Chapter 41 — Termini Loft — Viral Static
Lucas Vale woke to the smell of burnt coffee and an avalanche of notifications. For a blissful second he couldn't place either—only the low ceiling above the sofa-bed, the crack in the plaster shaped like Australia's west coast, and the dawn chill that seeped through thin walls. Then memory jackknifed: the Colosseum, the scaffold, the ring-light crowd. He rolled over and grabbed the burner phone Serena had left on the coffee table. Its screen pulsed like a wounded firefly.
#TimeFreezeMiracle trending in thirteen languages.
Interpol issues statement on "construction anomaly."
Influencer @LaceAndLatte: "Did you see the blur? Dude teleported."
Prometheus sub-brands pushing counter-hashtags: #CGIHoax, #DeepFakeRome.
Lucas exhaled through his teeth. Recklessness is a debt the future pays—interest compounds. The ledger had barely cooled from Rule Six and already compound interest looked like twenty-seven million views before breakfast.
From the kitchenette Serena muttered Punjabi curses at the moka pot. She slapped the stove off and poured viscous espresso into mismatched demitasses. Her dark hair was braided high, neat, battle-ready; the circles beneath her eyes were not. "Morning, hero," she said without turning. "The internet would like a word."
"Tell the internet I'm in a meeting." He rubbed his face, debating another hour of sleep, then smelled the coffee and surrendered. Sliding out of bed, he padded across cold tiles to the tiny balcony that doubled as Good-Enough-For-Smoking zone. Graves already occupied it, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a borrowed leather jacket that squeaked every time he inhaled. He watched commuters spill from Via Marsala like ants from a cracked nest.
"The meme-lords hijacked our narrative," Graves said by way of greeting. "Some Irish podcaster claims you're an angel sent to fix Roman bureaucracy."
Lucas sipped. Bitter. "If angels exist they're billing overtime."
"Prometheus doesn't care about angels. They care about vectors. Viral clip proves what I've told them for months—that impossible physics has a face. They'll escalate from capture to containment."
Lucas leaned on the rail. "Interdicting every phone on the planet is impractical."
Graves shrugged. "Governments do impractical things all the time. Especially when the Pope calls at 4 a.m. demanding answers."
Serena joined them, proffering a tablet. "Situation board." She flicked a finger; a hex-map bloomed, pins marking repost hotspots. Rome, Seoul, Buenos Aires, Perth—his hometown glowed like a neural spark. "Algorithmic uplift," she explained. "Clip's too short for debunkers; pattern-match engines still digesting. We have maybe eight hours before facial-reconstruction models tag you as 'Australian male, mid-twenties, known alias Lucas Vale.'"
Lucas swallowed the rest of the espresso, grounds scratching throat. "Then we burn this identity and craft a new one."
"Identity we can fake," Serena said. "Physics we can't. Every analyst who survived freshman kinematics knows scaffold mass cannot bounce sideways mid-fall without external force."
A muffled thud from inside: Gabriela dropping her backpack in the hall. She emerged in fresh jeans and a Vatican maintenance badge now repurposed as train pass. Her eyes found Lucas. "Good job last night," she said, tone knife-sharp between admiration and admonition. "Next time maybe rescue people without starring in a viral short?"
"Noted," he said.
They convened round the coffee table beside the folio, which lay open to blank parchment, Rule Six still glowing faintly in ledger overlay. Lucas caught himself expecting new script—some divine redline note—but the page remained inert.
Graves unrolled a metro map. "Florence departure zero-eight-oh-three. Two hours. We need staggered egress. I'll take the first taxi with luggage; Serena and Lucas blend into commuter flow. Gabriela shadows three cars behind to watch for tails."
Gabriela shoved her hands in hoodie pockets. "What about the Colosseum node? That's why we stopped in Rome."
"Node is unreachable," Graves said. "After the incident, site's crawling with cultural-heritage police and seismic engineers. We adapt."
Serena tapped the folio. "Directive Module Two mentions 'entropy debt'—time distortions linger at intervention sites. If Prometheus runs spectral tests on the scaffold, they'll find exotic residue."
"Then let them," Graves replied. "Maybe the Vatican will want a second opinion before they hand me to Interpol."
Lucas frowned. "You're enjoying the chaos."
"Chaos is negotiation leverage."
Serena cut in before Lucas could escalate. "Focus: we need to frame the narrative. Lucas appearing on a thousand shaky videos can be boon or bomb. Option A: we deny everything, ride skepticism until clip drowns in cat content. Option B: controlled leak—anonymous confession, partial truth, spin as performance art. Give the public an answer that doesn't include super-humans."
Gabriela tilted her head. "People love magicians."
"Magicians don't bend steel with a thought," Lucas muttered.
"Actually," Serena countered, "they bend perception. Same deliverable."
Lucas rubbed jaw stubble. "Then Option B. But drip-feed only after we secure next potential. Bucharest node flipped red—Curators cleaned house. We're losing the race."
Graves set timer on his watch. "Decision postponed till Firenze safehouse. Pack min-essential, ten-kilo carry-limits. We vanish in ninety."
Termini Station at rush hour was always a carnival of carbon dioxide and suitcase wheels, but this morning felt like a front line. Advertising screens along the concourse looped the Colosseum clip on repeat, intercut with eight-bit question marks. Lucas, hood up, merged with a group of Erasmus students wearing identical university lanyards; Serena posed as their Spanish TA, clipboard in hand. Gabriela ghosted behind a cluster of nuns.
Lucas's chronosense scanned for dampener tech. Twice he caught whispers—devices pinging frequencies meant to detect localized time drag. Prometheus field tech—ugly, briefcase-size. Each time he felt a static tingle in molars but no locking field. The dampeners were passive scanners, not null-pucks. Information gathering before capture.
Platform Ninety-Four had the Florence train—three bile-green carriages from the seventies, graffitied with neon tags. Lucas and Serena boarded mid-car, found seats near emergency window. Graves, having arrived earlier under alias "Roberto Leone," sat four rows up reading La Repubblica. When conductor's whistle shrieked, Gabriela hopped aboard last, slipping into the aisle seat opposite them.
The train lurched free. Termini's graffiti-smeared walls surrendered to sun-washed suburbia, then cypress-lined fields. Lucas allowed shoulders to unclench. He watched a pigeon keep pace beside the window, wings beating in steady metronome. Simple physics, no paradoxes.
Serena opened her laptop. "Thread chatter spiking on 4CN forum," she murmured. "Users fracturing into camps: miracle, hoax, government psyop. A few mention 'Curators' as cover-up agents."
Lucas arched brow. "Curators trending?"
"Only in conspiracy subthreads. But eyeballs mean infiltration risk."
Gabriela produced a zip-bag of wired components. "I can seed counter-narrative. Post high-resolution analysis claiming CGI markers, lens warp, synthetic shadows. Use bot net to amplify."
"Can you do it without pointing back to us?" Serena asked.
Gabriela's answering grin was pure mischief. "Farm girl's honor."
Lucas nodded. "Do it. Stall the algorithm."
As Gabriela typed, the train rocked through tunnels. Lucas's eyelids grew heavy—power hangover lingering. But rest would wait; he needed clarity for what came next.
He opened the ledger in his lap, letting the folio page rest against knees. The overlay glimmered; blank slot after Rule Six pulsed. Purpose without caution beggars destiny. He hadn't committed it yet—draft law scratched on mental parchment. He wasn't sure it earned ink.
He thought of the Colosseum scaffold: the decision hadn't felt reckless but reflexive. What separated purpose from hazard was margin— how much slack existed between action and disaster. Last night margin had been two bolts and a gust of wind.
He pictured his drowning fifteen-year-old self. No time then for calculus, only instinct. Yet instinct became addiction; addiction became headline. Recklessness and purpose sometimes wore the same coat.
Serena's hand settled on his forearm. "You're vibrating."
He realised his leg bounced. He stilled it. "Just thinking."
"Save brain cycles," she said softly. "You need recovery."
He wanted to argue but her eyes carried the weight of sleepless coding and bullet-dodging. He slid headphones on—no music, just foam quiet— and closed eyes.
Sleep came in fragments. He dreamed of scaffolds falling like dominoes across the globe, each collapse rewinded by a blurry figure not always him, sometimes Graves, sometimes that visor-masked phantom. Over everything, a huge ledger page fluttered, blank lines filling with red text: Interest Due.
He woke to Serena shaking his shoulder. "We need to switch cars. Two Prometheus agents boarded in Bologna, scanning compartments."
Lucas checked watch: fifteen minutes to Florence. Close enough. "We drop at Rifredi, not Santa Maria Novella," he decided. Less touristy, fewer cameras. Graves circulating row agreed with a nod.
They threaded through car connectors smelling of machine oil. In the vestibule outside the restroom, Serena paused by a luggage rack. A black attaché case emitted soft pinging— passive scanner. Gabriela knelt as if tying shoe, unscrewed case latch with a micro-bit, yanked beacon wire. Scanner died. They left it ajar so alert would read "equipment failure."
As train decelerated into Rifredi, the four stepped onto platform. Lucas scanned horizon— ochre apartment blocks, pharmacy signage flickering. No armed agents. They merged with morning commuters toward tram stop. Graves summoned rideshare to predetermined address— a two-bed flat above a ceramics shop near Ponte alla Vittoria.
Inside, windows faced the Arno. Antique kilns in courtyard radiated mild heat that smelled of clay. The safehouse felt homier than the Rome loft; still, Lucas eyed shutters for vantage angles, measuring defensibility.
Serena unpacked a shortwave kit, tuned frequencies. "Prometheus chatter confirms they lost us at Bologna. We have six, maybe seven hours before they canvas Florence stations."
"Then we work," Graves said. He unrolled new map— ledger coordinates overlay across Tuscan region. A green node pulsed forty-kilometres southeast: Montepulciano countryside. Tag read "GALLI, EMILIA — STATUS: POTENTIAL."
"Ahead of us," Lucas murmured. "How recent?"
"Ledger pinged three hours ago," Serena answered. "Telemetry weak; might just be a background heartbeat."
"We go tonight," Graves said. "Less drone coverage."
Lucas hesitated. "Before we create another spectacle, we finalize Rule Seven." He glanced at folio still in rucksack. Blank slot glimmered. "The Directive might expect evolution after public reveal."
Gabriela plopped onto couch, fingers purple with ceramic dust curiosity. "How about: 'Visibility without stewardship invites tyranny.'"
Serena smiled. "Poetic, though tyranny's a downer."
"It's accurate," Gabriela insisted. "Powers in open light can inspire tyrants."
Lucas considered. The phrase harmonized with his draft— caution, destiny, stewardship. "Combine them," he said. "'Visibility without caution beggars destiny.'"
Graves snorted. "Your grammar's a beggar."
"The Directive isn't a style guide," Serena replied, but she retrieved stylus nonetheless. The ledger accepted the new text— words flaring gold then settling into emerald ink. Slot filled.
Lucas felt a tremor— not in floorboards but internal, like puzzle pieces slotting. Rule Seven etched, ledger hummed approval. On the overlay map, the Montepulciano node brightened from green to pale amber.
"It acknowledged," Gabriela whispered.
Lucas exhaled. "Then the Directive agrees stewardship balances exposure. Good. Because the world's exposure just began."
Serena closed folio. "First, we rescue Emilia Galli. After that, we craft our stewardship narrative before Prometheus or Curators draft it for us."
Graves checked magazine in his tranquilizer pistol. "Stewardship with sedation as needed."
Lucas didn't smile but neither did he flinch. "Sedation beats body bags."
Afternoon light slanted across the Arno, gilding water. Somewhere beyond those hills a young woman might be discovering she could slow rainfall or lift tractors with speechless thought, dangerously alone. Lucas felt power-fatigue but also a spark: connection expanding, debt and destiny entwined.
He rolled shoulders, testing strength. Still sore but serviceable. "Rest two hours," he ordered. "We roll at dusk."
Serena saluted with coffee mug gone cold. Gabriela retreated to calibrate drones. Graves dialed a contact for rural vehicles. Lucas stood at balcony rail, watching sun tremble on river skin, and imagined the scaffold clip hitting another million screens by the time they crossed city limits. Visibility without caution beggars destiny. Fine. Then tonight they would practice both—even if it took every last charged second he could borrow.
He touched the ledger through canvas, feeling its pulse sync with his own. Purpose compounded, he thought, and for the first time since Rome's marble dust choked his lungs, the interest felt like investment, not debt.
Clouds drifted west, shadowing the Duomo. Evening edged closer, carrying new seconds waiting to be shaped—carefully, yes, but decisively, before someone else shaped them first.
Chapter 42 — Florence — Vanishing Platform
The air in Santa Maria Novella tasted of diesel exhaust, espresso grounds, and the collective impatience of a thousand travellers. Lucas Vale stood just inside the main concourse, hoodie up, knuckles whitening around the strap of the courier bag that hid the ledger. Every fluorescent panel overhead seemed brighter than the last, as if the station itself had subscribed to the #TimeFreezeMiracle feed and cranked the gain for a better look at him.
Rule Seven—Visibility without caution beggars destiny—had felt wise in the quiet loft. Under flood-lights and CCTV domes it felt like a dare.
Serena Kaur loomed beside him, scanning departure boards through aviator-dark lenses. An orange dusk bled across the arched windows, baking marble tiles a molten gold. Gabriela Roncalli queued five metres back at the ticket machine, humming an off-key pop song while she spoofed RFID passes with her phone's NFC coil. Graves, somewhere behind a pillar of designer luggage ads, played shepherd with a panoramic sightline.
All Lucas had to do was keep breathing until they boarded the regional to Siena. From there a rented Ducato van would carry them into the hills to find Emilia Galli, Montepulciano's mystery potential. In. Out. No grandstand heroics in front of smartphone addicts.
Simple.
A child's balloon popped near Track Nine. Lucas flinched hard. Serena's gloved fingers brushed his—steadying, grounding. "Your nerves are loud," she said, voice low.
He managed a crooked smile. "Every ceiling tile looks like a giant Play button." If Prometheus analysts were somewhere up there, scrubbing last night's footage, they'd love a sequel.
Serena half-laughed, then sobered. "Remember—no pauses unless lives hang on the thread. We can't bank more entropy debt before we understand the interest schedule."
"Scout's honour." Lucas shifted weight, fighting the instinct to map exit vectors. His chronosense tasted only the usual churn of seconds—no dampener hum, no unnatural stillness. Yet a prickle crawled the back of his neck.
Gabriela trotted over, cheeks flushed with rogue triumph. She handed them two chipped-card tickets that would never ping the central ledger. "Seats thirteen A and thirteen B," she said. "Platform Three in seven minutes."
"Lucky number," Lucas muttered.
They drifted with commuter flow toward the escalator. Graves fell in behind, newspaper rolled like a baton. "No tails," he murmured. "Prometheus teams still trawling Rome."
Lucas wished he trusted the assessment. Since the Colosseum incident Prometheus had upgraded from nets to harpoons. If they weren't here, Curators might be. Or Graves's other friends—the "subcontractors" he occasionally employed for discretionary tasks.
He flicked a side-glance at the older man. The scar on Graves's left cheek twitched—a tell Lucas had learned meant the man's brain was three moves ahead on a parallel board. Usually that comforted him. Tonight it made his teeth grind.
They reached Platform Three just as the Siena train hissed in. Diesel fumes rolled over them like warm tar. Serena clucked her tongue. "Older model," she noted. "Fewer cameras."
"Count blessings," Graves said.
The crowd funneled toward doors. Lucas guided Serena between backpackers and a fidgeting tour group of retirees who all wore identical crimson scarves. Gabriela vanished somewhere behind, fulfilling shadow role. Lucas's shoulders relaxed a notch—until his chronosense pinged a ripple. Not a pause, not a dampener. Something… off-beat.
A heartbeat ahead of schedule the doors slid open. Conductors hadn't even stepped onto the platform yet.
Serena's hand found his wrist. "See that?" she whispered.
He did: two rail employees in canary-yellow vests waited by Carriage 4's doorway, faces obscured by plastic visors far thicker than standard PPE. Their uniforms looked fresh-pressed, no grease smudge, no name tag. And the reflective stripes on their sleeves had a swirling sigil woven through—almost invisible unless the light hit right: three concentric circles over a diagonal slash.
Curators.
Instinct screamed, Pause! But commuters pressed from behind. Lucas forced himself calm. Recklessness charges interest. Visibility without caution.
Graves stepped between them, blocking the view with his broad back. "On my count turn left—carriage 2," he murmured.
They pivoted—but the crowd behind them stiffened, flow arrested by some unseen clog. More "rail staff" appeared down-line, forming a polite funnel that nudged passengers toward Carriage 4. Smiles fixed, hands gesturing. A live-action cattle chute.
Lucas measured distances, obstacles. Could TK flick those plastic visor straps? Maybe. But six guards, unknown support. Too many eyes.
Serena's voice thinned. "They want me inside," she guessed. "Not you."
Made sense. She'd breached Vatican archives, carried the folio into daylight; she was the interface hacker. Curators prized knowledge miners.
"Not happening," Lucas growled. He scanned for Gabriela—no sight. Good. Hidden.
Graves's shoulders tightened; scar quivered. "Play along," he said quietly. "We improvise extraction after doors close."
Serena met Lucas's gaze, a dozen thoughts flashing unspoken. Trust me. Don't be reckless. Don't pay more interest.
He hated it. But he nodded.
They allowed the human tide to swirl them toward Carriage 4. Inside, fluorescent bulbs buzzed. The yellow-vested guards stayed at vestibule, nodding as riders took seats. Serena slipped into a forward-facing pair near the center. Lucas sat opposite, Graves across the aisle. The guards remained by the door—jailers disguised as ushers.
Intercom crackled. "Attenzione," a voice purred, "this train terminates at Empoli due to technical maintenance. Passengers for Siena will be transferred." An elegant lie—an unscheduled short route perfect for interception.
Lucas slid his foot to tap Serena's shoe—Morse they'd devised: Are you armed?
She tapped once: stun pen only.
He drummed twice: wait for signal.
Outside, whistles blew. The train lurched. Through grimy glass Lucas saw Gabriela on platform, hood low, filming with her phone. Good girl.
Minutes later Florence suburbs blurred past. Doors between carriages remained closed. Passengers yawned, unbothered.
Then Carriage 4 lights flickered and dimmed to emergency amber. Air-con fans whined down. The plastic-visored duo paced aisle, announcing in syrupy Italian: "Electrical anomaly, please remain seated." They barely glanced at Lucas or Graves—eyes locked on Serena.
Lucas tensed. The ledger thumped under his thigh like a trapped bird.
One guard produced a handheld scanner—smooth black polycarbonate, no branding. It beeped when angled at Serena. The guard nodded to partner.
Serena's brow furrowed but she kept her hands visible, journalist poker face. The first guard lowered scanner again. "Signora," he said in accented English, "please accompany us for a brief safety inspection."
Passengers looked up, curious but not alarmed. Nothing to see—a random check. Serena stood slowly.
Graves started to rise— second guard's hand rested lightly on the taser holstered at hip. Unspoken stand-down.
Serena flashed Lucas a half-wink: Trust me.
Nausea rolled through him. Seconds felt slippery. But he forced muscles to still.
The guards escorted Serena toward the vestibule. Lucas counted steps. At the joint between carriages she glanced back, subtle nod: now.
Lucas stood, feigning stretch, and telepathically brushed passengers' surface thoughts. Curiosity, annoyance, hunger. No immediate fear. Good. He extended micro-influence to the nearest tourist—crimson-scarf granny—and planted urgency to question authority.
Granny popped up, blocking aisle, demanding in rapid Spanish why trains treat elders poorly. Guard hesitated, scanner hand freezing. Lucas slipped into time-edge—only a quarter-pause, enough to palm a sugar-packet from seatback and slide it between scanner handle and trigger guard, jamming the latch.
He released flow. The guard tried to holster, device stuck. Two-second distraction.
Serena seized it: she stomped the man's instep, elbowed solar plexus, snatched his taser. She spun, discharged into second guard. Plastic visor cracked with sharp ozone flash. Carriage gasped.
Lucas leapt aisle, catching first guard's wrist before baton cleared sheath. TK flick slammed baton into ceiling, where it clattered harmless. He twisted wrist, dropped guard to knees. Not lethal—just deterrent.
Graves barked, "Door!" and lunged for emergency lever. Serena yanked it. Train screeched; momentum threw riders forward. An alarm howled.
Door popped; cold evening hurtled in. Beyond, cypress fields blurred. Too fast to jump safely—yet.
Graves hurled the stunned guard outward. The man tumbled into gravel. First guard still grappled with Lucas. Serena looked torn—fight or flee.
Then Lucas's chronosense flared warning: carriage behind them powered down as well, lights dying. More yellow-vests poured through.
No time. Recklessness interest.
Lucas paused—full stop.
Everything froze: sparks mid-air, screams carved in marble silence, wind locked outside. Fatigue bit deeper, but he rode adrenaline's edge. He dragged Serena and Graves to doorway, muscles protesting. He telekinetically softened gravity's grip—barely—on their descent, shoving them into ditch grass beside track. Blood roared in his ears.
He returned, grabbed Serena's sugar-packet–snared guard, hauled him to door, and set him gently by aisle— alive witness, but no gun. Then Lucas jumped.
Time snapped back.
Sound like crashing cymbals: train brakes shrieked, passengers yelled, guards tumbled. Lucas hit grass hard, rolled, stones ripping jeans. Pain flared but limbs intact. He crawled to Serena and Graves beneath a hedge.
Serena clutched her taser like a rosary. "Subcontractors of yours?" she hissed at Graves.
Graves spat dirt. "Not mine."
"So they wore Curator sigils," Lucas said, ragged breath. "They extracted you, Serena. Secondary objective maybe to grab ledger after separating us."
She nodded, eyes wide. "Scanner pegged on me—residual folio signature, I bet."
Gabriela's voice crackled in Lucas's earpiece. She'd patched into cheap comm units. "I saw jump—are you alive?"
"Better than ticket service," Lucas answered. "Where are you?"
"I followed train on scooter, two klicks back. Can track along farm roads."
"Meet at kilometer marker 61," Graves ordered, checking GPS wristband.
Lucas rose, knees mud-streaked, surveying twilight fields. Fireflies blinked between vines; distant farmhouse chimneys exhaled dinner smoke. The Sierra-green carriage lights shimmered down-line, train crawling to emergency stop. Guards would fan out soon.
He clapped Serena's shoulder. "Visibility with caution, remember? You handled yourself."
She half-laughed. "I prefer caution without hopping from moving trains."
Graves cracked a grin despite bruising. "Call it a practice run."
Lucas's chest still hammered from extended pause. He tasted copper—entropy price. But Serena stood unhurt; ledger secure. And the node in Montepulciano waited.
Rule Seven whispered approval—and reminder: next time, sharpen caution first. He looked at hedgerow shadows, wondering if covert lenses watched already.
Cliff-hanger question throbbed: If Curators wanted Serena alive, what did they plan for the rest of the team? And how many more yellow vests waited between here and Emilia Galli's doorstep?
Chapter 43 — Tuscany — A Vintage of Traps
Lucas Vale never trusted sunsets that looked painted on. The sky above the Val d'Orcia was exactly that—hysterical strokes of cherry, plum, and furnace orange bleeding into a violet horizon. Too perfect, he thought as the van crested the last rise and the Tenuta Sant'Angelo estate came into view. Too much like a god-tier Instagram filter slapped over a scene that would definitely kill somebody before dark.
The vineyard sprawled across rolling hills, terraces of Sangiovese vines turning the landscape into corduroy. At its center rose an eighteenth-century stone villa flanked by cypress sentinels and half-ruined brick outbuildings. Beyond, a modern cellar block glimmered stainless steel under flood-lamps that hadn't been on when Gabriela scoped the place at dawn. New lights meant new guests, and Lucas's chronosense twitched at the thought.
He flicked a glance at Serena Kaur beside him in the passenger seat. Her dark hair was wound into a knot, cheek smudged from the hard landing off the Siena train, but her eyes were wired bright. Between them, the folio rested in a padded pouch, latched shut. Graves drove, saying nothing, jaw so tight the scar on his cheek pulsed like a metronome. Gabriela rode in back with the drone case and enough jammer tech to scramble half of Tuscany's Wi-Fi.
"Estate supposedly belongs to the Galli family," Serena recapped, scrolling notes on her tablet. "Organic vintners, no big security contracts on record. Emilia works here as assistant oenologist while finishing her chemistry degree. Curator node pinged her fifteen hours ago."
"So why the floodlights?" Lucas murmured. "Why the rental van parked by the press house with windows blacked?"
"Harvest party?" Gabriela offered from the rear.
"In March?" Serena countered. "Not unless they're pressing ghosts."
Graves downshifted, letting the diesel idle at the wrought-iron gate. A keypad glowed crimson behind bars. He threw a backward glance at Lucas. "We're late, and the price of timing just doubled. Plan B."
"No Plan B discussed," Serena snapped. She pressed her palm to the gate's weathered stone pillar; micro-sensors in her sleeve sniffed for wireless. "Heavy RF fog. Jammers, maybe Faraday mesh. Someone's hiding a cell tower in there."
Lucas's stomach tightened. An anti-tech field could dampen comms, maybe even cripple parts of his chrono-pause if tuned right. He'd experienced it once before in a Dubai vault—time felt viscous, like wading through treacle. Tonight the stakes were rescue, not loot.
Graves killed the headlights. "Subcontractors inside," he said, tone neutral. "Songbird team—my old retainer. They'll try a snatch rather than lethal. Objective: Serena."
Lucas's pulse spiked. "You didn't think to mention?"
"I cut ties weeks back," Graves said. "Seems they took a new contract. Probably Curator money laundered through some private-security shell."
Serena's lips compressed. "Meaning they want me breathing, the folio breathing, and Lucas's head on a pike, figuratively."
"Or literally," Gabriela muttered.
Lucas drew a slow breath. "We split. Graves and Gabriela loop south, kill the RF fence. Serena and I go quiet through the vineyard, find Emilia and extract before Songbird packs us like luggage."
Graves lifted an eyebrow. "Your power bleed after the train jump?"
"Sixty percent," Lucas lied. More like forty, but adrenaline padded the gap.
Serena slid a Glock-style stun pistol from her bag, checked charge. "Fine. But if you freeze time in full tonight, you owe me the interest."
"Draft it in Rule Eight," he said, pushing the passenger door open. The air carried crushed grass and fermenting grape skins—pleasant until you imagined blood in the mix.
Lucas and Serena cut downhill between vine rows, boots sinking in moist soil. Moonlight silvered trellis wires into harp strings; a single pluck would sing their position. Lucas kept one hand hovering near Serena's elbow, guiding them around puddled tractor ruts. Far below, diesel generators hummed at the cellar block—cover noise.
He extended telepathy like a fisherman's net: surface thoughts of workers? Nothing. Instead, the buzz of disciplined minds repeating mantra-phrases—"hold perimeter, confirm capture package"—chilled him. Songbird, all right. Five, maybe six operatives.
They reached a drystone wall bordering the villa garden. Beyond, flood-lamps washed a gravel courtyard and an open barn door bright as theatre stage. A young woman stood inside, hands zip-tied before her, chin high despite tear streaks. Tall, chestnut hair, lab coat smeared burgundy by spilt must—Emilia Galli. Two black-clad men flanked her, visors down.
Serena inhaled sharp. "They used her as bait."
Lucas's brain sketched variables: thirty metres open ground, cameras on barn eaves, unknown sensors. His TK good for ten kilos; could flick gravel into a visor, maybe drop a lamp. But that would announce presence. Chrono-pause? The estate's RF haze tingled, promising resistance.
Rule Seven whispered caution.
He eyed the irrigation system: hoses snaking to a diesel pump by the wall. A yellow warning placard—FUEL. Lucas smiled thin.
"New plan," he whispered.
Inside the barn, Emilia glared at her captors. One spoke into a throat mic, "Signal still jammed. Second team clearing villa." The other replied, "Patience. Package two inbound."
Just then the flood-lamps flickered. Motors outside coughed, sputtered—then died. Darkness swallowed the courtyard except moon gleam.
Both operatives raised rifles with IR scopes—too dark for human eyes, perfect for their optics. They missed Lucas vaulting the drystone wall because he moved in the blind wedge between lamps. He rolled behind a barrel stack, heart pounding.
Serena, crouched by the diesel pump, sliced the hose with a folding blade. Fuel gushed, soaking earth. She whipped a low-grade jammer puck onto the pump's engine block—Gabriela's handiwork—overloading circuits. The pump burped spark.
Lucas seized that spark with TK, nudging it into the fuel spray. A whoof of flame erupted along the hose like a fuse. Operatives spun, visors flaring white in IR overload.
Lucas stepped between ticks.
Time sagged—slowed, not fully stopped. The anti-tech field thickened chronology; colors desaturated. Every motion cost triple effort. Lucas clenched teeth, waded through syrup toward Emilia. He sliced zip-ties with Serena's blade (borrowed mid-pause), nudged her sideways behind a cask, then angled both rifles ninety degrees upward.
He released. Time snapped, rifles cracked ceilings, showering wood splinters. Operatives staggered disoriented; one barked, "Chrono event!"
Serena slammed a barrel cart with foot, rolling it into guard knees. Lucas followed with a TK shove that felt like pushing a truck underwater but worked: guard went flying, helmet striking stone pillar. Out cold.
Second guard regained bearings, leveled weapon at Serena. Lucas lacked breath for another pause. Instead he hurled himself, shoulder first. Shot went wide, chewing oak. They crashed into fermenter vats. The guard drew a vibro-knife—Curator design humming blue arcs.
Emilia—hands free now—grabbed a tasting thief (long steel pipette) and jabbed it into guard's calf. He yelped, knife dropping. Serena retrieved stun pistol, fired. Electric web sizzled. Guard convulsed, collapsed.
Alarm sirens wailed from villa—back-up teams alerted.
Lucas steadied, lungs flaming. He met Emilia's eyes. "Survival score: nine point five," he said. "Come on."
They sprinted into courtyard. Flames licked pump station, casting devil light. Graves's silhouette appeared from vines, Gabriela at his side carrying a coil of fiber snips.
"Perimeter sensors down," Gabriela reported, eyes widening at Emilia. "You okay?"
Emilia panted. "What the hell is happening?"
"Scholarship opportunity," Lucas quipped, grabbing her hand.
Gunshots snapped from villa balcony—Songbird rear team. Graves returned fire with non-lethal beanbag rounds—still broke bones. Lucas pulled the group toward a Land Rover parked by bottling shed—songbird transport, keys likely inside.
A figure stepped from shadows: tall woman, sleek black suit, visor etched with concentric Curator circles. She held a compact device pulsing ultraviolet. Anti-tech beacon. Lucas felt his powers pinch, throat tightening.
"Serena Kaur," the woman said, Italian accent crisp. "Directorate requests your cooperation."
Lucas moved; Beacon flared, freezing muscles mid-stride—not chrono but sonic paralysis. Serena gritted teeth, raising pistol but fingers refused to pull.
The woman stalked forward. "Mr. Vale, resilience admired. Debt, however, overdue." She lifted a second gadget—silver sphere.
Lucas's mind raced. No TK, no pause. Rule Six: Recklessness debt. Rule Seven: Visibility caution. How to defy both and win?
He glanced at Emilia's lab coat pocket: a corkscrew knife, soaked in must. Chemical smells—sulphur dioxide tablets used to sterilise barrels. Combustible in quantity.
"Emilia," he hissed, "tablet pouch—throw into flames."
She understood instantly, yanked sachet, lobbed at burning pump. The sulphur flash ignited in blinding white arc, far brighter than beacon's UV. The blast wave punched across courtyard. Paralysis collar broke. Curator agent stumbled, visor fracturing spider-web.
Lucas tackled her. Beacon skittered away. Serena fired stun bolt—clean hit. Agent collapsed.
Alarms grew distant—Graves already hot-wiring Rover. He shouted, "Seconds!"
They piled in—Serena driving, Lucas with Emilia and Gabriela in back, Graves covering with rifle. Tires chewed gravel, Rover fishtailed onto dirt lane, disappearing into night as villa lights erupted behind in kaleidoscope of emergency strobes.
Fifteen kilometres later, in an olive grove overlook, they stopped. Lucas slumped against door, tremor shaking limbs. Entropy bill due—head pounds, vision grainy.
Emilia sat opposite, eyes wild but focused. "You froze them," she said soft.
"I bend seconds," Lucas corrected, voice raw. "Side effect: migraines."
She touched forehead, processing. "They wanted my research—wine yeast that adapts pH in minutes. Said it parallels 'temporal elasticity.'" She shivered. "I thought they were biotech investors."
Serena offered her water. "Welcome to the bigger vineyard."
Gabriela grinned. "We're the weird mix of grapes your mother warned about."
Lucas managed a laugh, then turned to Graves. "Any more subcontractor surprises?"
"Songbird was the last of my past ties," Graves said, no humor. "Now they're liabilities."
"Then our slate's clean," Serena said. She met Lucas's gaze—heat under exhaustion. "Act Three curtain?"
"Falls tonight," he agreed.
Yet as Rover rolled again toward the horizon, Lucas felt new weight: rescuing Emilia had required no full stop but skirted debt razor-thin. Curators escalated; anti-tech beacons narrowed his edge. Next time, pause might fail entirely.
The ledger in his bag pulsed once, unreadable; perhaps it, too, wondered how many seconds remained between mercy and chaos. And whether Lucas could still afford them.
He looked out at star-littered Tuscan sky and, for the first time since Perth rooftop months ago, felt the tick of fear outrun the thrill. Purpose had never been sharper—or the margins thinner.
In Rome's distance, Prometheus satellites ping new coordinates—Curators trace the ledger's pulse, and Lucas's next pause may be his last.
Chapter 44 — Catacomb Reckoning
Gravel spat beneath the stolen Rover's tyres as Graves carved a serpentine path through the cypress-lined switchbacks. Thirty minutes had passed since they'd thundered out of Tenuta Sant'Angelo, but the scent of burning diesel and sulphur still clung to Lucas's nostrils like guilt. Wind ripped through a cracked side-window; Serena bound it with duct tape torn from the first-aid kit, then leaned forward again to study the map glowing on her tablet.
"Next fork," she said, voice brittle with calculation. "Left toward Pienza."
"Pienza takes us north—away from the ledger pulse," Gabriela countered from the rear, coaxing a trembling Emilia to sip electrolytes. "Graves's safehouse is south, in the quarry hills."
"It was south," Serena shot back. "After tonight it's a postcode on every Curator radio."
Graves said nothing. He kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other drumming a silent Morse against the gearshift. Lucas had been watching that nervous rhythm, measuring its tempo against the throb in his skull. Entropy hangover—severe. After the partial freeze and the anti-tech drag, his vision still pixelated at the edges. Each time headlights caught a road sign the glare cut like glass.
Rule Seven echoed: Visibility without caution beggars destiny. Tonight, they'd borrowed caution on credit.
"Pull in up here," Graves muttered. A break in the tree line revealed a dirt lane descending toward an abandoned sandstone quarry. "Catacomb access is through the old Etruscan drainage tunnels. Shielded rock, natural Faraday cage. We'll regroup underground, then exfiltrate at dawn."
Serena hesitated. "You sure your contractors won't have the coordinates?"
"No one has them." The words carried stone-heavy certainty, but his drumming fingers never stopped.
Lucas's chronosense flickered. Not danger, exactly—something coiled. He caught Serena's eye and tipped his head. Later, her gaze answered. Soon.
They parked between knuckled boulders mottled with lichen. Night insects rasped; the sky's earlier fireworks of colour had drained to bruised indigo. Flashlights flicked on. Gabriela hefted drone case, Serena carried the folio, Lucas supported Emilia—footsteps crunching over shale until they reached a half-collapsed archway corked by steel lattice. Graves unfastened a padlock hidden beneath a slab of fake moss.
"Etruscan drains," he said, pushing the gate. "Locals avoided them; rumour of poison gas pockets. Actually old wine fumes. Perfect hideaway."
The tunnel swallowed them in chalk-white darkness. Moisture beaded on limestone ribs; graffiti tags glowed under Serena's UV torch, names of thrill-seeking teens who'd never ventured far. Graves led, pace purposeful, until the passage widened into a vaulted chamber overlooking a sheer drop—a man-made sinkhole thirty metres deep. Catwalks of rusted scaffold zigzagged down to a flat cavity where floodlights, generators and crates hinted at recent habitation: cable spools, rations, a weapons rack. A makeshift command bunker.
Lucas's pulse quickened. "You stocked this today?"
Graves's shoulders hitched. "Years ago, contingency asset." He pointed to a stone stair hugging the wall. "Armoury, med-supplies, and a sub-kilohertz transmitter that can't be jammed by Curator toys."
Serena's jaw set. "Convenient."
They descended. Generators coughed awake on auto-sense, bathing the pit in yellow glow. Emilia shivered in her grape-stained lab coat; Gabriela draped a thermal blanket over her shoulders and steered her to a crate-turned-bench. Lucas scanned the catacomb. Every surface bore Graves's organisational fingerprint: labelled ammo tins, water filters, spare suits stitched with null-field mesh. It wasn't just contingency; it was a throne room waiting for coronation.
"Let's inventory," Graves said. "Vale, Serena—north cache. Gabriela, triage kit. I'll prep comms."
His tone brooked no debate. But Lucas caught the tremor beneath. The man was balancing on the fulcrum of a choice he hadn't confessed.
Rule Five—Isolation breeds extinction—flashed in Lucas's memory. And another truth: isolation also breeds betrayal.
He followed Serena into a side alcove lined with lockers. As soon as Graves's footsteps receded, Serena gripped Lucas's sleeve. "He's sweating an agenda," she whispered.
Lucas agreed. "He bet tonight on Songbird—then pivoted when we burned them. Now he brings us to his vault. Why?"
"The ledger," Serena said. "And the beacon tech. He could trade both to Prometheus. Come out patriot instead of fugitive."
Lucas leaned back against cold limestone. The migraine pulsed; fatigue squeezed his lungs. Yet rage flickered too—rage that the man who once protected them might auction their future.
He brushed knuckles along Serena's cheek. "If he crosses us, we stop him. But we don't kill him unless necessary."
Her eyes softened. "Mercy becomes bad habit."
"Boundaries make it strength," Lucas replied. He pulled the stun pistol from her thigh holster, checked charge, returned. "Be ready."
They stepped out—and found Graves standing ten metres away, rifle hanging low, unmoving except for a tilt of his head. Scar gleamed under harsh light.
"You're plotting, Lucas," he said. Not accusation—sad fact. "Your pupil dilation gives you away."
"And yours says betrayal," Lucas answered calmly.
Graves sighed, weapon still lowered. "Interpol doubled the Prometheus mandate this afternoon. They'll pass emergency protocol—Temporis Terminus. Any chroma-event bigger than half a second triggers drone strike. Military, not police." He looked at Serena. "With footage of the Colosseum, you've handed them the vote."
Serena crossed arms. "So you'll pre-emptively lock us in a hole? Pass us back as bargaining chips?"
He didn't flinch. "I negotiate. You over-estimate your readiness for global siege."
"Curators will reach Terminus caches before Interpol calibrates," Gabriela called from bench. Emilia stared, wide-eyed.
Graves glanced at her. "Potentials proliferate. Ledger or no, Curators aim to curate. I propose a third pole—humans with rules who aren't zealots or generals. I build that pole."
Lucas stepped forward. "Leadership by cage?"
"By leverage," Graves corrected. "Give Interpol what they need—tech proof, the folio—buy pardons. Then we shape oversight board ourselves."
Lucas felt heat crawl his neck. "You want to turn time into a regulated commodity."
"I want to keep you alive." The rifle barrel drifted up. "Emilia, Serena, Gabriela—alive. Under oath, maybe. Not hunted."
Serena's finger tightened on her holster, but Lucas lifted a hand. "You'd hand Curator tech to Prometheus? Null-pucks, anti-beacons—they'll replicate, deploy armies."
"They will anyway," Graves said. "At least under my stewardship it comes with restraint."
"You call tonight restraint?"
Graves's eyes hardened. "Songbird were for capture, not execution. Casualties avoidable."
Lucas barked a laugh. "Your moral line is written in disappearing ink."
Graves exhaled through his nose. "Last chance. Surrender the folio. I'll broker. Otherwise, I disable you until politics cool."
Lucas's heart slowed. He sensed Serena tensing; Gabriela's hand slipped into drone case. Emilia shrank.
"Disable me how?" Lucas asked, voice quiet.
Graves thumbed a trigger on his belt. Null-field emitters in the room's corners whined to life—four nodes Lucas hadn't noticed. The air vibrated like bees in a jar; his chronosense dimmed, suffocated. He staggered, vision narrowing.
Serena drew pistol; Graves fired first—beanbag from rifle slammed her shoulder, knocking gun aside. She hit stone with a shout.
Gabriela activated a jammer, but null-pucks overpowered its signal; sparks fizzled.
Lucas forced clarity. His powers were throttled but not zero. Rule Four—Silence respects the mind; action the world. The world now needed action.
He lunged for a stalagmite of broken masonry, hurling it telekinetically—not graceful but enough to smash node one. The hum dipped. His headache spiked like hot iron.
Graves aimed beanbag at Lucas's chest; Lucas half-paused—a micro-shutter more felt than seen. Even throttled, time hiccupped; the projectile slowed, and Lucas sidestepped, agony flaring. He rolled, snatching Serena's dropped pistol, slid it across floor toward her. She caught, fired stun charge—electric net whipped across Graves's rifle, frying optics. He cursed, dropped gun.
Node two exploded under a second masonry toss—Gabriela's drone, kamikaze mode, slammed it, shattering.
Power seeped back into Lucas's limbs. He advanced. Graves pulled a collapsible baton, activating pulse edge. Electroplasma sizzled.
"Don't," Lucas warned.
"You'll freeze me again," Graves said. "Bleed yourself dry. Accept truce."
Lucas shook head. "Truce built on cages is war postponed."
He flashed forward—full chrono-step—but only half a second; enough to slip inside Graves's guard. He struck elbow to sternum, telekinetically doubling force. Graves staggered, baton flicking wide, clipping Lucas's temple. Sparks seared skin.
Node three died—Serena had crawled, planted EMP charge. The null field collapsed to a single corner.
Lucas and Graves grappled. Sweat stung eyes; every heartbeat thundered. Graves was heavier, but Lucas channelled TK bursts—short jabs hidden within punches. Rib cracked beneath his fist; Graves grunted, bared teeth.
"Kid," he rasped, "I made you better."
Lucas locked arms, spun Graves, slamming him into stone pillar that supported catwalk skeleton. Rebar groaned. Lucas held him pinned, fist cocked.
Migraine roared, yet clarity rose: If he killed Graves, Interpol would frame it as confirmation of monstrous power. Curators would spin martyrdom. Rule Three—Consent is sacred. Graves's choice ended here, but life was still his.
Lucas unclenched. "You trained me to survive. Now survive your mistake."
He TK-pushed—forceful but measured—fracturing pillar behind Graves to spray dust. Graves slide to knees, breath ragged, baton fallen.
Serena disabled final node. Silence flooded, broken only by Graves's wheeze and generators' distant thrum. Power clarity returned to Lucas like cool rain.
He crouched, meeting Graves's gaze. "We'll reset rules together or apart. But I won't trade freedom for leash."
Graves closed eyes, nod once—pain or assent.
Lucas rose, wobbling. Serena pressed ice pack to her bruised shoulder, offered another for his bleeding temple. Gabriela re-programmed surviving drone to monitor corridor. Emilia, shaking, knelt beside Graves, running med-scanner over cracked ribs.
Lucas breathed, muscles trembling with adrenal aftershock. Folio still secure; ledger humming like a heartbeat.
He looked to Serena. "Ambulance protocol?"
She managed a smile. "Rule Eight: Even jailers deserve triage."
Lucas chuckled, winced. "Draft it later."
They bound Graves's hands—not cruelly, but firmly—using surplus zip-ties. Lucas lifted him gently to sitting against crate. Graves met Lucas's eyes again, this time softer. "They'll come," he whispered. "Curators, Prometheus—catacombs mean nothing."
"Then we take the sky," Lucas said.
Outside, distant thunder rolled—maybe weather, maybe helicopters. Lucas squared shoulders. Margins thinner than ever, but moral line now carved in stone and bruises.
He helped Serena shoulder her bag. "Next mission: Lisbon docks," he murmured. "Ledger says Aeon Key sails in thirty hours."
She tapped folio. "And the world says Terminus passes in twenty-four." Her gaze hardened. "Race against apocalypse."
Lucas offered a hand to Emilia, who took it with a budding scientist's curiosity rather than fear. Gabriela flicked drone lights green—path clear.
They climbed the catwalk, leaving Graves alive among the catacomb's flickering lamps, an injured witness to the rule they refused to break: power bent, not broken; people spared, not discarded.
At the archway, Lucas paused, glancing back one last time. Graves held a hand over his ribs but saluted two-fingered. Maybe promise, maybe warning.
Night slapped them with cold air. Diesel Rover waited, engine ticking. Stars smeared overhead like fresh chalk lines—unfixed, in need of redrawing. Lucas inhaled, feeling the ledger's pulse match his, and stepped into the driver's seat.
Ahead lay oceans, conspiracies, and a cargo ship christened Aeon Key. Behind, a catacomb of stone and forgiveness.
Interest still compounded, but tonight they'd paid it with mercy and marrow; tomorrow, they'd invest in revolution.
Chapter 45 — Lights & Sirens
Rain found them halfway to Chianciano Terme—a thin, needling drizzle that turned the Rover's bug-splattered windshield into a smear of bruised neon. The wipers were dead from the quarry scuffle, so Lucas Vale leaned out the window and time-stuttered each droplet just long enough for Serena to see the serpentine road ahead. The maneuver cost almost nothing—one-eighth of a second, a sip instead of a gulp—but the ledger in his duffel still gave a chastising throb.
Visibility without caution beggars destiny. And tonight destiny felt starved and irritable.
"Next curve," Serena warned over the wind. Her injured shoulder was wedged against the passenger door for leverage, breath hissing with every bump. Gabriela crouched behind her, applying quick-set polymer to the worst of the bruising. Emilia Galli, knees braced on the seat, held a flashlight and whispered directions: "Hospital's two kilometers, then industrial park on the right."
In the rear cargo bay Mason Graves lay strapped to a splint board cobbled from wine-crate planks and climbing webbing. The stun net's after-effects still twitched his muscles, and when Lucas had carried him to the Rover he'd felt lighter than betrayal should. Now Graves drifted in and out of morphine haze, eyelids fluttering like moth wings. Every so often he rasped a name—sometimes Lucas's, sometimes someone neither of them recognized. Lucas chose not to listen too closely.
The Rover aquaplaned, tyres skimming a film of olive-oil water. Lucas feathered the brake, coaxing the wheel. Six months ago he would have throttled through for the thrill. Tonight he let the vehicle glide, slow, deliberate—proving to himself that boredom could starve too.
They crested the final rise and the municipal hospital blinked below: a low concrete rectangle, its helipad a luminous domino in the dark. Blue strobes ringed the ambulance bay. Serena pulled her burner phone, tapped out a SOS ping. "Unregistered emergency call," she muttered. "Scrambles dispatch hierarchy—buys us privacy."
Lucas raised a brow. "Since when do we trust public services?"
"Since you spared Graves," she said. "Mercy's a two-way door; sometimes you have to walk back through."
He parked beneath a flickering streetlamp at the lot's edge. Rain hissed. Emilia jumped out first, flagged a security guard who looked bored enough to doubt anything. But when she shouted "Two blast injuries, one spinal!" protocol ignited. In sixty seconds a stretcher team arrived, tarps raining plastic pellets. Graves was whisked away—semi-conscious, strapped, but alive.
Lucas watched until the gurney vanished through automatic doors. Something unclenched inside him, though he couldn't name it.
Serena swayed. Gabriela steadied her. "You're next."
"Bruise only," Serena protested.
Emilia shook her head. "Fracture, maybe hairline. And you're bleeding under the jacket."
Serena opened her mouth—stubborn Italian vowels lined up—but Lucas slipped two fingers under her chin. "Let them x-ray." His voice came out softer than expected. "Please."
She relented. A second stretcher rolled her direction; she climbed aboard herself, wincing, but offered a thumbs-up. As she disappeared inside, Lucas's world shrank to the drizzle and the Rover's ticking engine.
Gabriela hugged her arms. "Did we just surrender our one‐time nemesis to public healthcare?"
"He surrendered himself," Lucas said. "We just honored his deductible."
She smiled, thin. Then her expression hardened. "There's another issue." She lifted her phone. A live feed stuttered: grainy footage of the vineyard fireball, followed by shaky zoom on Lucas's blur in the barn. Overlay text: Who is the Time Thief? Views at 4.8 million and climbing.
Lucas scrubbed rain from his scalp. "Curators or Prometheus?"
"Neither. A kid hiding in the vines." Gabriela pocketed the phone. "Clip's spread across torrent mirrors—can't scrub it. Media's re-labeling you the 'Clock Bandit.'"
He almost laughed. "Bandit implies profit."
"Profit is eyeballs. They're selling ad space on your face."
He looked at hospital doors. "Easier when enemies were just mercenaries."
Gabriela nudged him. "Hey. We rescued Emilia, saved Graves from himself, and didn't level a historical landmark. Trending nickname's small interest."
Interest. The word pricked. Boredom is the enemy, he reminded himself. But visibility is debt.
Headlights swung into the lot—a white ambulance newly returned from run. Two EMTs hopped out, stretching. One tapped a cigarette from a foil pack, the other opened rear doors to clean. Lucas's fatigue pivoted to idea.
"Wait here," he told Gabriela. He trotted over, badge‐flashed as generic civil-protection volunteer he'd forged weeks earlier. In Italian he improvised: "Radiation drill—need this rig for containment transfer to Siena. Orders from Civil Defence."
Cigarette EMT blinked. "At two a.m.?"
"Clock doesn't care." Lucas flashed micro-influence—nudged a thought about overtime pay. The man shrugged; gave him clipboard. Lucas signed Roberto Leone.
Minutes later they had an ambulance. Gabriela's eyebrows soared. "You're driving an ambulance with stolen plates."
"Borrowed," Lucas corrected. "Hospitals log Rover's license; we need fresh wheels." He gestured. "Load drones, folio, anything traceable."
They finished stowing gear as Serena emerged, arm in sling, Emilia pushing IV pole beside her. The doctor behind them gestured frustration—Serena had apparently discharged herself. Lucas jogged to intercept, pen poised.
"Sign AMA," he told her.
She scribbled. "Hairline clavicle fracture. Painkillers and a week of rest."
"Rest later." He ushered them into the ambulance. Serena frowned at the stolen vehicle but climbed inside.
Lucas slid behind wheel, engine rumbling. GPS in dash showed coastal highway SE. Perfect. As they rolled out, Gabriela cracked rear door, releasing the Rover's homing beacon to whatever trackers followed it. Rain swallowed the decoy.
Thirty kilometres south, the road widened into rolling plain studded by umbrella pines. Emilia sat on jump seat, pupils glazed by shock and sedatives. Yet curiosity cut through. "You people freeze time?"
Lucas checked mirror. "We bend it. Pause it. Sometimes nudge direction."
"And that ledger guides morality? A… constitutional stopwatch?"
"Closer to collective bargaining," Serena said, voice thick with codeine. She pulled the folio, showed Emilia the projected helix—nodes pulsing green, amber, or red. Emilia's name blinked amber now—rescued, alive, untrained.
"You each write rules," Emilia murmured. "Living doctrine."
Lucas nodded, gripping wheel. "Rule One: Seconds are lives."
"Rule Seven," Serena added, "visibility and caution. We're overdue Rule Eight."
Gabriela smirked. "Even jailers deserve triage."
Emilia absorbed this, then surprised them. "Rule Nine might address redundancy of rescue."
Lucas glanced back. "Explain."
She toyed with IV tube. "If more Potentials awaken faster than you can reach them, system fails. Need decentralized mentorship. You four can't police globe."
Serena whistled. "New recruit already poking holes."
"Scientist's habit," Emilia said. She looked at Lucas. "Your boredom isn't enemy; scarcity is. Scarcity of teachers."
He felt the words sink, heavy and true. A siren's warble somewhere ahead snapped him out; blue lights flickered in distance. Roadblock.
"Polizia," Gabriela warned.
Lucas downshifted. "Ambulance protocol should wave us through."
But as they neared, he saw not regular Carabinieri. Trucks with matte-grey paint, satellite dishes. Prometheus crest stencilled faintly.
Serena breathed, "Temporis Terminus pilot teams."
Lucas's heartbeat slammed. They were scanning vehicles for chrono radiation—any pausing residue still clinging. His earlier stutter droplets, Serena's stun bolts, Emilia's sulphur flare—all markers.
He eased ambulance onto shoulder, killed lights. Rain softened to mist; the world hushed. Options flickered: full pause would spike detectors; turning around invited chase.
Boredom is enemy, but fear worse. Lucas inhaled, remembering catacomb mercy. He toggled ambulance PA.
Static crackled, then his voice boomed across dark plain: "Prometheus checkpoint, this is Ambulanza Uno‐Sette—radiological transport from Chianciano. Patient with suspected cobalt contamination. Advise hot protocols."
Silence. Then a radio barked back, tense: "Uno-Sette, stand by."
Lucas vamped, layering micro-influence through open channel. Not mind control—just suggestion: paperwork hell, contamination dread, desire for coffee.
After a minute the voice returned, hurried. "Proceed to secondary bypass—kilometre marker 208. Hazmat waiting."
He exhaled. The blockade lifted retractable spikes; a trooper waved flashlight.
Ambulance rolled past.
Inside, Serena's slack jaw formed a grin. "You Jedi-mind-tricked a black-ops roadblock."
"No," Lucas said. "I offered them bureaucracy. Stronger sedative than morphine."
They drove another thirty minutes, hitting coastal road lined with derelict factories. Sea salt turned mist briny. Serena tapped dash: "Next exit leads toward Porto de Lisboa ferry corridor. If Aeon Key departs tomorrow, we can intercept upstream on the Tagus."
Lucas swallowed a yawn. Migraine dulled to ember. "We'll trade wheels in Genoa, sail overnight."
Gabriela leaned forward. "We still dragging Graves?"
"Hospital will hold him," Serena said. "Interpol will collect, but he's seen our line. Maybe he'll testify, undermine Terminus."
"Or sell us again," Emilia muttered.
Lucas met her gaze in mirror. "Betrayal is a teacher too." He focused on wet asphalt ribboning into uncertainty. "But boredom—boredom kills curiosity. So we keep moving."
Lightning forked offshore, briefly illuminating waves like crumpled aluminium. The ledger in its case warmed, anticipatory, as if aware the ocean awaited.
Lucas tightened hands on wheel. Rule Eight hovered unborn. Maybe it would address scarcity; maybe self-care. But tonight's rule etched invisible: Mercy without vigilance invites return fire. He'd wordsmith later.
For now, siren lights dimmed behind, Prometheus nets gaped wide, and an ambulance full of fugitives hurtled toward a harbor where mythic curators stacked containers of secrets. Lucas felt the old thrill stir, but it was tempered—no longer hunger for danger, but appetite for purpose.
He whispered to the windshield, "Next chapter, new ocean," and the wipers—dead moments ago—flicked once as if time itself nodded assent.