to me. All the blood, sweat, and sand was worth it. We're done here."

He raised his voice to address the entire crew scattered across the fake beach. "That's it for today, everyone. Great work. Really great work."

Around them, the tense set immediately dissolved into relieved chatter and activity as crew members began breaking down equipment. Abed's gaze swept across the scene with quiet satisfaction. Now approaching his late thirties, his features had sharpened, the softness of youth giving way to more defined angles, and his hair had receded slightly at the temples, creating a widow's peak that somehow made him look more distinguished.

"The director wants dailies before you leave tonight," said Jessica, the second unit’s assistant director, approaching with a tablet in hand.

"He'll have them," Abed replied, his tone professional but distant.

Jessica studied him for a moment. "You know, for someone who just captured a flawless one-take action sequence, you don't seem particularly happy."

Abed shrugged. "Pirate films aren’t really my thing."

"Yet here you are, the second unit director on a fifty-million-dollar pirate epic," she observed with a raised eyebrow.

"Everyone's got to make a living." Abed said impassively. "My rent has nearly doubled since I moved to Hollywood. When I first got here, I thought every job would feel like making my very own Citizen Kane. But like everyone who sticks around, I learned it's more of a spectrum."

He gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. "Some projects are genuinely inspiring and led by directors I admire, and I’ve had the opportunity to do loads of cool stuff I could never have imagined—not even in my wildest dreams. Had dinner with Spielberg at the end of 2023. Crashed the Oscars afterparty last year and finally got to tell George Lucas exactly how I felt about midi-chlorians and him allowing Disney to destroy his own cinematic legacy." He paused. "That man really has a temper."

His wistful smile faded as he turned back to the set. "Then there are projects like this—jobs that pay the bills, stock the fridge, and fund my independent work." He let out a breath. "This one’s definitely on the practical end of the spectrum. But hey—at least no one’s asking me to add a CGI Jar Jar Binks."

Jessica studied Abed's tired expression, then gestured toward the pirate ship with a wry smile. "Well, better pirate movies than pirated movies, eh boss?" she quipped, attempting to lighten the mood.

The corner of Abed's mouth twitched slightly in acknowledgment of the wordplay, but the joke didn't quite reach his eyes. His thoughts seemed elsewhere.

"You know," Abed said thoughtfully, "it's absurd to think 21st-century piracy has anything in common with what we’re doing here." He stared at the Jolly Roger hanging limply from its mast, its skull and crossbones rendered in precise detail that somehow made the whole enterprise seem even more hollow.

"I've never understood our cultural obsession with romanticising what were essentially floating crime syndicates," he continued, his voice taking on the careful, measured cadence it always did when discussing something that really mattered to him. "I actually have a friend who was kidnapped by pirates in the Bay of Campeche. He said the reality was nothing like this fantasy—no swashbuckling, no sword fights, no roguish antiheroes with hearts of gold." Abed's expression hardened almost imperceptibly. "Just assault rifles, speedboats, and the ever-present threat of extreme violence."

"Wait, seriously?" Jessica's eyes widened. "Your friend was actually kidnapped by real-life pirates?

"Yep, I tried to interest Michael in doing a Zoom call with him," Abed continued, his voice calm but his eyes suddenly more engaged than they'd been all day. "I thought it might add some authenticity—some actual human experience—to all this. But he declined." He paused. "How can a director be so lacking in curiosity about his subject matter? It's like making a film about the ocean without ever having seen water."

"You know Michael," Jessica remarked with a sigh. "He thinks 'authenticity' is when the prop master distresses a shirt exactly right or when the fake blood has the correct viscosity."

"Exactly," Abed said, his gaze drifting toward the horizon where the real ocean met the sky. "Exactly."

They began walking towards the production trailers. The California sunset painted the sky in hues of orange and pink—the kind of lighting that cinematographers dream about but rarely capture.

"Oh, Abed," Jessica said suddenly, "Mia from HR has been looking for you. Something about a form you haven’t filled in?"

Abed's pace slowed almost imperceptibly. "Right."

As if summoned by her name, a young woman in smart business casual attire materialised from between two production vehicles, clipboard in hand. "Abed," she called, her tone professional but with an undercurrent of exasperation. "I've been trying to reach you all week."

"Sorry, Mia," Abed replied, glancing back towards the set where his crew was packing away. "Been a little busy turning Michael’s fever dreams into reality."

"You still haven't completed your medical information form," she said, tapping the clipboard. "It's mandatory for insurance purposes."

"Sorry, I think I’ve lost my copy," Abed said flatly.

"I anticipated that," Mia replied, producing a pristine sheet from her clipboard with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd played this particular game before. "That's why I brought a replacement." She paused meaningfully. "For the third time."

Abed accepted the paper with a nod, a flicker of guilt crossing his usually impassive features. "Thanks. I'll get this done tonight," he promised, his tone carrying a rare note of contrition.

"Make sure you do," Mia emphasised, tucking her clipboard under her arm. "You should have filled it in weeks ago. Technically, with your incomplete paperwork, the studio has been breaking labour regulations every day you've been working here." She straightened her posture slightly. "It's 2025, Abed. Film sets aren't run like the Wild West anymore," she said firmly. "If we let important crew members get away with minor infractions, where will it end? It's that kind of attitude that allowed people like Weinstein to get away with what they did for so long."

Abed's head tilted slightly to one side, his expression shifting from neutral to nonplussed. "Did you just compare me to a sex offender for not filling out a form?" he asked slowly.

Mia's professional demeanour crumbled instantly. "No! That's not—" Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "That's not what I meant at all," she stammered, clearly mortified by her own comparison.

"I'll go and do it now," Abed said distractedly, flicking his phone off silent as he spoke.

Mia gave him a curt nod and turned away, her shoulders rigid with lingering embarrassment as she moved on to chase down her next regulatory fugitive.

Inside his trailer, Abed lowered himself into his chair and placed Mia’s form on his desk. Unlike the chaotic creative spaces of most of his peers, Abed's trailer was meticulously ordered. No movie posters adorned the walls, no personal photographs cluttered the surfaces. Instead, a carefully curated selection of filmmaking books stood in perfect alignment on a single shelf: Tarkovsky's "Sculpting in Time," Murch's "In the Blink of an Eye," and Lumet's "Making Movies" among them.

For the fourth time, Abed ticked his way through the form with mechanical efficiency, his handwriting precise and angular. Name. Date of birth. Address. He paused briefly before continuing. Blood type. Allergies. He completed each field with increasing reluctance, like a man walking the final steps towards an inevitable cliff edge. In the current medications section, he marked "None" with the same care a bomb technician might use to cut a wire, deliberately keeping his focus narrow, contained, safely away from what waited below. When he finally reached the dreaded line labelled "Emergency Contact," his pen hovered motionless above the paper, just as it had on his previous three attempts. The question he'd been avoiding all along had finally arrived.

The ballpoint hovered a millimetre above the paper, trembling almost imperceptibly. For someone who moved through creative decisions with such certainty—adjusting camera angles by fractions of degrees, specifying exact frame counts for edits—this simple administrative task had rendered him paralysed.

As he sat frozen in this moment of uncharacteristic indecision, his newly unsilenced phone came to life on the desk beside him. The screen illuminated with a notification, casting a blue glow across the incomplete form. Grateful for the distraction, Abed's eyes locked on the message. As he read, they widened in unmistakeable shock.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun poured in through tall windows, casting long golden rectangles across gleaming hardwood floors that still carried the scent of fresh varnish and new beginnings. The room was spacious but unfamiliar to all its inhabitants, its cream-coloured walls bare except for a few nail holes where someone else's memories had once hung.

Cardboard boxes of varying sizes created a maze across the floor, each one carefully labelled in neat handwriting: ‘Kitchen - Fragile,’ ‘Books - Heavy,’ ‘Jordan's Childhood Stuff.’ Furniture wrapped in thick moving blankets stood at odd angles—a couch here, a dining table there—waiting to find their proper places in this new geography. Amidst the organised disruption, the air was humming with purposeful activity: the careful choreography of a household in transition.

At the centre of it all stood a woman transformed—no longer carrying the weight, literal and metaphorical, of the life she'd left behind in Colorado. She was lean now, and strong—not just in form, but in focus, every movement revealing the confidence of a life rebuilt on her own terms.

"Mom, where should this go?" Jordan called from the doorway, hefting a large box marked 'Glasses'. Approaching his mid-twenties, he had inherited his father's height and his mother's warm eyes, though right now those eyes held the slightly overwhelmed expression of a man realising that homeownership came with far more responsibility than living rent free in his childhood bedroom, where dinner appeared on cue, laundry folded itself, and utility bills remained blissfully theoretical.

"They can go straight into the kitchen," Shirley replied. "But be careful with those wine glasses. Your auntie will kill us both if you break her wedding present."

"I know, Mom," Jordan said with a smile, the kind that comes from hearing the same warning three times too many. "You mentioned it when we packed them… and again when we loaded them… and once more when we unloaded them."

Shirley watched as Jordan moved around a teetering stack of boxes, his steps measured and deliberate. He’d always been her most methodical child—the kind who read instruction manuals cover to cover and triple-checked his work before flipping a switch. That same steady precision had made him a trusted electrician and, she believed, would make him a dependable husband too. He didn’t rush, didn’t guess; he calculated, considered, and executed—a quiet confidence that reassured everyone who handed him the keys to their wiring.

"Steven, honey, you don’t have to run this move like it’s a SWAT raid," Shirley called, eyeing her husband stationed near the front door like a battlefield commander. He sat in his wheelchair, clipboard at the ready—because of course he had a clipboard—his eyes sweeping the scene with the focus of a man directing tactical manoeuvres rather than unpacking a U-Haul. Seven years of marriage hadn’t dulled her fond exasperation with his relentless need to plan everything, even when his physical role was limited.

"Over three decades in law enforcement teaches you the importance of proper procedure," Steven replied without looking up, tapping his pen against the clipboard. "Just be grateful I'm not making everyone wear colour-coded armbands."

"You tried," Ben muttered with a smile as he passed, box in hand. "We vetoed it."

From the kitchen, Jordan chimed in: "I still think my ‘creative stacking’ deserves a commendation."

Steven directed a slow, deliberate look in the younger man’s direction. "If I were your sergeant back at the precinct, I’d have you scrubbing out the holding cells for taking shortcuts like that."

"Wow," Jordan said, theatrically clutching his chest. "Did I just get demoted in my own house?"

The easy banter between her husband and her sons filled Shirley with a familiar warmth. When she'd first introduced Steven to her boys, she'd worried about how they would accept a new man in her life, especially one with a major disability. But Steven had won them over not through any attempt to replace their father—they already had one of those, complicated though that relationship was—but by simply being himself: steady, intelligent, genuinely interested in their lives, and utterly devoted to their mother.

"I still think I should be in charge here," Ben joked. "I mean this is basically the moving sofa problem from math club in real life. Without my spatial reasoning, we’d still be trying to fit the couch through the front door."

"And yet," Steven said with a grin, holding up his stopwatch, "who's keeping us perfectly on schedule and injury-free?"

“Mom?” Elijah’s voice floated in from the kitchen. The unexpected lack of swearing suggested he’d at last conquered whatever electrical contraption he’d been battling with—manual still unopened, of course. Shirley’s eldest son had clearly inherited his father’s stubborn streak and her own determination—fortunately, without any of Andre’s less desirable habits. “Do you know where Jordan put the coffee maker?”

"It's in the box marked 'Small Appliances,'" Shirley called back to her eldest son, then muttered under her breath, "which is why we labelled the boxes."

"Found it!" Elijah announced triumphantly, as if he'd discovered a cure for cancer rather than a Mr. Coffee machine that cost forty-nine dollars at Target.

Shirley shook her head with loving frustration and returned her attention to the task at hand: arranging furniture in a way that would make the most sense for Jordan and his new wife, Ashley. The wedding, a beautiful celebration just three months prior, had been catered by Shirley herself—after all, no one was going to serve her baby boy a slice of store-bought, processed wedding cake. In the meantime, Jordan and Ashley had lived under Shirley’s roof, patiently waiting until they could find and close on what they both agreed was the perfect home.

The house itself was lovely: a modest three-bedroom ranch in a quiet Georgia neighbourhood with good schools, mature trees, and the kind of front porch that practically begged for rocking chairs and sweet tea. It was exactly the sort of place where Shirley could imagine her future grandchildren playing in the yard while she watched from the kitchen window, making sure they didn't get too close to the street.

The thought brought an unexpected pang to her chest. Grandchildren. That was the next phase, wasn't it? Jordan and Ashley would probably start trying soon, and then Shirley would transition from being primarily a mother to being primarily a grandmother. It was a natural progression, the way life was supposed to work, but something about it filled her with an unnameable anxiety.

"Mrs. B, where do you want this chair?" Marcus’s voice pulled Shirley from her daydream.

Her eighteen-year-old employee who’d volunteered to help with the move reminded Shirley very much of her own older boys at that age—brimming with energy and good intentions, but often in need of a little direction. He stood awkwardly, cradling the bulky chair, waiting for her instructions.

"Against the far wall, Marcus," Shirley said, gesturing towards the space between two windows. "And you don't have to call me Mrs. B. We've talked about this."

"Yes, Mrs. B," Marcus replied automatically, then caught himself and grinned sheepishly. "I mean, yes, Shirley."

Shirley couldn’t help but smile. She'd hired Marcus fresh out of high school when she was rebuilding her catering business after the COVID disaster, and he'd quickly become one of her most reliable employees. The boy could carry three heavy platters at once without breaking stride, had an intuitive understanding of food safety protocols, and possessed the kind of genuine enthusiasm that made clients remember why they'd chosen ‘Heavenly Plates Catering’ for their special events.

The business itself was finally on solid ground again. Four years ago, she'd been certain she would lose everything—the commercial kitchen she'd leased, the equipment she'd bought, the reputation she'd spent years building. When the state effectively rendered her business illegal overnight, she was left to watch on despondently as the client list she’d spent years cultivating vanished instantly, and the aggressive expansion she had planned so meticulously crumbled beneath a mountain of crushing debt.

Facing business failure for the second time—following the collapse of the original ‘Shirley’s Sandwiches’—Shirley had felt utterly hopeless. But this time, with the unwavering support of a loving husband and her now-adult older sons, she had discovered a new inner resilience. Drawing on that strength, she had pivoted to meal delivery for families stuck at home, partnered with local restaurants for takeout packaging, and somehow managed to keep her core employees on payroll even when she wasn't entirely sure how she'd make her own mortgage payment. Now she was back up to fourteen employees and had more bookings than she could handle.

The work was demanding—twelve-hour days were common during wedding season, and she still personally oversaw every major event—but it was hers in a way that few things in her life had ever been. Not Andre's shop or her parents' expectations or society's assumptions about what a woman should do with her life, but genuinely, authentically hers.

A few hours later, as darkness settled outside, the tired group gathered around the new dining table, the last of the unpacked boxes forgotten—at least for the moment. Plates piled high with Chinese takeaway—brought by Ashley on her way home from her hospital shift—filled the table. On her return, she had offered yet another guilty apology for not being able to get the day off to help with the move, only to be lovingly shushed by Shirley. Now the room hummed with easy conversation, punctuated by the clatter of chopsticks and bursts of laughter.

The three Bennett boys were deep in debate over which streaming service was best. Ben leaned forward, animated. "Honestly, Curiosity Stream wins hands down. You actually learn something instead of just binge-watching junk."

Marcus, who’d been quickly been adopted into the family in the effortless way the Bennetts welcomed newcomers, nodded. "I watched A Trip to Infinity on Netflix recently. Not usually my thing, but I found it really fascinating."

"That’s way too intellectual for me," Elijah replied with a grin. "Just give me an Amazon Prime subscription and a few episodes of The Grand Tour, and I’m good."

Shirley shook her head with a gentle smile, reaching for her takeout. "Honestly, you boys watch way too much TV, but I’ll take that over endless scrolling on social media any day. At least with TV, you’re feeding your brain sometimes."

Jordan chuckled. "That’s true. Social media is a whole different kind of black hole."

"You should see Jordan try to explain TikTok to Steven," laughed Ashley. Petite and mixed-race, with her hair tied back in a practical ponytail, she radiated a quiet, grounded warmth as her shoulders rose and fell softly with mirth. She had the kind of gentle competence and effortless humour that instantly put her patients at ease—qualities that had clearly served her well in winning over the whole Bennett family.

"Hey, I understand TikTok perfectly well," Steven protested, adjusting his glasses with mock indignation. "It's just that most of it seems designed to give me anxiety."

"That's the point," Ben grinned. "Welcome to Gen Z, Steven."

As the conversation rolled on, Shirley began absentmindedly clearing the table—stacking empty takeout containers, wiping stray sauce drips, collecting crumpled napkins with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done it a thousand times before.

"Mom, stop," Jordan said suddenly, his voice cutting through the laughter.

She froze, unsure what she’d done wrong, a container still in one hand, and turned to face him.

"You don’t have to do that here," he said softly, reaching out to take the containers from her and set them by the new bin.

Then, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, he added, "I really need to thank you. For everything—all those years you spent taking care of us, holding everything together." He paused, smiled warmly, and continued, "But now it’s my turn. It’s my job to look after myself. You don’t have to worry about me anymore."

Shirley pulled him into a hug, her heart full. When she stepped back, Steven spoke quietly, "We both know you’ll be just fine." He reached for Shirley’s hand, lifting it to his lips in a tender kiss. "Your mother has done a wonderful job raising you boys," he said softly, his gaze never leaving hers.

Shirley caught the exchange of glances between her sons—the kind of look that adult children share when their mother is being embarrassingly affectionate with their stepfather. Pride washed over her. Her boys had grown into good men—kind, responsible, capable of building their own lives and relationships. It was everything she'd hoped for when she was balancing family finances, community college studies, building up her business and above all caring for those she loved most in the world.

Ashley playfully nudged Jordan with her elbow. "Actually, I thought it was my job to look after you now," she said with a teasing smile. Then, turning to Shirley with genuine warmth, she added, "I bet you're glad to have another one leaving the nest. And in a few years when Ben goes to some fancy college, you'll finally be free!"

The warmth drained from Shirley’s face, replaced by a cold, hollow weight that settled deep in her chest. The words hit her like a physical blow, stealing the breath from her lungs. Her heart began to race, each beat thudding painfully against her ribs. The walls seemed to inch closer, the room growing smaller, warmer—almost suffocating. A clammy sweat broke out across her forehead as panic clawed at the edges of her mind.

Her hands trembled as the room seemed to tilt slightly and she barely registered the conversation resuming around her. She muttered something about needing the bathroom, her voice distant and strange even to her own ears. The familiar faces blurred as she moved away from the kitchen, finally pressing her back against the cool wall, desperate for something solid to hold onto.

Her breaths came fast and shallow, each inhale a sharp struggle, each exhale trembling with unshed tears. A bittersweet ache pulsed beneath the chaos—a quiet mourning for the years when she was needed, when she was the centre of their worlds.

Then, without warning, her phone buzzed sharply in her pocket—a sudden, intrusive vibration that sliced through the heavy silence and yanked her back from the spiralling haze consuming her. With trembling fingers, she fumbled it out, the cold light of the screen illuminating her face in the dim hallway. Her eyes locked onto the words, desperate for distraction, for something—anything—that could anchor her swirling thoughts.

But as she read the message, a sharp, wrenching twist clenched her chest, a raw ache blossoming deep within her. In that moment, she knew with crushing certainty that another piece of her past was being erased, slipping away irretrievably into the shadows.

Chapter Text

"No! I’m gonna win!"

The high-pitched protest echoed from an upstairs bedroom, followed by the sound of small feet stomping against hardwood floors. An equally indignant voice fired back bursting with all the righteous fury a five-year-old could muster.

"Daddy said I’ve got his jawline, so I’ll be the perfect James Bond," declared a small boy, fiddling with the cuffs of his tuxedo costume with earnest pride. "Everyone knows that James Bond is way cooler than Barbie."

His twin sister dressed all in pink countered defiantly, "James Bond is dumb and boring! Barbie has a car AND a house AND—"

"Alright, alright," came a calm, measured voice from the doorway. "What's all this shouting about?"

The woman stepped into the pristine bedroom where the two twins clad in elaborate costumes stood toe-to-toe in full battle stance. Everything around them spoke of meticulous organisation: colour-coordinated toy bins labelled in neat handwriting, books arranged by both author and height on floating shelves, even the art supplies stored in clear containers with printed labels. The kind of domestic perfection that required genuine effort to maintain.

"Mommy, tell him that James Bond isn't better than Barbie," demanded the girl, her plastic tiara slightly askew but her conviction firmly in place.

"Tell her that spies actually do stuff," her brother shot back, adjusting his tiny bow tie with pride. "Barbie just changes clothes all day."

Their mother moved closer and knelt between them, placing a calming hand on each small shoulder—an invisible referee in this glittery prize fight. Her voice was warm, her expression the picture of patient grace.

"You know what I think?" she said, her tone calm and reassuring. "I think both of you are going to be the stars of the fancy dress competition tomorrow—no matter who wins."

She carefully straightened her daughter's tiara. "You look... empowered, sweetheart." Then, turning to her son with a smile, she added, "and you’ve got the whole suave international mystery man thing going, which—let’s be honest—is kinda iconic."

"But darling," she said, looking at him with affection, "James Bond might be a spy, but he doesn't have Barbie's fashion sense or her ability to be anything she wants to be—a doctor, an astronaut, a president."

Her son considered this seriously. "That's... actually pretty cool."

"They’re both special in different ways—just like you two," she said, wrapping them in a lingering hug that seemed to press the last bit of conflict right out of them.

When she let go, the twins exchanged a look, their squabble already forgotten.

"Now," their mother said, rising to her feet, "what did we agree on last night?"

"That we’d take our costumes off before bed so they don’t get messy," they replied in unison.

"Exactly. And since Daddy’s skincare routine takes forever, we’ve got just enough time to change and settle in for a bedtime story."

Twenty minutes later, both children were tucked into their respective beds, costumes carefully hung in the closet for tomorrow's big day. Their mother moved slowly through the room checking that nightlights were on, water cups were filled, and stuffed animals were properly positioned for optimal cuddling.

"Sweet dreams, my loves," she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to each forehead before quietly closing the bedroom door.

In the hallway, she paused for a moment, a soft smile playing across her lips as she listened to the familiar, tender silence that meant both children were finally winding down. There was something deeply satisfying about this moment: the successful navigation of another bedtime routine, the house peaceful and secure, her loved ones safe and at ease.

She made her way downstairs, her hand trailing along the freshly polished banister, and entered the kitchen, where every spotless surface gleamed under the warm pendant lighting. Even after a full day of family life, the space remained immaculate—countertops clear except for a small plate of what appeared to be homemade chocolate chip cookies, fresh flowers arranged in a simple vase, not a thing out of place.

"Just in time for dessert," came a warm voice from the dining table.

Her husband looked up from his plate, poised to take his first bite of the tiramisu she’d spent the afternoon lovingly preparing. Clad in comfy jeans and a cozy sweater, he looked every bit the laid-back family man.

"You know I would have been perfectly happy to handle bedtime tonight," he said, picking up his spoon. "Especially after you’ve had all day with them."

She shook her head with a small smile. "I know you would have, and you're sweet for offering, but reading them a bedtime story is always my favourite part of the day."

He gave a nonchalant shrug, lifted his full spoon to his mouth and took a bite—only to gag dramatically.

"Jesus Christ," he spluttered, immediately spitting it out into his napkin.

"What’s wrong?" she asked, alarmed, as she picked up the spoon he’d abandoned. She took a small bite herself—then immediately spat it back onto the plate, her face contorting in disgust at the salty taste.

"Shit! Why do salt and sugar both have to be white? I really Britta’d this, didn’t I?" she said, grimacing as she ran her hands through her blonde hair, a flush of embarrassment colouring her cheeks. "It's like the reverse of the first time I made dinner for your family and sugared the green beans. Your mom still thinks it was some weird vegan thing."

He couldn’t help but laugh, both at the memory and the present absurdity.

"Sorry, James," she said guiltily. "You’ve been dealing with sick animals for twelve hours straight and I can’t even make a dessert without poisoning us. I’m the worst."

James’ laughter died abruptly. "Don’t be ridiculous." He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "You’re the best," he said, the words heavy with genuine love and affection.

Britta felt a familiar warmth spread through her chest—the kind of contentment she'd never quite believed she deserved but had somehow found anyway. "I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too."

Britta smiled as she swayed in his arms. "I think there’s some ice cream in the freezer—left over from when we celebrated Noam and Greta’s top-of-the-class marks on their spelling test."

"I’ll get it," James offered, heading to the freezer.

She, in turn, crossed to the kettle, beginning the familiar ritual of preparing their evening green tea. "Anyway, you can finish telling me about Mrs. Henderson's cat."

"Well, like I said, Mrs. Henderson told me Nibbles was limping, so I went over to her place. Turns out he’d gotten tangled up in some wire fencing near the barn. Nothing broken, but he had a nasty cut that probably needed stitches."

Britta raised an eyebrow. "Aren’t cats supposed to be graceful? Mine always were."

James chuckled. "Graceful? Not Nibbles. He’s more like a fearless demolition expert. I cleaned the wound and stitched him up, but the little guy was having none of it. He kept clawing at the bandages. Took me three tries just to keep them on."

"Sounds like you need some cat whispering skills," Britta teased, taking a sip from her mug.

"Oh, I tried! But Nibbles? Not buying it. The highlight was when he managed to hide under Mrs. Henderson’s bed for nearly an hour, apparently in protest."

Britta smiled warmly. "Well, at least you got there in the end. Did you have any other adventures today?"

James nodded, a twinkle in his eye. "Actually, yeah. Spent the afternoon helping a sheepish farm dog called Buddy who’d swallowed an entire tennis ball—don’t ask me how. After some mild sedation, massage, and muscle relaxants, we coaxed the ball from his stomach into his intestines. Monitored him closely over several hours, taking X-rays to track the progress."

"And did it work?" she asked, leaning in, her voice full of hopeful curiosity.

"It did. After a tense afternoon, Buddy finally passed the ball during a bathroom break. The relief on the farmer’s face was priceless. Buddy, on the other hand, just looked embarrassed, like ‘please don’t tell anyone.’"

Britta laughed. "I love that you get to be a hero in these everyday crises."

James grinned. "It’s rarely glamorous, but it is rewarding. I leave knowing I made a difference—even if it’s just saving a stubborn labrador from himself. But, coming home to you and those two little hurricanes? That’s always the best part of the day."

Britta’s smile deepened. "Flattery will get you everywhere, you know."

He squeezed her hand gently. "It’s all true."

"But enough about my day," he said. "How was yours? Did the twins behave for their playdate with the Morrison kids?"

"Mostly," Britta said with a wry smile, settling into her chair. "Though Noam did try to convince little Johnnie that the playground equipment was actually an elaborate spy training course. I had to intervene before he started rappelling off the monkey bars."

James chuckled.

"I’m going to grab a quick shower and then we can carry on watching The Residence on Netflix from last night if you want."

"Sounds good," Britta replied.

As his footsteps disappeared up the stairs, Britta began clearing their plates, moving through the familiar routine of tidying the kitchen. The television in the adjoining room provided quiet background noise as she worked.

"—protests continue across the nation as activists rally against the new immigration policy," the news anchor was saying. "In Portland, demonstrators gathered outside the federal building to—"

Without conscious thought, Britta had entered the living room, grabbed the remote and clicked the television off. The sudden silence seemed to echo through the space, and she found herself standing perfectly still, remote in hand, eyes fixed on the now-blank screen.

For a long, suspended moment, she remained frozen as something tightened behind her eyes—a flicker of instinct, or perhaps of a memory. A faint echo of the woman she once was: someone who would have been riveted by the news, planning her own protest sign, calling her activist friends to coordinate their response. She stared at her reflection in the darkened screen. Glitter specks lingered on her cheeks from an afternoon spent playing with Noam and Greta; behind her, professional family portraits lined the walls—all emblematic of middle-class domestic bliss.

Had she grown too comfortable?

"We're not going back," Kamala Harris's voice declared, shattering the stillness. Britta flinched, making a mental note to finally change her ringtone—she didn't need to relive election night trauma with every notification. She shook her head and walked back to the kitchen, retrieving her phone from the counter.

Britta glanced at the screen, expecting a routine reminder about Greendale Kindergarten's upcoming parent-teacher conference or something equally mundane. Instead, her eyes widened as she read the message that marked the loss of yet another piece of who she used to be.

Chapter Text

The neon glow of Manhattan's skyline painted the floor-to-ceiling windows in shades of electric blue and amber, while inside the SoHo office, energy hummed through every corner despite the late hour. Phones rang in overlapping symphonies, their urgent tones mixing with the click-clack of keyboards and the rustle of paper. Every available surface was buried under promotional materials: glossy posters featuring swirling kaleidoscopes of colour, vendor contracts marked with sticky notes in a rainbow of hues, and stacks of artist riders that ranged from the reasonable (‘vegetarian catering’) to the absurd (‘seventeen white kittens and a trampoline’).

The walls acted as both scrapbook and mission statement—oversized photographs showed crowds of revellers lost in the music, their hands reaching towards stages where silhouetted performers commanded oceans of dancing bodies. Between the photos, corkboards bristled with pinned schedules, vendor maps, and security protocols, all connected by strings of yarn like a detective's blackboard. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with the faint sweetness of energy drinks and the lingering aroma of the Thai takeout containers that had sustained the team through yet another fourteen-hour day.

"Boss, we've got a problem with the sound engineering equipment for the North Stage," called Melissa, one of the production coordinators, not looking up from her laptop as she balanced a phone between her shoulder and ear. "The contractor says they’ll need an extra day for setup, which means we're behind schedule for the headliner's soundcheck."

"On it," came the reply from across the room, delivered in a voice that carried both authority and warmth. "Can we shift the acoustic sets to buy us time?"

The man who spoke moved between workstations with the easy confidence of someone who'd long ago learned that it was best to lead by example rather than instruction. Gone was the insecure teenager who worried about maintaining his jock reputation. In his place stood Troy Barnes at thirty-five, his body grounded, conditioned by the unpredictable rhythm of racing over logistical hurdles and grinding through late-night troubleshooting. His hair, once kept carefully short, had grown into a neat afro that framed his face perfectly and, most noticeably, a fresh moustache sat above his upper lip.

"Looking sharp as always, boss," grinned Marcus, a twenty-something intern carrying an armload of laminated backstage passes. "The moustache is definitely working for you."

Troy unconsciously touched his upper lip, a gesture that had become habit over the past few weeks. "Thanks, man. How are we doing with artist hospitality?"

"Priya's got it handled," Marcus replied, gesturing towards the far corner of the office where a young Indian woman sat behind a desk that somehow remained immaculate despite the surrounding chaos. Her long black hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she wore a crisp white blouse that looked as if it had just come off the hanger, seemingly untouched by the day’s demands.

Priya Sharma had been Troy's assistant for eight months now, and in that time she'd proven herself indispensable. She anticipated his needs before he voiced them, managed his calendar with surgical precision, and somehow made even the most difficult minor artists feel like they were her top priority. She was also, Troy had to admit to himself, distractingly beautiful and possessed of a dry sense of humour that could make him laugh even during the most stressful moments.

"The catering team emailed you asking for the final headcount to lock in the meals for the artists and crew. I’ve given them the numbers and updated the master file appropriately," Priya said as Troy approached her desk. Her voice was clear and purposeful and carried the easy-going but confident cadence of the Bay Area—firm without ever sounding harsh, the tone of a woman used to making things happen without raising her voice. She handed him a tablet displaying a colour-coded spreadsheet that somehow made sense of the logistical nightmare that was feeding three hundred artists, crew members, and VIP guests over a four-day period.

"You’re a lifesaver," Troy said, accepting the tablet and noting how his fingers briefly brushed hers during the exchange. He glanced down at the screen, then back up with a grateful smile. "What would I do without you?"

"Probably disappear under a tidal wave of unread emails," Priya replied with a playful smile. "Also, Jamie from security called—the perimeter fence installation is running ahead of schedule after I worked with him to reshuffle the staging plan."

"See? This is why you're the best," Troy said, meaning it. Their fingers brushed for a second time as he returned the tablet. "You’re actually... kind of amazing," he said, not quite meeting her eyes.

Priya looked up slowly. "Careful, Troy. You’ll make me expect compliments every day."

He smiled, small and genuine. "Maybe you should."

A flattered smile tugged at her lips, but the moment was quickly broken by her smartphone vibrating across her desk. She answered with the Pavlovian reflex of someone whose job demanded constant availability, already rising and heading for the door. She cast one last, unmistakeably warm, look back at Troy before stepping through into the lobby beyond.

He continued to stare at the doorway a beat too long until Jason from the talent liaison team appeared at his shoulder—trim and cheerful, clutching his clipboard as if it were a shield.

"Troy! Hey! Just wanted to say how incredible everything's looking this year. Like, I know you get told that a lot, but seriously—the vibe, the structure, the branding—genius. Pure genius," Jason said, matching Troy’s pace as they walked across the office.

"Thanks, buddy," Troy replied with a genuine smile. "It’s all a team effort, of course."

"Totally, totally! But vision starts at the top, right?" Jason grinned. "Oh! And, hey, I’ve been playing around with a few ideas for next year—I was thinking of a curated yoga sunrise series? My sister is a yoga instructor with a big following on Instagram—she’s been dying to get involved with something like this. Just thought if you ever wanted to grab coffee and brainstorm... or you know, just hang." He laughed a little too loud. "But I mean, who wouldn’t want to pick the brain of the guy behind all this?" He gestured to the photos lining the wall around them.

As Jason continued—still grinning, still pitching—a familiar doubt crept into Troy's mind. Was this genuine excitement, or an attempt at networking? Did his eager compliments stem from real admiration for the festival, or from a calculated desire to leverage Troy's position for his own and his family's benefit? The coffee invitation, the casual offer to ‘just hang’ out, the flattery—it all felt rehearsed, like a chess match masquerading as a casual conversation.

This uncertainty wasn't new. Ever since Pierce Hawthorne's will had transformed him from broke community college student to multimillionaire, Troy had found himself second-guessing every interaction, every friendship, every romantic possibility. The money was both a blessing and a curse—it enabled him to chase his dreams and give thousands of people joy through music and dance, but it also invited doubt into every interpersonal relationship—was he valued for who he was, or for what he was worth?

It was perhaps his life’s greatest irony that his proudest accomplishment had been sparked by a connection he would never question in this way. ‘Dance Pants Festival’ had its origins in a serendipitous conversation with Annie, who had travelled to the idyllic villa he had then called home in the US Virgin Islands as part of her honeymoon in 2019. He'd been feeling lost and purposeless despite his wealth. When she'd asked him what he really wanted to do with his life, the answer had surprised them both: he wanted to create something that brought people together, something that celebrated music and movement and the pure joy of being alive. Annie had listened to his rambling explanation of outdoor stages, diverse lineups and immersive art installations, and when he'd finished, she’d grinned playfully—like he’d unknowingly set up the punchline to a private joke. "You should call it Dance Pants," she’d suggested, swirling her glass of expensive wine without quite meeting his eye.

The name had been perfect—playful, memorable and not at all pretentious. When he'd raved about how perfect it was, Annie had quickly insisted he claim the idea as his own. "Don't tell anyone it came from me," she'd said with unusual intensity. "Especially not Abed. Promise me." He'd agreed, puzzled but trusting her intuition.

Six years later, Dance Pants had grown from a one-day event in Albany to a four-day festival that attracted artists and attendees from around the world to Randall’s Island Park. It didn't make much money—barely broke even most years—but that wasn't the point. The point was that singular moment when the music dropped and tens of thousands of people moved as one; it was watching a shy teenager discover their new favourite band, it was building a space where everyone—anyone—could belong.

"Troy, sorry to interrupt." Rebecca from marketing had appeared at his elbow, mercifully bringing Jason’s continuing rambling to an end. She paused, regarding her boss with the critical eye of someone paid to notice visual details. "You know, I was on the fence when you first told me you were going to grow a moustache, but now it’s grown in properly it looks good. Makes you look more distinguished… not that you didn’t look distinguished before, of course." She gave a sheepish chuckle, already regretting her phrasing. "Do you have some time to go through the latest social media engagement metrics and some last-minute sponsor asks?"

"Give me five minutes and I’ll be right with you," Troy said over his shoulder, already heading for the door. As it clicked shut behind him, he leaned against it, exhaling slowly, eyes drifting closed.

He let the noise of the office fade, giving himself a brief moment to decompress—just long enough to hear Priya’s voice floating from around the corner.

"No, Megan, I swear, I think he’s going to ask me out soon." Her voice glowed with a quiet joy that curled around Troy’s ribs and tightened. "He’s actually… really thoughtful? Like, weirdly intuitive. He notices things. And he’s funny, even when he’s buried in a production crisis."

There was a pause and Troy found himself frozen—keenly aware he was intruding, yet just as aware that walking straight back into the office mere seconds after excusing himself would make it look like he was losing the plot.

"And yeah, okay, he’s gorgeous. Like, the kind of good-looking that sneaks up on you. You don’t notice it at first because he’s always running around putting out fires."

A warm flush crept up his neck, equal parts pride and disbelief—for once, he could be confident someone genuinely liked him for who he was, rather than just seeing him as a walking wallet who happened to be decent company.

"Plus," Priya added, her tone suddenly lighter, "he’s insanely rich. Like, ‘accidentally bought a vineyard once’ kind of rich. That doesn’t hurt either."

She laughed, and it wasn't malicious—just casual and unguarded—but something cold settled in Troy's stomach.

He pushed himself back against the door, the warmth that had been building in his chest dissolving instantly. All those genuine compliments, all that excitement in her voice about his thoughtfulness and humour, suddenly felt tainted, faded beneath the echo of that last line. It all fed the same question he kept coming back to: Did people really see him, or only the money?

Priya’s voice lowered. "Anyway, Megan, I’ve gotta get back before people start thinking I’ve been kidnapped by the organisers of a rival festival. Speak soon. Bye."

A soft beep marked the call's end, but Troy remained rooted to the spot, paralysed by the echo of words that had stripped away his fleeting hope in an instant.

The soft whisper of approaching footsteps jolted him from his stupor—she would round the corner any second. Without thinking, he shot into the supply closet to his right, silently easing the door shut just before she came into view.

He held his breath as she passed mere inches from his hiding place, humming happily to herself despite her stressful day. The melody faded as she re-entered the office, leaving him alone in the stifling darkness with nothing but the weight of his own disillusionment.

In the suffocating quiet of the closet, Troy's mind drifted to the broader tapestry of his isolation. Nearly a decade had passed since he'd completed Pierce's elaborate circumnavigation—that strange, transformative odyssey that had been both gift and exile. In all the years since returning to solid ground, through festival launches and special projects, through fleeting romances and professional triumphs, he had never managed to recapture the feeling of profound connection that he'd once shared with his Greendale study group. Every relationship since felt somehow hollow by comparison, as if he were forever chasing the ghost of a bond that had shaped him in ways he was only now beginning to understand.

As if summoned by the weight of his longing, his phone chimed—the sound amplified and distorted in the confined space, breaking through his reverie like a lifeline thrown across the years. The sound was distinctive—the theme from Inspector Spacetime, a ringtone he'd never been able to bring himself to change despite how dated it made him feel. The screen's harsh glare highlighted every crease of concern on his face as he processed the words. The irony wasn't lost on him—this digital message sent from a distance of over a thousand miles felt more real than any in-person conversation he'd had that day in his own carefully constructed corporate empire.

Chapter Text

A sleek black Lexus UX 300e slid through the darkened streets in electrically-powered silence. Its presence was a quiet promise in the night, moving with the smooth precision of someone who never settled for second best. Inside, manicured fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against the leather steering wheel, the motion revealing the gleam of an expensive Swiss watch that caught the dashboard's soft illumination. Every detail of the driver's appearance spoke of someone who understood that success was measured not just in achievements, but in how those achievements were presented to the world.

Without warning, a battered red taxi cut in front without signalling and stopped abruptly for a red light, forcing the Lexus to brake sharply. Its driver's hand slammed forcefully against the horn, the sound cutting through the night air like an accusation.

"Are you kidding me?" The yell was sharp with frustration and fatigue. "You shouldn't have a license! Maybe try reading the Driver's Manual before you get behind the wheel!"

The sudden stop had sent an expensive leather briefcase sliding from the passenger seat into the footwell, spilling its contents across the floor mat. Evidence photographs and court documents scattered like fallen leaves, their embossed headers and formal seals glinting in the dim light.

"Shit," came the muttered curse as the driver ducked down to gather the papers, shoving them back inside with more haste than care.

The light turned green, and the Lexus resumed its journey through the familiar geography of power—past the imposing facades of buildings where important people toiled away, beyond the carefully manicured parks that bordered the river, through streets where every corner held the weight of consequence.

At the next intersection, the taxi sailed through just before the light flicked red.

"Unbelievable," came a frustrated murmur as white knuckles gradually loosened their death grip on the wheel. A hand slipped into the centre console, extracting a couple of pieces of peppermint gum and pressing them clumsily into a tense mouth—a healthier coping mechanism than the little orange bottles that had defined her senior year of high school.

As the light held her captive, Annie's mind drifted back through the punishing fourteen-hour workday that had begun in darkness and would end the same way.

The day had started at 5:47 AM—she remembered the exact time because she'd stared at her phone's glowing display for several minutes before forcing herself out of bed. By 6:30, she was already navigating the sparse pre-dawn traffic towards the J. Edgar Hoover Building, watching as Washington, D.C. slowly woke up around her.

The morning briefing had started promptly at seven. Annie took her seat at the polished conference table as Deputy Assistant Director Richardson opened with the usual pleasantries before diving into the week's priorities.

"Before we begin," Richardson said, his tired smile reflecting thirty years of federal service as he glanced up from his tablet, "a brief update on our leadership's grand plan to evacuate this increasingly fragile building." He nodded towards the window, where protective netting had been strung to catch crumbling concrete from the deteriorating facade before it fell onto the heads of unfortunate pedestrians. "Current timeline sits at four to ten months, assuming we can agree on where exactly we're going."

Annie felt her stomach clench as he continued.

"I’ve heard on the grapevine that the current frontrunner appears to be Huntsville, Alabama. The Marshall Space Flight Centre has offered us substantial square footage, and the cost savings would be significant."

Huntsville. Annie tried to imagine herself in Alabama—the humidity, the politics, the cultural wasteland that stretched between strip malls and megachurches. The thought made her reach for her coffee with trembling hands.

"Now, onto today's agenda," Richardson continued, oblivious to Annie's internal horror. "I believe our Unit Chief has an update on the forensic backlog initiative?"

Annie straightened in her chair, pushing thoughts of Confederate monuments and sweet tea from her mind. "Yes, sir. As of Monday's count, we've achieved a thirty-seven percent reduction in the DNA analysis backlog over the past quarter. The integration of the new IT system along with the revised SOPs that my team issued has improved performance well beyond expectations."

The room murmured approval, and Annie felt that familiar flicker of professional satisfaction—brief, hollow, but present nonetheless.

The memory dissolved under the sharp blare of a horn behind her. The light had turned green, but Annie had been lost in thought. After a sharp breath, she accelerated, but her mind immediately returned to the day's events.

Her performance appraisal meeting with Section Chief Morrison had been scheduled for 10:30. Annie spent the preceding thirty minutes reviewing her notes and accomplishments from the last couple of months before heading up to Morrison's corner office on the seventh floor which offered a view of Pennsylvania Avenue. While waiting for her boss to finish a phone call, Annie found herself staring out at the morning commuters going about their day.

"Sorry about that," Morrison said, hanging up and settling behind his desk. "Some runt from the Congressional Oversight Committee. They want to know how we're spending every damn penny." He opened her file with the efficient movements of a man who'd conducted hundreds of these evaluations. "But let's talk about more pleasant things. Your work this quarter really has been outstanding, Annie. The backlog reduction initiative alone has saved us millions in overtime costs."

Annie nodded, accepting the praise with the practiced humility of someone who'd learned to navigate professional hierarchies. "Thank you, sir. The team has been incredibly dedicated."

"Don't deflect," Morrison said with a slight smile. "Leadership matters, and you've shown exceptional leadership. Nine months since your promotion and efficiency metrics are the best we've seen in a decade, despite the chaos everywhere else. Hell, at this rate, you'll be sitting in my chair soon enough. You’ve been doing a great job." His expression softened slightly. "I know this has been a challenging period for you personally… but you've maintained your focus and professionalism throughout. We really need leaders like you. Especially with all this uncertainty about our future location."

Annie felt heat rise in her cheeks despite Morrison's obvious well-meaning sympathy. However gently delivered, his words landed like a quiet indictment—a reminder that her personal failures were visible even here, in the one place where she felt competent.

"Speaking of which," Morrison continued, settling back into safer conversational territory, "I had lunch with Deputy Director Chen yesterday. She's heard talk of Oklahoma City. Apparently, the Governor down there is rolling out the red carpet, promising tax incentives and a brand-new facility."

Oklahoma City. Annie tried to picture herself navigating the social complexities of deep red America, attending Bureau events where colleagues' spouses discussed Second Amendment rights and prosperity gospel with equal religious fervour. The image made her feel slightly nauseated.

"Of course," Morrison added, "knowing how these things go, we'll probably end up somewhere completely different. Maybe Tulsa or Wichita. The bean counters love those Midwest cost-of-living numbers."

Yet another red light brought Annie's progress to a halt, the traffic signals apparently in league with her racing thoughts. Unable to escape either the gridlock or her own mind, she found herself replaying the video conference that had started her afternoon.

The call with Detroit and Phoenix had been scheduled for 12:15, and Annie had spent the twenty-minute gap between meetings reviewing the new evidence protocols she'd developed. The call itself had gone smoothly—both field offices were eager to implement her suggestions, and she’d fielded their questions with the kind of technical expertise that had made her reputation.

"This is perfect, Annie," Agent Martinez in Phoenix replied. "This is going to save us hours every week."

After the call, Annie felt a brief surge of professional pride, quickly followed by the now-familiar emptiness. She was good at her job—exceptional, even—but the satisfaction felt increasingly artificial, like receiving accolades for a meticulously rehearsed act instead of genuine appreciation for who she truly was.

The light changed, and Annie continued through the darkened streets, her mind jumping to the afternoon's events.

Lunch had been a working meal with Agent Kowalski from the Cyber Division and Special Agent Reynolds from Behavioural Analysis. They’d gathered in the building's cramped cafeteria to discuss cross-departmental collaboration on digital forensics. The conversation had been pleasant enough until Reynolds had steered it toward the relocation rumours.

"I heard from a guy in Admin that they're looking at Fayetteville, Arkansas now," Reynolds said between bites of his turkey sandwich. "Apparently, the University of Arkansas has offered to partner with us on a new training facility."

Annie nearly choked on her salad. Arkansas. She mentally catalogued everything she knew about the state: Walmart headquarters, the Razorbacks, and a political landscape that made her skin crawl. Even the thought of explaining to her dwindling circle of D.C. acquaintances that she was being exiled to the land of Trump flags, confederate memorabilia and recreational incest made her shudder with embarrassment.

"Actually," Kowalski interjected, "my buddy in Facilities Management tells me Greensboro, North Carolina is a dark horse. Something about proximity to the Research Triangle."

Each new possibility felt like another step away from civilization—so she excused herself early, claiming a 1:30 meeting that didn't actually exist.

The traffic was lighter now as Annie navigated through Arlington, but her mind remained fixed on the afternoon's most frustrating encounter.

The forensic technology briefing at 3:00 PM had been going well until Agent Brad Hutchins had arrived fifteen minutes late, coffee in hand and his usual self-satisfied smirk firmly in place. Hutchins was the kind of colleague who made Annie question her faith in federal hiring practices—a thirty-something from Oklahoma who treated every meeting like a campaign rally for whatever conservative talking point was trending that week.

"Sorry I'm late," Hutchins announced, dropping into his chair with his usual flair. "Had to take a call from my buddy at the DHS. This new strategy of picking up illegals at courthouses and ICE check-ins is apparently working like a charm—there’s no more hiding in ‘safe spaces’. Just last week, they nabbed some guy who showed up for his regular ICE appointment. Imagine that—he actually thought following the rules would protect him. About time we finally stopped treating lawbreakers with kid gloves."

Annie opened her mouth to resume her presentation on the new DNA analysis software, doing her best to ignore the rude interruption, but Hutchins plunged back into his monologue before she could get a word out.

He squinted at her PowerPoint slide titled ‘System Upgrades’ with apparent confusion. "Speaking of upgrades, it’ll be good when this relocation thing is finally over and we’re out of this liberal bubble," he said to no one in particular. "I mean, D.C. is great if you like paying fifteen dollars for a sandwich and getting lectured about climate change by your barista, but the rest of us are ready for some real America."

The room fell into an awkward silence, and Annie found herself thinking back to her run-in earlier that year with Chadwick—a well-connected young officer with an uncle on the Senate Intelligence Committee. After she'd challenged Chadwick's assertion that "certain ethnic groups just have a natural tendency toward crime," Richardson had pulled her aside with obvious discomfort, his expression betraying both sympathy and frustration. "Annie, you're absolutely right to call that out," he'd said quietly, "but Chadwick has... certain protections. Just tread carefully, okay?" Chadwick had eventually been terminated for using Bureau surveillance tools to stalk an ex-girlfriend, though not before they’d all had to endure a further three months of his toxic presence. Annie steadied her breathing and returned her attention to her notes, refusing to provide Hutchins with the provocative response he so transparently sought.

"I'm particularly excited about the Tupelo, Mississippi option," Hutchins continued, warming to his theme. "Great cost of living, traditional values, and let's be honest—it's about time the Bureau got out of this ivory tower and into communities that actually respect law enforcement."

Annie cleared her throat pointedly, attempting to reclaim control of her own briefing, but Hutchins either didn't notice or didn't care.

"And speaking of cleaning house," he continued seamlessly, "I'm loving what Kash Patel's doing now that he's in charge. The guy's actually draining the swamp for real this time. Clean house, get rid of all the deep state nonsense, restore some integrity to this place."

Annie felt her plastic purple pen crack under the pressure of her grip. The idea of working under Patel—a Trump loyalist whose primary qualification seemed to be unwavering fealty to conspiracy theories—made her feel physically ill. She eventually managed to redirect the conversation back to DNA analysis protocols, but Hutchins' enthusiasm for authoritarian restructuring still lingered in the air like a toxic fog.

"Anyway," Hutchins said as the meeting concluded, "wherever we move, I'm just glad we're finally getting out of this cesspool. Hopefully we can finally prioritise qualifications over political correctness."

The comment struck Annie as particularly rich coming from someone whose investigative reports regularly contained spelling errors and whose understanding of the law seemed limited to what he'd learned from talk radio.

Annie finally turned off the main road and into the quiet sprawl of her neighbourhood. As she pulled onto the winding side street, she pressed the accelerator with more force than necessary, as if speed might shake away the frustrations of the day.

The late-night meeting with the chief of staff had been the day's capstone—a discussion about expanding the forensic training programs that Annie had been developing over the past eight months. Mr. Williams had arrived twenty minutes late, apologising profusely while juggling three different phones and a stack of briefing papers that seemed to multiply every time Annie looked at them. Despite his obvious exhaustion, he was genuinely enthusiastic about her proposals, particularly the ambitious plan to create five regional training centres that would standardise forensic procedures across the entire Bureau.

"This is exactly the kind of forward-thinking initiative we need," Williams said, after studying Annie's meticulously prepared charts and cost-benefit analyses. His reading glasses slipped down his nose as he studied her projections for equipment costs, staffing requirements, and projected training throughput. "The cost projections are reasonable, the timeline is realistic, and the potential impact is significant. Hell, this could revolutionise how we handle evidence processing nationwide." He looked up at her with genuine respect. "I'm recommending immediate approval and fast-tracking this through the budget committee."

It should have been the day's triumph—a major program approval that would affect forensic training nationwide. Instead, Annie felt only a dull sense of obligation fulfilled.

Now, sitting in her driveway with the engine off, she felt the full weight of the day's accumulated successes and disappointments. Every meeting had been a professional victory, every interaction a testament to her competence and value to the organisation. Yet somehow, the sum total felt like nothing more than an elaborate exercise in going through the motions.

Her neighbourhood was quiet, conventional, precisely the kind of place where successful government employees lived when they wanted something more than a cramped D.C. apartment but couldn't quite afford Georgetown. For several more minutes she remained in the car staring blankly at the dark windows of the modest colonial house that was supposed to be home before finally summoning the energy to move.

She gathered her briefcase and stepped out into the cool evening air, the car door closing with a soft thud that seemed unnaturally loud in the late suburban quiet.

Annie sighed, trudging up the walkway before sliding her key into the front door’s lock. But she paused, sensing something just out of place. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the mailbox—overflowing with envelopes, some already beginning to cascade toward the welcome mat. She hadn’t checked the mail in over a week. If she didn’t clear it soon, the postal service would probably assume the house was vacant and stop delivering altogether.

Suppressing another tired sigh, she turned from the door and began pulling out fistfuls of paper. Bills, advertising circulars, government notices—the relentless detritus of a life that continued to accumulate even when the person living it had stopped paying attention.

Inside, the house felt more like a museum exhibit than a home. Bare walls marked where photographs had once hung, their absence creating ghostly rectangles of cleaner paint. The living room, once carefully arranged to project domestic happiness, now felt hollow and echoing. Despite—or perhaps because of—this emptiness, disorder had crept in everywhere else. Trash bags sat by the back door, never quite making it to the curb. Laundry languished in the washing machine, probably sour by now. And the kitchen sink overflowed with dishes from meals that barely counted as cooking.

Annie dropped her briefcase where she stood and shuffled to the freezer, extracting a chicken alfredo that promised to be ready in four minutes. The microwave hummed to life, its mechanical countdown the only sound in the silent house.

While she waited, she began sorting through the mail with the methodical precision that made her so effective at work. A credit card offer went to the floor without consideration. A furniture catalogue followed. The third envelope, however, made her pause. It bore the letterhead of Whitmore & Associates, Family Law Practice.

Annie's hands trembled slightly as she tore open the envelope. The papers inside were official, stamped, clinical. She'd been expecting them for weeks, yet seeing it all in black and white still felt like a physical blow.

The microwave pinged insistently, but Annie no longer cared about her sad dinner. Her hunger had evaporated, replaced by a familiar tightness behind her eyebrows—the warning sign of another tension headache. She hadn't suffered from them since she was a high school senior, but they'd returned with increasing frequency over the past few months, unwelcome visitors marking the stress that her carefully controlled exterior refused to acknowledge.

She retrieved an ice pack from the freezer and made her way to the couch, settling into cushions that still bore the imprint of where she'd slept the previous night. The cold against her forehead provided momentary relief, and she let her eyes drift closed, trying to will away the pain that seemed to emanate from somewhere deeper than her skull.

In the darkness behind her eyelids, Annie tried to remember the last time she'd felt genuinely happy. Not professionally satisfied or temporarily pleased, but truly, deeply content. The answer was troubling in its distance.

The silence stretched on, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the gentle rhythm of her breathing. Then, slicing through the stillness like a knife, came the sharp chime of her phone from deep within her briefcase. Even muffled by leather and fabric, the sound reverberated through the hollow spaces of the house, carrying the weight of connection with a world she’d largely left behind.

Chapter Text

The living room had the worn-in comfort of a space that had weathered both joy and sorrow without complaint. A navy-blue sofa, its arms softened by years of use, faced a coffee table bearing the honourable scars of daily life—water rings, coffee stains, and the fine scratches from keys tossed carelessly at the end of long days. The walls, painted in a warm beige that had probably seemed sophisticated once upon a time, now felt more like a backdrop that had learned not to compete with the life happening in front of it. Nothing matched perfectly, but everything belonged—the accumulated choices of someone who had stopped worrying about impressing visitors and started focusing on what actually felt like home.

Across the large dining table, papers were spread in organised chaos—essays fanned out like an oversized deck of cards. The reviewer moved methodically through them, posture relaxed but focused as he moved from page to page. Occasionally, he would pause, red pen hovering over a particularly awkward sentence before making a careful correction or adding an encouraging comment in the margin. A small tick here, a gentle suggestion there—the markings of someone who had learned that teaching was as much about building confidence as correcting mistakes.

Yawning, he pulled the next essay closer, his eyes catching on the title before it had even come to rest: ‘The Role of Community Colleges in Modern American Education’. The irony wasn't lost on Jeff. He rubbed his thumb absently over the small logo of Greendale Community College in the top left corner—the same one he and the rest of the study group had submitted as a joke fifteen years ago, laughter echoing around the table as everyone dissolved into childish giggles, save for Annie, who had sat stiffly with her arms crossed wearing a look of principled reproach. It seemed an impossibly long time ago, like a different world.

Why was he even bothering? The thought surfaced unbidden, and Jeff pushed it away with the same careful control he used whenever uncomfortable truths threatened to derail his focus. He had a job to do, standards to maintain, students who deserved feedback on their work.

Then—a soft thud sounded from upstairs. Jeff paused, pen mid-stroke. Another faint sound followed: a barely audible shuffle, like something—or someone—moving around trying to keep quiet.

He set the pen down and rose quietly, each footstep measured as he climbed the stairs. The house was still, the only noise the small creak of the floorboards beneath him. He reached the hallway and hesitated outside a closed door, hand hovering over the knob. Slowly, carefully, he turned and eased it open, finding himself face to face with the culprit.

"Buddy," he said, exhaling with affectionate exasperation, "I thought we’d agreed it was time for sleep."

Sebastian was seated cross-legged in the middle of his bedroom floor, dressed in his Spiderman pyjamas, entirely absorbed in a colouring book. Crayons were scattered around him like rainbow shrapnel, and his tongue stuck out slightly in concentration as he filled in the outline of what appeared to be a castle.

He glanced up quickly, his face cycling through surprise, guilt, and then settling on the overly cheerful expression of someone who knew they’d been caught red-handed. "Daddy! Hi! I was just—look at my castle! Do you think the towers should be blue or purple? It's a really important decision!" The words tumbled out in a rush, as if keeping Jeff focused on the artwork might make him forget about bedtime entirely.

Jeff crouched down beside his son, deciding to play along with the charade. He studied the page with the seriousness the question deserved. "Hmm, that's a very tough choice," he said thoughtfully, stroking his chin in mock consideration. "What do you think?"

"Well," Sebastian said, frowning thoughtfully, "purple is my favourite colour, but blue might look more... more..."

"Realistic?"

"Yeah! Realistic."

"You know what I think?" Jeff said, settling fully onto the floor. "I think this is a magic castle, so it can be whatever colour makes you happy. Purple towers with blue windows, maybe?"

Sebastian's face lit up with the kind of pure joy that only six-year-olds could manage. "That's perfect! You're really smart, Daddy."

The simple praise hit Jeff harder than it should have. He ruffled Sebastian's hair—so much like his own—and stood up. "You can finish colouring in tomorrow, okay? But now we really do need to get you ready for sleep. I'll sort out these crayons while you get settled."

As Sebastian scrambled to his feet, Jeff began gathering up the crayons. The domestic routine felt both familiar and precious—these quiet moments that made up the fabric of their evening ritual.

"Daddy?" came Sebastian's voice from beneath the covers. "Will you read me a story?"

"Of course," Jeff said, dropping the crayons into their plastic container. "What would you like to hear tonight?"

"You pick. But you have to do the voices," he insisted.

Jeff smiled. Sebastian loved it when he did character voices during story time—the more ridiculous, the better. He scanned the bookshelf beside the bed, but nothing caught his interest. Then his eyes drifted to the half-coloured castle on the floor, and a new idea began to form. Maybe tonight called for a story of his own. "How about 'The End of the Kingdom'?"

"I don't know that one," Sebastian said, pulling his covers up to his chin.

"It's about a magical kingdom that's been around for a very long time," Jeff began, settling into the chair beside the bed. He cleared his throat theatrically, settling into his storytelling voice. "Once upon a time, in a magical kingdom called… Greenwood, there lived the most unusual court that had ever been assembled."

"What made them unusual, Daddy?" Sebastian pressed, snuggling closer.

"Well," Jeff said, shifting to a theatrical, booming voice, "first there was King Craigorious the Dramatic, who loved nothing more than elaborate costumes and grand announcements. He would declare festivals for the tiniest celebrations—" Jeff threw his arms wide. "'Citizens of Greenwood! Today we honour the discovery of a particularly shiny pebble!' he would proclaim, while sporting a hat shaped like a dalmatian."

Sebastian giggled. "That's silly!"

"Very silly," Jeff agreed. "But the King had a secret power—whenever lost souls wandered to his kingdom, somehow they always found exactly what they needed, even if he had no idea what he was doing.

"Now, the King ruled with Queen Francina the Sensible," Jeff continued in a crisp, no-nonsense tone. "'Your Majesty, we cannot have a festival for a shiny pebble. We don't have the budget for sequined capes.' She spent most of her time cleaning up the King's messes, but secretly, she loved how the kingdom's misfits made everything more colourful."

Jeff's voice shifted again, taking on his own cadence but with heroic flair. "In this kingdom also lived Sir Joffrey the Silver-Tongued, a knight who thought he was too cool for friends. 'I work alone,' he would say, polishing his very expensive armour. But the kingdom had a way of teaching even the proudest knights that some battles can't be won without help."

"Were there any others?" Sebastian asked eagerly.

"Ah yes!" Jeff said, his voice becoming rough and passionate. "There was Brinna the Revolutionary—'Down with the monarchy! Wait, I mean, up with... justice! Or something!' She meant well, but she had a tendency to trip over her own sword."

Sebastian laughed as Jeff shifted to a precise, eager tone. "Lady Annabeth the Scholar carried scrolls everywhere—color-coded, of course. 'Excuse me, Sir Joffrey, but according to section four-point-seven of the Knight's Handbook, you're holding your sword completely wrong!' She knew every rule in the kingdom, but she eventually learnt that rules should serve people, not the other way around."

Jeff's voice became contemplative and measured. "The court Storyteller, Master Abenazer, saw everything as a grand tale. 'This reminds me of the epic of Sir Galahad,' he would say, which confused everyone except somehow it always made perfect sense."

"Then there was Prince Trenston the Pure of Heart," Jeff continued, his voice bright and innocent. "'Wait, we get to ride horses AND have swords? This is literally the coolest thing ever!' He had left the kingdom to sail the world, but his laughter still echoed through the castle halls."

"And finally," Jeff said warmly, "Shelby the Baker, whose kitchen was the true heart of the kingdom. 'Now, you all sit down and eat something. You're too skinny, Sir Joffrey, and Brinna honey, revolution is hungry work.' She fed everyone's body and soul, but she was learning to feed her own dreams too."

"Did they go on adventures?" Sebastian wondered.

"Oh, the greatest adventures," Jeff said. "They battled paint monsters and survived blanket fort wars. They faced down evil pottery spirits and zombie outbreaks—"

"Real zombies?" Sebastian's eyes went wide.

"The very worst kind—zombie custodians with enchanted mops," Jeff said seriously, making Sebastian giggle. "But through every adventure, they discovered something magical: they weren't just random people thrown together by chance. They were a family."

Jeff's voice grew softer, more reflective. "But then one day, the magical kingdom began to crumble. Not because of any evil spell or wicked witch, but simply because... even the most wonderful times have come to an end."

"What happened to them?" Sebastian asked quietly.

"Well," Jeff said gently, "King Craigorious called them all together one last time. 'My dear, strange, wonderful subjects,' he announced, probably while wearing a hat shaped like a castle, 'our kingdom must close its gates. But fear not! For the magic was never in these walls—it was in your hearts all along!'"

Jeff paused, his voice taking on the weight of truth. "And you know what they realised? Queen Francina was right to value their chaos. Sir Joffrey learned that being strong meant staying connected to the people who mattered. Brinna discovered that the best revolutions happen one friendship at a time. Lady Annabeth understood that some lessons can't be found in books. Master Abenazer saw that the most important story was the one he'd lived with his friends. Prince Trenston knew that distance couldn't break the bonds they'd forged. And Shelby the Baker... well, she made sure everyone had enough cookies for the journey ahead."

"So they all left?" Sebastian asked, a little sadly.

"They did," Jeff said softly. "But here's the secret, buddy—they took the kingdom with them. Every time Sir Joffrey helped someone in need, the kingdom lived on. When Brinna fought for what was right, when Lady Annabeth chose kindness over rules, when any of them remembered what they'd learned about friendship and courage and belonging... the kingdom was still there. The real magic wasn't in the kingdom itself—it was in the bonds they'd formed with each other. So even though they had to leave their special place, they took the most important part with them."

Jeff tucked the covers around his son. "Because home isn't really a place, Seb. It's the people who love you, and the love you carry with you wherever you go."

"Like how Mommy is still with us?" Sebastian asked.

"Exactly like that," Jeff whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "The very best kingdoms never really end. They just... live on in different ways."

"I think about her sometimes," Sebastian said quietly.

"So do I," Jeff replied, his throat tightening. "Every day."

Sebastian was quiet for a moment, brow furrowed in thought the way it always did when he was trying to work something out. "Is that why you sometimes look sad when you think I’m not looking?"

The question caught Jeff off guard, and he felt his chest tighten. Six-year-olds saw everything, absorbed emotional undercurrents like sponges even when adults thought they were hiding their feelings perfectly.

"Grown-ups get sad sometimes too, especially when someone they love isn’t here anymore. But do you know what helps?"

Sebastian shook his head.

"Being thankful for all the good things I still have. Like bedtime stories..." Jeff reached over and tucked the blanket more snugly around his son’s shoulders. "...with my favourite person in the whole world."

Sebastian giggled, the sound bright and infectious. "I'm your favourite person?"

"Without question," Jeff said solemnly. "Top of the list. Number one!"

"What about Mommy?"

The question came so naturally—so simply—that for a moment Jeff forgot to breathe. Mandy's name no longer drew tears from Sebastian the way it had in that first aching year. Now, it came with curiosity, with quiet reverence, as if he were reaching for something beautiful he didn’t want to forget.

"Mommy will always be special in a different way," Jeff said, his voice steady despite the familiar ache in his chest. "She's part of who we are, you and me. Every time you laugh the way she used to, or when you scrunch your nose when you're thinking hard... she's right there with us."

"I miss her," Sebastian said quietly.

"I miss her too," Jeff replied, leaning down to press a kiss to his son's forehead. "I always will."

Sebastian's eyes were already growing heavy, and Jeff could see sleep beginning to claim him. He stood quietly, turning off the main light and switching on the small nightlight that cast gentle stars across the ceiling—another one of Mandy's ideas that had become an essential part of their routine.

"Good night, Seb," he whispered.

"G'night, Dad," came the sleepy reply.

Jeff pulled the door mostly closed, leaving it cracked just enough to let in a sliver of hallway light, and made his way back downstairs.

The essays still waited in their quiet sprawl across the dining table. He picked up his pen, then paused, his eyes drifting to the framed photograph on the side table—a redhead with warm eyes and a smile that could light up a room, caught mid-laugh at some long-forgotten joke. Mandy had always teased him about his grading rituals, the way he'd spread papers across every available surface like he was conducting some elaborate academic séance.

"You know he’s just going to throw that essay away the minute he gets it back," she'd once joked, watching him labour over detailed comments on a particularly weak paper.

"That's not the point," he'd replied, not looking up from his work.

"Then what is the point?"

He'd never given her a satisfactory answer, and now he wondered if there really was one.

He set down his pen and rose from the table, drawn toward his phone as if by some invisible thread connecting past to present. The device lay waiting on the coffee table, its dark screen reflecting the room's soft lighting like a mirror. He picked it up and began scrolling through his messages, echoes of his bedtime story still lingering in his mind—kingdoms that endured through connection, bonds that transcended distance and time. Eventually, he reached the thread he’d been looking for. He stared at the screen for a long moment, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he began to type.

Chapter Text

Most Community College Spanish 101 study groups probably didn't still keep in contact sixteen years after formation, especially when their members were scattered across the continental United States: Colorado, California, Georgia, Washington D.C., and New York. The logistics alone should have made sustained friendship impossible—different time zones, divergent life paths, the natural entropy that tends to pull people apart as they age into their own responsibilities and obligations.

Yet somehow, against all reasonable expectation, their friendships had endured.

Save for the sombre occasion of Mandy's funeral, the six of them hadn’t all been together in one place since their pilgrimage to Atlanta for Shirley's fiftieth birthday three years prior—with Abed characteristically offering a detailed analysis of how their group dynamic had evolved since their Greendale days, while Troy kept declaring that the city felt "weirdly familiar" and vaguely referencing how he "could really see myself living here".

However, even when physically apart, they never truly lost contact. The group chat endured, and every so often, a Dungeons & Dragons game would be arranged over Zoom—Troy would always insist on composing a theme song for his character while Annie examined impeccably organised character sheets that made everyone else's scribbled notes look like afterthoughts.

Jeff and Britta, still anchored in the Greendale area, had settled into the comfortable closeness of parents whose lives naturally intertwined. Their children had attended the same kindergarten until Sebastian's recent transition to elementary school, creating a network of shared carpools, emergency babysitting, and the kind of mutual dependence that made them each other's first call in a crisis. It was a friendship stripped of performance—Jeff no longer needed to project effortless cool, and Britta had learned that revolution could wait until after the kids were in bed.

Despite the tyranny of distance, the remaining four still found ways to connect—visits might have been less frequent than they would have liked, but they remained regular enough to keep the threads of friendship from fraying. It was virtually unheard of for any one of them to go a full year without seeing at least one other member of their unlikely family.

Given this sustained connection, posts in the group chat were hardly unexpected, even if Jeff was one of the less frequent contributors. Generally, he preferred to lurk, occasionally dropping in with a dry observation or a perfectly timed reaction GIF, but rarely initiating conversations himself.

That's what made his unprompted message so jarring.

No preamble, no context—just five words and an attachment that would change everything.

Jeff: So… I have some news.

The image that followed was a masterpiece of administrative incompetence: grotesquely formatted in Comic Sans, with jaundiced yellow text barely legible against a stark white background, and the entire document was tilted slightly—clearly the result of having been inexplicably printed and scanned back in.

NOTICE TO ALL STUDENTS, FACULTY, AND STAFF

I regret to inform you that due to the new administration’s proposed $12 billion funding cut to the Department of Education, the School Board has been left no other choice than to permanently close Greendale Community College. The institution will cease operations on the last working day of this month.

All current students will receive transcripts and assistance with transfer arrangements. Faculty and staff will receive termination packages in accordance with their contracts.

To commemorate our institution's legacy, Dean Craig Pelton cordially invites all current and former students to participate in a campus-wide treasure hunt on the final Friday of this month, beginning at 10:00 AM. WE'RE GOING OUT WITH A BANG!

Thank you for being part of the Greendale family.

Despite the telltale blue ticks indicating all five had read the message almost instantly, the chat remained frozen for several long minutes—the digital equivalent of stunned silence as five phones across three time zones delivered the same sad news to their owners.

Shirley was the first to find her voice, her words arriving with the maternal tenderness that made her the group’s emotional anchor.

Shirley: Oh honey, I'm so sorry! Are you doing okay? What will you do for work? 😢💔

Britta: This is exactly what I said would happen under Trump. The systematic destruction of public education to benefit the wealthy elite. I'm so angry I could scream.

Britta: I won’t though. Wouldn’t want to wake the twins up just after they’ve got off to sleep.

Britta: Oh, and Jeff, I'm really sorry about your job. Let me know if you need anything? 🍆

Britta: Ugh, why do they put the eggplant emoji next to the hug one? 🤦‍♀️🔫

Abed: This feels like the series finale of a show that got cancelled too early. Abrupt closure, hasty explanation, one last hurrah for the fans. Very 'Firefly'. But sometimes cancellation leads to better opportunities, Jeff. Look at what happened to 'Lucifer'—cancelled by Fox, but picked up by Netflix and became even better.

Troy: Dude, that SUCKS! Hope you’re doing ok. But also... treasure hunt? That sounds kind of awesome? 😎🏴‍☠️💰I’ve had enough of real pirates for a lifetime, but knowing the Dean, it'll probably be more 'Pirates of Penzance' than 'Captain Phillips', so we're good!

Jeff: Thanks, everyone. I'm doing fine, actually. Was probably time for a change anyway. Everything ends eventually. I should probably be grateful it lasted as long as it did. Didn't mean to suggest you should actually come to this thing—just thought you should know the old place is finally biting the dust.

Shirley: Are you kidding? Of course we're coming! When else are we all going to be together at Greendale again?

Troy: YES! Getting the band back together! 🎸🥳🎉

Troy: It'll be nice to just have a normal weekend without anyone trying to pitch me their neighbor's dentist's college roommate's kid's startup idea.

Troy: If we were ever normal 😂

Britta: I’m definitely not missing it!

Abed: The narrative symmetry is too perfect to ignore. Our story began at Greendale. It’s only right that we all be there to say goodbye to the place. Besides, it'll be good to get back to ensemble storytelling.

Jeff: You realise this treasure hunt will probably be terrible, right? Craig's idea of "going out with a bang" probably involves costumes and/or elaborate musical numbers.

Shirley: Even if it's terrible, it's a good excuse to all get together again.

Troy: Plus, treasure hunt! I mean, come on, how bad could it be? 🤷‍♂️

Abed: Troy's optimism is both endearing and statistically unlikely to be rewarded, but I'm in.

The messages continued to flow—debates about whether the treasure hunt would be genuinely fun or deeply embarrassing, speculation about what costumes the Dean might wear, and Troy's increasingly detailed theories about the actual monetary value of any potential treasure. The familiar rhythm of their digital conversation felt comforting, like slipping on a set of well-worn slippers.

But something was missing.

Britta: Wait, where's Annie? She's usually the first to respond to group messages.

Troy: Yeah. This conversation hasn’t had nearly enough smileys.

Shirley: Annie? Everything okay, sweetie?

Jeff: She's probably in a meeting. You know how her job is.

Abed: Or caught up in some elaborate color-coding system for her weekend plans.

More messages appeared, growing slightly more concerned as the minutes ticked by without response. Annie was notorious for her lightning-fast responses to group messages, usually arriving with grammatically flawless prose and thoughtfully chosen emojis.

Britta: Annie????

Troy: ANNIE EDISON WHERE ARE YOU? 🔍👀

Shirley: @Annie

Across the country, in a darkened living room that felt more like a museum than a home, Annie sat curled on her couch, phone in hand, watching the messages multiply on her screen. Each notification lit up her face briefly before fading back into shadow, creating a rhythm of light and darkness that matched the uncertainty churning in her chest.

She'd now read Jeff's announcement more times than she could count, each reading somehow making it feel both more real and more surreal. Greendale was closing. The place where she'd discovered who she was beyond her academic achievements, where she'd learned that friendship could be messy and complicated and still precious—that place was disappearing.

The others' responses felt distant, like watching a movie through frosted glass. Their easy affection for each other, their immediate willingness to travel across the country, their assumption that she would naturally want to participate—all of it highlighted how far she'd drifted from the person she used to be.

She started typing several times before deleting each attempt. First came the professional excuse—a fabricated workplace crisis requiring all her attention over the next few weeks. Her finger hovered over send before retreating to the backspace key. Then a family event, something vague about a fictional cousin’s graduation ceremony she'd promised to attend. Delete. Finally, a personal matter too complicated to explain over text. Each lie dissolved the moment she examined it, the blinking cursor serving as both judge and executioner as she erased lie after lie.

How could she explain that the thought of seeing them all together made her feel both desperately homesick and profoundly anxious? That she wasn't sure she remembered how to be the Annie they knew—the one who approached every challenge with painstaking plans and unwavering optimism?

Her phone buzzed again. Shirley's tag had triggered a separate notification, impossible to ignore.

Annie stared at the screen for another long moment, then began typing with careful deliberation.

Annie: I'm very sorry to hear about Greendale's closure, Jeff. I know how much the school meant to you, and I hope your transition goes smoothly. I plan to attend the treasure hunt.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself, then immediately felt a pang of regret. The message was so formal, so unlike her usual style. No emojis, no exclamation points, no effusive expressions of sympathy for Jeff’s situation or excitement over their reunion. She sounded like she was responding to a LinkedIn connection request.

But before she could craft a follow-up message to soften the tone, Troy's response exploded across her screen.

Troy: YESSSSS! 🎉🎊🎈 The gang's all here! This is going to be EPIC! We're totally going to crush this treasure hunt and then probably cry about old times and it's going to be perfect! 🏆😭❤️

Shirley: I'm already planning what snacks to bring. You all look way too skinny in your profile pictures.

Shirley: It's wonderful that we're all going to be together again! It'll be just like old times!

Abed: Nothing is ever just like old times. That's both the beauty and the tragedy of temporal progression.

Troy: Wow, Abed. Way to bring down the mood. 😂

Jeff: So it's settled then? The last Friday of the month at Greendale for what will undoubtedly be the most elaborate scavenger hunt in community college history?

Britta: Wouldn't miss it.

Shirley: I'm already looking at flights!

Troy: Road trip! Well, flight trip! Whatever! 🛫

Abed: Confirmed. This should be... interesting.

The conversation shifted to practical arrangements—travel plans, suggestions for other possible group activities, details of how everyone was rearranging their usual responsibilities: the careful choreography required for six busy lives to briefly align. With plans still being hashed out, Annie set her phone aside and sank deeper into her couch cushions.

She was going back to Greendale. Back to the place where she'd been happiest, where she'd felt most like herself, where she'd learned that sometimes the best things in life couldn't be planned or colour-coded or achieved alone through sheer force of will.

The question was: could she find that version of herself again? Or had too much time passed, too much distance grown between who she was then and who she'd become?

Outside her window, the traffic hummed its eternal song, carrying people toward destinations both known and unknown. In a few days, she would join that flow, traveling backward through time and space towards a place that might no longer exist in any meaningful way—and towards friends who might no longer recognise the woman she'd become.

Chapter Text

A week later, the familiar white and green bubbles appeared across the group chat as arrangements were finalised.

Troy: Okay, so flights are booked! 🛫 This is really happening! Anyone else having weird feelings about going back?

Abed: I feel like I’m gearing up to watch a season finale where I know the creators are planning something significant but am not sure if it's going to be satisfying closure or emotional devastation.

Jeff: Let’s hope it’s more the former than the latter.

Abed: In either case, the next logical scene is usually planning the group logistics.

Britta: In which case, where is everyone staying?

Abed: I figure I owe my dad at least one weekend of eating falafel and listening to his unsolicited career advice.

Shirley: I'll be staying with my sister. I'm already planning how to casually drop all the kids' successes into conversation, so I don't let her win this round.

Troy: I was probably just going to get an Airbnb or something.

Britta: I've got a spare room if you want to crash at mine instead?

Troy: That’d be awesome. Thanks, Britta! 🙌

Britta: Plus, it’ll give us a chance to compare notes on living in New York.

Troy: Totally. I actually just found a place that does the best bag-uhls in the city.

Britta: 🙄 You know I can rescind my offer at any time, right?

Troy: Please don't! I swear I won't make fun of how you pronounce any baked goods for the whole weekend! 🙏

Britta: Okay. You’re forgiven. But I’m watching you. 👀

Shirley: That’s very generous of you, Britta. But will James be okay with that? I mean, given your and Troy’s history?

Britta: Seriously, Shirley? 🙄 I'm married with twins. The idea that I'd have any romantic interest in Troy when I've got James is completely ridiculous.

Troy: You know I can still see everything you write, right? 😐

Britta: Oh come on, you know what I meant. 🙄

Jeff: This is already more entertaining than whatever Craig has planned.

Shirley: @Annie sweetie, where are you planning to stay?

The message sat unread for more than an hour, the familiar pattern emerging once again.

Troy: Annie? You there?

Abed: @Annie

Britta: Maybe she's in a meeting?

Finally, Annie's response materialised.

Annie: I'll be staying with my mom.

Shirley: Really? That's... unexpected!

Annie: Things change.

Troy: It's cool that you're working things out with her. Family stuff is hard.

Abed: The mother-daughter reconciliation arc is a classic narrative structure. Often signals character growth and the resolution of long-standing conflicts.

Annie: Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Jeff: Well, since we're all sorted with accommodation, I guess the next question is transportation. I can probably do airport pickup for anyone who needs it.

Britta: Same here! James can watch the twins for a few hours.

Shirley: That's sweet of you both to offer, but I’ll get my sister to pick me up.

Troy: I'm good too—probably just grab an Uber from the airport. Thanks though!

Abed: My dad's picking me up so all good here.

Annie: I'll be fine getting to my mom's on my own, but thank you for offering.

Jeff: Look at us, being all independent and self-sufficient. Not to alarm anyone, but we’re dangerously close to being responsible adults.

Troy: Speak for yourself. I'm still figuring out how to do laundry without turning everything pink.

Britta: That's weirdly charming in a kind of pathetic way.

Troy: Thanks.

Troy: I think?

Shirley: You just need to find yourself a nice woman to take care of you properly.

Troy: Any volunteers? 😂

Britta: I’m taken, but Jeff’s more than capable of doing the laundry and can make a mean casserole? 🤔

Jeff:🖕Hard pass.

Troy: Wow, rejected before I even asked! 💔

Shirley: I'm just glad we're all going to be together again. It's been too long.

Abed: The ensemble reunion dynamic should be interesting to observe after all this time. We've all changed, but the core group chemistry should still be there.

Troy: Yeah, it'll be like riding a bike! Except the bike is friendship, the wheels are made of inside jokes, and it runs on nostalgia.

Britta: Same here. Even if it's sad that it's closing, at least we get to say goodbye to it properly.

Shirley: Everything happens for a reason. The timing feels meant to be.

Troy: Shirley's right. Plus, treasure hunt! 🏴‍☠️ What could possibly go wrong?

Abed: That's exactly the kind of question that leads to third-act complications in ensemble comedies.

Jeff: Perfect. On that ominous note, I’m going back to grading my last ever assignment. See you all next Friday.

Britta: Can't wait! ❤️

Shirley: Love you all! Safe travels! 😘

Troy: This is going to be EPIC! 🎉

Abed: Until Friday, then.

As the notifications died down and phones returned to pockets and purses, six people across the country felt the same flutter of anticipation mixed with uncertainty. In just a few days, they would be back where it all began—older and marked by life’s triumphs and disappointments, dreams reshaped by reality’s stubborn persistence, but bearing the quiet strength of wisdom hard-won.

But underneath all that change, something essential endured: the bonds forged in group study room F that had somehow survived everything life had thrown at them. They were going back to Greendale. They were going home.

Chapter Text

The familiar sensation of bringing his old Lexus to a stop inside his reserved parking space for the final time sent a wave of nostalgia washing over Jeff. The dark sedan, once his pride and joy, now bore the scars of age—a scratch on the door courtesy of Sebastian's bicycle, a volume knob that spun uselessly without effect, and a persistent dashboard rattle that had become a familiar, if unwelcome, passenger. He turned off the engine and sat for a moment, hands still gripping the wheel as he gazed across the campus.

Greendale looked exactly as it had almost sixteen years ago when he'd first reluctantly registered. The same worn buildings, the same slightly overgrown landscaping that gave the place a lived-in rather than manicured feel. The setting sun cast long shadows across the grounds, where a few early arrivals were already gathering. In just a few hours, this place would officially become a memory.

A sharp rap on the passenger window suddenly jolted him from his reverie. Through the glass, Troy's grinning face appeared, his hand raised in an enthusiastic wave. Jeff couldn't help but return his smile as he climbed out of the car.

"Jeff!" Troy's voice carried the same infectious enthusiasm it always had, though there was something more grounded about his presence now. "Man, it's so good to see you!"

Jeff clasped Troy’s hand firmly, then abruptly froze mid-shake, staring at his friend’s face in horror. "Jesus, Troy—what died on your upper lip?"

Troy laughed, unconsciously stroking the offending facial hair. "I was going for distinguished."

"You missed and landed somewhere between local weatherman and disgraced magician," Jeff replied, punctuating the verdict with a sharp click of his key fob.

Troy's eyes swept over the Lexus as the hazards flashed, confirming it was locked. "Oh man, I remember when I thought this car was so cool. When I drove it on my twenty-first, I felt like Harvey Specter—or at least I would have done if Suits had existed back then." He shook his head with good-natured disbelief. "Now it just looks like something a suburban dad would drive to soccer practice."

"Ouch," Jeff said, though his tone was more amused than wounded. Years of fatherhood and genuine responsibilities had long since freed him from the need to impress others. "Not all of us are lucky enough to have a sugar daddy that leaves us fourteen million dollars in their will, you know."

Troy's smile faltered just slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face.

Jeff didn’t seem to catch the shift, however. He leaned in, eyebrows raised in mock realisation. "Hold on a minute—what exactly went down in Pierce’s sex dungeon when you two lived together?"

"What are you talking about?" Troy asked, genuinely confused. Then his eyes widened as understanding dawned. "Oh, wait—his 'special gym'? That's what that was?" A quiet laugh bubbled up as the pieces fell into place. "I just thought he had really weird exercise equipment!"

Jeff joined in the laughter, feeling a familiar warmth spread through his chest. "God, I've missed this."

"Same here," Troy replied, his voice carrying unexpected sincerity. "It's been too long." He clapped Jeff on the shoulder. "Come on, Britta's waiting inside."

They walked towards the library entrance together, falling into step with the unconscious rhythm of old friendship. As they approached the familiar glass doors, Jeff spotted Britta checking her phone near the reception desk.

"There you are," she called out. "I was just about to send out a search party."

"Sorry for the delay. I was transfixed by Troy’s new moustache,” Jeff replied drily.

Britta's mouth twitched with suppressed amusement. "Oh, thank god. I was waiting for someone else to mention it first. I've been biting my tongue since he showed up at my house." She grabbed Troy's arm in mock desperation. "Please don't remind anyone here we used to date. I don't think I could handle the shame of being associated with… that." She gestured dramatically at Troy's new facial hair.

"Hey!" Troy protested, self-consciously stroking his upper lip. "I—"

Their easy banter was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps echoing through the lobby. They belonged to Shirley, slightly out of breath but beaming with warmth. The dramatic weight loss since her Greendale days, combined with years of growing confidence, had given her an entirely new radiance.

"Look at you all!" she exclaimed, opening her arms wide. Each of them took turns being enveloped in one of Shirley's legendary hugs, the kind that somehow managed to convey years of accumulated affection in a single embrace.

"How are you doing, Shirley?" Britta asked. "How are Jordan and Ashley settling into married life?"

"Oh, they're wonderful," Shirley replied, her eyes sparkling with pride. "Jordan's become such a responsible young man. You should see how he takes care of Ashley." Her expression grew slightly wistful. "It's strange, watching your children become adults. Beautiful, but strange."

Shirley's nostalgic expression shifted when she caught a closer look at Troy. She narrowed her eyes in assessment, then a mischievous twinkle appeared. "On second thoughts, Britta, I can see that James doesn't have anything to worry about. No self-respecting woman would ever be attracted to a man sporting that face fungus."

"Remind me why I was excited to see you all again?" Troy said with exaggerated wounded pride, though his smile suggested he was mostly joking.

As their laughter died down, Shirley brought her maternal instincts to bear on Jeff. "How have you been, Jeff? Really?" Her voice carried a gentle understanding that came from years of watching her husband navigate his own grief. "I know... well, Steven has helped me understand how difficult it must be."

"I'm doing okay," Jeff replied, touched by her concern. "Some days are tough, but I'm trying to actually deal with things instead of just... you know, pretending they don't exist. Sebastian helps—kids have a way of forcing you to be present. And work has been... well, work."

Shirley reached out and gave his hand a quick, firm squeeze. "You know, for someone who spent years perfecting the art of not talking about feelings, you're doing remarkably well." Her tone was gentle but knowing. "But don't think we can't see through that 'everything's fine' act of yours. Steven says that sometimes the hardest part isn't the grief itself—it's letting yourself actually feel it."

Jeff's carefully maintained composure flickered for just a moment. "Yeah, well, old habits die hard. Turns out even tragedy can't cure a lifetime of emotional avoidance." He managed a wry smile. "Though Sebastian has a way of making sure I never hide from things for too long."

"Speaking of emotional unavailability," Britta said, looking past Jeff's shoulder, "look who finally decided to show up."

"Abed!" Shirley rushed to hug the new arrival, her face lighting up with joy. "How was your flight? You look a little tired."

"Two and a half hours from LAX," Abed replied, accepting her embrace with the slight awkwardness of someone unused to physical affection. "Not a long flight, but made longer by the seven-year-old behind me who apparently thought the back of my seat was a drum kit."

"How's Hollywood treating you?" Britta asked warmly, stepping in for her own hug.

"Like a small, moderately talented cog in a very expensive machine," Abed responded drily. "But unlike when I was here, I get paid and work with proper equipment instead of borrowed cameras old enough to have filmed Casablanca."

Jeff extended his hand with a smile. "Good to see you, Abed."

"Jeff," Abed replied, shaking his hand with a slight nod of acknowledgment. "From the group chat, you seem to be taking the news about Greendale surprisingly well for someone whose livelihood is about to disappear."

"I see your bedside manner hasn't improved," Jeff said with a wry smile.

When Abed turned to Troy, there was a moment of hesitation as his gaze lingered on his friend’s new facial hair. He opened his mouth as if to comment, but then he caught sight of Troy’s expectant smile and seemed to make a conscious decision to remain diplomatically silent. Instead, he mirrored Troy, raising his hand for their old signature handshake, but somehow their timing was off, their fingers fumbling against each other awkwardly.

"Weird," Troy said with a forced casualness before settling on a normal handshake. "We used to be able to do that in our sleep."

"Muscle memory degrades without regular practice," Abed replied neutrally.

"So, where's Annie?" Shirley asked, glancing around the lobby. "She's usually always the first to arrive for anything."

Jeff frowned slightly. "Yeah, that's... not like her. Has anyone talked to her recently? She's been pretty withdrawn in our group chat. Short responses, overly formal." He paused, a note of concern creeping into his voice. "I hope she's doing okay."

The others exchanged surprised glances, and Britta raised an eyebrow. "We kinda assumed that you’d know anything there was to know. I mean, given how close you became after…" She paused delicately, reluctant to explicitly reference how Annie had stayed with Jeff for almost a month after Mandy’s death, helping organise her funeral and sort out all the logistics alongside providing emotional support. "After your difficult time?"

"We were close," Jeff confirmed, his expression growing more troubled. "But she's been really distant ever since she told us about her separation. Terse replies to texts, doesn’t take most of my calls and on the rare occasions she does pick up, she's so guarded it's like she's talking to a colleague rather than a friend."

"We’ve spoken a couple of times over the phone recently," Shirley offered gently. "Wanted to know about the practical aspects of divorce—lawyers, paperwork, that sort of thing. But whenever I tried to offer emotional support, she'd change the subject." Shirley's brow furrowed with maternal concern. "She seemed so..."

"Annie!" Troy's voice boomed across the lobby, cutting off whatever Shirley had been about to say.

The group all turned to see their final member walking through the entrance, and Jeff felt a small shock of recognition mixed with concern. She looked tired—not just end-of-a-long-week tired, but deeply weary in a way that seemed to have settled into her bones. She'd gained a little weight, though it suited her, softening some of the sharp edges that stress had carved into her features. But it was her eyes that worried him most—they held a careful guardedness that he’d never seen before.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, her voice carrying its familiar precision but lacking its usual warmth. "Traffic was worse than expected."

"Annie!" Shirley rushed forward, wrapping her in a hug that Annie accepted with mechanical politeness. "How have you been, sweetie?"

"I've been fine," Annie replied, the words coming out perhaps a little too quickly. She moved through the group, offering embraces and asking all the right questions with practiced efficiency: "How are the twins? I couldn't believe how big they were in your last photos." "How's the pirate movie coming along?"

She stopped when she reached Troy. "Did you lose a bet?" she asked, gesturing at his moustache. Her attempt at levity fell slightly flat—the humour was there, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" Troy said, touching his lip again.

Annie turned to Shirley with renewed focus. "How are Jordan and Elijah? And little Ben?"

"They're all doing wonderfully," Shirley replied, her face lighting up but carrying a hint of melancholy. "Elijah’s just been promoted, Jordan’s settling into the marital home, and Ben’s not so little anymore—top of his class in everything. They’re all so grown up and responsible now. I bet they’ll barely notice I’m not there. Remember when you used to babysit and they'd cry when I left?"

Annie nodded politely but didn't respond to the memory, creating a small pocket of awkwardness in the conversation.

She stepped back to assess the group with her usual analytical precision. Abed’s hairline was now definitely receding, and Troy’s moustache really was terrible, while Shirley’s remarkable weight loss still managed to surprise her—even though she’d seen her dozens of times since the 2015 diabetes scare that had prompted her transformation. Time had touched them all differently.

Finally, she turned to Jeff, and felt a familiar flutter of surprise. The man simply didn't age like a normal person—sure, over the last ten years he'd lost a bit of muscle mass and he had a few more lines around his eyes, but nothing significant. Their visible age gap that had once seemed so substantial had almost disappeared, worn away by her own decade of ambition-fuelled overwork. She found herself wondering what kind of gym routine and skincare regimen could possibly maintain that level of preservation. She was so lost in thought that she almost missed him addressing her.

"Annie," Jeff said softly, bringing her back to the present. "How are you doing?"

The genuine concern in his voice made something tighten in her chest. "Like I said, I've been okay," she repeated, her words carrying an edge she hadn't intended.

She offered him a hug, but it was noticeably briefer than the ones she'd given the others—a quick squeeze before she stepped back.

"Should we head to the study room?" Troy suggested, wanting to move out of the reception now they were quorate. "For old time's sake?"

"That's a great idea," Britta agreed. "I mean, we’ll never be able to do it again?"

They made their way through the familiar corridors, past classrooms where they'd been ‘taught’ Spanish and pottery and anthropology, past bulletin boards still covered with announcements for things like the Theoretical Cooking Club and the Interpretive Breathing Society—activities that would soon exist only in memory.

The study room looked exactly as they'd left it all those years ago—the same table they’d made in woodworking class, the same chairs, the same slightly institutional lighting that had witnessed countless hours of elaborate schemes, emotional breakthroughs, and ridiculous adventures interspersed with sporadic studying.

"This is weird," Britta said as they filed in, each moving to stand behind their old chair. "Good weird, but weird."

"It's been over eleven years since we were all in here together," Abed observed, hovering over his usual seat. "Not since the the-floor-is-lava game we played before Troy left with Levar Burton."

"Eleven years? God, that makes me feel ancient," Britta groaned, running her fingers along the back of her own chair. A few of them began to pull out their old seats but stopped at the last moment, as if sitting down would make the finality of it all too real.

For nearly a minute, they stood in wistful silence, each lost in their own memories of the room and what it had meant to them. The weight of nostalgia hung heavy in the air, mixed with the bittersweet knowledge that this was to be their final gathering here.

"This won’t be the first treasure hunt we've done at Greendale," Abed said suddenly, breaking through their contemplation. "Remember when we searched for Russell Borchert's 'treasure' through the secret trapdoor in the teacher’s lounge?"

Troy glanced around the room in confusion, but Annie's expression grew darker. "Maybe we didn't save Greendale after all," she said quietly, her voice carrying a note of defeated irony.

"Why are they closing it down anyway?" Troy asked. "I mean, I know the Dean’s message said budget cuts, but what are the details?"

"Trump," Jeff replied grimly. "The new administration is proposing a twelve billion dollar cut to the Department of Education, and DOGE is pushing those reductions hard. There’s even talk about dismantling the whole agency. Greendale is facing some serious building maintenance costs, and the school board has concluded that the federal support we were relying on just isn’t going to come through. State and local funding can’t cover the gap so there’s no choice other than to shut the place down."

All eyes immediately turned expectantly to Britta.

When she noticed their stares, she looked confused. "What are you all looking at?"

"According to established character patterns, this is when you should launch into your anti-government tirade," Abed stated with his usual bluntness.

Britta straightened slightly, then began an uncharacteristically detached and robotic response.

"Well… I suppose authoritarians have always targeted public education because an uninformed population is easier to manipulate. The systematic defunding serves multiple purposes: when public schools are weakened, wealthy donors and corporations can swoop in with profit-driven alternatives, turning what was once a public good into a revenue stream for shareholders."

She didn’t look at anyone as she continued, her tone cool and distant, like she was reading from a policy paper rather than speaking from conviction.

"The DOGE cuts are textbook regulatory capture—deliberately dismantling institutions that serve the public good because their existence threatens unchecked power. This is shock doctrine: starve public institutions until they fail, then claim the private sector is the only solution. Just like how they’ve cut NASA’s programmes to free up funding for things that will benefit Musk’s SpaceX.

"Meanwhile, billionaires get tax breaks while teachers have to buy supplies from their own pockets. These policies aren't accidental—they're designed to entrench inequality, creating a desperate underclass that's easier to scapegoat. Instead of investing in our future, they gut services then blame immigrants and minorities when the system fails.

"This isn't just bad policy—it's a deliberate strategy to undermine democracy and consolidate authoritarian power."

An unusual quiet settled over the group. They were accustomed to Britta's political rants being delivered with loud, righteous indignation and wild gesticulation, not this clinical, almost academic tone that somehow felt more unsettling for its complete lack of passion.

"Great. Now I'm agreeing with Britta about politics. Life just keeps getting better," Jeff muttered with his trademark sarcasm.

"Plot twist: Britta was right all along. I bet audiences didn’t see that coming," Abed remarked.

"I just... I don't have the energy for the whole righteous anger thing anymore. It's exhausting," Britta replied quietly.

"Well, it was more passionate than the single word responses you sent when I was venting about the January 6th pardons on the group chat," Annie observed. "So... progress, I guess."

Britta shifted uncomfortably on her feet, the comment hitting closer to home than she cared to admit. She quickly pivoted away from the uncomfortable territory and towards Jeff. "So, um, any update on what's next for you now that Greendale is closing?"

Jeff considered the question, his fingers drumming lightly on the familiar table. "I think it's time to move on from teaching. Andy, my father-in-law, knows someone who needs an in-house lawyer. Four days a week, two days working from home, just outside Denver." He shrugged. "Not glamorous, but it'll give me more time with Sebastian, and honestly, Greendale changed my perspective on what success actually looks like."

"I never thought I'd hear you admit Greendale was good to you," Britta teased gently.

"Yeah, well," Jeff replied with a self-deprecating smile, "I never thought I'd say it either, but this place..." He gestured around the room. "It changed all of us, didn't it? For the better."

"It really did," Abed agreed. "I was able to study film—pursue my actual passion instead of just going through the motions." He turned to Britta with unexpected sincerity. "I never properly thanked you for paying for my film classes and standing up to my dad in freshman year. Without that, I’d have been forced to major in something falafel-making-adjacent. Thank you." He paused, his usual analytical detachment giving way to genuine remorse. "And I never apologised for how I manipulated you and Jeff to make that film. What I did wasn't just 'show business'—it was cruel. I used your kindness against you, and I'm sorry. Thank you for being a better friend to me in that moment than I was to you."

Britta looked genuinely touched. "You’re welcome," she said warmly. Then her expression shifted slightly, though the ghost of a smile remained. "Only sixteen years late."

"Better late than never," Abed replied with his characteristic matter-of-fact delivery.

Britta rolled her eyes with fond exasperation at her friend before picking up the thread he had dropped. "For me," she began, "Greendale taught me how to let my guard down. How to be part of a real community instead of just bouncing from one cause to another, one shallow relationship to the next. I learned that being loved by people who actually know you is worth more than being admired by people who only see the image you project." As she spoke, she twisted her wedding ring absently, the gesture tender and unthinking.

Troy nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly. This place taught me it was okay to not be what other people expected. That being a jock didn't have to define me, and that traditional masculinity wasn't something I had to perform if it didn't make me happy. I learned that true friendship was more important than trying to impress people who didn't really care about me anyway."

Shirley's expression grew soft and contemplative. "For me, Greendale gave me space to explore who I was beyond being a wife and mother. It let me feel young again, embrace silliness, remember that there were parts of me that existed independently of taking care of other people." She straightened proudly. "And it gave me practical skills too—the business courses helped me learn how to run my catering company properly."

Jeff looked around the room with genuine affection. "I learned how to stop being so self-absorbed. How to care about people without worrying about whether it made me look uncool." His voice grew quieter. "This place taught me that real connections with people were worth more than any image I was trying to maintain."

All eyes turned to Annie who seemed to realise everyone was waiting for her contribution and awkwardly shifted on her feet.

"I... um..." she began, then took a shaky breath. "Well, I suppose Greendale taught me how to loosen up. How to not take everything so seriously and to value relationships with people over academic and professional success." She looked around the table at each of their faces, a shadow of something like loss crossing her expression. "After coming out of rehab and my mom cutting me off, this place showed me what it meant to belong somewhere, to have people who truly cared about me." Her voice broke ever so slightly on the last few words as she considered the contrast between then and now, though no one but Jeff seemed to notice.

He quickly stepped in to draw the group’s attention. "Yeah, we all owe a lot to this place. It's a real shame it's closing down."

"C'est la vie," Annie said softly, staring down at her hands.

"La vee?" Troy said, confused.

Jeff caught Britta's eye and they both started to chuckle, then, as if instructed by some invisible force, the whole group pulled out their chairs, but just as they moved to sit down, the Dean's voice exploded over the intercom system, dripping with his usual theatrical emotion and barely contained excitement.

"Attention, beautiful Greendale family! The moment you've all been waiting for has finally arrived! Please make your way to the quad for the commencement of our grand finale treasure hunt! This is not a drill! I repeat, this is not a drill! Time for one last adventure together!"

"Well," Jeff said, using the table to push himself back up and giving it one last loving tap, "sounds like it's showtime."

The rest of the group straightened up too and, one by one, they slowly filed out of the study room, each taking a final look around the space that had been the centre of their universe for so many years.

As they walked towards the quad, Annie fell into step beside Britta. "The turnout is not as big as I expected," Annie observed, surveying the modest crowd that was gathering. "One of the best things about Greendale was how the entire campus would get swept up in the madness of it all during these big events."

"Things were never quite the same after COVID," Jeff explained, appearing on her other side. "You can't really have a campus-wide battle royale over Zoom."

Annie hummed in acknowledgment, but didn’t reply.

The quad buzzed with anticipatory energy as several dozen people—current students, old graduates, and a handful of longtime faculty—gathered in loose clusters. Despite Annie's observation about the size, there was still something magical about being part of a Dean Pelton production, even after all these years.

The Dean appeared as if summoned by their collective attention, resplendent in what appeared to be an Indiana Jones-inspired costume complete with fedora, leather jacket, and—much to Jeff's visible discomfort—a very authentic-looking whip. He was practically vibrating with excitement as he approached the makeshift podium that had been set up near the flagpole.

"Welcome, welcome, wonderful treasure hunters!" he announced with almost too much enthusiasm, his voice carrying clearly across the quad through the school’s speakers. "Today, you will embark on an absolutely magnificent journey of discovery throughout our beloved campus! But this isn't just any ordinary treasure hunt—oh no, no, no!"

He paused dramatically, his smile almost manic in its intensity.

"I have enlisted the aid of artificial intelligence—that magnificent, all-knowing deity of the digital age—to pair each of you with the perfect partner for your journey of discovery! Through advanced algorithms and careful analysis of personality matrices, each team has been scientifically optimised for maximum adventure potential!"

Britta rolled her eyes. "Because nothing says 'human connection' like being paired up by a machine learning system that probably scraped our personal data without consent."

Shirley looked disappointed. "But this means we won't all be together! I was looking forward to spending time as a group."

"We've got the whole weekend planned," Jeff reminded her gently. "Dinner at Britta's tomorrow night, barbecue at my place Sunday, escape rooms, all that stuff. This is just a few hours."

The Dean gestured grandly toward Frankie, who approached carrying a clipboard and looking like she'd rather be anywhere else on earth. "And here to assist me in assigning your partnerships and distributing the first clues is my glamorous assistant, the incomparable Francesca Dart!"

"That's not the title on my business cards," Frankie muttered flatly, before beginning to weave through the crowd, calmly informing each guest of their assigned partner and handing every pair a red envelope containing their first clue. The Dean bounced off the stage to cover the opposite side of the quad, clutching his own, much smaller stack of envelopes and a single sheet of paper bearing short, easy-to-pronounce names in a comically oversized font—a clear sign of Frankie’s careful accommodations to his limitations, designed to offer just enough responsibility to avoid making him feel entirely sidelined.

As they waited for their turn, the study group surveyed the familiar faces scattered across the quad. They all studiously avoided making eye contact with Todd, who was enthusiastically waving at everyone within a fifty-foot radius. Jeff offered a polite nod to Garrett and his cousin-wife, who were standing much too close together, their hands clasped and expressions oddly intense, as if daring anyone to question their marriage.

Leonard’s absence was quietly felt—he’d passed away during the pandemic. His Zoom funeral had somehow featured a jazz band, a slideshow of shirtless war photos, and a ten-minute rant about canned chili, pre-recorded and played twice due to a screen-sharing mishap.

Starburns, thankfully, hadn’t been seen in years. Rumour had it he’d burned out after a brief stint running a dispensary in Oregon and was now either deep in a fentanyl spiral—or managing a vape shop in Modesto, depending on who you asked.

Vicki was a no-show, which was probably for the best. But, the biggest surprise was now-not-so-fat Neil, who bounded over to introduce his breathtakingly beautiful wife before making a speedy exit—eager, it seemed, to repeat the encounter as many times as possible before the night was out.

As Frankie drew closer to their group, moving with characteristic efficiency through the crowd, Annie found herself studying the woman who'd once seemed destined for bigger things. "Frankie always seemed so ambitious," she murmured. "I'm surprised she's still here."

"Gee, thanks," Jeff said with a mock hurt, clearly teasing.

Failing to pick up on his tone, Annie’s expression immediately shifted to uncomfortable embarrassment. "I didn't mean it like that," she said quickly. "I just—"

"Annie, I was jok—" Jeff began, but they were interrupted by the administrator’s arrival.

"Good to see you all again. Perhaps we could catch up later if you’re all here for the weekend?" Frankie said, consulting her clipboard. "Right, first up: Abed Nadir and… Troy Barnes." She looked to Troy with a friendly smile and extended her hand. "It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you from the rest of the group." She paused, then added with curious sincerity, "You know, I can play the steel drums!"

Troy stared at her in complete bewilderment taking his hand back a little more quickly than was polite. "Erm... okay."

Jeff coughed, suddenly finding the ground very interesting as the Dean gave out his last envelope to what may well have been the wrong couple and headed towards his favourite former students through the crowd.

Meanwhile, Troy and Abed were looking at each other with what should have been excitement, but the spark that once would have ignited between them seemed dimmed somehow. They smiled and nodded, but the automatic synchronicity was missing.

"AI clearly knows what it's doing," Troy said with forced enthusiasm.

"The algorithm obviously recognises compatible personality types," Abed agreed, equally measured.

The Dean arrived having caught the end of the conversation and leaned conspiratorially towards Jeff. "Artificial intelligence obviously knew better than to pair Annie and Abed together, given..." He lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper that everyone could still hear perfectly. "Gaza."

Both Annie and Abed immediately bristled at the implication.

"That's completely ridiculous," Annie said firmly.

"Absurd," Abed agreed with equal conviction.

"Of course, of course!" the Dean backpedalled quickly, then his face lit up as he focused on Troy. "Oh my goodness, Troy Barnes as I live and breath! I assumed you’d be too busy to attend. I went to Dance Pants in 2023—absolutely magical, though I have to say the crowd was a bit... vanilla for someone who frequents the underground scene." His expression suddenly shifted as he took in Troy's appearance. "Interesting choice with the moustache. I've been campaigning for Jeff to grow one for years. Though perhaps it’s for the best he didn't—imagine how it would’ve tickled during our... well, hypothetical close encounters. Yours is giving me some very Village People vibes. Was that what you were going for?"

Troy's hand flew to his upper lip self-consciously as Frankie continued reading from her list.

"Next pairing," she continued, either not noticing or choosing to ignore the change in atmosphere. "Britta Perry and… Shirley Bennett."

"Oh, that's nice," Shirley said warmly, linking her arm through Britta's.

"Perfect," Britta agreed, seeming equally pleased. "Someone who won't judge me if I need to call James about the twins."

Frankie looked up from her clipboard with a slight smile. "Nice to see you again, Shirley. How's ‘Heavenly Plates’ doing?"

"Wonderful—the contact in Marietta that you gave me has been a goldmine," Shirley replied gratefully.

"Good to hear," Frankie said with genuine satisfaction before returning to her list.

"Next up it’s…" Frankie said, "Jeffrey Winger and Annie Edison."

Jeff offered a small, encouraging smile, but Annie's gaze immediately shifted to somewhere over his left shoulder, the moment hanging between them with unspoken complexity.

"And the final pairing..." Frankie trailed off, double-checking the clipboard with visible disbelief. "What?! Craig Pelton and Francesca Dart."

The Dean blinked in astonishment while, for the first time in her life, Frankie was considering whether a clipboard could possibly be wrong.

"But we're organising this," she protested. "We can’t be participants."

"The AI has spoken!" the Dean declared, throwing his hands up in dramatic surrender. "We must not question the digital wisdom! Who are we to defy the algorithms?"

"You realise AI isn’t actually omniscient, right?" Britta interjected.

The Dean looked at her with the patient expression of someone explaining basic facts to a child. "Artificial intelligence sees patterns that our limited human minds could never comprehend. It knows things we don't even know about ourselves!"

Before Britta could respond, the Dean was already bouncing back towards his podium, clearly eager to make his final announcement. As he climbed back onto the stage Frankie handed sealed envelopes to every pair, each one marked with symbols and numbers that presumably corresponded to their specific routes.

"Inside each envelope, you'll find your first clue," the Dean explained over the PA system, bouncing slightly on his feet with excitement. "Follow the breadcrumbs through our beloved campus, and they will lead you to... well, that would be telling, wouldn't it? But I promise you this—by the time you reach your final destination, you'll have rediscovered something precious… or at least that’s what the AI system said."

"Now..." He paused dramatically, then threw his arms wide—as if releasing them into the wild—and announced with his unmatched theatrical flair, "LET THE HUNT BEGIN!"

Chapter Text

As the assembled treasure hunters dispersed across the campus like ripples from a stone thrown into still water, the Dean bounced down from his makeshift stage, his Indiana Jones costume looking weirdly appropriate in the golden hour light. His fedora was too crisp and clean to have ever seen a real expedition while the leather jacket—clearly a size too small—strained across his shoulders with each enthusiastic movement.

Once the Dean reached Frankie, he snatched the envelope from her hand with the casual entitlement of a man who'd spent nearly two decades ruling Greendale like his own personal kingdom—as oblivious to his rudeness as a toddler claiming a coveted toy. In his eagerness to unveil its contents, he ripped the paper inside straight down the middle.

"Oops. Silly me." The Dean's face fell as he realised what he'd done, holding up the torn pieces with sheepish regret.

Frankie stared at the jagged remnants of their first clue, then looked back at the Dean with the kind of weary expression that suggested this was exactly the sort of thing she'd come to expect. "Why are we even doing this? We're supposed to be organising this event, not participating in it."

"Because the AI knows what it's doing," he said knowingly. "And besides..." He gestured broadly at the campus around them—not just at the weathered buildings, but the invisible architecture of memory: the accumulated weight of shared crises and unlikely triumphs, the absurd traditions they'd upheld and outlived, and the peculiar sense of home they'd both found in this wonderfully dysfunctional place. When he spoke again, his usual performative confidence had given way to something raw and unguarded. "Greendale has been a much more important part of our lives than it has for any of the students here. Don't we deserve the opportunity to say goodbye too?"

Ordinarily her innate scepticism for elaborate schemes with no measurable ROI might have led her to refuse. Yet as she stood there, surrounded by the accumulated memories of a decade spent learning to work with Greendale's beautiful chaos rather than against it, she found herself nodding. "I suppose you’re right," she said softly, looking around the campus with equal nostalgia.

She reached out, gently took the torn paper from the Dean’s hands and aligned the two pieces, as if completing a jigsaw puzzle even Greendale’s most academically-challenged student could have managed.

She read aloud, her index finger tracing the reassembled text:

“Where rebellion fermented, not bottled but poured,

In shadows and whispers, it once was restored.

Look not to the stars, but below your feet,

To the place where the outlaws of Greendale would meet.”

Before she had even finished reading, Frankie's analytical mind had begun sorting through the possibilities, each word of the riddle clicking into place with mechanical precision.

"The speakeasy," she said immediately, straightening up with satisfaction. "The not-so-secret bar that Jeff, Annie and Britta set up when I first started my job here and banned all alcohol on campus. For the last few years, it's been used as the career advisor's office." She turned to the Dean with the confident expression of someone presenting an irrefutable solution.

But the Dean was already shaking his head dismissively. "No, no, no, Frankie," he said, speaking with the condescending tone of a patronising professor explaining an obvious concept to his slowest student. "This is clearly about the back of the cafeteria—you know, where Britta gave her rousing speech during the MeowMeowBeenz disaster, rallying everyone against the tyranny of social rating systems. Remember? No, of course you don't—that was before your time."

"The riddle mentions rebellion and shadows," he continued, his voice growing more confident with each word. "Britta's speech was the epicentre of resistance, the very heart of the revolution! It's obvious when you really think about it."

"Dean," she began, her voice maintaining its professional calm despite the slight edge creeping in around the syllables, "I can see how the rebellion theme fits with Britta's speech. But I wonder if we might also consider that the riddle mentions 'below your feet'. The cafeteria is at ground level while—"

"Oh, you must be right," the Dean interrupted, his voice dripping with the kind of sarcasm that could strip paint. "You always are, after all. Frankie Dart, the woman who knows everything about everything."

His words hung in the silence between them, sharp and cutting. Frankie felt her carefully maintained composure waver slightly, but a lifetime of dealing with difficult personalities had taught her to recognise when someone was spiralling towards an emotional outburst. She could see it in the way the Dean's shoulders had tensed, in the slight tremor in his voice that suggested he was building towards something much larger than a simple disagreement about riddle interpretation.

Old instincts kicked in. She took a long, measured breath and made a tactical decision.

"You know what?" she said, her voice deliberately casual. "They're very close to each other anyway. Why don't we try your suggestion first?"

The Dean's expression flickered with surprise, as if he'd been prepared for a fight and wasn't quite sure what to do now his opponent had declined to engage. "Really?"

"Really," Frankie confirmed, though something in her tone suggested this was less about agreement and more about conflict avoidance. "Lead the way."

The Dean's face immediately brightened, his hostility disappearing faster than a flame in the wind. "Excellent! And I know exactly how we should get there." He pointed across the quad towards a small riding mower parked in front of the maintenance building, its white Honda logo gleaming in the golden light of sunset. "It'll be our last chance to take the old girl for a spin."

Frankie's eyes followed his gesture, and she felt a familiar sinking sensation in her stomach—the same feeling she got whenever the Dean announced one of his ‘innovative solutions’ to routine problems.

"Dean, I don't think—"

"Come on, Frankie!" the Dean exclaimed, already striding towards the mower with the enthusiasm of a child who'd just spotted an ice cream truck. "Live a little!"

Frankie rolled her eyes with the resigned exhaustion of someone who had long ago learned that sometimes the path of least resistance involved indulging the Dean's more harmless whims. Like a parent placating a particularly insistent child, she slowly followed him towards the contraption.

The mower was designed for one person—a fact that became immediately apparent as Frankie attempted to figure out how to position herself on the single seat alongside the Dean. After several awkward attempts, she found herself perched precariously on the edge of the seat, uncomfortably close to her ‘boss’ and acutely aware of how ridiculous they must look.

"There we go," the Dean said, cheerfully oblivious to her discomfort as the engine rumbled to life with a robust purr. "I bet you're glad now that Honda wouldn't let us return this thing."

Frankie made a noncommittal humming sound that could have been interpreted as agreement, disagreement, or simply resignation to her fate. But as they began to move across the campus, she found herself relaxing slightly. There was something oddly peaceful about the gentle rumble of the engine and the familiar sights of Greendale passing by at a leisurely pace.

"Remember when we first got this?" the Dean asked, raising his voice slightly over the engine noise. "You had some reservations about Honda's legendary reliability and commitment to innovation. But surely, now that you've experienced it firsthand, you can see why Honda's advanced engineering and precision manufacturing are considered industry-leading."

"I was more concerned about the circumstances surrounding the purchase," Frankie replied, but her tone lacked any edge. "Though I'll admit, it has been surprisingly useful for campus maintenance."

"See? Sometimes my ideas work out," the Dean said with a grin. "Remember the campus-wide LAN party? What about the legendary inter-departmental dodgeball tournament?"

Despite herself, Frankie found the corners of her mouth turning upward slightly. "The LAN party was actually very fun," she admitted. "And the dodgeball tournament was... memorable."

"Memorable in a good way or memorable in a 'we're never doing that again' way?"

"Let's go with memorable," Frankie said diplomatically, though the hint of amusement in her voice suggested she was enjoying the reminiscence more than she cared to admit.

The Dean shot her a warm smile before pulling up at the rear of the cafeteria building. The area was quiet now, showing only the ghosts of campus life—scattered food wrappers, fading graffiti that ranged from impassioned political slogans to declarations of undying love, and surprisingly well-rendered caricatures of faculty members.

"Now we search," the Dean announced, climbing off the mower with purpose. "The clue must be hidden somewhere that relates to the rebellion."

As they moved through the cafeteria looking for the next clue, they continued to pleasantly reminisce about the good, the bad and the ugly of Frankie's decade at Greendale.

"Remember the great laser tag cease-fire negotiations?" the Dean asked, lifting a bench to peer underneath. "I still can’t believe you actually got both factions to agree to the twenty-four hour truce."

"Only because I threatened to cancel the prize," Frankie replied, systematically checking behind each bin. "Though I'll admit, watching you mediate between Jeff and Chang while wearing that referee costume was... certainly a unique experience."

For several minutes they combed the area, checking behind pillars, under tables, anywhere that might conceivably hide the next clue. Frankie approached the task with her usual quiet thoroughness, while every so often the Dean would exclaim "Aha!" but would invariably have discovered nothing more interesting than a discarded homework assignment.

Just as Frankie finished mentally composing a tactful suggestion that they might consider moving on to search the old speakeasy, the Dean's voice rang out in triumph: "Found it!" This time he had spotted a yellow envelope wedged beneath the wobbly leg of a battered table. He pulled it free with theatrical flair. "I told you this was the right place! Sometimes the Dean really does know best, even when everyone thinks I'm just—" He caught himself, leaving the thought unfinished.

Frankie approached, pulling the red envelope from her jacket to compare. The stylised dalmatian silhouette and the number 611 matched across both envelopes. "I suppose you were right after all," she conceded graciously, a hint of genuine surprise in her voice.

The Dean beamed at the acknowledgment and opened the envelope—taking extra care not to tear anything this time. But as he read the contents, the proud smile on his face melted away like wax near a flame, replaced by disappointment and creeping embarrassment.

Chapter Text

"Dean, what is it?" Frankie asked, moving closer. "What does it say?"

The Dean clutched the paper to his chest, his usual theatrical tendencies suddenly abandoning him in favour of genuine discomfort. "It's... it's nothing important. Just a... a technical note about the treasure hunt setup."

"Dean." Frankie's voice carried the patient firmness of someone accustomed to managing emotional volatility. "What does it say?"

"Really, it's not—"

Before he could finish his protest, Frankie had stepped forward and deftly plucked the paper from his hands. Her eyes scanned the brief message, and for a moment, her professional composure flickered with something that might have been vindication—or perhaps pity.

Frankie is right, as usual. Please proceed to the correct location to find your actual clue.

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable, filled with things neither of them wanted to say out loud. The Dean stared at his hands, while Frankie folded the paper neatly and tucked it into her jacket pocket with practiced efficiency.

"Well," she said finally, her voice carefully neutral. "I suppose we should probably head to the speakeasy."

The Dean's response was immediate and explosive, years of accumulated frustration and insecurity erupting like a long-dormant volcano finally reaching breaking point.

"Oh, of course!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in despair. "Of course you were right! You're always right, aren't you, Frankie? You arrived here with your clipboards and your efficiency reports and your perfectly organised filing systems, and suddenly everything that was broken gets fixed. Everything I’d struggled with for so long—the budget shortfalls, the accreditation problems, everything needed for the basic day-to-day functioning of this place—you solved it all without even breaking a sweat!"

His voice grew louder with each word, attracting curious glances from a couple of treasure hunters passing by in the far distance. But the Dean was beyond caring about appearances now, lost in the kind of emotional release that had been building for a decade.

"You want to know the truth, Frankie? You're just naturally better at everything without even trying. You fixed the heating system that hadn't worked properly since Bush was President. You reorganised the course scheduling that I'd been struggling with since I became Dean. You waltzed in and became the competent, put-together administrator I’d always failed to be."

He paused, his breathing slightly laboured from the emotional exertion. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter but somehow more devastating.

"I'm not a good Dean, Frankie. I'm a bad Dean. I've always been a bad Dean."

The words hung in the air between them like a confession whispered in a church, raw and vulnerable and impossible to take back. Frankie stood perfectly still, her usual arsenal of professional responses suddenly inadequate for the depth of pain she was witnessing.

The Dean's shoulders sagged as if the weight of his own admission was physically crushing him. He gave a half-hearted shrug, a gesture so small and defeated that it seemed to belong to an entirely different person than the confident figure who usually commanded attention with ease.

"It doesn't matter now, does it?" he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "After tonight, Greendale Community College will cease to exist, and with it, any evidence that Craig Pelton ever accomplished anything in his life."

The quiet stretched between them, profound and heavy, weighted with truths that had been spoken and couldn't be taken back, a buried archive of suppressed resentments laid bare under the Colorado sunset. In the distance, the sounds of other treasure hunters could be heard—laughter, conversation, the easy hum of people enjoying a fun evening with old friends. But in their small corner of the campus, two people stood in the growing dusk, grappling with years of unspoken tensions that had finally been dragged into the light.

Chapter Text

The moment the Dean finished his announcement, the quad had erupted into a hive of activity. Treasure hunters grabbed their partners and scattered in all directions, voices overlapping in excited chatter as they tore open envelopes and debated clues. The energy was infectious and immediate—within seconds, what had been a crowded gathering became a blur of movement as pairs hurried to somewhere private to mull over their first clue. Jeff and Annie barely had time to process what was happening before they found themselves standing alone in the centre of the quad, the sudden quiet settling around them like an unwelcome blanket.

"So..." Jeff said, the single syllable hanging awkwardly between them like a question neither wanted to answer. After a brief pause in which he got no response, he gestured vaguely at the red envelope clutched in Annie's hands with a movement that was somehow both too casual and too stiff. "Are you, uh... going to open that?"

Annie startled slightly, like she’d been watching the scene through glass and only just realised she was inside it. "What? Oh. Yes, sorry." She fumbled with the envelope, her usually deft fingers suddenly clumsy as she tried to find an edge to tear. The paper crinkled loudly in the quiet, and she winced at the sound. When she finally managed to get it open, she unfolded the contents with the kind of overly careful precision that suggested she was grateful to have something—anything—to focus on besides the man standing awkwardly beside her.

Her eyes began scanning the text with the focused intensity of someone accustomed to extracting meaning from cryptic evidence and coded communications, unconsciously angling the paper slightly away from Jeff as she became absorbed in deciphering its contents. Jeff watched her read and, despite the distance between them, couldn't help but smile fondly when he recognised the familiar furrow that always appeared between her eyebrows whenever she encountered something challenging. Some things, at least, never changed.

He caught himself staring and cleared his throat. "So… what does it say?" he asked after several seconds of silence.

Annie's head snapped up, her eyes taking a moment to register Jeff's presence as if she'd forgotten there was a world that existed beyond the riddle. She gave a small, instinctive shake of her head, like brushing off a cobweb, then cleared her throat and began to read aloud:

"Where melodies fell flat and hearts stood still,
A troubadour's serenade climbed upward hill.
With carefree wisdom and olfactory praise,
He sang of perfection in simplest of ways.
Though romantics called him foolish and wrong,
Love's truest confession rang clear in his song.
Where stone steps ascend to knowledge's door,
Find where bad music meant something much more."

Jeff squinted at the paper, then reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a pair of reading glasses—silver-framed and understated, pretty much the only visible concession he'd made to the passage of time. He settled them on his nose with the careful dignity of a man who'd spent far too long pretending he didn't need them before finally accepting reality.

"Well," he said, studying the riddle with newfound clarity, "that's... annoyingly vague. I was hoping for something more along the lines of 'turn left at the Guzmán statue.'"

But Annie wasn't listening; she had already returned to studying the clue, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. Her lips moved silently as she re-read each line, searching for hidden meanings and connections.

"Melodies fell flat," she murmured to herself. "Troubadour's serenade... olfactory praise..." She looked up suddenly. "Olfactory means smell, right? So… something about a song praising a smell?"

"Sounds right," Jeff agreed, though in truth he had little interest in deciphering the riddle. He was here to enjoy a rare evening with old friends—not to humour Craig in his last hurrah.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by Annie's occasional muttering as she re-read the clue. Her grip on the paper tightened with each pass, her shoulders drawing up incrementally until they were nearly touching her ears. Jeff noticed her jaw clench as she stared at the riddle with increasing intensity, as if sheer force of will could unlock its secrets.

"Maybe it'll come to us if we go for a walk," Jeff suggested finally, watching her obvious frustration mount. "Take our minds off it for a bit. Remember freshman year when you got obsessed with the incubation effect after that talk with Duncan? You know, that thing where stepping away from a problem actually helps your brain work on it in the background? You forced us all to integrate it into our group study sessions until even you had to admit that Pierce taking three-hour 'incubation lunches' wasn't helping anyone learn Spanish."

The mention of their old study group dynamics seemed to hit a nerve—whether it was the casual intimacy of the shared memory or simply being reminded of simpler times, Jeff couldn't tell. But instead of responding to his suggestion or even acknowledging the memory, she retreated further into the riddle, using it like armour against his attempts at connection.

"Annie," Jeff said softly, his voice carrying a gentleness that surprised them both.

She looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time since they'd been paired together. For a brief moment, her carefully maintained composure wavered, and he caught a glimpse of something fragile beneath her professional façade.

"Okay," she agreed quietly, her voice smaller than usual as she folded the paper and slipped it into her jacket pocket. "A walk might help."

They began slowly moving across the quad, their footsteps creating a rhythm on the worn pathways they'd traversed countless times. The familiar geography of the campus seemed to ease some of the tension between them, even as an uncomfortable silence stretched on.

"By the way," Jeff said, his voice casual, the effort behind it anything but, "I never properly thanked you for Sebastian's last birthday present. That forensic science kit you sent. He keeps trying to dust everything in the house for fingerprints. I think you might have dethroned Auntie Britta as his favourite member of the study group."

"That’s good," Annie replied quietly, her voice carrying a note Jeff couldn't quite identify as something twisted in her chest.

Jeff waited for her to elaborate, but nothing more came. He tried again.

"How are things at work? Every time I turn on the news, there seems to be some new concerning headline about chaos at a federal agency. I hope it's not affecting you too much."

Annie's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. The question hit too close to home—the constant uncertainty about relocation, watching colleagues get illegally laid off and rehired like pawns in some political game, the daily stress of wondering if she'd wake up to find her entire division restructured overnight. She'd spent years building her reputation, her expertise, her sense of purpose, and now it all felt like it was crumbling beneath the weight of an administration that saw federal employees as obstacles rather than public servants. "It's fine," she said, her tone suggesting it was anything but.

Another conversational dead end. Jeff felt like he was trying to extract information from a particularly uncooperative witness, each attempt met with minimal responses that revealed nothing about what was actually going on behind Annie's carefully controlled exterior.

After another uncomfortable silence, he changed tack. "Hey, remember that time when your pen disappeared and you were convinced that one of us had stolen it. We tore the study room apart, searched each other’s belongings and even ended up stripping off. And then months later it turned out Troy’s monkey had stolen it."

Annie felt heat rise in her cheeks as her mind went back to 2010—when she'd let paranoia and control consume her so completely that she'd turned friends into suspects over a stupid pen. She could still remember the humiliation of that day, how her desperate need to be right had made her blind to reason, how she'd clung to her theory even when it alienated everyone around her. Just like how she'd clung to the belief that her marriage could work, ignoring every sign that Nicholas was pulling away. Just like how she was clinging to this professional front now, too proud to admit she was drowning.

"I remember," she said quietly, her voice carrying none of the warmth that Jeff clearly thought the memory deserved.

They continued walking in silence, passing the familiar landmarks of their shared past: the anthropology classroom where they'd rallied around Shirley during Ben's dramatic arrival, the faculty office Jeff had recently vacated where they’d attempted to identify the ass crack bandit, the biology lab where their yam had been destroyed—sacrificed to the madness of that week.

But this silence felt nothing like the comfortable quiet they'd once effortlessly shared. This was the careful distance of two people who had once known each other intimately but who were now impossibly distant despite walking side by side. Each attempt at connection had been met with polite deflection or painful quiet, and Jeff was running out of ideas. He could practically feel Annie retreating further into herself with each step he made to bridge the gap between them.

Jeff watched her from the corner of his eye, noting how she held herself like she was braced for impact, how even surrounded by the echoes of their happiest times, she couldn't seem to let her guard down. Whatever pain she was carrying had made her unreachable, even to him.

Finally, he decided to abandon subtlety entirely.

"Annie, are you okay?" he asked, stopping abruptly in the middle of the corridor. "I mean, really okay? Because you've been... distant. Ever since you told us about your separation, you've been different. Guarded. Withdrawn. I'm worried about you."

The question seemed to hit her like a physical blow. Her veneer of control cracked, and suddenly the professional mask was gone, replaced by something raw and defensive.

"Oh, you're worried about me?" she said, her voice rising slightly. "You want to know why I'm not okay, Jeff? I'm—"

She caught herself, seeming to search for safer ground.

"I'm tired. Tired of men seeing what they want to see, rather than who I actually am. You, Jeff—always so certain you know best, always managing the moment, trying to fix things with your empty words and meaningless gestures. Well, guess what, Jeff, some things can't be charmed away with a smile and a speech."

Her voice took on a cutting edge as she warmed to her theme.

"At least you're consistent with every other man who's disappointed me. My father walked away the moment things got complicated, left me alone with a mother who pushed and pushed until I broke. My husband decided I wasn't good enough, wasn't complete enough—wasn't woman enough for him. And before that, there was my high school boyfriend who needed a girl to quiet his parents' suspicions more than he ever needed me. Even Va—"

She stopped abruptly, the syllables hanging unfinished in the air between them. Her eyes went wide with recognition, and she quickly reached into her pocket, pulling out the riddle with shaking fingers.

Chapter Text

As soon as the Dean’s final words echoed across the quad, the crowd exploded with purposeful energy. What moments before had been an orderly audience instantly transformed into a maze of moving figures darting towards benches, alcoves, and shady corners—anywhere they could pause and puzzle over the first clue without interruption.

Shirley watched the chaos with amusement, noting how some pairs were already jogging towards various campus buildings while others huddled together in intense whispered conferences. "My goodness," she said with a gentle laugh, "everyone's certainly taking this seriously."

Britta glanced around at the dispersing crowd. "Should we..." she began, gently waving the red envelope.

"Actually," Shirley said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, "would you mind if we found somewhere to sit down first? I've been on my feet all day and I imagine we’ll need some time to mull over the clue before we go anywhere."

"Of course," Britta replied. "I'm in no rush anyway. It's not like we're competing for some amazing prize, right? It's probably just a framed photo of the Dean or something equally ridiculous."

They made their way to a nearby bench under an old oak tree, settling down with the kind of relieved sighs that came from women who'd learned to appreciate small moments of rest. The bench offered a good view of the remaining treasure hunters still puzzling over their clues, and the evening air carried the gentle sounds of distant laughter and conversation.

"This is nice," Shirley said, smoothing her skirt as she got comfortable. She looked at Britta with genuine warmth. "I have to say, it's wonderful to see you. I know we video chat sometimes, but it's not the same as being here in person."

"Same here," Britta agreed, tucking one leg under herself as she settled back against the bench. "The twins ask about Auntie Shirley all the time. They still remember when you taught them how to bake sugar cookies during your last visit." She smiled at the memory. "A few weeks ago, Greta informed me that I was 'doing the mixing all wrong' because I wasn't following your exact technique. Apparently, I don't have the proper wrist action for creaming butter."

Shirley's face lit up at this. "Oh, that's so sweet! Maybe next time I visit we can tackle something more ambitious—like decorated Christmas cookies or maybe even a simple cake if they’re feeling brave."

For a moment, they sat in comfortable companionship, watching the last few stragglers disperse across the campus. The familiar surroundings of Greendale seemed to invite this kind of peaceful reflection, as if the place itself was encouraging them to slow down and appreciate the connections they'd formed within its boundaries.

"Well," Britta said eventually, breaking the peaceful silence as she held up the envelope with mock ceremony. "I suppose we should see what the Dean’s ‘all-knowing’ AI has cooked up for us." Shirley offered a gentle, encouraging smile and gave a small nod before Britta clumsily tore open the envelope, unfolded the contents and held them at arm’s length, squinting slightly. Shifting in her seat to catch the last of the evening light, she cleared her throat and began to read:

"Where voices once rose for justice denied,
And brownies were baked with passionate pride.
A journalist's story, silenced by might,
Lives on in the place where students unite.
Seek out where banners were raised for distant cries,
And remember the truth that never dies."

Britta stared at the riddle for a long moment, her brow furrowed in concentration. She re-read it once, then twice, her lips moving silently as she tried to parse its meaning. The words felt familiar somehow, like an echo of something she'd once known but could no longer quite grasp.

"Hmm," she said finally, her voice carrying a note of uncertainty. "Something about a journalist and... brownies? And some kind of injustice?" She looked up at Shirley with a puzzled expression. "Does this mean anything to you?"

But even before Britta had finished asking the question, she could see understanding dawning across Shirley's features. "Oh my goodness, yes!" she exclaimed, her voice taking on a fervent tone. "Chacata Panecos! This is about poor Chacata Panecos!"

"Chaca-who-now?" Britta asked, still staring at the riddle like she was reading a foreign language.

"The Guatemalan journalist," Shirley said, her voice taking on an incongruously eager tone despite the grim subject matter. "The one who was beaten to death by government forces in late 2009. He'd been investigating corruption in the military—how they were embezzling funds meant for rural development projects. When he got too close to the truth, they silenced him. They found his body three days later, dumped in a drainage ditch outside Guatemala City. His press credentials were still around his neck."

Britta's expression remained politely blank, though a flicker of discomfort crossed her features. "Right," she said slowly. "And we... protested about this?"

"There was a whole campus demonstration in front of the library!" Shirley continued, her voice rising with remembered passion. "You mentioned his case in passing—just a throwaway comment about journalists being killed in Central America—but Annie and I decided we had to do something. We poured our hearts into every aspect of it. There were brownies and a candlelight vigil, and..." She paused, her enthusiasm dimming slightly as she noticed Britta's continued confusion. "You really don't remember?"

Britta shifted uncomfortably, the paper rustling in her hands. "I mean... vaguely? It's been over fifteen years, Shirley. I've mentioned a lot of injustices." She attempted a weak smile. "You know how I used to be about... causes."

The phrase hung awkwardly between them, and Shirley's expression shifted subtly, confusion giving way to something that might have been disappointment.

"You criticised our protest," Shirley said quietly, her voice taking on a more measured tone. "Said our approach was 'tacky and lame.' You objected to the brownies, the music, the..." She hesitated. "The piñata."

"Piñata?" Britta repeated, looking genuinely bewildered.

"You said it was inappropriate given he was beaten to death," Shirley continued, studying Britta's face carefully. "Which, looking back, you were probably right about. But at the time, Annie and I were just trying to get people's attention, to make them care about something happening so far away."

Britta nodded slowly, though her expression suggested she was still drawing a blank. "Well, you're probably right about the clue then," she said with forced lightness. "To the front of the library we go."

She jumped up from the bench with forced energy, as if eager movement might mask her shame at not remembering. "Let's go! I'm feeling very... treasure hunty today," she said brightly, brushing imaginary dust from her jeans. Shirley rose more slowly, gathering her purse with deliberate care. As they began walking across the campus, their footsteps created an uneven rhythm on the worn pathways. The silence that settled between them wasn't comfortable—it was the kind of quiet that felt heavy with unspoken thoughts and growing tension.

"You know," Shirley said after half a minute of silence, her voice carefully casual, "watching the news these days, I keep thinking about all those conversations we used to have. About politics, about speaking up for what's right." She glanced sideways at Britta. "You were always so passionate about these things. Always reminding us that staying informed was our civic duty."

Britta made a noncommittal humming sound that could have meant anything.

"I have to admit," Shirley continued, warming to her theme, "I used to tune out sometimes when you'd go on about the Tea Party movement and Citizens United and all that. It seemed so... abstract. But now, watching what's happening with Trump, with this administration..." She shook her head. "You were right about a lot of things. The voter suppression, the way extremist rhetoric was being normalised, the erosion of democratic norms. All that stuff everyone laughed away in the Obama era really was laying the groundwork for what we're dealing with now."

"Mmm," Britta replied, her attention seemingly focused on navigating around a crack in the sidewalk.

Shirley waited for her to elaborate, but when nothing more came, she pressed on. "I've been trying to figure out how to get more involved myself. You know, put my money where my mouth is. Are there any organisations you think are really worth supporting right now? Groups that are doing real work?" She paused, her voice taking on a slightly pointed edge. "I keep remembering how you always used to say that staying silent was complicity."

Britta's step faltered almost imperceptibly. "Did I say that?"

"All the time," Shirley confirmed. "You said that just because things seemed stable on the surface didn't mean we could afford to get complacent."

"Right," Britta said, her voice tight. "Well, I'm sure there are plenty of good organisations out there. You could probably just... google them."

The perfunctory response hung in the air between them, and Shirley's eyebrows rose slightly. Once, a question like that would’ve sparked a flurry of excitement—recommendations, impassioned suggestions, maybe even an invitation to join her at a rally. But now, all she received was the conversational equivalent of a shrug.

"Have you gone to any of the protests lately?" Shirley asked, her tone growing more direct. "With everything that's been happening—the immigration policies, the assault on civil liberties, the January 6th pardons—I would have thought you'd be out there with a megaphone."

Britta's jaw tightened. "I haven't really had time for that kind of thing," she said stiffly. "I've got two five-year-olds, Shirley. My priorities have shifted."

"Of course they have," Shirley said quickly, but there was something in her voice that suggested she wasn't entirely satisfied with this explanation. "But surely there are ways to stay engaged? Phone banking from home, or—"

"Look," Britta interrupted, her voice sharper now, "I haven't done anything... tangential to activism since the twins were born. I barely even watch the news anymore. It's just... it's too depressing, and I don't have the bandwidth to deal with all that anger and frustration on top of everything else I'm juggling."

Shirley slowed her pace, turning to look at Britta more directly. "You don't even watch the news?"

"Not really," Britta admitted, her defensive posture suggesting she knew how this sounded. "I catch headlines sometimes, but honestly? I just can't anymore. It was consuming me. I'd rather focus my energy on things I can actually control."

They walked in silence for another minute, the weight of this admission settling between them. Shirley thought back to their college days, to all the times Britta had charged into the study room with half-formed opinions about causes she’d just discovered—her heart always pointing in the right direction, even when her facts sometimes weren't. This woman walking beside her now—tired, disconnected, choosing ignorance as a form of self-preservation—felt like a stranger wearing Britta's face.

Shirley felt compelled to somehow reach the person she remembered, to find a way back to their old connection. "That protest," she said suddenly, her voice soft with nostalgia. "The one for Chacata Panecos. That was the first really college-y thing I did at Greendale. I'd spent so many years just being Andre's wife, Elijah and Jordan's mother. But that day, organising with Annie, raising awareness, actually trying to change something..." She smiled at the memory. "I felt like I was discovering a part of myself."

Britta glanced at her, something shifting in her expression. "That's... that's really nice, Shirley."

"It was," Shirley agreed. "And it was because of you, really. Because you cared about these things, talked about them, made them seem important. You made me realise that I could be more than just... more than just what I'd always been."

The words were meant as a compliment, but they seemed to have the opposite effect on Britta, whose face darkened with something that might have been guilt or irritation or both.

Despite its subtlety, Britta’s reaction struck Shirley's rawest nerve. Here she was, grasping for meaning as her role as a mother dissolved, while Britta—who had once burned so brightly with conviction—had chosen to abandon the very sense of purpose that Shirley craved. Against all reason, the irony felt like a personal affront.

"You know what I don't understand?" Shirley said, her voice gathering force as months of suppressed frustration finally crystallised. "You always said that privileged people have a responsibility to speak up. That those of us with the luxury of safety and security couldn't afford to stay on the sidelines while others suffered."

Britta's shoulders tensed. "Shirley—"

"But now that you're actually privileged," Shirley continued, her tone growing more pointed, "now that you have the nice house and the financial security and the husband with the good job that means you don't have to work—now you've decided that it’s all too much trouble?"

Like a bell struck too hard, Shirley's words reverberated through the air, leaving a silence that felt sharp and echoing. The accusation didn’t just sting—it drew blood. Britta faltered mid-step, her face flushing with a volatile mix of anger and wounded pride.

"Oh, that's rich," Britta said, her voice acid with hurt, "advice about engagement from someone who spent decades hiding behind her apron strings, only to emerge now that she's got nothing left to hide behind."

The counterattack hit Shirley like a physical blow. It wasn’t just the words that hurt but also how easily Britta had reached for them, like she'd been waiting years to hit where it would hurt most.

Her face went through a series of micro-expressions—surprise, hurt, anger—before settling into something cold and defensive.

"Excuse me?" she said quietly.

"You heard me," Britta shot back. "For someone lecturing me about responsibility and speaking up, you sure spent a lot of time baking cookies and planning church potlucks while the world was starting to burn around you. At least I had convictions to abandon! What have you ever stood for?"

Shirley's hands trembled slightly as the attack struck directly at her deepest insecurity—the one she'd been wrestling with for some time, the fear that she'd wasted decades of her life playing supporting roles in other people's stories, never quite claiming one for herself.

"That's not—" she began, then stopped, her voice catching.

They stood facing each other, two women, friends, now bristling with the kind of anger that comes from truths spoken too harshly and wounds touched too directly.

"Look," Britta said after a moment, her voice artificially calm, "this is getting heated, and that's not what either of us wants. It's a rare opportunity for us to see each other in person, and there's no point wasting it arguing about politics or life choices or whatever this is."

Shirley nodded stiffly, though her eyes remained guarded. "You're right," she said, her detached courtesy masking deep hurt beneath. "We should probably just focus on the treasure hunt."

"Agreed," Britta said, though her own posture remained equally defensive.

They resumed walking, but the easy camaraderie they'd shared on the bench earlier had evaporated, replaced by the careful distance of people who'd said far too much and couldn't figure out how to take it back.

Within little more than a minute—though for both, it had felt much longer—their narrow path opened onto a landscape etched deep in their memories. A few scattered treasure hunters lingered in the distance, their voices drifting faintly across the quiet expanse, but it was the library that drew the eye—dark, still, and solemn, a monument not to study, but to all the mischief and meaning they’d found in its shadow.

Shirley stopped suddenly, her eyes fixed on a tree just to the right of the building. She raised her hand, pointing without a word. Britta followed her gaze, squinting in the fading light. It took a moment for her to spot it. Hanging from one of the lower branches, a papier-mâché effigy was swaying gently in the evening breeze. Even from this distance, the details were unmistakable: a figure in a press hat, complete with moustache and tiny Guatemalan flag clutched in its right hand.

"Oh," Shirley said sweetly, her anger momentarily forgotten in the warmth of unexpected nostalgia. "That's nice."

Britta rolled her eyes instinctively, then caught herself, thankful she was out of her friend’s line of sight. But two decades of motherhood had given Shirley the near-supernatural ability to detect unspoken attitude. "It was Annie's idea," she said, the words coming out more defensively than she'd intended.

"I didn’t say anything," Britta shot back, but her voice held that particular quality of someone biting their tongue so hard it practically echoed.

When they reached the base of the tree, the piñata swayed gently above them in the breeze, casting an unsettling blend of the sacred and the absurd. Shirley studied it with a kind of cautious reverence, as if unsure whether to feel moved or laugh.

"You know," she said, tilting her head, "for something made of papier-mâché, it’s actually kind of powerful. Looking back, I'm proud to have stood up for something. Even if our methods might not always have been perfect."

The innocent observation struck a nerve. Britta's jaw tightened, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. Shirley, oblivious to the effect of her comment, was opening her mouth to say more when something caught her eye. Just beneath the piñata, half-hidden in the grass, was a small wooden bat.

"Ooh! Do you think the next clue is insi—"

Before Shirley could finish her thought, Britta lunged forward and snatched the bat from the grass and struck the piñata with such ferocity that it sent shards spinning through the air like shrapnel. Each blow landed with a sickening crack that echoed through the quiet evening—not unlike, perhaps, the final sounds that had reached the ears of poor Chacata Panecos all those years ago.

But Britta didn’t stop.

She struck again. And again. And again. Even after the hollow figure had split open and spilled its contents uselessly on the ground, she kept swinging—each blow harder, more frenzied, as if trying to shatter something far more resilient than papier-mâché. Her arms moved on instinct, powered by something too tangled to name: Shirley’s words, her own faded convictions, the bitter weight of who she'd once tried to be.

By the time she finally stopped, the figure was unrecognisable—limbs scattered, torso flattened, the tiny Guatemalan flag crushed into the dirt beneath her boot.

Candy lay strewn across the grass like evidence at a crime scene, catching the last of the daylight in garish flashes. Britta stood over the wreckage, chest heaving, the bat trembling in her clenched fist—a revolutionary turned executioner: she had just murdered the very cause she would once have done anything to defend.

Chapter Text

No sooner had the Dean's words finished ringing out than Troy ripped open the envelope with the enthusiasm of a man who'd forgotten how much he missed adventures that didn't require drafting a business plan first. As his eyes swept across the clue, Abed leaned in from a measured three feet away, squinting thoughtfully as he silently debated whether to move closer.

Troy glanced up, registering Abed’s hesitation, and shifted closer, offering the clue between them. "Sorry, man. Here."

Abed began reading silently, with the careful focus of a man trained to analyse scripts for hidden meanings—then paused and started over when Troy began reading aloud, their once-perfect synchronicity now lost to time:

"Where life was lived alone for the very first time,
And routines were built to keep things in line.
A refuge once offered when home was denied,
Four walls and a floor where pride stepped aside.
Where punchlines were hoarded before they were earned,
And echoes of effort still quietly burned.
Where guards were dropped with the tilt of a drink,
And sitcom rules helped a friendship re-sync.
Where a gamer with secrets once joined in the fun,
And poultry-based power corrupted someone.
Where living as one might have risked the whole,
So distance was chosen to shelter the soul."

Troy paused, squinting at the paper with the bewildered expression of someone trying to translate a message from a language they couldn’t speak. "Any ideas?" he asked, hoping his friend was having more luck.

Abed remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the paper, processing algorithms at least as complex as the AI system that had formulated the clue. The silence stretched long enough for Troy to wonder if his question had even registered.

"Any id—" Troy awkwardly began again.

"It's my old dorm room," Abed interrupted, his tone carrying his usual flat certainty.

"Your old room?" Troy repeated blankly, still staring at the riddle as if the words might rearrange themselves into something more obvious. "How do you get that from this?"

"It’s where I ‘lived alone for the very first time’ and I think the ‘punchlines were hoarded’ line refers to when Pierce came with pre-prepared jokes to our Kickpuncher 2 roast."

Troy nodded slowly, though a fleeting shadow crossed his features—the barely perceptible wince of someone reminded, once again, of the intellectual gap that had always existed between them. He recovered quickly, summoning his trademark grin. "Right. Okay. To the dorm building," he said purposefully.

And so, they began their walk across campus, falling into step beside each other with an unconscious rhythm that felt both familiar and slightly out of practice—like musicians who once played together daily reuniting after years apart. The low sun cast their shadows long across the familiar pathways, and for a fleeting moment, it was possible to forget that eleven years had passed since they'd last traversed the campus together.

"It feels weird being back here again," Troy said, breaking the silence.

"Yep, like watching an intended finale and then a reunion special filmed years later," Abed replied. "Think American Pie: Reunion. The characters are the same, but things have shifted. The lighting's different, the pacing feels off, and you can't shake the feeling that some essential magic has been lost to time."

"Hey, I liked that movie," Troy replied with a grin.

Abed paused mid-gesture, trying to avoid looking horrified at their diverged tastes. "Really? The nostalgic pandering didn't bother you? The forced callbacks? The inorganic setup to warrant the cast reassembling?"

"Sometimes it's nice to just see people you care about again," Troy said with a shrug. "Even if it's not quite the same."

Abed frowned slightly, his fingers tapping against his palm in a familiar rhythm. "I suppose there’s merit in that. Emotional continuity can outweigh structural flaws. If the reunion isn't narratively justified, but still resonates emotionally—" he paused, then nodded once, conceding. "Then maybe it’s still worth making." He glanced at Troy. "Doesn’t make American Pie: Reunion good, though."

Troy laughed. "It's nice to see that some things never change."

Abed gave him a questioning look.

"You analysing everything like you're watching it from behind a TV screen," Troy clarified with fond amusement.

"Old habits," Abed said with a slight shrug. "Though I've learned to internalise more of it. Even people in Hollywood get uncomfortable when you constantly point out the narrative structure of their lives."

Without conscious thought, both stepped slightly left to avoid a jagged crack in the sidewalk—the same small zigzag that had been interrupting foot traffic since their freshman year. The synchronised sidestep was so instinctive that neither registered it immediately, until Troy's gaze drifted downward and then across to Abed. A quiet smile spread across his features, and when he caught Abed's eye, he found an answering warmth there—a shared recognition that some rhythms, it seemed, remained embedded in muscle memory even after years of separation.

As they approached the dormitory building, Troy found himself studying the place with fresh eyes. The brick facade looked exactly as it had sixteen years ago, though perhaps a little more weathered. The same institutional landscaping, the same slightly crooked nameplate by the entrance. It struck him how much smaller everything seemed now—not just physically, but in scope. This building that had once felt like the centre of the universe was just another unremarkable structure on an (outwardly at least) unremarkable campus.

"What about the other parts of the clue?" Troy asked, pushing open the door to the building. "'A refuge once offered when home was denied'?"

"That must be about when Jeff temporarily moved in after getting thrown out of his original apartment," Abed explained. "We watched the entire first season of Knight Rider and he showed a disturbing level of tolerance for losing to Pavel at pool. It was the first time he really let his guard down with me."

Getting more into the rhythm of things, Abed took the clue from Troy. "'Drink' helping a 'friendship re-sync' presumably refers to when Britta drunk-dialled Jeff, and we decided that Jeff should get drunk so he could drunk dial her back. It took me three weeks to get the smell of beer out of the carpet. I had to open the windows every day and use industrial-strength carpet cleaner five times. I think the maintenance staff thought I was the Black River Ripper."

Troy laughed before his eyes dawned with understanding. "And the 'gamer with secrets' must have been Lukka." His face suddenly went dark. "I still can't believe we were friends with a war criminal."

"Looking back, the warning signs were there—every time someone died he always said ‘in real life no one respawns’," Abed said, adopting a not-quite-passable eastern European accent.

"And the 'poultry-based power' must be referring to when you used the room as the nerve centre of the chicken finger operation we had going in freshman year," Troy said wistfully. "You had people queuing all the way down the corridor," he continued, gesturing at the empty hallway they'd just reached. "Students, faculty—everyone wanted in on the chicken finger economy you'd created. It was amazing how you used your influence to help us all get what we wanted."

Abed stopped suddenly, his expression darkening. "Amazing?" He shuddered slightly. "I turned the school into my personal fiefdom. I prioritised my own vision for the group's happiness above your actual needs. I couldn't compromise or see past my own perspective, even when I thought I was helping."

Troy's smile faded as he watched his friend's obvious discomfort. The memory that was a fond one to him was clearly a source of regret for Abed. After an awkward pause, he cleared his throat and reached for safer ground. "Hey, what about the last line?" He grabbed the paper back from Abed. "'Where living as one might have risked the whole, so distance was chosen to shelter the soul'?"

Abed's expression grew thoughtful, almost hesitant. "That's... that's about the time you asked if we could move in together at the end of freshman year."

Troy nodded slowly, the memory coming back to him. "Yeah. You said you were worried that spending all our time together would be dangerous for our friendship." He paused for a moment before continuing with unwavering certainty. "But look how wrong you were. Moving in together was amazing. We had the best times of our lives."

Abed paused, choosing his words carefully. "I suppose, but that came with its dangers too. Spending so much time together did make us dependent on one another. Make us lose our individual identities and become this... become a single unit that couldn't function separately.

"Take Annie moving in—we were so consumed with being Troy-and-Abed that we completely overlooked her as an actual person with real needs. We wasted her packing materials and expected her to sleep in a blanket fort when there was an empty bedroom just a few feet away." He shook his head. "It took her actually confronting us before we realised how selfish we were being. We'd become so focused on our own little world that we couldn't see past it or consider anyone else’s perspective. We'd become a closed system, dependent on each other to the exclusion of everyone else."

Troy's eyebrows rose sharply, but just as he opened his mouth to respond, Abed stopped outside his old front door and reached for the handle he hadn’t turned since 2011.

"Won't it be locked?" Troy mumbled, still processing Abed’s words.

"Probably not, if they're closing down," Abed replied. "Plus, this is clearly a moment that requires narrative convenience. The story needs us inside the room, so the universe will conspire to make it accessible. It's like the opposite of when car keys disappear in horror movies."

Sure enough, the door opened easily, revealing a space that was completely bare. The walls were stripped of any decoration, the bunk beds and sofa long gone, leaving only the rectangular outlines that had once been the centre of Abed’s world. But there, in the exact centre of the empty room like a lone survivor of some apocalyptic clearing, sat a single, colourful board game. It was as if the entire space had been hollowed out just to frame this single invitation.

"Oh, that's interesting," Troy said, his voice brightening as he spotted the game. "We have to complete this to get the next clue, right? That's so cool—like an escape room!"

"Cool… cool, cool, cool," Abed said as he examined the game’s box, which featured an abstract design of interconnected territories and resource symbols. "Playing a board game with high stakes. It’ll be just like when we played Pile of Bullets…" He paused as realisation dawned. "Wait, no—that was after you left."

Troy's enthusiasm dimmed slightly. "Oh. Right."

They settled cross-legged on the floor on either side of the board, the last of the day’s light streaming through the bare windows casting geometric patterns across the game pieces. Abed carefully read through the instructions, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"It's called 'Territory Wars,'" he explained, examining the box more closely. The cover showed two abstract civilisations facing each other across a stylised landscape dotted with resource symbols. "It's a cooperative-competitive strategy game. Two players build adjacent civilisations and must balance collaboration with individual success.

"It has some similarities with the Pandemic game we played over Zoom during COVID with Annie and Jeff: individual and team goals have to be balanced; strategic decisions need to be made about allocating limited resources; the gameplay is map-based. You get the idea."

Troy picked up the instruction manual, flipping through pages of diagrams and rule explanations. "Looks complicated."

"The mechanics are actually quite elegant," Abed said, beginning to set up the board. "Each turn, we simultaneously choose action cards—military, economic, diplomatic, or cultural. Success depends on whether our choices complement or conflict with each other. The goal is to reach a shared victory condition while not becoming so interdependent that individual civilisation strength is jeopardised."

As Abed arranged the game pieces, Troy noticed how the box art depicted two civilisations that started as allies but could apparently end up at war. The tagline read ‘Every Partnership Faces Its Ultimate Test’.

"Cheerful," Troy said dryly.

"It's just thematic flavour text," Abed replied, dealing out their starting cards.

They began playing, and initially, the cooperation came naturally. On the first turn, Troy chose Economic Development while Abed selected Diplomatic Outreach, creating a beneficial trade route between their civilisations.

"Nice," Troy said, moving both their progress markers forward. "We're already ahead of the baseline score."

"We’ve still got it," Abed agreed, though he found himself studying Troy's face for confirmation.

For the next several turns, they found an easy rhythm. Troy would lean forward, studying his options, while Abed calculated probabilities. They discussed strategies openly, pointing out opportunities and potential pitfalls.

"So... Hollywood, huh?" Troy said as they tallied points after turn four. "Does reality match the dream?"

"Parts of it," Abed acknowledged, organising his civilisation tokens by type. "Getting to be on set, being part of the process, making stories come to life—those aspects have lived up to expectations. Other parts..." He trailed off, shrugging. "The industry politics, the compromises, sometimes having to work on uninspired movies because they pay the bills—those weren't in my original screenplay."

"But you're successful," Troy pointed out. "Second unit director on major productions. That's huge."

"It's respectable," Abed agreed, drawing his next action card. "Though sometimes I wonder if I've strayed too far from my original vision. My early indie films had a distinctive voice. Now I spend most of my time executing someone else's creative decisions."

Troy selected his Military Expansion card, then paused thoughtfully. "You know, I used to think success meant never having to compromise your vision. In the first year of Dance Pants, the sponsor lending us the sound equipment went back on the deal at the last minute and insisted that we plaster the main stage backdrop with their logos. I was furious at first and was going to refuse. But then I realised—would I rather have a 'pure' festival that nobody could hear, or one that actually worked? So, maybe the real skill is figuring out which compromises are worth making and which ones aren't. In your case, you're still doing what you always wanted, right? Telling stories. Just in a different way."

Abed tilted his head slightly and smiled. "When did you get so wise?"

"Probably somewhere between French Polynesia and Australia," Troy replied with a grin. "Turns out sailing around the world gives you a lot of time to think."

They revealed their cards—Troy's Military Expansion and Abed's Cultural Development created a "Protective Alliance" bonus. Another successful collaboration.

"So what about you?" Abed asked as they moved their markers. "Running a music festival seems like a natural evolution of your interests."

"It is," Troy confirmed. "And I love it. Bringing people together, creating experiences—it's like hosting the best house party ever, but on a massive scale."

By turn six, however, the action cards were becoming more complex. Instead of simple development choices, they now featured scenario-based decisions with multiple variables. Troy drew a card labelled ‘Resource Scarcity’ that forced him to either share his resources or hoard them for a potential military advantage.

"This is getting trickier," Troy muttered, studying the options.

Abed's card read ‘Border Expansion’—he could either respect Troy's territorial claims or encroach for economic benefits. They both hesitated longer than usual before making their selections.

When they revealed, Troy had chosen to share resources while Abed had chosen to expand into disputed territory. The result was a "Betrayal" penalty that set both civilisations back.

"Huh," Abed said, reviewing the outcome chart. "The game punishes mixed signals."

"Yeah, well, maybe if you'd stuck to our usual cooperative approach..." Troy began.

"The card incentivised expansion. I was optimising for long-term strategic advantage."

"Right, but you knew I'd probably share because that's what I always do."

They drew their next cards in slightly uncomfortable silence. The scenarios were becoming more pointed: ‘Alliance or Independence’, ‘Trust or Verify’, ‘Compromise or Conviction’.

Turn after turn, they found themselves making choices that seemed designed to expose the fault lines in their partnership. When they tried to cooperate, they missed opportunities. When they competed, they both suffered penalties.

After they'd suffered their third consecutive 'Failed Coordination' penalty, Troy stared at the board in defeat. "This kind of thing used to be so easy for us. Everything used to be easy for us." He looked up at Abed, something vulnerable flickering across his face. "You know, it's weird—I suppose I've got tons of friends now, business contacts, people I hang out with regularly. But none of them..." He gestured vaguely at the space between them. "I haven't found another friendship with the depth that ours had."

Abed's response was instant and unguarded, his expression softening. "Me neither."

They sat in the warmth of this shared acknowledgment for several seconds before continuing, but when they returned to the game, their coordination remained as broken as before. If anything, acknowledging what they'd lost only made their continued failures more painful.

"Okay, new strategy," Troy said after turn twelve ended in another setback. "Forget strategy entirely. Let's just pick whatever feels right and hope we're still on the same wavelength."

"Intuitive synchronisation," Abed nodded. "Though our decision-making patterns have likely evolved since college."

"Let's see," Troy said, holding his action card face-down. "On three. One, two, three—"

They revealed identical Military Offense cards. The result was ‘Destructive Conflict’—both civilisations took massive damage.

"Well, that didn't work," Troy said with forced lightness.

The next several turns grew increasingly tense. The scenario cards seemed designed to escalate conflict: ‘Resource Wars’, ‘Ideological Divide’, ‘Territorial Dispute’. Each choice forced them into increasingly adversarial positions.

"This is ridiculous," Troy said after they'd triggered another ‘Escalating Conflict’ result. "It's like the game wants us to fight."

"Games don’t create conflict—they reveal it," Abed replied, his voice carefully neutral as he avoided Troy's gaze.

By turn eighteen, they were barely speaking except to announce their actions. The friendly spirit of the early game had evaporated entirely, replaced by calculated manoeuvring and strategic second-guessing.

Then Troy drew a card that made him freeze completely.

The scenario read: ‘Architectural Project: Choose PROJECT BLANKET (world record, fame, external achievement) or PROJECT PILLOW (pure vision, personal significance, creative integrity).’

Troy stared at the card for a long moment, his face going pale. He glanced up at Abed, who was waiting to see the scenario, then quickly placed the card face-down on the floor.

"What's the scenario?" Abed asked.

"Just... just another territory thing," Troy said, his voice slightly higher than usual.

"Let me see it."

"It's fine, I've got it figured out." Troy moved to cover the card with his hand.

"Troy, we need to read the scenarios together."

"It's not necessary for this one. Trust me."

But Abed had caught something in Troy's tone. He reached for the card, but Troy instinctively moved it closer to him.

"Just let me handle this one," Troy insisted.

"The rules state that scenario cards should be—"

"Forget the rules for one second!"

Suddenly, they both lunged for the card, hands colliding briefly before Abed wrestled it away and held it just out of reach. As his eyes passed over the text, his expression froze.

"Oh," he said quietly.

They sat in silence for several seconds, the card lying between them like evidence of something they'd both been trying to avoid acknowledging.

"What the hell?" Troy said, staring at the card like it might bite him. "How does it know? How could a board game possibly know about..."

"The whole thing is built around conflict escalation," Abed said grimly. "The scenarios seem to be specifically crafted to trigger disputes. Now it's recreating the conditions that led to our biggest fight."

"And what happens if we keep playing?"

Abed looked at the remaining scenario cards in the deck, then at their civilisations' current positions on the board—two powers locked in escalating competition with no clear path back to cooperation.

"The same thing that happened before," he said. "Complete breakdown. Only this time Jeff isn’t here with a couple of imaginary friendship hats to make things right."

Troy suddenly moved towards the remaining deck of scenario cards. "You know what? Let me just read ahead and see what we're supposed to do. Maybe if we know what's coming, we can get through this faster."

"Troy, no," Abed said sharply, lunging forward and grabbing his wrist. "That defeats the entire purpose. The challenge is supposed to be about adapting to unknown situations together."

"But we're clearly not good at that anymore!" Troy said, transferring the cards to his free hand. "Let's just skip to the end."

"The integrity of the experience matters," Abed insisted, making another swing for the cards. "If we cheat our way through, we're just avoiding the real issue."

"Maybe I want to avoid the real issue!" Troy shot back, pulling away from Abed's attempt to retrieve the deck. "Maybe I don't want to spend the evening proving that our friendship doesn't work anymore after all these years!"

What followed was perhaps the most undignified physical altercation either of them had ever engaged in—a clumsy wrestling match over a deck of cards that would have been comical if it hadn't been so painfully symbolic. They rolled across the bare floor, grappling for control of the cards while game pieces scattered around them like debris from their shattered synchronicity.

"Give me the cards, Troy!"

"Just let me see how it ends!"

"You're cheating!"

"I'm problem-solving!"

The struggle continued for several more seconds until Troy managed to get Abed in a headlock, his arm tightening around his friend's neck. "Ow! You're actually hurting me now," Abed said, his voice strained as he tapped Troy's arm frantically.

"Oh God, sorry," Troy replied, instantly letting go and scrambling backward. The cards scattered across the floor like confetti, mixing with the displaced tokens in a chaos that perfectly reflected the current state of their relationship.

They lay on opposite sides of the room, staring at the wreckage of what had begun as a simple game. Their laboured breathing echoed off the bare walls, the silence settling between them like dust after an explosion—fine, inescapable, and heavy with meaning.

"You know, when you said earlier that you haven't found another friendship like ours," Abed said eventually, his voice taking on the detached analytical tone that Troy remembered both loving and dreading. "I'm not sure that's a bad thing."

Troy felt something cold settle in his stomach. "What do you mean?"

"I think our friendship was the most important relationship either of us has ever had," Abed continued, staring at the ceiling as if he were analysing a particularly complex piece of cinema. "But I also think it was fundamentally unhealthy. We didn't just complete each other—we consumed each other. We made ourselves so central to each other's identities that we never learned how to be whole people on our own."

The words hit Troy like a physical blow. "So what, you're saying it was all fake?"

"I'm saying it was real but unsustainable," Abed replied, finally turning to look at him. "And maybe... maybe that was the reason we both found it so easy to drift apart. When you finished your round-the-world trip, you could have come to LA for us to be together again, but you decided not to. Why? You must have realised too that it wasn't good for you. Just like it wasn't good for me. We were like addicts enabling each other."

"Wow," Troy said, his voice shaking with hurt and anger. "Thanks for the therapy session, Dr. Nadir. Really nice to know that the best years of my life were just some kind of psychological dysfunction."

"That's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean?" Troy interrupted, sitting up and facing Abed directly. "Because it sounds like you're saying that everything we had—all those adventures, all those late nights talking about movies and doing stupid stuff together, all the times we had each other's backs—it was all just... what? Co-dependency?"

Abed sat up as well, running his hands through his hair. "I'm saying that we created our own world, which was wonderful and safe and fulfilling. But it also made it harder to connect with other people. We became each other's primary emotional support system to the exclusion of developing other relationships."

The easy rhythm they'd once shared was now completely gone, replaced by the careful distance of two people who'd just admitted that their most treasured relationship might have been built on unhealthy foundations. The game pieces around them seemed to mock their attempt at reconnection, scattered like the remnants of their former certainty about each other.

Troy stared at his friend—his former best friend—and felt something fundamental shift between them. Not breaking, exactly, but reshaping itself into something more honest and perhaps more painful.

Chapter Text

The silence stretched between them like a taut wire, vibrating with the weight of the Dean’s confession. It hung in the cool evening air, raw and unretractable—a truth spoken plainly, without the familiar protective sparkle. For once in his life, Craig Pelton had nothing theatrical to offer—no costume change could mask this moment, no grand gesture could deflect from the fundamental inadequacy he felt burning in his chest.

Frankie didn’t react. She simply stood there, eyes steady on him, her expression a careful mask that revealed nothing of her thoughts. It was the kind of pause that felt like a decision being made in real time—about what to say, and what to leave unsaid.

"Dean," she said simply, her voice carrying none of its usual administrative crispness but also devoid of warmth—just a careful neutrality that offered stability rather than false comfort.

She studied his face for a moment with the detached observation of someone cataloguing symptoms, noting how his usual confidence had drained away entirely, leaving behind something raw and unstable. When she spoke again, her tone was measured and controlled.

"Maybe we should head to the speakeasy," she suggested, her words carefully modulated—neither dismissive of his outburst nor inviting further emotional spillage. It was the kind of practiced containment that came from years of managing volatile situations, offering a structured exit from the moment without acknowledgment or judgment. She'd learned long ago that sometimes the kindest thing you could do for someone in emotional freefall was to simply provide a clear path forward and wait for them to take it.

The Dean looked up at her, surprise flickering across his features. He'd expected anger, judgment, perhaps pity or some kind of lecture about professional boundaries. Instead, she was offering him exactly what he needed: a way forward that didn't require him to explain himself further.

"Right," he said quietly, his voice hoarse. "The speakeasy."

They began walking in wordless agreement, their footsteps creating an uneven rhythm on the worn linoleum. The Dean moved with none of his usual bounce as Frankie walked beside him with her characteristic purposeful stride, though she'd unconsciously slowed her pace to match his more subdued gait.

As they approached the area where Shirley's Sandwiches had once operated, the Dean's eyes fell on the Subway outlet that had claimed the space. Even in closure, the corporate uniformity lingered—faded signage still bearing the predictable colour scheme, standardised menu boards now dark and lifeless, the complete erasure of Shirley's personal touch still evident in the sterile layout. It struck him as a perfect metaphor for everything he'd failed to preserve at Greendale. Warmth, personality, and the raw enthusiasm of someone pursuing their dreams had been replaced by the cold efficiency of a chain restaurant—and now, not even that.

They walked through the kitchen, past industrial-sized ovens and commercial refrigeration units that had been shuttered and covered in plastic sheeting. A broken illuminated sign reading "Eat Fresh" flickered intermittently, casting erratic shadows across their path as they made their way to the back door.

The stairs leading down to their destination were darker than the Dean remembered, the overhead lighting having given up sometime since his last visit—a desperate meeting with the career advisor after Greendale's closure had become inevitable. Twenty minutes later, he'd walked out with contact information for three different children's birthday party companies and a growing certainty that his professional identity had been reduced to ‘man willing to wear costumes’. He fumbled for his phone's flashlight, the beam cutting through the gloom as they descended carefully towards the battered green door that had once been the entrance to Greendale's not-so-secret rebellion against authority.

The door creaked open with a sound that would have been ominous in any other context. Where there had once been makeshift tables, dim lighting, and the convivial atmosphere of illicit gathering, now there was the sterile functionality of a career guidance office. Fluorescent lighting hummed overhead, illuminating walls covered with job advertisements that ranged from the merely unusual ('Artisanal Cheese Consultant - No Experience Required!') to the downright bizarre ('Professional Line-Stander - Must Have Own Folding Chair').

Motivational posters competed for wall space with practical advice sheets: ‘Turning the Great Recession into Your Personality: Explaining Employment Gaps with Confidence’, ‘Dealing with Probation Officers: A Professional Guide’, and ‘Converting Community Service Hours into Marketable Skills’. It was quintessentially Greendale—well-meaning, slightly chaotic, and somehow simultaneously both inspiring and depressing.

"What do you think we should do now?" the Dean asked, his voice still carrying uncertainty after his earlier outburst. The question hung in the air, laden with significance that went far beyond the immediate treasure hunt.

Frankie looked around the transformed space, taking in the career guidance paraphernalia with her usual systematic assessment. "I suppose we should look around for another clue," she said, her tone suggesting she was as interested in giving them both something to focus on as she was in progressing through the hunt.

They began to search the room—Frankie checking behind filing cabinets and bulletin boards with characteristic thoroughness, while the Dean bounced around the room in seemingly random patterns, lifting motivational posters to peek behind them, checking under desk lamps and rifling through random papers with the scattered enthusiasm of someone who'd never met a filing system he couldn't ignore. The activity provided a welcome distraction from the emotional intensity of the previous few minutes, allowing them both to retreat into the familiar comfort of having a task to complete.

"So," Frankie said as she examined a particularly enthusiastic poster about ‘Turning Your Failed Pyramid Scheme into Entrepreneurial Success’, "what will you do for work now that Greendale has closed?"

The Dean paused in his examination of a desk drawer filled with outdated career pamphlets. "I've been thinking about opening a small café," he said quietly. "Dalmatian-themed. ‘Bark and Brew’ or maybe ‘Spots and Shots’—I'm still workshopping the name. Nothing too ambitious, just a little place where people could get good coffee and maybe a sandwich shaped like a dog bone." His voice grew slightly more animated despite his subdued mood. "Somewhere with real personality, you know? Black and white checkered floors, paw print napkins, maybe a little bell that goes 'woof' when customers enter. The kind of place where regulars would have their own tables and baristas would remember their orders."

Frankie glanced up from her search, surprised by the genuine enthusiasm that had crept into his voice. "That sounds... actually quite lovely. Very you."

"You think so?" the Dean asked, his tone carrying a vulnerability that usually stayed hidden behind his dramatic flourishes.

"I do," Frankie confirmed. "You've always been good with people. You understand what makes them feel welcome, valued. Those are exactly the skills that are required to run a café."

The Dean felt something warm uncurl in his chest at her words—not the fleeting validation he usually craved, but something deeper and more sustaining. Coming from Frankie, who wasn't given to empty flattery, the compliment felt substantial, genuine.

"What about you?" he asked, genuinely curious. "What are your plans?"

Frankie continued searching as she spoke, her hands moving efficiently through a stack of leaflets. "I've been exploring options in corporate consulting. There are firms in Denver that specialise in improving operational efficiency for mid-sized organisations in the not-for-profit sector." She paused, then added with characteristic understatement, "It would be a significant salary increase."

"That sounds very... corporate," the Dean observed without disapproval.

"It does, doesn't it?" Frankie agreed with a faint smile. "It'll certainly be a change from what I'm used to here. Structured meetings that start on time, budgets that balance without creative accounting, colleagues who express themselves through emails rather than interpretive dance." She paused, organising papers with unnecessary precision. "You know, I used to job hop every eighteen months or so—long enough to identify problems and implement solutions, but once I'd finished I'd get bored, and it's not like I ever formed much of a bond with the people I was working with." Her voice carried a slight flatness as she recalled those efficient, isolated years. "I originally planned to do the same here, work just long enough to add some educational sector experience to my résumé."

The Dean stopped his search entirely, turning to look at her with genuine surprise. "Really? But you've been here almost a decade. What made you change your plan?"

Frankie's hands stilled on the papers she'd been sorting, and for a moment, her carefully maintained composure seemed to waver. "I... well, you see, the thing is..." She began to stumble over her words, a stark departure from her usual articulate precision. Her cheeks flushed slightly as she searched for an explanation that wouldn't sound maudlin.

Just as the Dean opened his mouth to invite her to finish her thought—clearly intrigued by this rare display of uncertainty from someone who always seemed to have the answer to every question—Frankie's eyes found something that provided a merciful escape.

"Oh, look," she said with barely concealed relief, gesturing at a red envelope that had been taped to the underside of a desk lamp. "The next clue."

The Dean followed her gaze and moved quickly to retrieve the envelope, though he cast a curious glance back at his colleague, recognising her unease but choosing not to press. He opened the envelope with considerably more care than he'd shown with their first clue, unfolding the paper and holding it so they could both read:

Where metal chambers rise to modest heights,
And custodians claimed administrative rights.
In vertical travels, truth became clear,
That names and faces can shift what we hear.
Where paintball warriors met their match,
And identity's thread came loose from its catch.
Seek the place where up and down converge,
Where old assumptions finally diverge.

The Dean read through the riddle twice, his brow furrowing with concentration. Then, to even his own surprise, his face began to brighten with recognition—not the over-the-top enthusiasm he usually displayed when he thought he had an answer, but something more tentative, almost nervous.

"I think..." he began hesitantly, then stopped, clearly second-guessing himself.

"What is it?" Frankie asked, studying his expression.

"Well, it's probably wrong," the Dean said quickly, "but the bit about 'metal chambers' and 'vertical travels' sounds like it could be referring to an elevator. And the 'custodians claimed administrative rights' part..." He trailed off, looking at Frankie uncertainly, as if expecting her to immediately shoot down his interpretation.

"Go on," Frankie said, and the Dean recognised sincere interest in her voice rather than the patient politeness that usually meant she was indulging him while mentally composing corrections.

The Dean shifted uncomfortably, his earlier confidence evaporating. "There's an elevator in the custodial wing that was... significant during the last paintball game," he said slowly, before quickly adding, "though knowing me, I'm probably wrong about this."

Frankie’s brow furrowed as she traced the dalmatian silhouette embossed on the new envelope now resting on the table. "What about ‘And identity’s thread came loose from its catch’?" she asked thoughtfully.

The Dean's eyes darted away from hers, his discomfort obvious. "It's just a guess," he mumbled.

Frankie regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded with decisive acceptance. "Okay. Let’s go."

As they made their way out of the office and back through the cafeteria, the Dean fell into step beside Frankie, his relief at her acceptance warring with his embarrassment over his earlier emotional outburst.

"Frankie," he said suddenly, his voice carrying an awkward formality that suggested he was steeling himself for something difficult. "I want to apologise for what I said back there. That was... unprofessional. And unfair to you."

"Apology accepted," she said simply. "Watching something you've built for twenty years come to an end—that's not a minor adjustment. I understand what it's like to carry things alone for too long. Sometimes even the most... controlled among us reach a breaking point. Sometimes the pressure has to go somewhere."

The ready acceptance in her voice surprised him. He'd expected her to be uncomfortable with his display of vulnerability, to retreat behind her usual professional boundaries. Instead, she seemed genuinely untroubled by his confession, treating it like any other workplace crisis—something to be acknowledged, contained, and moved past with minimal disruption to operations.

They walked in silence for several minutes, their footsteps echoing through the empty corridors of the academic building. But where their previous quiet had been charged with tension and long-held frustrations finally given voice, this silence felt different—more settled, like the calm that follows a storm rather than the oppressive stillness that precedes one.

Frankie seemed comfortable with the lack of conversation, moving with her usual grace as they navigated the familiar hallways. The Dean, however, grew increasingly restless as they walked, his shoulders tensing with each step as if the silence itself was somehow accusatory.

Noticing his obvious discomfort, Frankie made a conscious decision to restart their conversation. "So," she said, her tone deliberately casual, "what happened in the final paintball game with the elevator?"

The Dean's step faltered slightly, his nervousness immediately returning. "Oh, it wasn't really anything important," he said evasively, his eyes darting away from hers. "Just some minor confusion during all the chaos. You know what it was like—complete pandemonium, people running everywhere. Hard to make sense of anything that happened, really."

Years of reading the Dean’s moods told Frankie there was more beneath his words, but she chose not to press as they neared their destination.

The custodial wing felt very different from the rest of the campus. It was a complete disaster zone that made everywhere else look pristine by comparison. Half-empty cleaning supplies were strewn across every available surface, extension cords snaked dangerously in every direction on the floor, and what appeared to be several weeks' worth of coffee-stained incident reports were taped haphazardly over existing notices, creating a layered archaeological record of custodial chaos.

They found the elevator easily enough—a modest metal box that looked like it had been installed when disco was still cool and maintained with the same benevolent neglect that characterised most of Greendale's infrastructure. Next to the call button, another red envelope had been taped to the wall by someone who clearly hadn't been given much guidance about subtlety.

"Well," Frankie said, pulling the envelope free, "you were right."

The Dean stared at the elevator doors for a long moment, his reflection wavering in the scratched metal surface. Something about seeing the actual location seemed to unlock whatever he'd been holding back.

"During the final paintball game," he began, his voice carrying the weight of confession. "The others sent me to check the custodial wing—apparently, I was the only one with the right skills for the job."

Frankie turned to face him fully, the envelope forgotten in her hands as she recognised the significance of whatever he was about to tell her.

"Anyway," the Dean continued, his usual flamboyant delivery replaced by something more genuine and raw, "when I got into the elevator, I was ambushed by custodians."

He gestured vaguely at the elevator doors as if the events were playing out before him again. "I managed to use my deanxterity to beat them off. But before they attacked me, I made sure to introduce myself as the Dean. You know, just to be polite and make sure they knew who I was. And one of them said..." He paused, his voice growing quieter. "They said, 'I thought her name was Frankie'."

The words hung between them, and Frankie felt something shift in her understanding—not just of this moment, but of the entire dynamic that had always defined their working relationship.

"Is that why you turned your gun on Jeff at the climax?" she asked quietly.

The Dean nodded, avoiding her eye. "I was so confused about my place at Greendale. Even my own custodians thought you were the real authority."

"The previous paintball games almost destroyed the school," he continued, his voice gathering steam as the story poured out of him. "Especially the second one! I mean, they filled the library fire sprinklers with paint—paint!—and then set them off! It was a complete disaster. Walls, books, ceiling—everything completely covered in orange paint. The insurance company was ready to cut us loose for good!"

He looked directly at Frankie now, his expression a mixture of admiration and something that might have been jealousy. Where earlier he'd been animated with frustrated energy, now he seemed to fold in on himself.

"And then you came in," he said quietly. "You took one look at the chaos and decided you weren't going to stand for it. You brought in order, professionalism, actual consequences for destructive behaviour. You did things I never had the spine to do—expelled Starburns, enforced real rules, made tough decisions. You made Greendale functional in ways I never could."

Frankie listened without interruption. This wasn't the just frustration boiling over like his earlier confession—this was something deeper, more fundamental.

"I felt sidelined," the Dean admitted, his voice breaking slightly. "My usual antics had become unnecessary. Students stopped coming to me with their problems because they knew you'd actually solve them efficiently. Faculty started bypassing me entirely for administrative issues because they knew you'd get things done properly. I felt like..." He struggled for the words. "Like I wasn't needed anymore. Why would anyone need the Dean when they had Frankie? I was just an afterthought."

The confession hit Frankie with unexpected force. All these years, she'd assumed the Dean's occasional resistance to her initiatives had been simple ego or attachment to chaos. She'd never realised that her efficiency had been perceived as a threat to his very identity, his sense of purpose within the institution he'd devoted so much of his life to.

"I've been Dean here for almost two decades," he said, his voice growing stronger as he found his rhythm. "I know Greendale's never been prestigious. I know we've been the butt of jokes in academic circles for years. But it was mine." His voice caught on the last word. "And now what do I have to show for it? What's my legacy?"

He slumped against the elevator wall, staring down at his hands with the defeated posture of a man who'd finally run out of ways to avoid an uncomfortable truth.

"You got to be the hero, Frankie," he said quietly. "You came in and fixed everything that was broken—which was pretty much everything. You made Greendale functional, respected, properly administered. I just made it weird."

The Dean's voice grew even quieter, taking on the kind of bitter introspection that comes from years of suppressed self-doubt finally finding expression.

"Dean Spreck from City College is probably celebrating right now," he continued morosely. "Twenty years of trying to destroy us, and he didn't even need to do anything in the end. Well, apart from vote Republican. He's probably planning a party right now—'The End of Greendale Community College: A Celebration of Academic Darwinism' or something equally smug."

The thought seemed to deflate him even further, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"I just wanted to be a good Dean, Frankie. That's all I ever wanted. But good at what? What does a good Dean even do? Because whatever it is, I clearly never figured it out."

The quiet that followed was different from their earlier tension—this was the stillness of revelation, not conflict. Frankie stood motionless, still holding the unopened envelope, as she processed not just what the Dean had told her, but the courage it had taken for him to say it.

For the first time since she'd known him, he had stripped away every layer of performance and pretence, offering her the raw, unvarnished truth of all his deepest insecurities. It was the most honest moment they'd ever shared, and she found herself struggling to formulate a response that would do justice to his vulnerability.

A quiet envy stirred in her at his courage to lay bare his greatest anxieties, while she worked so hard to hide her own. She folded the envelope carefully and tucked it into her jacket pocket, then turned to face him fully.

Chapter Text

Annie's head snapped up from the riddle, her eyes suddenly bright with recognition. For the first time since they'd been paired together, the careful mask of affected composure slipped away entirely, replaced by something Jeff hadn't seen in a long time—the unmistakable spark of Annie Edison on the case.

"Wow," she breathed, her voice taking on the rapid, breathless quality it always did when her analytical mind kicked into high gear. "Of course."

Without warning, she took off at a near-sprint, powering towards her unknown destination. Jeff, caught completely off guard by this sudden transformation, found himself running after her with the bewildered expression of someone who'd just watched the Hulk morph back into Banner.

"Annie!" he shouted after her, hoping his longer stride would help him close the gap. "Where are you going?"

He received no response, but despite this, found himself cautiously relieved to see some spark of her past self as he stared at the determined figure in the distance. At least some fragments of the Annie of old were still in there—the woman who could crack any mystery and chase down every thread of evidence with single-minded determination, always somehow enlisting him as her reluctant partner despite his best intentions to stay uninvolved.

When he finally caught up to her, she was standing perfectly still at the back of the library, staring up at the building’s staircase that opened onto Borchert Hall, wearing the satisfied expression of someone who'd just solved a particularly challenging puzzle.

"Annie," Jeff said, only slightly out of breath and still unsure whether her sudden energy was genuine excitement or emotional deflection. "Why are we here?"

She turned to him with flushed cheeks and eyes bright with the thrill of discovery. The transformation was so complete that Jeff felt momentarily disoriented, as if he were looking at a ghost of her younger self.

"This," she said, gesturing dramatically at the concrete steps and the imposing facade of Borchert Hall behind them. "This is where it happened."

Jeff looked around, still confused. "Where what happened?"

"The song!" Annie exclaimed, pulling out the riddle and reading from it with renewed enthusiasm. "'Where melodies fell flat and hearts stood still, a troubadour's serenade climbed upward hill.' It's about Vaughn! This is where he sang to me—right here on these steps—after you and Britta… erm, didn’t want me dating him."

The statement hung in the air between them, carrying years of accumulated meaning neither of them had ever properly addressed. The awkwardness between them immediately returned. Jeff felt heat rise in his neck as the memory came flooding back—the elaborate scheme he and Britta had concocted, their misguided attempts to ‘protect’ Annie from what they'd perceived as an unsuitable romance.

"Oh," Jeff said, his voice carefully neutral. "Yes… That." He shuffled his feet nervously. "We just thought you could do better," he said finally, which was true but far from the whole truth.

Annie studied his face with the careful attention of someone trained to read people's tells, but instead of pressing the issue, she simply nodded.

Jeff opened his mouth, then closed it again. Now over fifty, he really should have been mature enough to acknowledge complicated emotions, but some old habits died hard.

They stood in tense silence for a moment, both lost in memories of long-ago drama. Jeff found himself wrestling with emotions he'd buried years ago—the jealousy that had driven him to interfere, the possessiveness he'd never been able to acknowledge, even to himself. At nineteen, Annie had seemed so young, so naïve, and the idea of her with Vaughn had stirred something in him that felt dangerously close to... what? Protectiveness? Or something more selfish?

Eager to move away from this particular emotional landmine, Jeff attempted to redirect the conversation. "How exactly does whatever AI system Craig used to generate these clues know about that? I mean, that's not exactly the kind of information you feed to a computer."

She cut him off with a brisk wave of her hand, already scanning the area with laser focus. "Shut up and help me look for the next envelope."

Jeff stared at her for a moment before deciding that bossy Annie was infinitely preferable to the raw, hurt version from only minutes earlier.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, beginning to search the area around the steps.

They spent several minutes examining every possible hiding spot in methodical silence. Annie checked behind railings and under benches, while Jeff found himself poking half-heartedly through a nearby flower bed, still uncertain whether he should be encouraging this sudden burst of energy or worried about what would happen when it inevitably crashed.

"Anything?" Annie called out, her voice carrying focused intensity.

"Nothing yet," Jeff replied, brushing soil off his hands. "Though I have to say, if Craig really did hide clues in here, the new owners are going to love finding random holes in their landscaping."

Annie shot him a look that suggested his commentary wasn't helpful. "Just keep looking. It has to be here somewhere."

Jeff was beginning to think they were on a wild goose chase—and starting to wonder if this whole exercise was just Annie's way of avoiding the uncomfortable intimacy of actual conversation—when he spotted it: a flash of red tucked against the side of a waste bin.

"Found it," he called out, pulling the envelope free.

Annie practically bounced over to him, her earlier rant completely forgotten in the excitement of the hunt.

She took the envelope from his hands and tore it open with careful urgency and read the contents aloud:

"Where desks stood vacant and course lists adorned walls,
Whispers of phantom learning haunted the halls.
Home to one who wears a false name,
To play a most elaborate and deceptive game.
A leader’s revenge, a lesson planned,
All ruined by double-crosses close at hand.
When tiny commuters met explosive ends,
And trust dissolved in a hail of pretend.
Seek the room where secrets grew,
Behind the door that waits for you."

"Jeff," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He squinted at the words, then looked up at Annie with growing amazement. "It's..."

"‘Professor Wooley’s’ secret den," Annie finished, her voice trembling with excitement. "Where he supposedly ran the fake night school. Let's head over there."

As they began walking towards the theatre department, Jeff found himself relaxing in a way he hadn't since they'd been paired together. This was what Jeff had missed most—not just her friendship, but the way she made everything feel more important, more meaningful. With Annie, even the most ridiculous situations with the lowest stakes became adventures worth having.

"Remember how tangled the whole thing got?" Annie asked as they approached the theatre building, her voice carrying a mix of amusement and embarrassment. "By the end, I couldn't even keep track of who was betraying whom."

"Let's see," Jeff said, counting on his fingers as he spoke. "First, Craig enlisted you in a conspiracy against me in revenge for me creating a fake class. Second, I figured out his plot and convinced you to join me in getting revenge on him. Third, while we were planning, I realised Craig was too incompetent to orchestrate this alone, so you must have been his accomplice from the beginning—which led me to recruit Craig in a counter-conspiracy against you. Fourth, when he agreed to betray you so readily, I decided to bring you back into the fold for one final scheme against him. Am I missing any?"

"Yep. Fifth, Garrity called in Cackowski because he was tired of all our nonsense and they scared the life out of us with that shotgun," Annie said with a rueful laugh. "We were victims of our own conspiracy theories. A bit like the current MAGA-Epstein fiasco—planning a trap only to get caught in it ourselves."

"Looking back, the whole thing was ridiculous," Jeff said. "All that elaborate scheming just because Craig couldn't handle me cutting a few corners."

"Well, you did invent an entire fake class," Annie pointed out, automatically defending the principle of academic integrity.

"And you were right there helping him orchestrate my downfall," Jeff said, attempting levity but accidentally landing somewhere closer to accusation.

Annie's steps slowed. "I was trying to help the Dean teach you a lesson about... about taking things seriously."

"Right," Jeff said, trying to recover. "Looking back, I'm not sure any of us really understood why we were conspiring against each other."

Annie was quiet for a moment. "I think... I think maybe I was so focused on proving you were wrong that I never stopped to think about why it mattered so much to me."

"What do you mean?" Jeff asked.

"You were treating Greendale like a joke, and I was trying so hard to make it mean something. I needed it to be a real education, a fresh start," Annie said contemplatively. "When you acted like the rules didn't matter, it felt like you were saying the whole place didn't matter. And if Greendale didn't matter..."

"I never thought about it that way," Jeff said softly, his voice carrying genuine regret.

"Neither did I, until just now," Annie admitted quietly.

The theatre department was exactly as it had always been—slightly musty, filled with the accumulated scents of old velvet and stage makeup, with costumes and props scattered around like the remnants of a hundred different stories. They made their way through the maze of rehearsal rooms and storage areas until they found the room they were looking for. The old storage cupboard had now been repurposed as Garrity's actual office in the wake of the infamous stink bomb incident of 2023—life imitating art, Jeff supposed—though Garrity himself had seen the writing on the wall months ago and abandoned ship to teach improv classes at a wellness retreat in Sedona.

He expected to find the room locked, but the handle turned easily in his hand.

"Mila—after you," Jeff said awkwardly, opening the door and stepping aside as Annie passed through without comment.

The office was different to how Jeff remembered it—gone were the papers and boards that the Dean and Annie had spent far too long mocking up and in their place were programs, costumes, and general clutter accumulated over years of juggling countless dramatic productions. As they stepped inside and Jeff flicked on the lights, they immediately noticed something unexpected.

Red envelopes. Lots of them. More than could easily be counted, spread all the way across the desk.

"Okay," he said slowly. "This isn’t what I had in mind."

Annie was already grabbing the nearest envelope, her investigative instincts in full gear. She opened it quickly, read the contents, then moved to another. With each one she examined, her expression grew increasingly confused.

"Jeff," she said, her voice taking on an edge of confusion. "These are all different."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean they all contain completely different clues," Annie explained, holding up several sheets of paper. "'In hidden yards where Nazis grew, Magic trampolines see you through'—" Jeff flinched "—'Where justice floats on chlorine waves', 'Where chains confined the foam-wielding destroyer of sketched dreams'."

Jeff moved to check another cluster of envelopes, his own confusion mounting. "This is bizarre. Some of these don't even make sense. 'Where the purple elephant dances with forgotten visions'—what the hell does that mean?"

They continued opening envelopes. Some were completely nonsensical, some referenced locations that were clearly off campus, and others were so vague as to be meaningless.

But then Annie saw something that made her freeze.

"What’s wrong?" Jeff asked, noticing her sudden stillness as she stared down at something near her feet. She bent down to pick up a loose piece of paper from the floor and deciphered the messy handwriting: "'Explore the unhealthy aspects of this closest of friendships—codependancy mascarading as loyalty. The danger of two people becoming so intertwined they lose individual identity. Could this relationship survive if forced to confront its fundamental disfunction? What situation can I put them in to explore this?'"

"Jeff," Annie said slowly, her face paling. "I think this is referring to Troy and Abed."

"You think someone’s been studying us?" Jeff asked, his tone growing darker.

"Someone is definitely messing with us." she said, her voice taking on a sharp focus. "This isn't random. This isn't some glitch in the Dean's AI system. Someone is deliberately using this treasure hunt to sabotage the group’s friendships.

"It’s exactly like Pierce's will reading when he tried to get us to turn on each other by exposing our secrets and insecurities?" She looked up at Jeff with growing alarm. "Someone's doing the same thing—using this treasure hunt to put us in situations where we'll dig up old wounds, rehash past conflicts..."

Jeff wanted to dismiss this—it seemed paranoid, even by Greendale standards. But as he stared down at the paper, he found himself almost being drawn into her theory despite his better judgment.

"Annie," he said carefully, "maybe Craig just screwed up. You know how he is with technology. He probably asked ChatGPT to generate clues and didn't know how to properly configure it or something."

But Annie was already moving around the room with the systematic precision of a trained investigator, checking every corner, every potential hiding spot. "No," she said firmly. "This is too weird to be a mistake. I don’t understand why they would want us to find this though. They must want to confuse us. The question is why. The answer has to be here somewhere."

Jeff was about to argue when his eyes fell on something that made him freeze. In the corner of the room, a tall cabinet stood, the soft glare of monitors reflecting back off its slightly ajar door.

Jeff walked over and pulled the doors open fully and found himself staring at a bank of small television screens—at least eight monitors, each one showing different areas of the Greendale campus. The sight was so absurdly out of place in Garrity’s chaotic office that for a moment he could only stare in disbelief as his expression shifted to that of a character realising he was no longer in a nostalgic reunion drama, but had somehow stumbled into a thriller.

"Annie," he said quietly, his voice carrying a note that made her immediately stop what she was doing and turn to look at him. "Come and look at this."

"Security cameras," Annie breathed, appearing at his shoulder. "Someone's been spying on us."

They stood transfixed as the screens showed various pairs of treasure hunters making their way around campus. On one monitor, they could see Shirley and Britta in what appeared to be an intense conversation in front of the library. Another screen showed a ride on lawnmower parked badly outside the cafeteria.

"This is insane," Jeff muttered. "We're being watched."

Annie, however, was practically vibrating with excitement.

"Whoever's doing this knows us," she said quietly, her voice taking on a rapid-fire cadence. "They know exactly which buttons to push, which old wounds to reopen. This isn't random harassment—this is targeted psychological manipulation."

Her passion was infectious, and despite his natural scepticism, Jeff found himself getting caught up in her excitement. There was something undeniably thrilling about falling back into their old partnership, about seeing the light back in Annie’s eyes.

Jeff moved closer to the monitors, looking for any indication of who might be controlling the surveillance. But the screen offered no answers, just the uncomfortable reality that someone had been tracking their every move.

"Okay," he said. "Assuming you're right, what do we do now?"

Annie’s eyes scanned the room with renewed purpose. "We need more information. Evidence. Proof of who's behind this and what they're trying to accomplish."

Her gaze fell on Garrity's desk, a heavy wooden piece that dominated one corner of the office. She tried the drawers one by one. Most opened easily, revealing the usual detritus of academic life—old syllabi, grade books, random office supplies. But the bottom drawer was locked.

"Aha," Annie said with satisfaction. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"Annie," Jeff said cautiously, "maybe we shouldn't—"

But before he could finish his protest, Annie had already grabbed a prop sword from a nearby table and was using it to pry open the desk drawer with the kind of casual disregard for property damage that came from someone accustomed to waving around federal search warrants.

"Annie!" Jeff protested. "That’s school property. You can’t just—"

He stopped as soon as he realised how ridiculous he sounded. This was Greendale Community College, which was closing forever before the day was out. And it’s not like they’d ever shown much respect for the furniture during their time as students.

The lock gave way with a satisfying crack, and Annie pulled the drawer open in triumph. Inside, beneath a layer of yellowed rehearsal schedules, she found a hand-drawn map of the Greendale campus. Red X's marked various locations, each one numbered in what appeared to be chronological order.

But it was the title at the top of the map that made both of them freeze.

"'Nothing can stay the same forever,'" Annie read aloud. "'Everything must Chang.'"

Jeff felt his stomach drop. "Chang?"

"Chang," Annie repeated. "Chang must be behind this; manipulating this whole thing."

"Annie, that's impossible," Jeff said, though his voice lacked conviction. "Chang is in Van Nuys working as a voice actor. He does commercials for mattress stores and educational software. The guy barely makes enough to avoid being thrown out of his tiny apartment. I’m sure he’s got better things to do than come back here and try to mess with us."

"Come on Jeff," Annie implored. "He’s certainly unhinged enough. He literally turned the school into his own personal fiefdom using a gang of violent tweenagers. He was always obsessed with being accepted by the group. Perhaps this is his way of showing us how well he knows us. Or maybe it's his twisted way of getting revenge for never truly being part of our inner circle.

"Think about it," she continued, her voice gaining momentum as she warmed to her theory. "Who else knows us well enough to create these specific clues? Who else would go to all this effort to turn us against each other? Who else has a history of elaborate plots against us?"

Jeff opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wanted to argue, to insist she was being paranoid, but something stopped him. And it wasn’t just his desire to avoid another blow up. As much as he hated to admit it, her theory was starting to make a disturbing amount of sense. The surveillance equipment, the multiple clues, the careful placement—it did all seem too elaborate to be accidental.

"I suppose," Jeff began slowly, "that after sixteen years of being wrong about your hunches, maybe I should just accept you're usually right." He tentatively offered her a small smile and, for the first time that day, she returned it—a slow, genuine expression that chased away the shadows of doubt and distance that had been haunting her features. Jeff felt something tight in his chest finally begin to loosen.

"So, what do you think he wants?" he asked, now feeling on firmer ground.

"I don't know yet," Annie said, carefully folding the map and tucking it into her jacket. "But I intend to find out. We need to warn the others. If Chang is really behind this, then everyone needs to know before they walk into whatever trap he’s setting."

She was already moving towards the door. Jeff followed close behind, his mind racing through the implications of what they'd discovered. But just as she reached the doorway, a sharp voice cut through the air like a blade: "STOP!"

Chapter Text

Troy felt something raw and exposed in his chest, as if Abed's clinical analysis had peeled away years of cherished memories to reveal something smaller and more fragile underneath. But as he sat there, surrounded by the scattered remnants of their failed board game, something unexpected began to happen. The initial sting of Abed's words started to give way to a different kind of recognition—not the sharp pain of betrayal, but the duller ache of understanding. Deep down, he knew he’d been carrying this awareness for years without quite knowing how to articulate it. When he finally spoke again, his voice carried a different quality—less defensive, more thoughtful, as if Abed's brutal honesty had somehow created space for his own.

"Maybe you're right," he admitted, his voice lacking his usual enthusiasm. "I suppose we did have this... bubble around us that nothing else could penetrate." He picked up one of the scattered game pieces, turning it over in his hands. "We understood each other so well, but maybe that understanding became a crutch."

Troy was quiet for a moment, then continued with growing self-awareness. "Remember how upset and insecure I got when you befriended that weird Toby guy at the Inspector Spacetime convention? That certainly wasn't healthy."

His voice grew more pained as he reached a more difficult admission. "I always put our friendship ahead of everything else. That's why me and Britta never worked out. I know Jeff was joking when he used to refer to you as ‘her boyfriend’s boyfriend’, but it must have been like dating someone who was already married."

"What you said before—about us both knowing it wasn't good for us—I think you’re probably right. Subconsciously, we must have both recognised that we needed to develop some independence," Troy said, the words feeling strange but true as he spoke them. "God, growing up sucks sometimes," he finished with a wry smile.

"It has its disadvantages," Abed agreed, his analytical nature asserting itself even in this moment of vulnerability. "But I've discovered advantages too. I'm more self-sufficient now. Better at navigating social situations. More adaptable."

"Same," Troy nodded, thinking of the conference rooms and investor meetings that had once seemed as foreign as another planet. "I can run meetings with investors and negotiate contracts. Five years ago, I'd have been hiding under a table at the first sign of conflict."

"You've matured," Abed observed, and there was genuine respect in his voice.

"So have you," Troy countered. "The old Abed would have compared this conversation to at least three different movies by now."

Abed's mouth quirked in a small smile. "As I said before, I've learned to internalise some references."

The acknowledgment hung between them—not bitter, but honest. They had grown, evolved, become more complete versions of themselves. The question now wasn't whether that growth had been necessary, but what it meant for who they were together.

"Come on," Troy said, pushing himself up from the floor with renewed energy. "Let's finish this game."

They began gathering the scattered pieces from their earlier scuffle, working together to reassemble the board. There was something almost therapeutic about the process of putting their mess back in order.

They returned to Territory Wars with a different energy—not the desperate attempt to recapture the perfect congruence of their youth, but an openness to whatever dynamic might emerge between them. The remaining turns unfolded with surprising ease. They made mistakes, certainly, but they adapted to them instead of letting them spiral into conflict.

When Troy drew a scenario card weighted with harsh consequences for incompatible strategies, he met the choice not with anxiety, but with a calm, deliberate clarity. When they were both revealed to have made complimentary decisions, their faces simultaneously brightened with genuine delight.

It wasn't their old almost telepathic synchronicity, but it was something more sustainable—two adults making conscious choices to cooperate rather than two kids who couldn't function apart.

A few turns later, when their choices resulted in a 'Failed Coordination' penalty that set both civilisations back, Troy just shrugged.

"Well, that didn't work," he said mildly, moving their markers one space back.

"Different approach next time," Abed agreed, already drawing his next card without frustration.

A short while later, the game ended when both civilisations reached their goals simultaneously. As they pushed their final markers across the finish line together, Troy felt something settle in his chest. Not the desperate relief of crisis averted, but the quiet satisfaction of a problem genuinely solved.

"'Congratulations, noble leaders! Through wisdom and understanding, you have achieved the legendary Balance of Brotherhood—uniting independence with cooperation. May your civilisations prosper in harmony for all eternity!'"

Troy laughed, shaking his head. "I can’t decide whether that's really profound or really cheesy."

"Why not both?" Abed replied, before turning back to the card to read the remaining words. "'The next clue rests beneath the stage of your triumph.'"

Troy leaned back against the wall, watching as Abed's eyes took on that familiar distant look—the one that meant his mind was already three steps ahead, processing possibilities and connections that Troy knew he'd never see himself. There was something oddly comforting about it, this moment of watching his friend's analytical mind work. Troy had long ago made peace with the fact that puzzles like this weren't his strength.

Still, there was a small, familiar pang—not jealousy exactly, but the quiet acknowledgment of intellectual territories he'd never be able to navigate on his own. It was the same feeling he'd had countless times in the study room, watching Annie decode some complex assignment or Jeff improvise the perfect argument. Not bitter, but self-aware.

After about thirty seconds and without explanation, Abed slowly cleared the board of cards and tokens and turned it over to reveal a red envelope affixed to the underside. An imprint of a British telephone box sat in its top left corner, the number 105 printed beneath it in bold black numerals. Both matched the envelope of their original clue.

Troy laughed. "Man, I wish I'd known that was there before we started playing."

"I don't," Abed replied matter-of-factly as he peeled away the envelope. True value was rarely found in shortcuts.

He handed it to Troy without hesitation, who tore it open and began to read aloud:

"'Where kicks once echoed through autumn air,
And dreams were shaped by pressure's care.
Though glory called and crowds would cheer,
One soul chose wounds over facing fear.
Where goals were scored and spirits broken,
Find truths that long have gone unspoken.
Now aim above where posts stand tall,
And let your truest kick enthral.'"

"The football field," Troy said immediately, then paused, something shifting in his expression. A small smile tugged at his lips as he realised he'd solved it instantly. "Huh. Didn't even have to think about that one."

"It fits," Abed agreed. "Let’s head over there."

As they left his old room and started to make their way to the sports fields, Abed glanced sideways at his friend. "Do you ever play football these days?" he asked.

"No," Troy replied, perhaps a little too quickly. "I don't have the time, and even if I did, it wouldn't be sensible. I have responsibilities now. It would cause problems for a lot of people if I got an injury that meant I couldn't work."

The words came out rehearsed, like an explanation he'd given himself many times before.

Abed noticed how Troy's explanation focused entirely on external factors—time, responsibility, injury risk—without addressing the emotional core. He was offering the epilogue without the actual plot—all consequence and no cause. Whatever had happened to end Troy's relationship with football was probably more significant than simple adult pragmatism.

"When did you lose your passion for it?" Abed pressed gently.

Troy was quiet for a long moment, their footsteps creating a steady rhythm on the worn carpet as they left the dormitory building. "A long time ago. I haven’t stepped foot on a football field since I stopped playing for the Greendale Human Beings shortly after the start of the second semester of sophomore year."

He paused, seeming to weigh how much to reveal. "I suppose that I only really started playing as a kid as a way of connecting with my dad, especially after my parents split up. Football became this... bridge between us, you know? Something we could talk about when we couldn't talk about anything else."

Abed nodded thoughtfully.

"But eventually, it became an all-consuming part of my identity," Troy continued, his voice growing more thoughtful. "When I was a kid, I didn't really know the kind of person I wanted to be, so I fell in with the football crowd. But I never really felt comfortable there. When I was being a jock, I was only acting, and acting 24/7 was exhausting."

They passed the dance studio, where Troy had first started to discover who he might be beyond the uniform and the expectations. Something about the memory seemed to steady his resolve.

He kicked at a loose piece of concrete on the path and when he spoke again his voice was quieter. "I was so tired of being Troy Barnes the football star. I just wanted to be... Troy. Even if I didn't really know who that was yet." He took a deep breath. "I think that's why I hurt myself on purpose when that scout was coming to the final Riverside High game," he admitted quietly.

Abed nodded, his usual analytical distance softened by understanding. "Extreme pressure can make extreme choices feel like the only rational option."

"Yeah." Troy's voice carried years of complicated feelings about that choice. His expression darkened slightly. "Things were different after high school. My dad... well, after I hurt myself, he saw it as me throwing away everything he'd invested in me. All those years of driving me to practice, paying for camps, bragging to his friends about his son the star athlete."

"And then when my Uncle Carl—the one who actually taught me how to throw, who made football feel fun instead of like this crushing obligation—died suddenly in 2010—" His voice caught slightly. "I lost any desire I had left to play. I'd already lost the chance to make it in the sport, but losing him meant I lost even the good memories that came with it. All I was left with was my dad's disappointment and this constant reminder of what I'd thrown away."

They slowed as the football field came into view ahead of them. Abed glanced at Troy, recognising the weight of what he'd just shared.

"That's a lot of loss to process at once," he observed with gentle understanding.

"Yeah, and losing him made me realise how shallow those relationships from high school were. My teammates, the popular crowd. It’s not that they were bad people or anything—mostly anyway—but I realise now that they weren’t really my friends because they never knew the true me. Now I wonder, were they hanging out with Troy Barnes because of his status as the most popular guy in school, or because they truly liked him?"

Troy's voice grew more animated as he warmed to his theme, but there was an edge of something darker underneath.

"When you have that kind of reputation, it's easy to become so arrogant that your head becomes so big you can't fit through normal-sized doors. Remember in that first year Biology class when we had to teach a rat to respond to a song and Fievel escaped? When you asked me to help find him, I said 'real friends help me with things, not vice versa'?" He shook his head in disgust at the memory. "And, if you have the self-awareness to avoid that trap, you become so paranoid that it's impossible to have a meaningful relationship with anyone."

Troy trailed off, clearly having more to say but struggling with how to articulate it. Abed, recognising the signs of someone wrestling with something important, didn't push. They walked in comfortable silence for the last couple of minutes until they reached their destination.

The Greendale football field stretched before them, somehow smaller than Troy remembered. The last of the day’s light caught the goal posts, making them gleam like sentinels guarding memories both triumphant and painful.

"What now?" Troy asked, looking around the empty field.

"What did the last line say again?" Abed asked, his eyes already scanning the area.

Troy looked down at the clue, squinting slightly in the fading light. "'Now aim above where posts stand tall, and let your truest kick enthral.'"

Abed gestured towards the goal posts at the far end of the field, Troy following his line of sight saw what had to be done. Suspended between the uprights, over twenty feet above their heads, hung a bucket attached to elastic rope. Even from a distance, they could see it swaying slightly in the breeze. A lone football sat at the thirty-yard line, clearly placed there specifically for this moment.

The task was clear: Troy would need to execute a perfect field goal kick, sending the football sailing through the uprights, knocking the bucket from its perch and spilling their next clue onto the field below.

Troy approached the ball with the casual confidence of someone who'd once been capable of impressive athletic feats. His first kick looked perfect from the start—good plant foot, clean contact, the ball spinning in a tight spiral—but it curved dramatically wide at the last moment. His second went high but short. The third missed the goal posts entirely.

What started as nonchalant effort gradually transformed into something more desperate. His loose shoulders and easy follow-through giving way to the rigid mechanics of self-doubt. Where before he'd approached each kick with relaxed preparation, now he was taking longer, adjusting his position multiple times, muttering under his breath as he lined up each shot. The easy rhythm was gone, replaced by the kind of overthinking that Abed recognised as the enemy of natural ability.

"You've got this," he offered as he threw the ball back to Troy for what felt like the hundredth time. The words came out stilted and uncertain, like someone reciting dialogue from a sports movie without fully understanding the context.

But the encouragement seemed to make little difference. If anything, it appeared to add pressure rather than relieve it. Troy's kicks became yet more erratic, each miss building on the frustration of the last. Abed found himself witnessing a side of Troy he'd rarely seen—not the easy-going friend who laughed off setbacks, but someone genuinely rattled by his inability to perform something that had once been second nature.

The transformation was unsettling. This wasn't the Troy who could shrug off a bad grade or laugh when a scheme went wrong. This was someone whose identity felt threatened by failure, someone for whom being unable to succeed at something felt like a fundamental challenge to his sense of self.

When his next attempt missed the goal posts entirely, veering off at an almost impossible angle, Troy's composure finally shattered completely. He stormed up to the goal post and began attacking it with foot and fist. Blow after vicious blow sent metallic clangs echoing across the empty field. The entire structure shuddered under the assault as Troy unleashed a stream of profanity that would have made his high school coaches proud.

"Stupid fucking piece of shit!" he snarled, landing another kick. "Why can't I just—" Another punch. "Goddamn useless!" Each curse was punctuated by another blow to the unyielding metal. His face was flushed with fury, sweat beading on his forehead as he continued his assault on the innocent goal post like it had personally wronged him.

"Troy!" Abed rushed over, ball in hand, and pulled him away from the metal framework. "Hey, come on. Let's take a break."

Troy allowed himself to be led away, his breathing heavy and his hands trembling slightly with residual anger.

"Sorry," he said, running his hands through his hair. "I just... I'm used to being in control. At work, when something goes wrong, I have options—I have a team to work with, experts I can hire, equipment that can be bought. I've gotten used to being able to fix things." He paused, forcing a bitter smile. "It’s a shame I can’t buy my way out of problems in my personal life so easily."

"What do you mean by that?" Abed asked gently, settling beside him on the metal bleachers in a way that invited confession without demanding it.

Troy was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the field where his younger self had once run plays and scored touchdowns. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a weight that Abed had rarely heard from him.

"I'm always paranoid now that people only like me because of my money," he began. "When Pierce left me that inheritance, I thought it would solve any problem I could possibly face in life. And don't get me wrong—it's awesome not having to worry about rent or student loans. But it also puts this... barrier between me and other people."

He turned to look at Abed directly. "Like, am I really connecting with someone, or are they just interested in what I can do for them?"

The words poured out of him then, accumulated doubt and isolation finally finding voice.

"Take my assistant Priya—she's amazing, and we flirt sometimes. Smart, funny, genuinely seems to care about the work we're doing. Recently I overheard her on the phone to a friend saying how great she thought I was. I was over the moon until she mentioned that the fact I'm wealthy 'doesn't hurt either.' I was so confident I'd found someone who liked me for me, and then suddenly all I can think about is whether she would even look twice at me if I weren't Troy Barnes, millionaire festival founder."

He laughed, but there was no humour in it. "I over-analyse every interaction now. My staff—do they respect my creative vision, or are they just telling me what they think I want to hear? Friends from the music industry—when they compliment Dance Pants, is it genuine, or are they hoping I'll invest in their next project? Sometimes I catch myself wondering if anyone would still want to grab coffee with me if I were just regular Troy Barnes, community college dropout, instead of Troy Barnes, millionaire festival founder."

"That sounds very isolating," Abed observed, his usual analytical distance softened by concern.

"It is," Troy replied, his shoulders slumping slightly.

Abed tried to find something reassuring to say, but the words didn't come easily. How do you comfort someone for whom abundance has become its own form of poverty? Troy had essentially found a cheat code that gave him unlimited resources, only to discover it had made everything feel hollow and meaningless.

"You just need the right people around you," he finally offered. "I mean, we never treated Pierce any differently because of his wealth."

Troy laughed, and this time there was a hint of genuine amusement. "I suppose that's true. But really, the only way you can be sure people don't like you just because of your wealth is if you became friends before you became wealthy."

The implication hung in the air between them—that their friendship, whatever its complications, had been built on something solid.

"You know what?" Troy said, pushing himself up from the bleachers with renewed determination. "I should probably give this another go." He smiled slightly. "Uncle Carl always said the trick was to kick like nobody's watching—not even yourself."

Something had shifted in his posture, in the set of his shoulders. The weight of confession seemed to have lifted something from him, creating space for possibility rather than frustration.

Troy walked back to the thirty-yard line like a different person—not the anxious millionaire worried about authenticity, but someone who'd remembered what it felt like to play for the pure joy of playing. He set the ball down with the relaxed assurance of a man who'd stopped trying to prove anything to anyone.

His kick was perfect.

The football sailed through the air in a beautiful arc, striking the bucket dead centre with enough force to send it tumbling towards the ground, spilling its contents across the grass. Troy let out a whoop of celebration that echoed across the empty field, his arms raised in triumph.

Another red envelope had fallen to the ground along with the bucket. Abed walked up to it but paused, his hand hovering just above the grass.

"Aren't you going to pick it up?" Troy asked, jogging over to join him.

"You're the one who did the work," Abed replied with a slight smile. "You should open it."

Troy grinned back and scooped up the envelope, tearing it open with the enthusiasm of someone who'd rediscovered the simple pleasure sport could offer.

Chapter Text

Annie spun around, heart hammering against her ribs at the sudden command. She turned to see Jeff, hand raised, attention fixed not on her but on something that had snagged in his peripheral vision as they’d moved to leave the room.

"Why?" she demanded, voice sharp with adrenaline and annoyance.

He didn't answer. Instead, his eyes remained locked onto the wastepaper basket tucked beside the doorframe. Without explanation, he crouched down and fished out several crumpled pages before smoothing them against the top of a nearby filing cabinet.

"Jeff, what are you—"

"Just give me a second," he murmured, his eyes scanning the wrinkled pages. The handwriting was jagged and uneven, childlike letters dancing across uneven lines, words crossed out and rewritten, margins crowded with desperate corrections.

As he read, his expression shifted from scepticism to something between bewilderment and relief as he read: "'Bluedale Comunity Colege: Chapter 1—Nothing can stay the same. Evrything must Change.'" He looked up at Annie. "'Change'. With an 'e' at the end."

Annie leaned in to examine the pages more closely. "This isn't some rambling screed like the Turner Diaries," she said slowly. "It's..."

"A first draft," Jeff finished, turning the page. He looked up at Annie with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "Garrity was writing a trashy novel about a community college… and given the number of spelling errors, also appears to be dyslexic." His eyes scanned the crossed-out text and margin notes. "Hey, look at this—'Marcus and Dylan moved in perfekt sinchronization, there movements so identical it was impossibel to tell where one ended and the other began.'" He flipped over the page. "'But what happens when two souls become so intertwyned they forget how to exist seperatly? Can such a friendship survive the test of forced independans?'"

Annie leaned closer, recognising the themes from the note she'd found earlier. "That's the codependency thing I thought was about Troy and Abed."

Jeff continued reading the scrawled notes in the margins: "'Explore the sychological dangers of enmeshment. Show how Marcus's identity crisis manafests when Dylan is removed from the equation. What breaking point would force them to confrunt their disfunction?'"

"This isn’t about us at all," Annie said, the realisation cutting through her earlier paranoia. "It’s just… a story."

The dramatic conspiracy theory that had consumed them began to dissolve like cotton candy in rain, leaving behind something far more mundane—and far more embarrassing.

"But that doesn’t explain the security cameras," she pressed, turning back to the surveillance monitors.

"No, but this does," Jeff countered, still reading. "Look." He was pointing to a passage on the next page. "'Reserch Notes: Camra 4, Cafateria, 11:23 12/12/24- Security guard chasing giant racoon thru lunch line. Racoon steels entire tray of tacos. Guard slips on spiled salsa and falls into trash bin. Students chear for racoon. Posible comic releef scene for chapter 12? Racoon = symbol of rebelion against authoraty?'"

"He's been using the cameras to study the school for story ideas," Annie said, staring at the screens with new understanding.

"But why all the envelopes?" she asked.

"We might be able to work that out ourselves," Jeff said, pointing to a monitor showing the corridor just beyond the door.

He found the rewind controls and began scrolling back through the day’s footage. On screen, they watched a parade of confused student volunteers in garish yellow 'Grand Finale Treasure Hunt 2025 Co-Ordinator' T-shirts—the kind of unnecessary expense that had probably contributed to Jeff’s final paycheck being annoyingly light—shuffle in and out of the room they were now occupying. Each more baffled than their predecessor, entering with armfuls of red envelopes before emerging empty-handed moments later.

"There was some kind of miscommunication," Annie observed, watching one particularly flustered volunteer loop through the door three times carrying an ever-changing stack of envelopes, before abandoning the effort altogether.

"Probably an AI hallucination in whatever system Craig used to generate the instructions," Jeff agreed. "You tell it to ‘spread clues evenly,’ and it decides the best strategy is putting all of them in the same spot—because technically, that’s also even."

"So… there's no conspiracy," Annie said slowly, disappointed by the mundane reality. "No elaborate psychological manipulation. Just typical Greendale disorganisation and a dyslexic drama teacher with delusional literary ambitions."

The absurdity of it hit them both at the same time. Annie started to laugh—her first genuine, unguarded laughter in far too long. It bubbled up from somewhere deep inside, shaking her shoulders as the tension of the past hour finally released itself.

Jeff joined her, his own laughter rich and warm. "We built an entire conspiracy theory around Sean Garrity trying to write the next Great American Novel," he said between chuckles. "Chang would be really disappointed that we blamed him for something so underwhelming."

The puncturing of the conspiracy left her with an almost painful awareness of the irony. Her desperate search for hidden meanings and elaborate plots was symptomatic of something larger—a pattern of over-analysis that had been seeping into every corner of her life lately; a desperate overcorrection after realising that whilst she could read forensic evidence like a symphony, she had been tone-deaf to the simplest notes in her own relationships.

As their laughter subsided, Jeff found himself studying Annie's features. Not analysing, not judging—just appreciating the rare moment of ease in someone clearly carrying so much weight on her shoulders. He realised how long it must have been since she’d allowed herself that kind of release.

"I’ve missed this," he said with uncharacteristic openness.

Something loosened in Annie’s chest at his words, a warmth she hadn’t realised she’d been starved of. Genuine appreciation felt very foreign these days. "Missed what?" she probed, smiling softly.

"Your passion. Your relentless curiosity. Your need to solve every mystery. That look you get when you're putting pieces together." He returned her smile. "You must be brilliant at the FBI."

The words seemed to catch Annie off guard. Her smile immediately disappeared, alerting Jeff that he’d inadvertently touched something sensitive.

"That’s just it," Annie's voice carried a sharpness that confirmed Jeff’s fears that he'd stepped into dangerous territory. "Being good at my job doesn’t matter anymore. The new administration is systematically dismantling everything generations of us have built," she began, pacing now in the small space between the monitors and Garrity's desk. Her breathing was becoming shallow, each word coming out in shorter bursts.             

"Committed employees with decades of loyal service illegally laid off. Incompetent lackeys hired as political pawns. They even tried to redirect my forensic staff to immigration enforcement—people with no training, no expertise in that area—and they would have succeeded if my boss hadn't put his foot down. But every fight like that costs him political capital he can't afford to lose."

Her voice grew sharper with each word. She pressed one hand against her chest, as if trying to slow her racing heart. "I watch colleagues get transferred to field offices in the middle of nowhere for asking the wrong questions. I see investigations shut down because they might embarrass the wrong people. What kind of message do the January 6th pardons send? That violent insurrection is acceptable as long as you're supporting the right candidate?"

Jeff moved closer, concerned by the way her hands were shaking. "Annie—"

"I'm scared that things like the intimidation of Comey over that benign ‘86 47’ post are going to become routine," she continued, talking even faster and breathing even more rapidly. "I know I sound like Britta, but watching everything fall apart from the inside whilst being unable to stop any of it is infuriating. And to top it all off, they're moving the FBI out of Washington." Her voice cracked. "I don't want to move to Bumfuque, Louisiana and have to explain to Republicans at the local Piggly Wiggly that I didn't use my Jewish space lasers to trigger the storm that ruined the annual crawfish boil. Or that it's not the job of the forensics department at the FBI to investigate whether chemtrails are turning the frogs gay. Or—"

"Hey," Jeff said firmly, stepping into her path and grasping both her arms. "Look at me. Breathe."

The physical contact cut through her panic like a circuit breaker. She focused on his face—the familiar blue eyes, the concern etched in the lines around them. Slowly, deliberately, she inhaled and exhaled, using his steady presence as an anchor. The walls of the room stopped closing in around her and, when the rushing in her ears finally quieted, she found her voice again, though it was barely above a whisper.

"I haven't said this out loud before," she admitted quietly. "But I think… I think I’ve been clinging to professional achievements to avoid dealing with the fact that I don't really know who I am when I'm not Agent Edison, Unit Chief. Deep down I'm still that scared eighteen-year-old who needed perfect grades to prove she was worth something. I've been hiding behind my career for years. And…" She drew a slow breath. "And I really regret it.

"I didn't have any fun in high school because my mom made me study every spare second—flash cards at dinner, practice tests on weekends, a ban on any activity that wasn’t résumé-building. And since I've been in Washington, I’ve fallen right back into that pattern; I've always put my career above everything else. Sixty-hour weeks, working weekends, declining invitations because I had cases to review. It’s like I said earlier when we were in the study room, Greendale was the only place that I got the balance right. I was still driven. I still made valedictorian, but I also had all kinds of adventures with the study group that I never could have dreamed of: Paintball wars, DnD quests, simulated space rescues. Things that had nothing to do with my GPA but everything to do with actually living."

Jeff felt something shift inside him at her words. Here was Annie—brilliant, accomplished Annie—talking about herself like she'd somehow failed at life. His usual impulse to deflect with humour or charm felt completely inadequate. She had just stripped away every layer of armour to show him her vulnerability; the least he could do was meet her there.

"You want to know about regrets?" he said, leaning against Garrity's desk. "I have the opposite problem. If I'd become a lawyer properly—gotten a real bachelor’s degree instead of buying one from a South American diploma mill, actually learned instead of cheating my way through law school—I could have been brilliant. Ted, my old boss, told me I was the most naturally gifted advocate he'd ever seen."

He looked directly at Annie, abandoning his usual carefully maintained composure. "But I didn't do that. I half-assed and cheated my way through everything. And even after I graduated properly from Greendale, it didn’t matter. The damage was already done. My reputation as a fraud followed me. Every potential client would put my name into Google and up would pop by disbarment. That's why my practice failed. That's why I ended up back here again." He shrugged. "I threw away what could have been a great career out of pure laziness."

Annie's eyes widened with obvious disagreement, but Jeff held up a hand.

"Trust me, if you'd neglected your professional life to focus on your personal life, you'd regret that too. I can promise you that the grass isn’t any greener over here."

He paused, watching her process his words, then continued more gently. "You need to remember what your sacrifices achieved. What your work actually accomplished. How many criminals are in prison right now because of you? How many families have closure? How many would-be victims are safe because you helped build cases that put dangerous people away?"

Annie rubbed her forehead sighing softly, her resistance beginning to soften. "Sometimes I forget that everything I’ve done had actual consequences beyond just clearing cases from my desk, but I suppose you’re right."

"Would the Annie who first walked into Greendale—desperate to prove herself, to make something of her life—be proud of what you’ve become?" Jeff asked.

Annie thought about this, really considered it, then nodded slowly. "She'd probably faint," she said after mulling it over. "FBI Unit Chief was never even on her radar. But, yes, I think she'd be proud."

"Then maybe you should be too," Jeff said. "And for the little it’s worth, I'm really proud of you too. I may not understand half of what you do, but I know it matters. I tell everyone I have a friend at the FBI." He grinned sheepishly. "Usually when I'm trying to talk my way out of parking tickets, but the pride part is genuine."

Something in his certainty made Annie's chest feel lighter and, despite everything, she felt herself smile. "I think I really needed to hear that."

"Look," Jeff continued, "you've achieved something incredible. Considering everything you went through—Adderall addiction, graduating from what may well be the worst community college in the country—becoming a unit chief at the FBI at your age is amazing. At this stage in your life, if you wanted to step off the treadmill and focus on your own happiness, you absolutely could. And you’d have far more resources to spend on yourself and the people who matter than if you’d drifted aimlessly through life."

"I think I'm too old for that," Annie said quietly. "I'm thirty-four, Jeff. I've missed too many years, too many opportunities. Most people my age already have families, established social circles, hobbies they've been cultivating for years. I can't just suddenly decide to start having a great personal life from scratch. I wouldn't even know where to begin. I was so busy climbing ladders that I forgot to build a life worth climbing towards."

Jeff looked at her as if she'd completely lost her mind. "Thirty-four isn't old, Annie. It's the same age I was when we first met, and I'm certainly not old now, so I couldn’t have been old then." He delivered the line without a trace of irony, and the unshakable seriousness of it made Annie’s mouth twitch in spite of herself.

"You know," she said slowly, "I'm now the same age you were when we first met?"

"Don't remind me," Jeff muttered.

"Hey, are there any cute teenagers around here? I think I’m starting to get cravings," Annie said with a mischievous grin, but she immediately regretted it. The words hung between them like a lead balloon as Annie watched Jeff's expression close off and felt her stomach drop. The easy moment between them had evaporated instantly.

"Annie," Jeff said carefully.

"I was kidding," she said quickly. "That was supposed to be funny. I'm sorry."

Jeff looked away, running his hand through his hair—a gesture Annie recognised as his tell for when he was genuinely uncomfortable. "No, it's... Look, I know how it must have seemed to you. The hot and cold, the mixed signals." He turned back to face her, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. "I need you to know that what I felt for you was real. It was never some creepy older guy thing, Annie. It was never about wanting to… I don’t know, corrupt innocence or whatever."

"Jeff, you don't need to—"

"Yes, I do," he interrupted, but gently. "Because I handled it terribly, and I know that. I was so paranoid about what people would think, so worried about being the cliché of the older man taking advantage, that I chose cowardice over honesty every time leaving you wondering where you stood with me."

Annie felt something shift in her chest. This wasn't the smooth Jeff Winger she remembered—this was someone actually struggling with words, trying to get something important right.

"What I felt for you," Jeff continued, his voice quieter now, "was respect. Admiration. You made me want to be better than I was—not because you were young and impressionable, but because you were brilliant and passionate and you saw potential in people that they couldn't see in themselves. You saw potential in me."

He paused, seeming to gather courage. "I was attracted to your mind more than anything else, Annie. Your determination, your integrity, the way you could solve any mystery and rally everyone to any cause. You made everything feel important, meaningful. You made me feel like my opinion mattered for reasons beyond just winning arguments."

Annie stared at him, seeing vulnerability in his expression that she'd only glimpsed a few times before. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks "Jeff—"

"I know I messed it up," he said quickly. "I was so afraid of being judged that I never stopped to ask what you actually wanted. I made decisions for both of us based on my own insecurities. But it was never about your age, Annie. You deserved someone who trusted you to make your own choices, someone who wouldn't become an obstacle to everything you were capable of achieving."

Annie studied his face—the genuine worry there, the way he couldn't quite meet her eyes. "I never thought it was weird," she said firmly, "And I still don't."

Jeff looked up, surprised.

"I knew what I was feeling. And I knew you were struggling with it too—not because you saw me as a child, but because you cared enough to worry about doing the right thing." She paused. "You want to know what I was really attracted to? I was drawn to the moments when you let me in, when your arrogance was replaced by real care, and I realised there was someone beneath the bravado worth caring about."

She took a breath, finding her courage. "Yes, you were handsome and charming in ways I'd never encountered before. But more than that, you saw something in me that I didn't even know existed. In that debate, when you told me to go off-book—that was the first time someone encouraged me to trust my instincts while still caring about the outcome. You made me realise that being perfect and being spontaneous weren't mutually exclusive.

"Even when you were pulling away, I could tell it wasn't because you didn't care about me. It was because you wanted to protect me. Even from yourself."

"I still do care," Jeff replied softly without hesitation.

The words hung between them, loaded with years of unresolved tension and carefully buried feelings. Annie realised suddenly that they had moved closer together during their confessions. Close enough that she could see the reflection of the monitors’ glare in his blue eyes. Close enough to notice he'd missed a small spot shaving that morning.

For a moment, the air between them felt electric with possibility. Annie found herself thinking about that moment all those years ago, when she’d left Vaughn’s car with the sudden clarity that Greendale was where she truly belonged, and to the kiss that had somehow changed both everything and nothing. She thought about all the almosts and what-ifs that had defined their relationship. Jeff was thinking the same thing—she could see it in his eyes.

Chapter Text

Britta stood over the wreckage of the piñata, chest heaving, the bat trembling in her white-knuckled grip. Candy was scattered across the grass like confetti from a celebration gone horribly wrong while the tiny Guatemalan flag lay crushed beneath her boot. She stared down at it with the hollow recognition of how much she'd changed from the woman she used to be.

Shirley remained frozen several feet away, her eyes wide with something between concern and genuine fear. The way Britta had kept swinging even after the piñata had split open, the raw fury in each blow—it was as if she'd been trying to shatter something far more substantial than papier-mâché.

"Brit-ta," Shirley said carefully, as if speaking to a toddler holding a grenade. "Maybe you should put the bat down now."

The sound of her own name seemed to break whatever trance had overtaken her. Britta blinked, looked down at the weapon in her hands as if surprised to find it there, then let it fall to the grass with a dull thud. Her shoulders sagged, and she wrapped her arms around herself as if trying to contain something that had already escaped.

"Sorry," she said quietly, her gaze fixed on the ground. "And I'm sorry about what I said back there," she continued, allowing her eyes to tentatively meet Shirley’s. "That thing about apron strings and hiding—that was… really unfair. I think I was just projecting my own guilt about giving up on everything I used to care about. Lashing out because I'm scared I've become everything I used to judge."

"I'm sorry too, honey," Shirley said gently, relief evident in her voice even as guilt flickered across her features. "I had no business saying those things to you. I think I've been struggling with some changes of my own and took it out on you unfairly."

Britta looked down at the remnants of the piñata. "I've just been carrying so much rage lately. It's like I've been holding my breath since the election." She crouched down and retrieved the tiny flag from the grass, brushing away dirt with careful, almost reverent fingers. "You know, in Guatemala it's worse than ever now. More missing journalists, more government intimidation. This man died for truth, and fifteen years later his country's sliding deeper into the same corruption he tried to expose. All that effort and passion, and for what? The world just keeps getting darker." She shook her head slightly, as though trying to dislodge the weight of her own thoughts. "Sometimes I wonder if trying to make a difference to the wider world is just self-indulgent fantasy."

Shirley searched for words to respond but found none. Instead, moving carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal, she knelt among the scattered candy to retrieve the fallen envelope that offered merciful distraction from the emotional wounds she knew she couldn’t fix with platitudes. Even in her slightly dazed state, its markings struck her at once: the outline of an apron, the number ‘312’—a perfect echo of their first envelope.

She opened it and read the contents silently:

‘Where envoys convened in stately debate,
And passionate voices disrupted their fate.
A warrior adorned with symbols of pain,
Charged forth to break diplomatic chain.
Where formal proceedings met rebel's call,
And sparks of justice brought down them all.
Seek where small flags once marked sovereign ground,
And remember the truths that still must be found.’

At first her brow furrowed in concentration, then her expression shifted to something more complex—recognition mixed with empathetic awkwardness and careful diplomatic calculation.

"So," she said eventually, her voice overly casual. "The next clue seems to be about... well, it mentions something about passionate voices and... disrupting formal proceedings." She cleared her throat delicately. "And there's something here about stately debate and small flags."

Britta's head snapped up, her face flushing with mortification as understanding dawned. "Oh God. The Model UN thing," she groaned, wincing as if the memory itself had teeth.

Shirley nodded sympathetically, still searching for something tactful to say. "Well… you know… when we're passionate about something, we... we sometimes express ourselves in ways that might seem..." She gestured vaguely at the scattered candy. "Creative?"

"For crying out loud, Shirley, just say it," Britta interrupted, her voice sharp with self-directed anger. "I made a complete fool of myself. I glued dolls to my body, barged into your Model UN competition, and screamed until Chang tasered me unconscious. It was the single most embarrassing moment of my entire time here—which is saying something considering I once got so high I tried to take the campus squirrels home because I thought they were being oppressed by the landscaping department."

The words hung in the air between them, raw and unvarnished. Shirley felt her diplomatic instincts warring with genuine compassion as she watched her friend's struggle for dignity.

"Well," she said finally, "you were trying to raise awareness about… something. Your methods may have been... unconventional, but I’m sure your heart was in the right place."

"My heart," Britta said bitterly, "was in getting attention. Half the time I'm not even sure I understood the causes I was supposedly fighting for. I just knew that caring about things made me feel important, made me feel like I was the kind of person who mattered."

They began walking towards the cafeteria in uncomfortable silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The familiar pathways of the campus seemed to mock them with memories of simpler times, when their biggest concerns were how to react to Pierce’s latest offensive witticism. As their footsteps echoed along the path, Britta glanced at Shirley and found herself envying her friend's apparent certainty—about motherhood, about faith, about her role in the world. It seemed like Shirley had always known who she was supposed to be.

"Can I ask you something personal?" Britta said suddenly, her voice smaller than usual.

"Of course," Shirley replied, though her tone suggested she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea.

"Do you ever feel like you lost yourself in motherhood?" Britta's voice carried an uncharacteristic vulnerability, stripped of her usual bravado and performative confidence. "Like being a mom swallowed up all the other parts of who you are?"

Shirley didn't answer immediately. The question hit closer to home than she was comfortable acknowledging, touching on fears she'd been wrestling with as her children grew increasingly independent. She found herself considering the weight of the question, recognising that Britta was offering her something rare—genuine openness instead of flamboyant posturing or defensive deflection.

"I suppose," she finally admitted, her voice thoughtful and measured. "Especially when my boys were young. After Andre left the first time. There were days when I felt like nothing but a laundry-doing, lunch-making machine. Like every conversation I had was about permission slips or bedtimes or whether someone had brushed their teeth."

Britta nodded eagerly, clearly relieved to find common ground. "Exactly. Sometimes I worry that I've lost something essential about myself. That I've become... domesticated. Like I've traded in my fighting spirit for a minivan and a closet full of matching family pyjamas.

"You know, I was vegetarian for almost fifteen years—long before the pregnancy. It wasn't just a diet, you know? It was part of how I saw myself. Part of my identity as someone who cared about animal welfare and sustainability."

She paused, seeming to gather courage for what came next. "But when I got pregnant, my doctor told me the twins needed DHA—omega-3s—for proper brain development. She said the plant-based supplements weren't really cutting it, not in the amounts we needed for two babies. I started with better supplements, tried everything, but I couldn't keep them down. The morning sickness was brutal, and after weeks of trying everything, I finally gave in and started eating a bit of fish. Just salmon at first."

Her voice grew quieter, more introspective. "It felt... strange, like I was betraying something fundamental about myself. But I could feel my body responding to it almost immediately—it was like fuel I didn't realise I'd been missing. After the twins were born, I thought I'd go back to being vegetarian. I really did. But somewhere in that blur of feeding schedules and healing and figuring out how to keep two tiny humans alive, I just... didn't."

She looked at Shirley with something approaching desperation. "It's not that I don't care about animals anymore, but motherhood rewired something in me. My priorities shifted in ways I never expected. I suppose that makes me a hypocrite."

Shirley studied her friend's face. This wasn't the performative angst that had characterised so much of Britta's college-era activism—this was real anguish, the kind that comes from looking in the mirror and not recognising the person staring back.

"Britta," Shirley said warmly, "it's perfectly normal for motherhood to change your priorities and outlook. That doesn't mean you've lost yourself—it means you've grown. And from what I've seen, you're wonderful with your children. The way you talk about them, the way your whole face lights up when you show us pictures—that's not domestication, that's love."

"I know," Britta said softly. "And I do love it. I love watching them discover things. I love how they laugh at my stupid jokes. I love being their mom. But that happiness scares me sometimes. Some days I feel like I'm just playing house, pretending to be someone I never thought I'd become."

"Enjoy this phase while it lasts," Shirley said gently, though there was a slight catch in her voice. "Trust me, they become independent faster than you'd ever imagine." She paused, but soon continued with renewed warmth. "I always knew you'd make a good mother."

Britta raised an eyebrow, more than a hint of scepticism creeping into her voice. "No you didn't! You thought I'd be terrible. We all did. I thought I'd be terrible."

Shirley laughed, a sound that carried both affection and honest admission. "Well, I never thought you’d be running covert missions as the tooth fairy and signing up for mommy-and-me music classes," she said with a knowing smile. "But I always saw how much you cared about people."

The acknowledgment seemed to hit Britta in an unexpected place. Her defensive posture softened slightly, though she still looked troubled.

"But what if focusing on my kids has made me stop paying attention to everything else?" she asked, her voice edged with real worry. "What if I've become one of those suburban moms I used to mock—so wrapped up in her own little bubble that she cares more about playground politics than the real thing?"

Walking past a flagpole, they noticed a small memorial left behind by Greendale’s last ever cohort—flowers, photos, and handmade signs referring to inside jokes that meant nothing to either of the old alumni.

Britta found herself wondering how many other institutions would be swept away in the name of ‘government efficiency’. The thought triggered a fresh confession. "A few months ago, some of my old activist friends got in touch. They were organising protests against Tesla dealerships—part of that whole 'Tesla Takedown' movement against Musk after the election. They wanted me to join them for what they called 'direct action'"—she made air quotes around the phrase—"which I know to mean smashing windows and setting stuff on fire."

Shirley's eyebrows rose. "And?"

"And I said no," Britta said, her voice heavy with self-recrimination. "I told them I couldn't risk getting arrested because I have a family now, responsibilities. What if James had to bail me out of jail? What if my picture ended up in the paper and the twins' friends' parents saw it? What if it affected James's practice?" Her voice grew more agitated with each hypothetical. "I gave them every practical excuse in the book, but the truth is, I just... I didn't want to do it anymore. The idea of spending a night in county lockup felt scary instead of empowering now there were real consequences."

"That doesn't make you a bad person," Shirley said firmly. "That makes you an adult with people depending on you. There's nothing wrong with choosing your battles more carefully when you have children to consider."

"But what if I'm not choosing my battles?" Britta shot back. "What if I'm just avoiding them entirely? I used to be tear-gassed regularly—I was tear-gassed in seven different states during my twenties. Now I only cry when I can’t find matching socks for the twins. How is that growth? How is that anything other than complete surrender?"

The pain in her voice was unmistakable, and Shirley felt her heart ache for her friend. This wasn't the Britta who'd once delivered impassioned speeches about social justice with the confidence of someone who'd never doubted her place on the right side of history. This was someone genuinely wrestling with questions of identity and purpose, desperately trying to reconcile the person she'd been with the person she had become—something Shirley could relate to more than she was ready to admit, even as she heard herself speaking from that same place of uncertainty.

"I've been wrestling with some of those same questions lately," Shirley acknowledged, her voice softer than usual. "About who we are when the roles we've played for so long start shifting. Transitions can be difficult. But caring for your children isn't surrendering your principles, Britta—it's living them in the most direct way possible. Watching you with your twins, seeing how thoughtfully you approach motherhood—that's not someone who's lost herself. That's someone who's found a new way to channel everything good about who she's always been."

"I’ve certainly changed," Britta reflected. "Early in our relationship, James casually mentioned that he voted for Romney in 2012, and I spent two weeks googling 'can liberals date conservatives' like it was a medical condition. I even bought a book called 'Love Across the Aisle.' Compared to the chaos that followed, Romney almost seems harmless." She gave a short, incredulous laugh. "But at the time, it felt like such a big deal."

"And now?" Shirley prompted gently.

"Now I know that people are more complicated than their voting records," Britta admitted. "James is kind, thoughtful, an amazing father. He's made me a better person in ways that have nothing to do with left or right. But sometimes I look at how easily I’ve adapted, how naturally I slipped into this suburban life, and I wonder if my flexibility is actually just... weakness disguised as maturity."

They had reached the cafeteria entrance, but both women paused, seemingly reluctant to go inside and confront whatever memories and revelations awaited them this time.

"You know what I think?" Shirley said, turning to face Britta fully. "I think you've been so afraid of becoming someone you don't recognise that you haven't stopped to consider whether the person you're becoming might actually be better than the person you were."

Britta looked sceptical. "Better how?"

"More thoughtful. More considerate of consequences. More capable of genuine empathy instead of righteous anger that didn’t really help anyone." Shirley's voice grew warmer, more confident. "The Britta I knew in college cared about everything and nothing. She'd protest three different causes in a single afternoon without really understanding any of them. But the Britta I see now—the mother, the wife, the woman who's learned to choose her battles—she cares about specific people in specific ways that matter."

"But, what if I've become one of those people who only cares about issues when they impact me?" she asked. "I used to follow the news obsessively, but now, if it’s not on one of the parenting subreddits it might as well not have happened. The closest to activism I get these days is buying fair-trade coffee."

"Maybe," Shirley said gently, "raising two human beings to be kind, thoughtful, engaged citizens is its own form of activism. Maybe creating a loving home where children learn to treat others with dignity and respect does more good in the world than vandalising the car dealerships of an egomaniac."

The words seemed to land with unexpected force. Britta stood perfectly still for a moment, processing this reframe of her own choices and their moral implications.

"I never thought of it that way," she said quietly.

"Besides," Shirley added with a slight smile, "who says you can't find new ways to make a difference? Ways that work with your life instead of against it? You could volunteer at the twins' school, support local food banks, show them what it looks like to serve others." She paused thoughtfully. "You know, I should probably look into some of these things myself. I've been thinking I need some new projects." Her voice grew less distant as she returned focus to Britta. "Point being, there are plenty of ways to make the world better that don't require getting arrested. You don't have to choose between being a mother and being someone who cares about the world."

Britta nodded decisively, something settling in her chest, then reached for the cafeteria door and pulled it open with a small smile. They stepped over the threshold and found themselves in the heart of what had been Greendale's social centre.

It was strange how a place could hold so much emotional weight when it was really just tables and chairs. The fluorescent lights flickered to life automatically, illuminating empty seats and scuffed linoleum that had once witnessed heated debates, romantic proposals, food fights, and all the other chaos that made up the daily drama of Greendale Community College.

As they walked deeper into the familiar space, both women felt the weight of their conversation settling between them—not as a burden, but as the foundation for something new. They were no longer the people they'd been when they first sat at these tables, but perhaps that wasn't entirely a loss. Perhaps it was simply the natural evolution of lives fully lived, with all the compromise and complexity that entailed.

Chapter Text

Before either one of them could move closer, Annie stepped back suddenly, shattering the moment.

"Wait," she said, her voice shifting to a different register entirely.

"What?" Jeff asked, confusion replacing whatever had been building between them.

Without explanation, she began rooting through her jacket pocket and fished out the envelope that had housed the original clue. Her eyes widened in realisation as she produced the second envelope and compared them with forensic precision, clearly having found what she was looking for.

Suddenly, she slammed both on the desk. "Look!" she said, pointing to the number '109' and the small mortarboard where a stamp should have been. "These markings must relate to our specific hunt—we just need to find the matching envelope here," she explained, already surveying Garrity’s desk.

As she picked up the first envelope from the table to examine it, she reflected on how the solution had come to her unprompted, unbidden by conscious effort or the closeness of the moment. "Hmm. I suppose the incubation effect really does work."

Jeff watched her as she flicked through envelopes—slightly shell-shocked at how quickly she could shift from professional to vulnerable and back again—before joining her search.

This time they moved with purpose, reassured by the knowledge that they now knew what they were looking for. Annie in particular worked with the focused intensity of a bloodhound on a scent, checking behind frames, under papers, inside desk drawers. Then, suddenly, she froze.

"There!" she exclaimed, pointing triumphantly at an envelope—same number, same symbol—resting under a dusty frame containing a promotional photo from Garrity's production of "Cats: The Musical... in Space!"

She grabbed it and tore it open, scanning the text with laser-like focus. Then, remembering Jeff’s presence, she began again—this time reading aloud:

"'Where structure met spontaneity in spirited debate,
And two unlikely partners sealed their fate,
Where good and evil clashed in logic’s truest test,
And different personalities discovered together they worked best.
Where victory came through courage to change,
And hearts were awakened beyond their range.
Return to where your triumph echoed loud,
And two became more than the cheering crowd.'"

They looked at each other, understanding dawning simultaneously.

"The debate championship in freshman year when we debated Simmons!" Jeff exclaimed.

"Exactly! Let’s head to the gym," Annie agreed eagerly.

"But that's all the way on the other side of the school," he complained.

Annie straightened up, then paused, something playful flickering in her expression. "What, am I that bad to talk to?"

The teasing question hung between them, and Jeff found himself smiling despite everything. "Never," he said simply, and meant it.

They made their way out of the office and into the dimly lit corridor, beginning their long walk across the campus. As their footsteps echoed across the linoleum, Jeff found himself cataloguing the months of careful distance Annie had maintained: the way their once-easy conversations had become stilted and formal, how she'd retreated behind detached politeness whenever he'd tried to reach out after her separation. He'd been getting the distinct impression she'd rather he disappear entirely from her life.

Yet the Annie he was with now—passionate, engaged, following leads with familiar intensity—made him feel for the first time in almost a year that he was talking to his actual friend rather than her diplomatic representative. The stark difference only heightened his confusion about what had caused such a dramatic shift in their friendship in the first place—and reminded him how much he'd lost when she'd pulled away. The need for answers had been gnawing at him for so long, and seeing her old self again made it impossible to ignore.

After taking a sharp breath, he decided to bite the bullet. The evening's revelations had stripped away so many of their usual defences; perhaps it was time to address the elephant that had been following them around for months. After all, if there was ever going to be a time for difficult conversations, it was now, in these halls that had witnessed so many of their complicated moments together.

"Annie," he said carefully, "can I ask you something?"

She glanced at him sideways, her expression guarded but not hostile. "Okay..."

"Why have you separated from Nicholas?"

The question hung in the air between them as they passed the faculty lounge. Annie's step faltered almost imperceptibly, and when she spoke, her voice carried the careful neutrality of someone who'd been asked this question too many times.

"Things just... didn't work out," she said, the phrase delivered with practised evasion.

Jeff wasn't satisfied with the non-answer and despite recognising the defensive wall going up, he found himself asking the question that had been eating away at him for months—the one that filled him with guilt as it consumed his thoughts.

"Was it because of me?" he asked, staring straight ahead, unable to meet her eyes as he braced himself for the confirmation he dreaded.

Annie stopped walking entirely, turning to face him with genuine confusion. "What? Why would you—what do you mean?"

The bewilderment in her voice was so authentic that Jeff felt a mixture of relief and embarrassment. But now that he'd started down this path, he needed to finish it.

"After Mandy died," he said quietly, "you came to Colorado for almost a month. You stayed with me and Sebastian, helped with the funeral arrangements, the paperwork, just... everything. You put your own life on hold to take care of us." His voice grew more troubled. "And then, only a few months later, you told us you were getting divorced. I keep thinking that maybe I monopolised your time, weakened your relationship. Maybe Nicholas got annoyed, or felt sidelined, or—"

"Jeff, stop." Annie's voice was firm but not unkind. "That's not what happened. That had nothing to do with it. He never complained about it."

"But surely it must have put strain on—"

"It didn't," Annie interrupted firmly.

They resumed walking, but Jeff could sense there was more to the story. He waited, having learned over the years that sometimes silence was more effective than pressing.

After they'd passed two more classrooms, Annie finally continued. "If you must know, the problems in my marriage had nothing to do with you or anyone else." Her voice grew smaller. "Nicholas left me because I couldn't give him what he wanted."

Jeff felt something cold settle in his stomach. The clinical way she'd phrased it, combined with her obvious discomfort, led his mind in directions he wasn't sure he wanted to explore.

He cleared his throat and focused on looking anywhere but at her. "Annie, I don't think we have the kind of relationship where we can talk about your sex life," he said quickly.

To his surprise, she almost laughed—a sound without humour that cut through the corridor's quiet. "God, no. Not that. Though I suppose in a way..." She trailed off, then seemed to steel herself for what came next.

"I can't have children, Jeff," she said simply. "Fertility issues. We tried for over two years, went through every possible treatment, spent a fortune on specialists." Her voice remained steady, but Jeff could hear the cost of that composure. "Nicholas really wanted to be a father. It was important to him in a way I didn't fully understand until it became clear it wasn't going to happen. At least not with me."

Jeff felt the air leave his lungs. Of all the possible explanations he'd considered, this hadn't been one of them. His entire perspective on Annie's recent distance shifted in an instant.

"Annie," he said softly, stopping again. "I'm so sorry."

The genuineness in his voice seemed to surprise her. She looked up at him with something approaching vulnerability.

"He wasn't a monster about it," she continued, though there was an edge to her voice. "He didn't leave immediately or anything like that. But over time, I could see him pulling away. The way he'd go quiet when we'd pass families at the park, or how his face would change when his friends talked about their kids. He’d make these little comments, nothing cruel on the surface, but each one felt like a tally mark against me—like a reminder that I wasn’t enough. I started to feel like I was... insufficient. Like I couldn't be the wife he'd actually wanted. Like I was some defective appliance he was timid to return."

"That's not—" Jeff began, anger flaring in his chest.

"He tried to be understanding," Annie pressed on. "But eventually, he sat me down for what he called 'an honest conversation’ and admitted that he couldn't see a future without children, and I couldn't give him that future." She looked down at the floor. "He said he was grateful for what we’d shared, but needed to acknowledge what he needed going forwards," she added, her voice lacking any malice, as if some perverse sense of loyalty compelled her to shield her soon-to-be ex-husband from censure, even now.

Jeff's expression had darkened considerably during her explanation. "Annie, the man made vows. 'In sickness and in health.' I was at your wedding. I heard him make those promises." His voice carried the weight of someone who'd lived those words through their most brutal test, never once considering that love came with escape clauses.

"It's not that simple—"

"It absolutely is that simple," Jeff interrupted, his voice carrying a sharp edge that made Annie look at him with surprise. "You didn't choose to have fertility issues. It's not a moral failing or a character flaw. It's a medical condition." His voice grew more heated. "And if he couldn't handle that—if he was willing to abandon his marriage because he didn’t get the happily-ever-after he thought he'd ordered, because of his own selfish expectations about what he thought you owed him—then he wasn't worthy of you in the first place."

The fierce protectiveness in his voice stirred something warm in Annie's chest. It had been so long since anyone had defended her with such unequivocal certainty.

"I never liked the bastard anyway," he spat, voice full of contempt.

"Hmmm, I wonder why," Annie said with a knowing smile that made Jeff’s bitterness and anger melt away almost instantly, replaced with mocking disdain.

"I mean, seriously! He used to pontificate about 'making a difference in the world' when he worked for that clean water NGO. Then the minute a lobbying firm dangled a six-figure salary in front of him, suddenly drinking water for African villages wasn't quite as important as representing big pharma in the corridors of power.

"Maybe he needed the money to fund experimental hair loss treatments. I saw his Linkedin photo a couple of months back. His hairline has retreated so far it's practically in witness protection.

"At least you didn’t take his name. Imagine how ridiculous it would have been having to introduce yourself as ‘Annie Moore’ at those fancy cocktail parties you have to attend to get ahead. Everyone would have probably thought you were a waitress and started reaching for their glasses, expecting a refill."

"And his stupid—" Jeff noticed Annie watching him as if she was discovering something she’d forgotten existed. "What?" he asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"Thank you," she said quietly, "for being so... indignant on my behalf. I've been unused to that kind of affection for a while."

The admission was offered simply, without self-pity, but Jeff heard the loneliness underneath it.

"You know," she continued, her voice growing softer. "When I first came here—to Greendale—after my mom cut me off, I felt so lonely, so isolated. A couple of times Pierce told me I was his favourite. Even coming from him, it meant a lot. It was just so comforting to have that kind of validation when no one else was offering it. It made me feel chosen, I suppose."

Jeff's smiled wistfully. "You were always my favourite too, Annie."

The words seemed to surprise them both with their honesty. For a moment, they stood in the middle of the empty hallway, the weight of years of complicated feelings settling between them like dust motes in afternoon light.

To break the sudden intensity, Jeff cleared his throat and returned to safer ground. "If that’s why you’re getting divorced, why did you become so distant? Why did you pull away from all of us?"

Annie resumed walking, and Jeff fell into step beside her. She was quiet for so long that he wondered if she was going to answer at all.

"I was embarrassed," she finally said. "I was ashamed of the failure. I prefer to be remembered by all of you as successful—in my professional life and my personal life." She hugged her arms around herself, staring down at the floor as if the weight of the admission might somehow stay contained. "Remember that binder of wedding ideas I had for a decade before my own marriage? That’s what I always wanted: the white picket fence surrounding the house where love wasn’t conditional on good grades—the opportunity to be the loving, supportive parent I never had. I didn't want to be the one with the broken marriage and the pathetic personal problems."

"Annie, the group will always respect you. Your worth isn't determined by your marriage or—"

"I know that," she interrupted. "But knowing something and feeling it are different things."

Jeff was quiet for a moment, studying her face. "You seemed especially distant with me?" he said, his voice gentler now, though there was something searching in his expression as he watched her reaction.

Annie began studying the floor tiles with sudden intensity and wrapped her arms even tighter around herself. "I thought it would be awkward—weird, inappropriate—explaining the end of my marriage to a widower. It felt like I was throwing away something you’d give anything to get back."

Jeff stopped walking abruptly, his expression shifting from understanding to something sharper. "Annie."

"What?"

"You were there for me during my most difficult time," he said, his voice carrying a note of frustrated tenderness. "You dropped everything and spent a month helping me figure out how to be a single father while I was barely functional with grief. But when you went through your own devastating experience, you pushed me away because you thought I couldn't handle it?"

"It's a little different—"

"It's not a competition," Jeff interrupted, his tone firm but not harsh. "Life isn't some zero-sum game where only one person gets to struggle at a time.

"You can talk to me about anything," he continued, his voice gentler now. "There's no need to walk on eggshells because of what I went through. If anything, that should make it easier to understand each other."

Annie turned back to Jeff, struck by the steadiness in his voice, the absence of bitterness despite everything he'd endured. No deflection, no protective barriers—just honest vulnerability offered without hesitation, the kind of openness she'd been too afraid to give him in return.

"I'm sorry, Jeff," she said guiltily. "I've been so stupid and selfish, wallowing in my own self-pity whilst you…" She trailed off, her voice catching slightly. "My life is difficult right now, but it's nowhere near as difficult as what you went through—what you're still going through. Watching the person you love most in the world suffer through cancer before losing her, raising Seb alone..." She shook her head, overwhelmed by the comparison.

She studied the lines around his eyes, the way grief had settled into his features without breaking them. There was a dignity there, a quiet strength that spoke of someone who'd been tested by life and emerged scarred but not shattered.

"I can see it, you know," she said softly. "The weight you carry. How you've learned to bear it without letting it crush you. But it must be so heavy sometimes." She paused, her gaze gentle with concern. "How are you... really? Not the version you give everyone else."

Jeff leaned against the windowsill, considering the question. "It's hard," he said simply. "Sometimes, just for a moment, I forget she's gone. I'll reach for my phone to text her something funny, or I'll be at the grocery store and automatically grab her favourite yogurt. Those moments of forgetting... they're almost worse than the constant remembering, because reality hits you all over again."

He ran a hand through his hair. "The practical stuff was overwhelming at first. I had no idea how much she managed that I never even noticed. Sebastian's school forms, doctor appointments, which friends he was allowed to have sleepovers with and which ones were too chaotic. She had this whole system, and I was fumbling around messing up the simplest of stuff." He shook his head. "I felt like I was failing her and Sebastian simultaneously."

His voice grew quieter, more reflective. "But watching her fight that battle with such courage, never complaining even when the chemo made her so sick she could barely keep water down... it changed how I think about everything. About what's actually important, what's worth worrying about. She never wasted energy on things she couldn't control. She focused on making every day count, even the terrible ones."

Jeff's expression softened with something that might have been peace. "I'm grateful for the time we had. Grateful for Sebastian, grateful for the memories, grateful that I got to love someone that deeply and be loved back the same way. Not everyone gets that. And Sebastian... he's this perfect combination of both of us. Sometimes I look at him and see her smile, hear her laugh in his voice. She's still here in him, in ways that matter more than I ever realised."

He smiled sadly but genuinely. "I won't pretend it's not lonely sometimes, or that I don't worry about screwing him up because I'm flying solo now. But I'd rather have had those years with her and lost her than never have had them at all."

Annie's eyes had grown bright with unshed tears as she listened. When she spoke, her voice was thick with emotion. "I always really liked Mandy," she said, her words coming out slightly unsteady. "I have to admit, before I first met her, I was so nervous. But she was so warm and genuine from the moment we met that all that anxiety just melted away. She never made me feel awkward or unwelcome, never treated me like some threat from your past."

She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "She had this incredible warmth, but she never let anyone get away with bullshit either. Especially you." A small smile crossed her face. "I loved watching you two together because she made you... better. More honest. More yourself, if that makes sense."

Annie's voice grew softer. "And the way she talked about Sebastian, the way her whole face would light up... you could see how much love she had to give. She deserved so much more time."

"She liked you too," Jeff replied, visibly touched by Annie's words. "She used to say that you were the only one of my friends she’d trust with the house keys."

Annie laughed. "High praise coming from someone who knew all of our group."

Their conversation was flowing more naturally now, the barriers that had defined their recent interactions beginning to dissolve. They resumed walking toward the gym, their pace unhurried.

"It's strange, isn't it?" Jeff said after they'd walked in comfortable silence for a moment. "How quickly the things we think are permanent can just... disappear. My marriage, your marriage, this place." He gestured around him. "Sometimes I wonder if anything really lasts."

"There's something more than a little metaphorical about it," Annie agreed, her melancholy deepening. "Everything I thought was stable and permanent disappearing at the same time."

Jeff glanced at her, recognising the pain beneath the observation. "Maybe," he said carefully, "or maybe it's an opportunity. A chance to rebuild both personal and professional lives without the weight of old expectations."

"Rebuild into what, though?" Annie's voice carried genuine uncertainty. "I look at you and Britta, and you both found these incredible partnerships. You had years of genuine happiness with Mandy, built a family together, created something beautiful. And even after losing her, you still have Seb—this amazing little person who's part of both of you. You get to see her in his smile, hear her laugh in his voice. You have this living connection to the love you shared."

Her voice grew more wistful. "And Britta found James, someone who accepts all her contradictions and loves her for them, not despite them. They have those beautiful twins, a whole life they've built together."

Annie's steps slowed as the weight of comparison settled over her. "But me? In a few years, I'll be one of those old cat ladies that we all thought Britta would end up as. Except I probably won't even have cats because I'm never home long enough to take care of them properly. I'll just be that woman who peaked in her twenties and spent the rest of her life married to her job."

She looked down at her hands. "I used to think there was time for everything—career first, then marriage, then children. Like I could schedule happiness the same way I plan everything else. But time doesn't wait for you to be ready, does it? And now I'll never have what you had with Mandy, or what Britta has with James. I'll never get to see my child's first steps or teach them to ride a bike or watch them graduate."

Jeff stopped walking and gently took her arm, turning her to face him. "Annie, first of all, thirty-four isn't exactly retirement age. You're talking like your life is over when you've got decades ahead of you." His voice was firm but kind. "And second, you're comparing your behind-the-scenes to everyone else's highlight reel. You didn't see the weeks when Mandy and I were so tired we could barely have a conversation that wasn't about diapers or daycare, or how we had to learn to be a couple again after becoming parents, or how terrified I was that I'd mess up Sebastian, or the nights I lay awake wondering if I was good enough for either of them."

He smiled gently. "Your path doesn't have to look like mine or Britta's or anyone else's. Maybe your happiness looks different than a house in the suburbs with 2.5 kids. Maybe it's traveling the country solving cases, or mentoring young agents, or writing that book about forensic science you’re always talking about. Maybe it's finding love at forty-five with someone who's been waiting their whole life to meet someone exactly like you."

"Besides," he added with a hint of his old humour, "if you're going to be a cat lady, at least you'll be the kind who can afford the good cat food and solve mysterious disappearances in the neighbourhood."

"A cat lady detective? That's my big future?" Annie asked, trying to sound offended but failing to suppress her smile.

"Stranger things have happened," Jeff said with a grin. "And knowing you, you'd probably revolutionise the field."

They had finally reached the entrance to the gym. Jeff pulled open the heavy door and waited for Annie to step through.

For some unknown reason, a stage had been set up in the middle of the basketball court, mirroring the set up for their debate championship all those years ago. Annie stopped short at the sight, her expression growing wistful as memories flooded back.

"Oh wow," she breathed, taking in the familiar arrangement. Without hesitation, she climbed onto the stage with less than perfect grace, her small stature turning the simple hop into something closer to a scramble. She turned back to Jeff with renewed energy. "Come on," she said holding out her hand.

Jeff raised an eyebrow but followed her up, making a show of reluctance even as he moved with practiced ease.

Annie gazed wistfully at the empty rows where the audience once sat, remembering how City College’s supporters had outnumbered theirs, despite the supposed home advantage. "You know, this was my first real success since rehab," she said, her voice taking on a reflective quality. "My first proof that I could be more than just the girl who'd fallen apart. That I could actually accomplish something meaningful again."

She looked at up at Jeff. "I never properly thanked you for that, you know. For putting the effort in despite your chronic laziness, for pushing me to be better than my overprepared, robotic self."

Jeff's expression grew playfully smug. "I seem to remember getting a reward of sorts from you on this very stage. In front of the entire school, no less."

Annie's cheeks flushed pink. "That feels like a lifetime ago," she said, trying to hide her smile.

"It was a lifetime ago," Jeff agreed. "We were different people then."

"You weren't so different," Annie observed. "You barely look any older. You’re still smugly articulate, still capable of talking your way out of anything." She smiled wryly. "Meanwhile, I've put on weight, I've got permanent stress lines from squinting at evidence files, and I order takeout because cooking for one feels pointless."

Jeff stopped and turned to face her fully, his expression serious. He studied her face—the slight lines around her eyes that spoke of years of focused concentration, the way her features had softened and matured, the quiet strength that had replaced the desperate intensity of her younger self.

"You know what I see when I look at you?" he said quietly. "I see someone who survived rehab as a teenager and built an incredible career. Someone who became an expert in her field while maintaining her compassion and integrity. Someone who sacrificed a month of her life to help a friend through the worst period of his life without expecting anything in return." His voice grew softer. "You'll always be beautiful to me, Annie. But more than that, you'll always be incredible."

The sincerity in his voice, the steady way he held her gaze, made something flutter in Annie's chest that she'd thought was long buried. For months, she'd felt like a failure—professionally adrift, personally broken, emotionally hollow. Nicholas had made her feel defective, insufficient, like damaged goods that couldn't fulfil their basic purpose. But standing here, seeing herself reflected in Jeff's eyes, she caught a glimpse of the woman she used to be. The woman who'd felt invincible in this place, who had carried the certainty that with enough research and determination, she could conquer any problem.

Maybe that woman was still in there somewhere. Maybe she wasn't as lost as she'd feared.

The realisation made her bold in a way she hadn't been in years.

"I want to ask you something," she said suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeff nodded, waiting.

"Would you... would you kiss me again? Like we did the first time in this place?"

The request hung between them, loaded with years of history and accumulated longing. Jeff's expression softened with something that might have been regret or tenderness or both. Annie felt her heart hammering against her ribs as she took in Jeff's proximity—close enough to see the silver threading through his dark hair, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. Time seemed suspended, balanced on the edge of a decision that could change everything.

He reached out and gently cupped her face, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with infinite care. Then, leaning forward, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek—protective and affectionate, but also carefully chaste.

Chapter Text

Troy unfolded the clue from the envelope, holding it at an angle so both he and Abed could read it clearly under the field’s floodlights:

"'Where water flowed through steel and stone,
A hidden talent waited to be fully known.
Three floors above the common ground,
Where gifts and curses were both found.
Bowls of white hold mysteries deep,
And flowing water secrets keep.
Where battle lines were first drawn clear,
Between the valves and coils we revere.
Schools of thought waged silent war,
As the chosen one was left to choose what gifts are for.'"

Troy squinted at the paper, reading through the riddle slowly. After a brief moment of puzzled concentration, his eyes suddenly widened as recognition dawned. "Oh! The third-floor bathroom. When Jerry had me unblock a toilet to try and prove that it was my vocation, and Murray from the Air Conditioning Repair School first noticed my talents." He looked up at Abed with a mixture of nostalgia and slight discomfort.

Abed shifted slightly, his usual blank expression flickering with something Troy couldn't quite read. "Let’s head over there," he said with forced casualness.

As they began walking back towards the main campus buildings, Troy began to shake his head. "I still can't believe how that whole thing spiralled. One minute I'm unclogging a toilet, next thing I know I'm bound and blindfolded in front of black Hitler."

Abed blinked uncertainly, half-raising his hand and parting his lips to request clarification, before apparently deciding that some mysteries were better left unsolved. Troy, still lost in his own reminiscences, continued his nostalgic rambling oblivious to the confusion he’d caused.

"I bet even if Jerry could see Dance Pants’ success, he’d still think I was missing my true calling," Troy said with a rueful laugh. "Classic hero's journey, right? Ordinary guy discovers special power, gets recruited by mysterious organisation, ends up fighting evil. Except instead of a lightsabre, I had a plunger."

"More like Dune than Star Wars, really," Abed said. "Mystical abilities, competing factions, being thrust into a role you never wanted by forces beyond your control."

"See, this is what I've missed," Troy said, falling into step beside his friend. "Not just the games and the adventures, but having someone who can catch my references and build on them rather than just nodding politely."

Abed glanced at him with something approaching relief. "Yeah, most people think I'm showing off when I make those comparisons. They don't understand it's just my natural way of making sense of things."

"I think most people just assume I'm being goofy when I get excited about weird stuff," Troy said, understanding flickering in his voice. "Like they're humouring me instead of actually getting why I care." His voice grew wistful as he continued. "I tell everyone about you, you know. About our adventures together, all the crazy stuff we used to do. The blanket forts, the pretend morning shows, that cowboy-themed, campus-wide paintball tournament." He laughed. "I think most people think I'm making it up."

"Yeah, to outsiders it’s like we’re describing episodes of an over-the-top sitcom," Abed said. "Minus the laugh track."

Troy laughed. "Or maybe with the laugh track. Because some of that stuff was too weird not to have an audience! But, seriously, it’s impossible to get people to understand if they weren’t there."

As they entered the building and began to climb the stairs, his expression grew more complicated. "Like, Priya would probably have me committed if she knew I was here today. She thinks I’m networking at a business retreat in Napa right now. If she found out I flew across the country for a treasure hunt at my old community college, she'd probably stage an intervention."

"So even your assistant doesn't know the real you," Abed observed quietly. "She sounds pretty involved in your daily life though."

"Yeah, ever since I accidentally double-booked myself for three different investor meetings on the same day, she's been managing my calendar like a military operation." Troy shook his head, though whether in frustration or fond exasperation was unclear. "Sometimes I miss when the biggest scheduling conflict in my life was whether to watch Inspector Spacetime or do the assigned reading."

"Simpler times," Abed agreed. "Though less financially stable."

They reached the third floor, and Troy pushed open the door to the men's room. The space was a perfect time capsule—the same institutional tiles yellowed with age, the same harsh fluorescent lighting that had probably been installed in the 1980s, and that unmistakable combination of industrial disinfectant and neglect that seemed baked into the very walls.

All the cubicle doors were ajar except the second one from the wall. Taped to the closed door was a sheet of paper bearing the number ‘105’ and the outline of a British telephone box—the same markings that had appeared on every envelope of their hunt. Abed approached the door gingerly, pushing it open so cautiously it was almost as if he was expecting to find a wild animal sleeping behind it.

He didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t the sight that greeted him. All porcelain had been removed and replaced with an indescribably complicated system of pipes that defied all logic. One main water line diverted through a series of unnecessary loops and spirals, with multiple joints splitting off in different directions before inexplicably rejoining the same pipe only a few feet later. Several sections were capped and re-routed in completely nonsensical ways—one pipe curved up towards the ceiling, made a perfect figure-eight, then descended to connect with a valve that controlled nothing. Another line had been fitted with what appeared to be a miniature waterwheel that served no purpose except to spin merrily if the pipes were to carry a flow.

At the top of this Heath Robinson system, a red envelope was tethered to a small rubber duck sitting dry inside a transparent tank. Only when the tank filled with water would the duck rise, lowering the envelope into reach.

On the floor in front of this hydraulic nightmare sat a toolkit—wrenches, pipe fittings, joint compound, and various other implements that Troy could immediately identify, not by name but by purpose; each one practically humming with potential solutions to the chaos above.

"Well, I suppose I better get started," Troy said, rolling up his sleeves with a complicated enthusiasm.

As he knelt beside the toolkit and began examining the exposed plumbing, memories flooded back: Jerry the janitor's challenge, the strange pride he'd felt at being genuinely good at something that had nothing to do with touchdowns or trophies.

"You know," Troy said, selecting a wrench and beginning to work on a joint that he could clearly see was designed to be the puzzle's key component. "Being the 'Truest Repairman' was probably the most ridiculous thing that ever happened to me at Greendale… and that’s saying something."

The pipe joint gave way with a satisfying click, and Troy began carefully repositioning the segment to align with what appeared to be the intended configuration, his hands moving with a confidence that came not from practice but from almost mystical talent.

"Getting inducted into this weird secret society, learning about the history of air conditioning repair, being told I had some kind of magical gift for fixing things." He laughed, but there was something wistful in it. "It was completely insane, but it was also... I don't know, validating? I loved you guys, but sometimes I felt like the weak link: Jeff was the smooth talker, Annie the academic, you had your encyclopaedic knowledge of film, Shirley had her family, even Pierce had his business experience. But this was something that was uniquely mine. For once, I wasn't the guy who had to ask for help—I was the one with the answers."

Abed had grown unusually quiet during Troy's reminiscing. His usual analytical demeanour replaced by something more introspective, almost troubled.

"Of course, then I got basically forced into the Air Conditioning Repair School," Troy continued, working on another joint. "Vice Dean Laybourne and his whole cult of HVAC technicians, treating me like some kind of chosen one." His tone remained light as he glanced up and noticed Abed's expression. "What's wrong?"

Abed didn't answer immediately. He moved to lean against the wall; his gaze fixed on something beyond Troy's shoulder.

"Abed?" Troy prompted gently, pausing in his work.

Abed gathered his resolve, bracing himself to share a truth he had never entrusted to anyone—not even Troy. "When you joined the Air Conditioning Repair School," he said finally, his voice carrying an unusual weight, "I went to a very dark place."

Troy's hands stilled on the wrench. The casual tone of their conversation shifted instantly, replaced by something more serious, more fragile.

"I know we talked about our friendship being potentially unhealthy earlier," Abed continued, "but I don't think I fully explained what I meant. When you left our apartment to join the AC school, I... I didn't handle it well."

"How do you mean?" Troy asked quietly, somehow managing to apply tape to seal a small leak without breaking eye contact.

"I became isolated. Detached from reality. Unable to process loss normally and disconnected from healthy coping mechanisms. I started seeing everything through the lens of the 'darkest timeline'." Abed's voice took on the flat, analytical tone it always did when he was trying to distance himself from difficult emotions. "I had a psychotic break and retreated into a dangerous fantasy."

Troy completed another connection, and water began flowing through the system with a steady, reassuring sound. But throughout his work, he somehow kept his eyes on Abed.

"Britta tried to help," Abed continued. "She offered to be my therapist, to help me work through what I was feeling. And I..." He paused, his usual articulate precision failing him. "I retaliated. Brutally. I subjected her to harsh psychological analysis, forced her to confront things about herself that she wasn't ready to face. I weaponised my understanding of people against someone who was only trying to help me."

"Abed—"

"I came close to actually hurting Jeff too," Abed interrupted, his voice growing smaller. "I was so consumed by this need to make everyone else feel the darkness I was feeling that I nearly..." He shook his head. "The point is, when I said earlier that our friendship wasn't always good for us, that's what I was referring to. I became destructive—to myself and to other people—because I couldn't cope with losing you."

Troy had stopped working entirely now, sitting back on his heels as he processed what Abed was telling him. The steady sound of water through the pipes provided a gentle backdrop to the weight of the confession.

"I think that experience taught me something important about myself," Abed continued. "Not many people can tolerate my eccentricities, especially outside of controlled environments like film sets where there's a professional obligation to work together. I've learned to keep people at a certain distance because I'm afraid of what might happen if I become too dependent on them."

"But that means you're lonely," Troy stated, understanding immediately.

"Very," Abed acknowledged. "I have professional relationships, casual acquaintances, people I can discuss movies with. But no one I can really... be myself with. No one who understands the references, gets the meta-commentary, appreciates the narrative analysis." He managed a small, sad smile. "I miss having a best friend."

Troy resumed his work, but his movements were gentler now, more thoughtful. "I mean, we still talk occasionally… and the whole group still does those virtual get-togethers sometimes… and there's the group chat."

"Sure. We still keep in touch," Abed acknowledged. "Monthly Zoom calls, holiday check-ins, the occasional group text thread when someone shares a particularly absurd news story. But it's not the same as having someone you can really talk to, you know? Those calls are nice, but they're more like... status updates. Surface-level catching up."

He paused, adjusting his position against the wall. "Even after you left, I got much closer to Annie. She was kinda like the Woody to your Coach. But then we moved to opposite coasts and…" he shrugged. "You know how it is: time zones, busy schedules."

"There’s a difference between having someone in your life and having someone who's part of your life," Troy agreed, clearly talking from experience.

The final pipe connection clicked into place, and Troy heard the telltale sound of the system completing its cycle. They both watched and listened as water began flowing through the pipes and filling up the transparent tank, every second raising the rubber duck slightly until the red envelope was lowered to eye level. But neither of them moved to retrieve it.

"In High School—before Greendale, before I met any of you," Abed started unexpectedly, "I was completely alone. School bullies would stuff me into lockers, mock my 'weird' interests, treat me like I was like Data trying to fit in with humans but without the charm."

"Yeah, kids can be cruel," Troy said quietly. His voice carried the weight of someone who understood the other side of that dynamic as he remembered his own role in high school's unforgiving social hierarchy.

"It wasn't just cruelty," Abed replied. "It was complete dismissal. Like I didn't register as a person worth acknowledging unless they needed someone to target. So I stopped trying to connect and just observed instead, cataloguing their behaviour patterns like I was David Attenborough studying predators in the wild."

"The thing is," he continued, "meeting you changed everything. For the first time in my life, I had someone who not only tolerated my eccentricities but actually enjoyed them. Someone who was at their happiest during movie marathons or making fake morning shows."

"It was the best time of my life," Troy said without hesitation.

"Mine too," Abed agreed. "But I think that's exactly why it became unhealthy. I went from having no meaningful connections to having one connection that felt like everything. You became my entire emotional lifeline."

Troy nodded slowly, understanding beginning to dawn. "And when I left for the AC school..."

"I fell apart," Abed finished. "Not just because I missed you, but because I'd never learned how to exist independently without pushing people away. I'd gone from total isolation to total enmeshment without any middle ground."

"And that’s why you keep people at a distance now?" Troy asked.

"Partly. And I suppose I'm also afraid of taking advantage of anyone without realising it." Abed's voice carried a note of self-recrimination. "Remember when I went through that phase of hiring impersonators and you and the rest of the group had to bail me out? You shouldn’t have had to handle the consequences of my choices."

"That wasn't that bad," Troy said weakly.

"It was, though," Abed shot back. "I was so focused on my own needs—my desire to live in movie scenarios, my inability to deal with reality—that I didn't consider how my choices affected you. I put you in the position of being responsible for me without asking if you were okay with that role."

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting stark shadows across the tiled walls. Troy found himself thinking about all the times he'd enabled Abed's more extreme impulses, all the moments when he’d felt less like his friend and more like his guardian.

"I’m always very conscious of that now," Abed continued. "I notice when I'm starting to rely on someone too heavily, and I pull back before I can become destructive. It's safer, but it's also..." He shrugged. "It's lonely."

Troy finally stood up, stretching muscles that had stiffened during his work, processing Abed's admission about his current isolation. "You know, despite all the unhealthy aspects we've been talking about, meeting you was still one of the best things that has ever happened to me. The bad doesn’t outweigh the good; not even close. I’m so glad that we got to be friends."

Abed glanced at him, then nodded once, decisive and sincere. "The feeling is mutual. I'm grateful our timelines intersected."

The exchange was simple, but both understood its depth—an acknowledgment of a friendship that had shaped them both, through its presence and through its absence.

"You showed me it was okay to just be myself rather than what people expected me to be," Troy continued. "Before Greendale, I was so busy being Troy Barnes, football star, that I never stopped to figure out who I actually was. You gave me permission to be weird, to like nerdy things, to care about stuff that wasn't cool."

"And you taught me that being understood was possible," Abed replied. "That my way of seeing the world wasn't wrong, just different. You validated experiences I'd been told my whole life were abnormal or antisocial."

Troy moved towards the red envelope, then stopped abruptly, his hand suspended inches from the paper as though unable to cross some invisible threshold.

"So what happens now?" he asked. "After this heart-to-heart, do we just go back to our usual lives and continue ignoring the miserable elements in them?"

Abed was quiet for a moment, his fingers drumming against a pipe in a rare display of uncertainty. When he spoke, it was with the careful deliberation of someone who'd been weighing whether to share something important.

"Someone offered me a job," he said. "Starting in three months. It's a six-month project in New York. Independent film about a tech entrepreneur who gets trapped in a virtual reality simulation of his own memories while his company crumbles in the real world. The director wants to explore themes of identity, corporate responsibility, digital consciousness."

"Oh, so like Inception meets The Social Network?" Troy said casually.

"It's nothing like Inception," Abed replied immediately, his voice taking on a sharp edge. "The virtual reality element is just a framing device for examining how technology isolates us from authentic human connection. And the corporate critique is far more nuanced than anything Aaron Sorkin has ever—"

"Okay, okay," Troy said, raising his hands in mock surrender, unable to suppress a small grin.

Abed caught himself mid-rant and cleared his throat. "Anyway. I've been putting off responding to them."

"Why?"

"Because while I want to do it, I was nervous about the idea of being in the same city as you. I didn't want to create an obligation, and I was scared about what our friendship might look like if we weren't separated by distance anymore—worried it wouldn’t be the same… and at the same time, worried it might be too similar."

"Wait, hold up. You're seriously considering turning down a project because you're worried about us hanging out?" Troy said, staring at Abed with amused bewilderment. "Are you kidding? You should totally take it!" His enthusiasm completely cut through Abed's anxiety.

"You think so?"

"Absolutely! And you should stay with me. I've got a ridiculous loft in SoHo with way too much space for one person."

Abed tilted his head, processing. "Roommates again? Wouldn't that be regressing?"

"Not if we do it right," Troy argued, growing more animated as he warmed to the idea. "Not if we're consciously choosing to spend time together as the independent adults we've become, instead of the codependent kids we were." His enthusiasm was infectious, filling the sterile bathroom with warmth. "Think about it—we could spend some real time together again, but also maintain our separate lives and jobs. It would be like a... a healthier version of our old dynamic."

Abed tilted his head, processing. "Like Doctor Who post-2005? Same core concept and mythology, but adapted to suit a contemporary context?"

"Exactly!" Troy agreed. "What do you say?"

"I think," Abed said slowly, a genuine smile breaking across his features, "that would be really nice."

"Perfect!" Troy exclaimed. But his excitement soon gave way to thoughtfulness. "But if we’re going to do this, we should probably commit to being completely honest with each other."

"Agreed," Abed said. "Truthfulness is essential for healthy relationship dynamics."

"Okay then," Troy said, stroking his upper lip. "So, in the spirit of honesty... what do you actually think of this?" he asked, gesturing to his moustache.

"I hate it," Abed replied without hesitation.

Troy blinked, then broke into laughter. "Thank you!" he said, obviously relieved. "This is exactly what I was talking about earlier—everyone in my life just tells me what they think I want to hear. All my employees have been complimenting it, but it turns out 'distinguished' is just corporate speak for 'repulsive but I need this job.'"

To Troy's amazement, Abed reached into his jacket pocket and produced a new disposable razor, extending it towards him matter-of-factly.

Troy stared at the razor in disbelief. "So... you just... carry that around all the time?"

"I saw the moustache in your profile picture on WhatsApp," Abed explained like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Given how hideous it is and our group's history of honest feedback, I figured there was a reasonable chance it might be necessary today."

Troy took the razor, shaking his head in wonder. "You really are one of a kind!"

Without thinking, they performed their signature handshake, then they both smiled, surprised at how their connection had been restored.

For a heartbeat, they were transported back to their younger selves—two boys playing at being grown-ups in a world that didn't always make sense. But as Troy took the envelope and they prepared to head towards whatever destination awaited them next, they did so as men who had lived, learned, and grown, coming back together not out of dependence but out of choice.

Troy tore open the envelope, and, as they read the contents together, understanding passed between them like an electric current. They both now knew where this adventure would end, but more thrilling was the unspoken certainty that it wouldn't be their last.

Chapter Text

The cafeteria's fluorescent lights hummed into life as Britta and Shirley’s footsteps echoed in the cavernous space that had once buzzed with the daily chaos of Greendale life. Empty tables stretched before them in neat rows, their surfaces wiped clean but still bearing the accumulated scars of years of student life—coffee rings, scratches from keys, the occasional bit of graffiti carved into the laminate.

Shirley paused, her eyes doing what they always did in any food service environment—conducting an immediate hygiene assessment. The empty tables and chairs looked clean enough, but her attention was drawn to the floor near the entrance, where crumbs were scattered in an untidy cluster that almost had her reaching for a broom.

"Well, that's totally unacceptable," she complained, tutting disapprovingly as she surveyed the mess. "I’d never accept this at one of my events. Even though the place is closing down, you still think they’d try to maintain some basic food hygiene standards."

But Britta wasn't listening. Something had shifted in her expression as they'd entered the space, and she seemed lost in thought. She stared past Shirley, gaze fixed on the far end of the cafeteria where the Model UN participants had once sat, her eyes distant. Whatever she was seeing existed not in the present moment, but in the archaeology of her own conscience.

"You know," she said suddenly, her voice taking on an unexpectedly serious tone, "the thing that really set me off during that Model UN fiasco—the reason I went full ‘rage against the machine’—was the arrest of Steph Young. She was one of the ‘Damascus Three’ that made the news."

"Who?" Shirley asked, still distracted by the state of the floor.

"A girl I used to protest with," Britta explained, voice carrying a hint of admiration. "She was the real deal—way more effective than I ever was. She even won a Preissner Foundation Award. She was so passionate, always organising protests, writing letters to politicians, the whole nine yards. She went to Syria at the beginning of the Civil War and was arrested by the government on these trumped-up drugs charges—just for buying medicine for those badly in need."

Her voice dropped. "She was never seen again. She just... disappeared into one of Assad’s prisons. Probably tortured. Probably killed. All for doing what she believed in."

She paused, running her hands through her hair. "I keep thinking about her lately, you know, with the war finally ending. All those stories about mass graves and torture centres... I keep wondering if she’s buried in one of them. If anyone will ever even know what happened to her."

Shirley reached out and squeezed Britta's arm gently, a small gesture of understanding.

"That incident with Chang—when he tasered me—that was the last time I was ever tasered," Britta said. There was something almost wistful in her voice that made Shirley a little uncomfortable. "And I haven't been arrested in almost twenty years. Sometimes I wonder if that version of me—the one who was willing to get hurt for what she believed in—is completely gone."

"Umm… maybe we should look for the next envelope?" Shirley said, still a little unsettled by Britta's nostalgic tone about being physically hurt. "Keep moving forward?"

Britta nodded, seeming to shake off the melancholy that had settled over her. As they began moving through the cafeteria, she decided to make an effort to shift to lighter conversation.

"So, how's the catering business going?" she asked, attempting a casual tone. "Still keeping you busy?"

"Oh, you know how it is," Shirley replied, grateful for the change of subject. "Wedding season just ended, which was absolutely crazy—I had three events in one weekend last month and nearly ran myself ragged. But it's wonderful work. There's something so satisfying about being part of people's most special moments."

They continued to traverse across the cafeteria, checking behind serving stations and examining bulletin boards for any sign of their next clue.

"Actually," Shirley continued, warming to the subject, "we just catered the most beautiful wedding at this lovely vineyard near Dahlonega. The bride wanted everything to be locally sourced and seasonal, so we did butternut squash bisque, honey-glazed ham with Georgia peaches, and the most gorgeous pecan tarts for dessert. It took so much planning, but seeing her face when it all came together perfectly..." She smiled at the memory.

"That sounds lovely," Britta said, though her attention seemed to be drifting as they moved deeper into the space.

After a short while, they circled back to reapproach the entrance of the cafeteria and Britta suddenly perked up, her expression brightening with recognition.

"Oh my God," she exclaimed, pointing at the area near the door. "This is where Andre proposed to you!" She turned to Shirley with sudden enthusiasm, caught up in the moment. "You know, looking back that was so romantic. James certainly didn’t use any backup dancers when he proposed to me. Though he did spend an entire month training my old cat Chomsky to get down on one paw in front of me with the ring tied around his neck. But Andre's proposal—getting everyone together, rehearsing it all in secret, making sure it was a complete surprise. Say what you want about him, but he certainly—"

She caught herself abruptly, the enthusiasm dying on her lips as she realised that gushing over the romantic gestures of the man who had twice torn apart Shirley’s family was hardly appropriate. The stark contrast between the proposal and the pain he caused her afterward made Britta’s stomach twist, and she wished she could take the words back.

Shirley’s expression grew more thoughtful as she remembered the tension that had followed. "You know, that whole thing was so difficult for me. Andre wanted me to be the wife I'd always been—focused entirely on home and family. But I had dreams too, ambitions that went beyond just being the woman of the house. The sandwich shop represented something important to me—independence, creativity, the chance to build something that was truly mine."

"Yeah, I remember how conflicted you were," Britta offered.

"The thing is," Shirley continued, "I don't feel that conflict anymore. With Steven, there's no competition between being a wife and having my own identity. He encourages my business, helps manage my scheduling and client communications, even does the grocery shopping for ingredients when I'm swamped with orders. He sees my work as part of who I am, not something that competes with our marriage. He always says that he married up."

"That’s wonderful, Shirley," Britta said warmly. "It's definitely true that the right partner can make you feel—" She paused mid-sentence, her gaze drifting downward. "Wait, look at this."

Shirley followed her gaze and noticed that the breadcrumbs that she’d complained about earlier seemed to form a deliberate trail to the other side of the cafeteria.

"Do you think we might need to follow literal breadcrumbs like we're in some weird fairy tale?" Britta asked drily. "Greta's going to be so jealous when I tell her—she's obsessed with Hansel and Gretel because of their similar names."

They began slowly following the trail, weaving between empty tables with their heads bent down like they were searching for lost contact lenses. The breadcrumbs were deliberately placed—too evenly spaced to be accidental spillage—but whoever had laid them seemed to have a perverse sense of humour. The trail meandered unnecessarily around the entire cafeteria, doubling back on itself and looping aimlessly, as if designed to test their patience as much as guide their steps. Clearly it was meant to lead them somewhere, but by the most circuitous route possible.

Eventually, their destination became clear and Shirley stopped dead in her tracks at the entrance. Beyond the threshold lay the hollow shell of her old dream: the space that had once been 'Shirley's Sandwiches' was now occupied by a never-to-be-reopened Subway outlet. The garish yellow and green signage seemed grotesquely out of place—a stark reminder of how personal dreams could be commoditised and stripped of all their meaning. It was like a corporate lobotomy had been performed on the space where her dreams had once lived and died.

With a deep breath Shirley crossed the threshold and approached the counter slowly, running her fingers along its edge with obvious nostalgia. She visibly shuddered when her eyes fell on another Subway logo on the back wall.

"Hey," Britta said softly, noticing the change in her friend's demeanour. "You okay?"

"This was my dream," she said quietly. "My attempt at real independence, at building something that was mine. And look what it became—just some generic franchise. All that passion and hope, reduced to... this."

"You were good at running it though," Britta said, moving to stand beside her friend. "You gave it everything you had."

"Too much," Shirley replied with a rueful smile. "I gave it so much that I temporarily lost my children in the process. Andre took them because he said I cheated on him with ‘Shirley’s Sandwiches’, that I cared more about pretending I was on The Apprentice than being a mother."

"You’re not being fair to yourself, Shirley," Britta implored. "You were trying to provide a positive example of what it looks like to work hard and chase your dreams. That's not a bad lesson. I remember what you said to Andre at the wedding; how you insisted on defining your new normal and refused to give up on your ambitions. It was actually kinda inspiring."

The mention of her second wedding seemed to spark something in Shirley's memory, and she looked at Britta with a mixture of gratitude and gentle deflection. "You know, you were so good at organising everything for my wedding—absolutely brilliant in fact. Everything was so beautiful compared to my first one. But you felt so terrible about being good at it, like it somehow betrayed everything you believed in."

The observation hit closer to home than Britta was comfortable with. She shifted uncomfortably, remembering her horror at discovering an innate natural talent for the kind of thing she'd spent her life railing against.

"I suppose I've been struggling with a similar conflict," she admitted slowly, as if she were working through the thoughts in real time. "The guilt of not fulfilling what I always thought would be my role in life, of disappointing my past self, of becoming the kind of person I used to judge. It begs the question, doesn’t it—can people completely reinvent themselves? Should they?"

"What do you mean?"

Britta took a deep breath, organising her thoughts. "I suppose I understand being a feminist doesn't mean rejecting traditional choices, that it means having the freedom to choose, but understanding it up here," she tapped her temple, "and actually believing it in here," she pressed her hand to her chest, "are two different battles, aren’t they?" She hesitated, as if the admission cost her something. "I spent so many years defining myself by what I was against, you know?"

"Oh, we all knew," Shirley said with a light chuckle.

"But when I met James," Britta continued, "something just... clicked. And suddenly all those things I'd been so against—marriage, children, a house in the suburbs—didn't seem like selling out anymore." She pulled out her phone, showing Shirley a photo of her husband with their twins, both children grinning at the camera with chocolate-smeared faces. "They became choices I was making because they actually made me happy, not because society expected them of me."

Shirley cooed over the picture, studying the faces of Britta's children with the practiced eye of someone who'd raised three boys of her own. "They're beautiful, honey. Look at those sweet faces. And they look so much like you."

"James says Greta has my stubborn streak," Britta laughed. "Last week she refused to wear anything but her tutu for three days straight, including to the grocery store and to visit James's mother."

"Enjoy it while it lasts," Shirley said, her voice suddenly taking on a melancholic tone. "They'll be grown up and moving out before you know it." Her voice broke slightly on the last words, and Britta immediately noticed the change.

"Shirley? What's wrong?"

Shirley adjusted her purse strap, a nervous gesture Britta had never seen from her before. "I'm struggling more than I expected," she admitted. "When I remarried, I thought we'd finally be a proper family again, but watching Jordan move out last month..." Her voice broke slightly for a second time. "It feels like we're being broken up all over again."

"But that's what kids are supposed to do, though, right?" Britta said, aiming for reassuring but landing closer to clinical. "Growing up, becoming independent—that's the goal of parenting."

"Of course it is," Shirley replied, her tone sharpening just slightly. "Doesn't make it any easier." She turned away, blinking rapidly. "I've spent nearly three decades defining myself as Elijah and Jordan's mama. And now Jordan has Ashley to cook his meals and wash his clothes."

Britta visibly balked at this decidedly un-feminist sentiment but managed to restrain herself from commenting.

"Ben's doing really well at school too," Shirley continued. "I'm not sure where he gets his brains from, but his teachers are already talking about the Ivy League, and..." She trailed off. "Who am I if I'm not needed anymore? I don't know who I am when I'm not taking care of someone."

The admission hung in the air between them, raw and vulnerable. Britta felt her heart ache for her friend, recognising the particular grief that comes from outgrowing the purpose that once gave your life meaning.

Shirley fell silent, her usual composure wavering as she fought some internal battle. She glanced at Britta, then away, then back again, as if trying to gather the courage for a difficult confession. When she finally spoke, her voice was small and uncertain. "I'm jealous of you, Britta."

"What?" Britta exclaimed, genuinely confused. "Why would anyone be jealous of me?"

"Because you're so much closer to the beginning of the parenthood journey than the end," Shirley explained. "Your children still need you every day. They still think you hung the moon. You have so many years ahead of you where you'll be the most important person in their world."

Britta was quiet for a moment, processing this perspective. "Shirley, you've done your job as a mother, and you should be incredibly proud of that. You raised three wonderful men under incredibly difficult circumstances. Jordan and Elijah are successful, responsible adults, and Ben is clearly bright and well-adjusted. That's not an accident—that's because of the love and guidance you gave them."

"I know. I know I've been blessed in that way," Shirley replied. "But it's strange, watching your children become adults. Building lives that don't necessarily include you." She sighed. "It's natural. It's what's supposed to happen. But no one prepares you for how... hollow it feels sometimes."

As she spoke, something caught Shirley's eye—a small burn mark on the counter edge from when her panini press had overheated. The sight of it brought back a flood of memories, not all of them pleasant.

"You know," she said softly, "when Andre took the kids because I was too focused on this place, I convinced myself it was God punishing me for pursuing other things instead of being content with the role he gave me. I thought I was being selfish, that I'd failed as a mother by wanting something that was just mine."

Britta felt something stir in her chest—not her usual performative outrage, but genuine conviction based on lived experience.

"Shirley," she said firmly, "that's not true. What you were doing—building something of your own, demonstrating that you could be both a devoted mother and someone with her own ambitions—that wasn't selfish. That was actually pretty powerful." Her voice grew stronger as she spoke. "Your worth isn't defined by being needed. Being a wife and mother doesn't mean you can't maintain an individual identity."

She moved closer to Shirley, speaking with more passion than she'd felt about anything in years. "You taught your sons that women are complex, capable people with dreams and ambitions. Jordan will see that in how he treats Ashley as an equal partner. Elijah will respect women in the workplace because he grew up seeing his mother as more than just someone who made his lunch. Those are gifts you gave them by pursuing your dreams, not punishments."

Shirley looked up at her friend with something approaching wonder. This wasn't the performative feminism she remembered from their college days—this was hard-won wisdom from someone who'd lived through her own struggles of identity.

"Maybe," Britta continued, "instead of seeing the changes in your life as loss, you should see them as evolution. Growth. You're not losing your identity as a mother—you're expanding it. You've successfully launched three incredible human beings into the world. Now you get to discover who you are when you’re not constantly managing everyone else's needs."

For the first time in months, Shirley felt something loosen in her chest. The crushing sense of purposelessness that had been suffocating her began to ease just slightly, replaced by something that felt almost like hope. She studied Britta's face—earnest, caring, still working through her own contradictions—and felt a surge of affection for this woman who'd grown so much from the performative activist she'd once been, who'd found her own way to wisdom through experience. A small smile tugged at her lips. "You know what? Maybe you should take your own advice too."

Britta paused, considering this. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across her face. "You know what? I think I will." She looked at Shirley sincerely. "Your kids are very lucky to have you."

"So are yours," Shirley replied. "Even if their mother once thought that marriage was a 'prehistoric institution perpetuated by the capitalist diamond industry'."

Britta’s laugh echoed around the kitchen. "God, I was insufferable, wasn't I?"

"Yes," said Shirley deeply, her voice plummeting to depths that would make Barry White sound like a soprano.

"Hey!"

Their laughter filled the space, washing away years of accumulated guilt and self-doubt. As it faded, Britta found herself really looking at the old kitchen for the first time, taking in all the equipment that Shirley had once used to build her dreams. Her gaze drifted to the large industrial oven, and something about the way the door sat slightly ajar caught her attention. Curious, she approached it cautiously and reached inside, her hand emerging with a red envelope that had been sat there waiting to be discovered.

She retrieved it carefully, checking the familiar markings that confirmed it was meant for them. When she opened it and read the contents aloud, both women smiled in recognition of their hunt’s final destination.

The breadcrumbs had led them exactly where they needed to go—not just to their final clue, but back to an understanding of themselves and of each other.

Chapter Text

The unexpected gentleness of it sent a shock through Annie’s system and, for a moment, she remained perfectly still, processing what had just happened—or rather, what hadn't happened. Then reality crashed over her like a cold wave.

"Oh God," she breathed, stepping back so quickly she nearly stumbled off the stage. "What am I doing?" Her hands flew to her face, covering her burning cheeks.

"Annie, it’s okay."

"No, it’s not. This is—" She shook her head frantically, backing further away from him as if he were radioactive. "You're a widower, Jeff. Your wife died less than 18 months ago and here I am throwing myself at you like some kind of..." She searched for the right words, her voice thick with self-recrimination. "…wanton harlot."

"I'm so sorry," she continued, the words tumbling out in a rush of mortification. "It was completely inappropriate. I don't know what came over me. You were being kind, listening to me, and I—. I'm disgusting. I'm a terrible person. I—"

"Annie, stop." Jeff's voice was firm but gentle, cutting through her spiral with authority. He stepped closer, his hands finding her shoulders. "Look at me."

She looked up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes that were rapidly filling with tears. "But I—"

"You didn't cross any line," Jeff interrupted gently. "It’s just that you're dealing with a lot right now, and I didn't want to take advantage. You didn’t do anything wrong, and there’s certainly nothing disgusting about you."

The kindness in his voice only made her tears fall harder. "You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"No, I'm saying it because it's true." His voice carried absolute conviction. "Annie, I would never want you to regret anything that happened between us. I… I care about you too much for that."

The simple sincerity of his words broke something loose in her chest. All the stress and isolation and accumulated loneliness of the past months seemed to crystallise into this moment, and suddenly she was crying in earnest—not the polite tears of embarrassment, but the deep, wrenching sobs of someone who'd been holding herself together for far too long.

"You're a much better friend than I deserve," she managed between gasps, her composure finally crumbling completely.

Jeff didn't hesitate. He pulled her into his arms, and she melted against him, her tears dampening his shirt. He held her steady, one hand smoothing her hair while he whispered quiet reassurances. The familiar scent of her perfume—something light and floral that hadn't changed since they were at college together—brought back memories of the last time they had been in each other’s arms like this, when the roles had been reversed and she'd been the one offering him comfort in his darkest hour.

"I really needed this," she whispered against his shirt, her voice muffled but grateful.

"You could have had it at any time," Jeff replied softly.

"Shut up," she said, playfully swatting his chest with no real force behind it.

They both sat down on the edge of the stage and Annie curled against Jeff's side, legs dangling over the floor. The harsh gymnasium lighting had softened somehow, or maybe it was just the way exhaustion and emotional release had blurred the edges of everything. Her breathing gradually steadied, though she made no move to put distance between them.

"You know, this place," Jeff said eventually, gesturing around the gym. "This is where I first realised how special you were."

Annie tilted her head to look at him. "During the debate?"

"You were this force of nature, this brilliant, passionate woman who could make even a stupid community college debate feel important."

"We made a good team," Annie said softly with a small smile.

"We did," Jeff agreed. "We balanced each other out—your preparation and my improvisation, your idealism and my cynicism."

His expression grew more thoughtful. "You know, for all its chaos and dysfunction, Greendale really was something special."

Annie nodded, her gaze drifting across the empty gym. "It's funny—you seem to be taking its closure better than I expected you would. You never liked change."

Jeff was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. "Everything comes to an end eventually, no matter how good it was. The question is whether you can be grateful for what you had rather than bitter about what you lost." His voice grew more reflective. "Losing Mandy taught me that. I could spend the rest of my life angry that our time together was cut short, or I can appreciate that we had the time we did."

Annie squeezed his arm. "That's very wise."

"Don't sound so surprised," Jeff replied with mock offense, earning a small laugh from her.

"It was special though," Annie said, her voice taking on a wistful quality. "Like I said earlier, back in the study room, I really needed people who looked out for me after my mom cut me off. I'm really glad I found you all."

"I’m glad too," Jeff replied, his voice carrying equal warmth. "This place gave me a family when I didn't even know I needed one."

Annie was quiet for a moment, seeming to wrestle with something she wanted to say. Jeff waited patiently, having learned over the years not to push when she was working up to something important.

"Speaking of family," she said finally, her voice careful and measured, "you know, I’m staying with my mother…"

Jeff nodded. "Yeah, I remember from the group chat," he said cautiously. "I have to say, I was a little surprised. I know things between you two have always been... complicated."

"It is complicated," Annie admitted. "She's got cancer. Early stage, but..." She shrugged helplessly. "I guess I decided it was time to try and rebuild the relationship while I still can. Even if it's difficult."

"Yeah, cancer doesn't wait for convenient timing," Jeff said quietly before refocusing on Annie. "That must be really hard. Especially given everything between you."

"Yeah, geography makes it challenging too," Annie continued. "Long-distance phone calls and trying to coordinate care from across the country. It's exhausting." She paused, then took a deep breath. "That’s partly why I've been thinking about leaving the FBI." The words came out all at once, as if saying them quickly would make it less momentous.

Jeff's eyes widened. "Really?"

"There are plenty of private forensic labs that operate in Denver," she rushed on. "I'm sure I could get a job at one. It wouldn't be great for my career progression, but it would allow me to be closer a couple of members of my family again."

"Oh yeah, I always forget you have a brother. How is Anthony?" Jeff asked.

Annie laughed, a genuine sound that lit up her face. "I actually meant you and Britta."

The simple statement hit Jeff with unexpected force and he felt something warm unfurl in his chest.

"Coming back here," Annie said, gesturing around them, "it's made me remember what I've been missing. At the FBI, I'm just one of thousands of highly competent agents. But here, here I was Annie Edison, straight-A student, passionate volunteer, key ‘Save Greendale’ Committee member. Someone whose presence made a difference. I think I prefer that. You know, being a big fish in a small pond." She looked up at him hopefully. "What do you think?"

Jeff was grinning like a madman. The idea of having Annie only a short car journey away, of reconnecting with someone who understood him in ways few people ever had, filled him with a quiet joy he hadn't felt in a long time. But more than that, it felt right for her too. Annie had always been at her happiest when she felt genuinely valued—not just for her talents, but as a whole person. At the FBI, she was drowning in chaos and office politics that had little connection to her actual abilities. But in Denver, working at a smaller lab where her voice actually mattered, consulting on cases where she could see results, she could be Annie Edison again—brilliant, passionate, and actually appreciated for it. And selfishly, he'd get to watch her rediscover the spark he'd seen dim.

"I think that's a great idea," he said eagerly. "Denver's forensics scene won't know what hit it."

She returned his smile, but Jeff could see that a shadow remained.

"You're gonna be fine, you know," he said softly.

Annie's expression shifted. "I don't want to be fine. I want to sleep through the night without checking my phone for work emails. Have a night off without feeling guilty about not being productive. I want a life that isn't just a résumé, friendships that are more than LinkedIn connections." She smiled sadly. "I want to be able to make mistakes that don't end up in my personnel file. To try something new without worrying it'll derail my entire five-year plan. I want room to be imperfect without feeling like I'm letting everyone down."

The raw honesty of her words stirred something in Jeff's chest. "Well… I wanna stop second-guessing every parenting decision I make. I want to not panic when other dads mention their kids' extracurriculars. I want to meet Seb’s teachers without feeling like they can see right through me to the guy who used to fake his way through everything." He was quiet for a moment. "I want to feel like a real parent instead of just someone desperately trying not to screw up the precious piece of herself that Mandy left behind."

Annie's voice was tender and firm at the same time. "Jeff, the fact that you worry about screwing it up means you won't. You’re not your dad."

"And you've spent your whole life trying to prove you're worthy of love and respect," Jeff replied. "Maybe it's time to just accept that you already are."

Annie shifted closer, her arm tightening around his. "I'm glad we can talk like this."

"Me too," Jeff replied, meaning it completely.

They remained sat together in comfortable silence for a stretch of time that neither bothered to measure, both processing the weight of what they'd shared. The gym felt like their own private sanctuary, insulated from the outside world and all its complications.

They’d been sitting for so long that Annie was starting to feel a slight stiffness in her back when her trained eye caught a flash of red that didn’t belong.

"Wait," she said, carefully extricating herself and setting her feet on the floor. "I think there's something over there."

She approached the folding chair in the third row with the precision of someone accustomed to crime scenes and retrieved their final red envelope, noting the familiar markings that confirmed it was meant for them.

"Should we open it?" she asked, settling back beside Jeff.

"Might as well see where this thing ends," Jeff replied.

Annie tore open the envelope and unfolded the paper inside. As she read the contents, her expression shifted to one of recognition and understanding. Jeff leaned over to read along, and when he finished, they looked at each other with the same knowing smile, recognising that they both knew where to go next without needing to say a word.

They stood together, and Jeff extended his arm with exaggerated gallantry. "Shall we, mi lady?"

Annie looked at him with amusement dancing in her eyes. "Are we still doing this?"

"We'll be doing this until we're dead," Jeff replied with a grin.

"Well, in that case," she said, curtseying as she took his arm, "lead the way, mi lord."

As they walked through the gym doors towards their destination, Annie felt something settle in her chest—a sense of rightness, of being exactly where she belonged. Whatever came next, whatever challenges awaited them outside these walls, she knew she wouldn't be facing them alone.

Behind them, the stage stood empty, but the echoes of their words seemed to linger in the air—promises of new beginnings, of friendships rekindled, of futures that suddenly seemed brighter than either had dared hope.