I spend most of the flight explaining the Arcana to Ishtar. To do that, I have to explain the Tarot to her first. That proves easier than expected, fortunately. All I have to do is frame it through the lens of mysticism, rather than treat it like it’s something real. Then comes the organization itself. They have eighteen members, more than twice the Council’s current strength. Each one corresponds to a card from the Major Arcana, where they draw their name from. The deck has twenty-two cards, but three of them- the Tower, the Wheel of Fortune, and the World -don’t qualify for seats at the table, mostly due to them being inanimate objects rather than people. The Tower is their base of operations, the Wheel is the artifact which binds them together, and they’re exceptionally cagey about what the World is.

Decentralization is the Arcana’s game. By their own admission, all eighteen members have never been in the same room since the group was founded, some sixty years ago. That’s another thing they have on the Council- history. They came together during the Cold War, with representatives from both NATO and the Warsaw Pact, dedicated to preventing things from getting too ‘hot,’ in the thermonuclear sense. Most of the occupants of the eighteen seats have changed since then, though at least three of the founders are still around to this day. The way they make a decentralized structure work is through the Wheel of Fortune, which was created by one of the founders, and links all of the members of the Arcana together telepathically, allowing them to access a psychic conference room where they can compare notes at any time. Less impressive now than it was before smartphones existed, but it’s still impossible to listen in on, and doesn’t have any known range limitations, which means it’s still useful. Not to mention, it means they can’t be infiltrated, because they can use the Wheel to verify whether the person they’re speaking to is who they say they are or not. That’s why Network doesn’t have any people inside the group.

Obviously, the Arcana was successful in keeping the Cold War cold. Since then, they’ve waned in power somewhat, partially because a number of their members died or disappeared during the collapse of the Soviet Union, and their replacements lacked the power, influence, and experience of their predecessors. The Council picked up a lot of that slack when it was founded in 2000, though they didn’t become aware of our existence until over a decade later. They still do good work, but mostly the kind of things that aren’t big enough to occupy the Council’s attention.

“And remember, if you overhear them calling either of us ‘the Fool,’ don’t take it personally. That’s their catch-all term for anyone outside the group who interacts with them. It’s the first card in the sequence, with the whole deck representing their journey.”

Ishtar nods. She seems slightly uncomfortable, maybe because this is her first time flying. We’re taking Black Beauty, the Council’s hypersonic plane, designed and named by our absent aeronautics engineer Samuel Blake. We aren’t actually breaking the sound barrier right now, since this isn’t an especially time-sensitive job. Still, being trapped in a flying metal coffin doesn’t seem to be Ishtar’s comfort zone. At least she can translocate out if we go down unexpectedly- that’s a luxury most airline passengers don’t have.

“How long until we arrive?”

“Just a few minutes.”

Our destination is nothing less than the Tower, the Arcana’s secret stronghold. It was built by the first Magician, along with the Wheel of Fortune, and hidden from the world using an advanced perception filter. If you aren’t linked to the Wheel, and don’t have permission from a member of the group, you simply can’t see it. We knew its location before they ever invited us, because Gilgamesh was a member in one of his past lives, but without that invitation, we were never able to get inside.

The Hermit is the only full-time resident of the Tower, and acts as caretaker of its contents, most of which are weapons and artifacts they claim are too dangerous to risk falling into the hands of others. We’ve done our own inventory in secret, and concluded that there was nothing we couldn’t risk letting them have, but if they ever got their hands on anything too powerful, we’d have to relieve them of it. Amicably, if possible. Through the Wheel, all members of the group can travel to the Tower instantly, but that doesn’t work the opposite way, which is why they have a hidden airstrip installed nearby. The concealment tech covers it as well, though that hasn’t stopped the FCC from investigating the occasional appearance of unregistered aircraft traveling to and from that spot, and then simply disappearing. We erased all records of that investigation as a favor to the Arcana, which is one of a dozen ways they’re in our debt. Today is almost certainly going to end with us adding another to the pile.

A few minutes later, we land smoothly, Black Beauty kicking up sand in its wake. The Tower is located in the Mojave Desert, in Nevada. A fitting place for someone called Hermit to live. I doubt we’ll be seeing him today, though. He’s one of the few surviving founders, and that’s one of the only things anybody knows about him. He tries to keep it that way. Our main contact for this job is the Moon, although he’s better known as the Consultant. One of the few metahumans brave enough to operate in the city of Pax, he runs a private investigations firm, acting as a more legitimate counterpart to the notorious ‘vigilante detective’ Hawkshaw. They’ve worked together on a few cases, and been at odds on a few others. His card represents intrigue, darkness, and deception, which is probably why he’s taking point on this case.

No sooner than a moment after I’ve exited the plane, Ishtar following a few steps behind me, does a woman with crystalline skin, gleaming in the desert sun, step out to greet us. Her confident gait is that of someone who’s used to being the center of attention, and relishes it. Once she’s a bit closer, I realize that I can see my own masked visage reflected with surprising clarity in her flesh. It’s not quite a mirror- if I focus hard enough, I can see straight through her, at least where her clothing isn’t covering. But I know of few minerals that would produce such an acute reflection, even polished to perfection.

“You’d be the Council’s representatives, then?”

Her accent is upper-class English, but doesn’t carry the poorly disguised condescension that usually accompanies the words of anyone from that part of the world. It’s difficult to tell, given her highly visible mutation, but I’d put her at about five years older than me, at most. Her hair stretches down past her shoulders, translucent strands bending in the breeze with impossible flexibility.

“Correct. I am Conrad Winters, and this is Ishtar.”

The Survivor introduces herself with a cold nod, her own milk-white skin glowing as it greedily drinks in the sun’s rays. Being a photosynthetic organism living in a world with no natural sun must have been unpleasant, but she seems determined to show no outward enjoyment at getting to experience natural light.

“Lovely. My name is Evangeline Abbot, and I am—”

She breaks off as I hold up a single finger to interrupt.

“If you’ll allow me to hazard a guess, you would be the Star, no?”

If she had any blood to speak of, I suspect Abbot would be blushing. Her laughter is like the tinkling of glass, and I find myself charmed by her. That’s not an especially easy thing to do, but a quick check verifies that my suit hasn’t registered any agents capable of altering my judgement, telepathic, pheromonal, or otherwise.

“Very good, Mister Winters. I thought the Council wasn’t sending their detective.”

I give an ironic bow, and don’t fail to notice a look of slight confusion on Ishtar’s face. Perhaps some of the more complex social niceties of human society yet elude her.

“Please. My powers of deduction are a trifle compared to that of my colleague. Or yours, for that matter. In this instance, I simply had an unfair advantage. You are, after all, quite dazzling.”

Saying things like that, I understand why Zero calls me incorrigible. I may be something of a flirt, but not out of any genuine lecherousness. It’s merely a useful affectation in any number of circumstances. It causes some people to disregard or underestimate me, and ingratiates me to others. However, it does occasionally pose problems when I encounter someone I legitimately do want to flirt with. Once you tell a lie often enough, it’s hard to know when you’re telling the truth again. I still can’t decide which applies to whatever it is I have going on with Ishtar. If my charm offensive on the Star is bothering her, she doesn’t show it.

“You flatter me. My stage name, if you or your friend prefer to use those, is Fractal. I’m afraid I don’t perform very often anymore, though. The work has a way of eating into your free time.”

“Indeed it does,” I reply, stepping forward to reach out with one hand, and pull my mask up to my nose with the other. She accepts gently, though I don’t know if it’s because she’s fragile, or because she expects me to be, and I plant a kiss on the back of her hand. It’s cold, despite the desert sun. “Shall we endeavor to see this business wrapped up quickly, that we might spend a bit of that free time getting to know each other a little better?”

Abbot raises an eyebrow. Strange to see that she still has those, despite a lack of body hair almost anywhere else. Then again, one’s own self-image has a lot to do with how powers of her sort manifest. Hair on one’s scalp and eyebrows tend to be a part of that self-image, while the kind that grows everywhere else is more of an annoyance for most.

“That sounds more than agreeable. Come- Laurence awaits at the scene of the crime.”

That would be Laurence Lévesque, the Arcana’s Moon, better known as the Consultant. I haven’t had the pleasure, but Kellan has told me about him. Rather arrogant at times, a touch pretentious, though no more than one would expect of a Frenchman who describes himself on his own website as being of ‘top-quality breeding.’ He was Europe’s top detective for a number of years, before moving to Pax to seek out ‘new challenges.’ According to Kellan, he felt somewhat threatened by the fact that Hawkshaw had acquired the appellation of ‘world’s greatest detective’ before him, which led to a rivalry with the mantle’s previous owner. That relationship has since become more cordial, mostly owing to Kellan’s generally more friendly disposition compared to his mentor. I don’t know whether he’ll be glad that Kellan didn’t come here to assist personally, or offended that the great Hawkshaw didn’t think that this was worth his time.

Turning on her heel, Abbot heads back towards the entrance of the Tower, a round, stone-grey building that only rises two stories into the air. The rest of it is underground at the moment, denoting its ‘reversed’ position, though it’s capable of going ‘upright’ at a moment’s notice. As the Star strides forward, her white dress swirls around her feet. When she turned away, she revealed it to be backless, providing an even better view of my reflection. I wouldn’t stare, if it weren’t for two factors. The first is that nothing but me seems to be reflected, not even Ishtar, who’s right behind me. The second is that Abbot seems to have cracked. A single, jagged line runs down the length of her spine, and I’m certain it wasn’t there before. On the left side, my reflection remains identical. On the right side, I see myself, but years younger, hair dyed white to match Father’s. I recognize the reflection, because it’s the one I saw every morning from ages sixteen to twenty-two. I only stopped dying my hair after I decided to reject him. Which means I’m seeing my own past reflected in her.

“Pardon the question,” I say, speeding up slightly to walk side by side with Fractal, “but what exactly is the nature of your ability?”

She laughs again, but there’s a certain undercurrent to it this time. Condescension, perhaps.

“Noticed already, have you? The first thing you see is yourself, as you are. Look longer, and you’ll see yourself as you were. Look long enough, and you’ll get a chance to see yourself as you might be. But don’t look too long unless you want to get lost.”

That would explain the name, then. A fractal is an infinite recursion. It would be all too easy to get lost in the endless possibilities of your own future. It also makes the prospect of spending more time with her somewhat dangerous. But perhaps it would be worth the price, for what knowledge I might be able to glean from those reflections.

“Fascinating.”

Abbot acknowledges me only with a playful smile. Before I get the chance to ask her anything else, we’re at the door to the Tower. It’s made of sturdy-looking wood, though I have a feeling it’s just as tough as any of the stones that make up the rest of the building. There’s no handle or knocker, but when she places her hand on its surface, it swings open silently.

The moment we step through the threshold, the air changes. As the door slams shut, I notice that not a single speck of sand has accompanied us inside. We’ve speculated about the Tower being slightly out of phase with reality, which little details like that would seem to support. Despite the old-fashioned trappings, it’s not magic, just advanced technology dressed up to look like it.

“Welcome to our humble headquarters,” Fractal says, sweeping her arms grandly. Now, whenever I look at her, I see my younger self fully reflected. There are more of those fractures, though- they seem to be entirely superficial, but I catch glimpses of my true reflection at certain angles. Ishtar seems to have noticed it as well, and can’t quite hide her fascination. I wonder what it is she’s seeing.

Not much about the Tower’s foyer is different from its exterior. The same worn grey stone makes up both the walls and the floor, with a wide spiral staircase dominating the center of the room. From where I’m standing, I can get only a glimpse of the top floor, directly above us. There appears to be a large telescope, and other astrological equipment, though I don’t know how useful it could be when the stone roof offers no view of the sky whatsoever. With the Tower currently ‘reversed,’ our destination is underground. Abbot steps onto the staircase and begins heading down, keeping one hand on the railing.

As we follow Fractal down the stairs, evidence for the pocket-dimension hypothesis begins to mount. Each landing we pass is a small wooden platform with at least five doors encircling it. Unless the rooms within are all closet-sized, it implies a much wider building than the Tower seems to be from the outside. It’s possible that it simply gets larger the further up/down you go, but that wouldn’t make much sense from an architectural perspective, if the base was narrower than the apex in its ‘upright’ position. We pass several of those platforms, and I note a number of doors with strange, glowing sigils written on them, before finally stopping at least eight stories down. The door Abbot approaches is unmarked, and she knocks twice before entering.

There are two people inside. One of them is the Consultant, leaning against the far wall with a skeptical expression. He’s wearing one of his signature black suits, made from a special material treated with vantablack, which makes it so dark that it almost seems to absorb light completely. His entire ensemble is the same shade, from his shirt to his gloves and tie. His eyes match it too, a pair of black pools that seem to stare in every direction and nowhere at once. They aren’t contacts- it’s an expression of his postcognitive power.

The other is someone I wasn’t expecting to see here. Her name is Lucy Macintosh, but the world knows her better as Delta-V, leader of the Peacekeepers. Judging by the fact that she’s currently lying insensate on a bed, I can only assume she’s the person we were called here to help. That complicates things somewhat, and makes me glad we didn’t send Kellan for this job. The Peacekeepers are one of the biggest American super-teams, easily the largest on the West Coast, and their leader used to be Machina, one of the Council’s founders. Kellan and the Front Line made a direct attack on Peacekeepers HQ during our coup, so Macintosh probably wouldn’t have been especially happy to see him. After Network body-snatched Machina, he stepped down from active-duty hero status, letting Delta-V, his protege, take over full-time. Through Machina, we’ve used her and her team as an asset for dealing with various threats that are too public for the Council to intervene against directly. I had no idea that she was a part of the Arcana, but it makes a certain amount of sense. Machina was handpicked for the Council in part because he had a small army of metahumans at his disposal. Once control of that army transferred to Macintosh, why wouldn’t the Arcana try to do the same?

“Glad you could make it,” Lévesque says, only a hint of his French accent coloring the words. “You’ll forgive me if I skip the pleasantries and get down to business. Several days ago, the Magician came under attack by an unknown force, at an unknown location. In order to protect herself from what we suspect was a memetic attack, she used her implants to induce a coma, and transported herself here using the Wheel of Fortune. We have not risked waking her up, as doing so without rooting out whatever threatened her in the first place could have lethal consequences. We also don’t know where she was when the attack occurred, so I cannot simply travel there to look backwards and see who her assailant was. I’ve already visited her home and workplace, but identified nothing of note.”

The Consultant isn’t wasting any time. Delta-V’s condition seems relatively stable, but I can’t blame him for wanting to see the situation resolved sooner rather than later. Her placement in the Arcana’s deck makes sense- the Magician can be interpreted as representing raw potential, and tends to be the role given to technologically-minded members of the group. It was the first Magician who designed the Tower and Wheel of Fortune, for instance. Having access to the Arcana’s resources and knowledge would also explain Macintosh’s recent upgrades. I was unaware that she’d taken on implants capable of inducing a coma, and though she doesn’t seem to sport any visible cybernetics, I can see more than a few under the skin through my mask’s lenses, including what seems to be a miniaturized nuclear reactor. It’s possible she’s aiming to do what Machina never managed, and create an entirely subcutaneous armor that can be worn under the skin at all times, like Astro’s living alien weapon. Even so, it seems she wasn’t able to defend completely against whatever attack put her in this condition.

“You don’t have anything firmer on what they hit her with?”

If they did, he would probably have said so already, but it can’t hurt to establish some basic facts.

“As best we can tell, there’s no visible internal damage of any sort. That rules out almost everything except a memetic or telepathic attack. What kind, we aren’t sure.”

“And you’d object to us bringing her to our facility for a more thorough assessment?”

The Consultant purses his lips, black eyes boring straight through me. My face isn’t visible underneath the mask, but I make sure to control my expression nevertheless, not giving him an inch.

“I’m afraid so. We hoped you might be able to provide a fresh perspective, but if that isn’t the case, we’re more than capable of resolving things on our own.”

Before I can retort with a line about how they wouldn’t have called us in to begin with if that was true, Ishtar speaks up.

“I could attempt to remove the infection.”

Abbot turns to her, looking as if she’d half forgotten Ishtar even existed, while Lévesque’s skeptical expression doesn’t change. While they watch, she narrows her eyes, concentrating her psychokinetic energy into a solid black scalpel.

“I’m not certain I feel comfortable letting you carve open my friend’s skull, darling,” the Star says, frowning.

“It wouldn’t harm her,” Ishtar replies, sounding annoyed. “It’s a thought-blade. Mostly good for giving people seizures, but it can be used to cut out foreign influences. Then you could wake her up and ask her who attacked her.”

Both of the Arcana members turn to me, looking for verification. I’m something of a known quantity, even if I don’t think I would go so far as to say they trust me. Ishtar, on the other hand, is a mystery.

“Who did you say this woman was, again?”

Ishtar gives Lévesque a pointed look, toying with the scalpel, but lets me answer the question.

“A recent addition to the Council’s ranks. You might think of her as a diplomat. I can personally verify that she’s psychokinetic, but I’ve never seen her use her ability for the end she described. The decision is in your hands, but I will vouch for her. If she abuses your trust, I will take full responsibility.”

There’s a few moments of silence after that. Part of me worries about putting trust in Ishtar’s ability to use her powers in a way she’s never spoken about before, but I’ve already gone out on a limb to support her before. Shying away now would be pointless. Either I trust her or I don’t, and it appears that I do.

The Consultant is almost impossible to read, but Fractal clearly isn’t convinced. I can see several more fractures in her now, and while most of them still show my true reflection or my younger self, a few seem to be an older variation. In some, I don’t look very different- a few scars, the odd missing eye, that sort of thing. But others represent a radical change. In one, I appear to be wearing Hawkshaw’s uniform, holding the helmet in my hands. Another shows me with a bullet hole right between the eyes, though it disappears as Abbot shifts slightly, for which I’m grateful.

“If you two wouldn’t mind stepping out for a moment,” she says at last, breaking the silence, “I think Laurence and I need to discuss your generous offer.”

I wonder whether she can see the reflections of the people who look at her. That might give her some insight into their personality and past, at least. Otherwise, it doesn’t look like a particularly useful power. Then again, this could just be the superficial aspect- I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a more powerful one hiding under the surface, literally or figuratively.

“Of course.”

There must be some sort of soundproofing tech built into the Tower, because the wooden door doesn’t seem especially thick, yet I can’t hear a word of their conversation from outside the room. I don’t actually press my ear to the door or anything, just take advantage of the quiet to try and listen in. Then Ishtar catches my eye.

“I appreciate you vouching for me. And I hope I wasn’t out of line in offering assistance without securing a price first.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. They don’t have much that we want, at the moment.”

Accruing favors is more valuable than demanding some trinket from their trophy room. It means we might be able to avoid a conflict if our goals ever end up coming into opposition. Debts are the sort of thing these people actually care about. Personally, I think they have their uses as a social fiction, the same way that money does, but don’t care about them beyond that. Ishtar nods, looking satisfied, but doesn’t say anything more. Probably smart- there’s no way the Hermit isn’t listening in on us right now. Apparently he resides at either the apex or nadir of the Tower, depending on whether it’s upright or reversed at any given time. That means he’s at the very bottom right now, locked away along with the Wheel of Fortune itself.

Frankly, I’ve been tempted more than once to try and steal the Wheel. The teleportation it allows wouldn’t provide us with much utility, but instant telepathic communication would be fairly useful. No more worrying about encrypted communication lines or anything like that. If they’d let me study the thing, I’m fairly confident I could recreate that aspect, if nothing else, but that isn’t in the cards, so to speak. The Arcana is highly secretive about many things, from the identities of its full roster to the nature of its artifacts. The problem is, they draw attention to those secrets by wrapping them in mystique and intrigue. We don’t need to tease anybody with our secrets- in fact, we go to great lengths to keep people unaware that most of them exist, much less that they’re secrets at all.

The door swings open.

“We’ve decided to entertain your offer,” the Consultant says. “Tell me more about this procedure.”

Ishtar heads back inside, and I follow after her.

“It’s relatively simple. My thought-blades let me interface with the minds of others. Momentary contact only allows for simple interactions, like inducing a seizure. Prolonged contact lets me get more creative. I can’t alter memories or anything like that, but I can purge external influences like memetic infections or memory blocks.”

Something tells me that latter part is partially for my benefit. If she can actually get rid of psychic memory blocks, some might be able to help fix Jason Hunt where our other specialists have failed. Abbot seems more concerned with other aspects of the process, though.

“Is there any risk of you cutting out anything important? Lobotomized isn’t much better than dead, you know.”

“There’s no actual cutting involved. It’s closer to burning away the foreign influence, while leaving the natural brain-state untouched.”

Lévesque and Abbot exchange a look, communicating silently. I wonder if they’re using the Wheel to discuss it telepathically. That might explain why I didn’t hear anything when I tried to listen in on them, come to think of it. Eventually, the Consultant nods.

“Very well. You may proceed. But be warned- if we discover you’ve done anything untoward, our respective organizations will go to war.”

I can’t help but imagine that this is what a nation that makes regular use of strangelet bombs would feel if they were being threatened by one that just recently invented the trebuchet. Nevertheless, I attempt to treat the warning with the gravity that Lévesque clearly believes it deserves.

“We wouldn’t dream of it.”

All Ishtar does is smile, and manifest the scalpel once again. The Moon and Star watch closely as she approaches Delta-V, while I lean against the wall and fold my arms. There really isn’t much else to look at in the room- it’s fairly rustic, with a wooden bookcase full of Russian novels, some of which I recognize, and a well-worn carpet. Personal quarters, maybe, but it seems too spartan for that. Maybe this is a guest room, and they took Macintosh here because they didn’t want us poking around her actual bedroom.

As Ishtar approaches, the engineer’s body remains perfectly still, save for the rising and falling of her chest. She’s not in uniform, just a t-shirt and jeans with a Peacekeepers jacket. That narrows down the number of places she could have been during the attack, but presumably Lévesque has already checked all of the obvious ones. With any luck, we’ll be able to just ask her directly once she’s awake. Ishtar examines her carefully, then stands at the head of the bed, looking down. Slowly, she presses the tip of the scalpel into Delta-V’s forehead. It sinks into her easily, leaving no wound, but Abbot still looks uncomfortable.

A moment later, Macintosh tenses, as if her body has just realized there’s an ongoing intrusion. Ishtar doesn’t acknowledge it, keeping the scalpel in place and narrowing her eyes. Even though there’s no actual cutting involved, I can’t imagine the process is especially pleasant.

Suddenly, the hero starts thrashing her legs violently. Too late, I notice a number of metal studs on her hands and forearms, which open up like oversized artificial pores. Machinery pours out of them, locking into place and forming a pair of gauntlets. Not a full transkeletal drysuit, but the beginnings of one. She reaches up, looking to pry the scalpel out of her skull. Ishtar barks out an order, imperious.

“Restrain her.”

I move without hesitation, grabbing one limb and pinning it against the wall. With the gauntlet’s strength, it’s all I can do to keep the one in place. Fortunately, there don’t seem to be any built-in weapons, or at least she doesn’t have the wherewithal to use them in her current state. This is clearly an involuntary reaction. Fractal is frozen for a second, but gets into gear quickly, grabbing the other arm and holding it back.

“Are you hurting her? Is it working?”

Much of the artificial refinement in her tone is gone, replaced with what seems like genuine concern for Macintosh.

“Quiet,” Ishtar replies harshly. She jams the scalpel in deeper, teeth gritted, and then yanks it out violently. Part of me expects a spray of blood, but there’s nothing, and Delta-V goes limp a moment later, pacified but clearly still breathing.

All three of us catch our breath for a moment, while the Consultant simply observes in silence. Scalpel gone, Ishtar backs away and explains.

“You were right. She was hit with a fast-acting memetic kill agent. It went active again once I started to remove it. Her body recognized the threat, but couldn’t understand that it was internal, so she lashed out. I purged the infection successfully. She should be able to get back on her feet shortly.”

Fractal presses two fingers to Macintosh’s wrist to check her pulse, the gauntlets having retreated back under the surface of her skin. Satisfied, she backs away, and turns to Ishtar.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” my companion replies, seeming almost surprised to be receiving gratitude for her efforts.

“Will you require further assistance in resolving this matter, or should we take our leave?”

Lévesque answers promptly, but something tells me he’s replaying the surgery in his mind’s eye at the same time. Postcognition is an interesting ability- you have to be careful not to let anything slip around someone with it, because there’s no chance they’ll just ‘miss’ it. They can go over the entire conversation with a fine-tooth comb if they so desire, and extract every possible bit of meaning from whatever you said and did.

“I’d prefer that you remain for the time being. The Magician may require additional treatment.”

That, and he wants us around if it turns out Ishtar’s done something to Delta-V’s brain when she wakes up. Letting us leave before he can be certain that we haven’t betrayed his trust would be foolish.

“Very well.”

The uncomfortable silence that follows is mercifully broken not a moment later, as Macintosh bolts upright, breathing heavily. She looks around frantically, as one might do when they wake up somewhere different from where they went to sleep, and raises her hands, ready to fight. Before she can bring the gauntlets back online, Fractal steps forward, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“It’s all right, Lucy. Take a breath.”

Macintosh does as instructed, and the tension in her body releases for a moment. Then she recognizes me, and notices that there’s someone she doesn’t recognize at all in the room. With remarkable swiftness, the veil of professionalism comes over her, and she brushes Abbot’s hand away.

“Winters. They brought you in to fix me?”

For once, I’m at a bit of a disadvantage. She’s clearly aware that I’m with the Council, even though I had no idea she’d joined the Arcana. We’ve only met once, incidentally, during my years as a criminal. I burgled the Keep, headquarters of the Peacekeepers, and she was one of the people on-site who tried, and failed, to stop me.

“That would be her, actually,” I answer, gesturing to the psychosurgeon. I suspect my smirk is audible.

“I’m Ishtar,” she says, offering a hand to shake. Macintosh only hesitates for a moment before taking it.

“Delta-V. You’re with the Council?”

“A recent addition. You were infected with a memetic kill agent; I eliminated it.”

“I remember,” Macintosh says, grimacing. “Thanks.”

Ishtar takes a few steps back, allowing Lévesque to approach.

“We’re glad to have you back,” he says curtly. “Do you recall who attacked you?”

Clearly, recalling the incident isn’t fun. Macintosh squeezes one hand into a fist and sighs.

“It wasn’t an attack. It was an assassination attempt. I was out at lunch- the meme was in my coffee. I had to use the Wheel in public. I know it’s against protocol, but--”

Abbot clears her throat. It’s an interesting sound, coming from someone who I’m fairly certain isn’t actually breathing.

“Pardon the interruption, but I need to ask a question. You all have been bandying about the term ‘memetic kill agent’ quite frequently, and I thought I understood what you meant until just now, but it seems I was wrong. Would one of you care to explain exactly what you’re talking about?”

Being the resident science-type, it feels like my job to answer her.

“A meme is a viral idea. For instance, the notion that shaking hands is a form of greeting is a meme. When you first saw someone else do it, the meme propagated to you, and you spread it by continuing to repeat the gesture. A memetic kill agent is an idea that’s so powerful it can kill you. Think of a song that’s so catchy it gets stuck in your head for weeks on end- now imagine that loop consumes your entire brain, until it’s the only thing you can think about. The Magician here managed to stop its spread by shutting down her higher brain functions before it could kill her. Ishtar saved her by erasing all memory associated with the meme itself.”

Some of the confusion on Fractal’s face begins to clear. There are more cracks in it now, each facet showing a different future, but I do my best not to get lost in them.

“I see. But your examples were a physical gesture and a song. How could this meme have been in her drink?”

Before I can answer, Macintosh speaks up.

“Sight and sound aren’t the only vectors for information attacks. The meme was contained within the taste of the coffee.” She can’t suppress a shudder. “A flavor so overpowering it eats your brain.”

“Indeed,” I concur. “Which means someone must have put it there. And with a little help from your friend the Moon, we should be able to determine exactly whom. Fortunately for us all, it should be relatively simple to protect ourselves from an attack of the same nature- a foreign contaminant in our food or drink will be discernible with the appropriate technology. The Council would be happy to provide you some, if you require it.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Lévesque replies. “We can take it from here. Your assistance has been invaluable, but an attack on one of our own requires a response from us, first and foremost. I’m sure you understand.”

Personally, if I was going up against an unknown opponent with access to at least one novel memetic weapon, I’d want all the help I could get. But I’m not going to push the Consultant on this. Besides, the Arcana isn’t entirely helpless. If they tap Judgement, or even worse, Death, then I pity whoever was behind this attack.

“Naturally. Do keep us updated on the situation.”

He gives a curt nod, and offers nothing further. I take that as an invitation for us to show ourselves out. As we make our way back up the stairs to the exit, Ishtar turns to look at me.

“So it’s always like this, is it?”

“On the contrary, I’d call this a slow day.”