As mid-December loomed, the entire group had been busy with the many tasks they were furiously working on ticking off their task lists.
Mason “Brick” Briggs and Trevor Gant
Since returning from the Tutorial, Grim had been busy recruiting Peacekeepers and handling other high-priority tasks. Some involved Brick. Others didn’t. One of his new assignments was to check in on Trevor Gant. The former AeonCell head of Regutory Affairs had been on ice for too long—and they were beginning to worry about his mental stability.
Brick flew to the safehouse in Red Lodge, Montana on one of the smaller jets. It was an easy flight. He had prepared for multiple contingencies. Which one he used would depend on Trevor’s attitude.
When he arrived, Brick greeted the on-call nurse and handed her a 200 gift certificate to Carbon County Steakhouse.
She blinked at it. “That’s too much.”
“Eat well,” Brick said. “Drink more. Call me if you need a ride home.”
She ughed and headed out.
With the house to himself, he locked the front door and descended into the basement. It smelled surprisingly fresh. Brick had assumed the nurse had spritzed the pce before he arrived—but then he saw Trevor.
Clean-shaven, eyes alert, cheeks ruddy. The man had scrubbed the pce down himself.
“Hey, Trevor. How you holding up?”
Trevor looked up. “Mr. Briggs. Nice to see you. I’m doing well enough, all things considered.”
No begging. No panic. Brick took that as a good sign.“Listen,” he said. “You’ve been down here long enough. I’m here to make some changes.”
Trevor flinched. “Please—please. I beg you. I never sent the message. I don’t even know if I would’ve in the end, but after my mother died—God, I was desperate. Please…”
He dropped to his knees and grabbed Brick’s pant leg.“Jesus. Get up, man.”
Trevor stood, wiping his face with trembling hands.
Brick gave him a hard look—firm, but not cruel.“You’ve had six months down here. So here’s the question: Can you behave yourself, or are you going to be a problem?”
Trevor nodded vigorously. “I can. I will. Whatever you need.”
Brick believed him. Or close enough.He made an executive decision. Reached into his bag and pulled out a small bottle. “Drink this.”
Trevor didn’t even ask. He uncapped it and downed the Vitalyx.“You’re going to have a rough day,” Brick said. “But tomorrow? You’ll feel better than you ever have. I’ll be back in a week with the second one. After that, you go home.”
Trevor blinked. “It’s all true then, isn’t it? The compound. Would it… could it have saved my mother?”
Brick hesitated. Then gave him the version of the truth he needed.“Yes—and no. When she passed, the formu wasn’t complete. Even if she’d taken it, it would’ve been painful. Cruel, even. You wouldn’t have wanted that.”
Trevor sat, emotions flickering behind his eyes.
“I’m sorry you lost her,” Brick continued. “I lost mine st year. Hurts worse than I expected. You know how it is—military guys like us have a strange retionship with death. But still. My mom. I miss her.”
Trevor nodded, dabbing at his eyes again.
“What you just took, though—that’s the real deal. Wipes disease clean. Keeps it out. And…” Brick pulled out his phone. “Corrects all negative genetic mutations and ensures a clean DNA profile.”
Trevor’s eyes widened.“I worked on the early pieces,” he said softly. “We saw glimmers of this. But I never thought…”
Brick shrugged. “You were part of something massive. Be proud of that. And in a week, when I bring the second vial—you’ll feel thirty again. Molecurly.”
Trevor stood, straighter than before. The desperation was gone. In its pce: a flicker of hope.“Will I be allowed to talk to anyone again? I mean—how long do I have to stay hidden away like this?”
“One more week,” Brick said. “Then we fly to Chicago. Your apartment still looks lived in. At work, you’re on a leave of absence. Nobody suspects anything. You’ll slip right back in.”
Trevor nodded, steel forming behind his gaze.
Brick stayed for a few hours. The conversation turned easy, even friendly. When the nurse returned—cheeks flushed but still steady—Brick debriefed her and made for the airport.
Trevor Gant was going to be fine.
Damian Crestwell
The head of KephraTech sat at his dining room table, nursing a second gss of scotch as mellow jazz floated through the background. Dinner was over, the dishes done, and the quiet rhythm of evening had settled around the Crestwell home. With their kids away at school and busy with their own lives, it was just Damian and his wife Imani most nights now.
She sat across from him, sipping a chilled gss of Sauvignon Bnc, her bare feet tucked beneath her on the chair. A high school science teacher by day, she the only person Damian didn’t work with who could match his technical banter beat for beat. Usually, their dinner conversations bounced with chemistry jokes, physics puzzles, and muttered critiques of pop science articles. But tonight was softer. Quieter.
They both had taken the serums. Been through the Tutorial. And the changes were beginning to show.
Imani was fifty-two, but she didn’t look it—not anymore. To outsiders, it wasn’t a dramatic reversal, but to Damian’s eyes, it was impossible to ignore. She stood straighter now. Her gait was smoother. Her skin glowed faintly with the kind of health no drugstore serum could mimic. She still ran three mornings a week, as she had for years, but tely… it was like she ran farther. Easier.
At least she’d already been dyeing her hair for years—glossy bck strands that still framed her face like a younger woman’s. That helped sell the illusion, Damian figured. Still, they'd discussed whether she should transfer schools to head off questions, but in the end he told her to py it down. Good diet, active lifestyle. Mostly true, too.
As for Damian, the changes weren’t just physical. The man who once stalked the halls of KephraTech with the unrelenting certainty of a hammer now spoke to employees with a gentleness they hadn’t known he possessed. The drive hadn’t faded—it never would—but something in him had shifted. He listened more now. Smiled, even.
KephraTech was booming. Not only did they house one of the first 3D Forges, but they were also producing much of the raw materials to feed the machines. Damian’s days were long, and his nights? Often longer still. Most nights he stepped through to Grimwatch after sleeping—because honestly, normal sleep felt like a waste of time when there was so much still to do.
Mallory had noticed, too. She’d quietly adjusted his opportunities in Grimwatch to push him closer to Level 10. If his css didn’t evolve into a Rare, she’d be shocked.
But not tonight.
Tonight was wine and scotch and soft light over hardwood floors. Imani reached for his hand across the table.
“No wolf and boar hunting tonight,” she said with a smile. “Just us.”
Damian chuckled. “Sounds like a pn.”
And for a little while, they just sat like that—two changed people in a world about to change even more.
Ronan Vale (and Operator)
Since Colin Mercer had been integrated, he’d taken over cyber defense functions in a far more proactive fashion—leaving Ronan free to continue with his (literal) system architecture duties. The System itself was already operating near peak efficiency, and its emergent intelligence had taken over enough routine management that Ronan’s oversight now consisted mostly of subtle tweaks and long-term modeling.
But what truly demanded his attention were the Karmic Gates.
The programming behind them was intensely complex. Asking The System to evaluate not just what someone had done, but why. To understand intention. To weigh truth against presentation. And to create thresholds that would either unlock deeper power... or deny it.
It was a monumental task.
One that kept him at the office most nights, much to the annoyance of his closest companion.
Ronan arrived home just after 8:00 PM. In one hand, a rge pizza box. In the other, his keys. His work bag was slung over one shoulder, threatening to slip off as he juggled everything at once.
Operator, perched atop the back of the couch, did not move.
He simply watched.
No greeting. No meow. Not even a flick of the tail.
Punishment had begun.
Ronan dropped the bag on the table and set the pizza on the counter. He looked around, a bit surprised not to find a certain furry shadow twining around his legs.
“Operator?” he called.
Silence.
He peeked into the living room.
There he was—curled in a dramatic coil atop the couch, his back turned just enough to make the rejection unmistakable.
Ronan chuckled and walked over. “Hey buddy, I’m sorry I was gone so long today. Don’t be mad.”
He reached out, gently scratching behind Operator’s ears, then ran his fingers down his spine in long, practiced strokes. The shiver that ran through the Maine Coon’s body gave him away.
“Got you,” Ronan said with a grin. “Come on. Let’s eat.”
Operator allowed himself to be mollified—slowly, theatrically. With a grand stretch and a dismissive yawn, he leapt down and padded toward the kitchen.
The Tall One had learned his lesson. Again.
And this time? Tuna paté. Oh yes.
Totally worth it.