To sum up what I now know, there are three principal parties:
    A man in a white lab coat—I think I'll call him Zed. He made us, programmed us, tested us. I remember what he looks like, very well.
    Three men whose faces I never saw, but who were present for some of the work. Zed didn't seem to think very highly of them. Apparently they belong to the World Crime League, an orgnization which supposedly doesn't exist. One does hear rumors, but hardly anyone gives them any credence. The project is theirs. Tempest was theirs as well, but she proved difficult to control, so they have her on ice somewhere. Now they have a more complicated plot involving the ten of us. We've been sent out into the world for three years, to learn whatever we can and develop our powers. I have an address to report to at the end of that time. Then our accumulated knowledge will be sifted through, merged together and put into Tempest's currently empty brain, exponentially multiplying her abilities.
    Third, another League boss, an even more shadowy figure who apparently holds Zed's loyalty. For reasons which are still unclear to me, he ordered Z to change my programming. Why me? In any case, a couple of key protocols were disabled: the one which is supposed to make us forget the experience should any of us run into one another, and one suggesting that we keep quiet about our powers. A few others too, I think—they wanted me to get this job.
    I know more than I did, but not enough to be sure of what's going on. From the way they were talking, I assume that this third party wants to sabotage the three's little project, but this seems an awfully roundabout way of doing so. If that's the case, I don't have any real quarrel with him; I'd rather not see the new, improved Tempest kicking around either. I'd guess it's the three who are trying to kill me, realizing that with Susan Bates' death I know at least the edges of their plot. But there's no way Zed and his boss could have been certain I would run into one of the others and start working out the real situation. Unless they planned to do something themselves, but Traveler got there first? Too many possibilities.
    "Wow," Trent commented, pulling out at last.
    I put my elbows on the table and set my head down for a moment, trying to regain my bearings, to start putting the pieces together into the patterns I have recorded here.
    "Thank you," I said after a moment. "That clears up a lot."
    He erased the protocols—no more worrying about telephones, no attacking those trying to help me. No turning myself in sixteen months from now for recycling, or whatever they plan to do with us extras. And importantly for my own sense of balance, now I know where the time boundary is, where reality starts for me and what actually went on before that. Then he set my powers back in order and we all sat there while I pulled myself together and explained a bit of the situation to the team.
    "Yours is not a completely unique situation," Trent offered in a consoling tone. "I'm only this way because a mad scientist spliced an eagle's genes onto mine."
    "How long did it take you to get used to it?" Right now, I don't feel like I ever will.
    "Not long. Then again, it also triggered my powers. I can do telepathy on myself."
    "You can communicate with your own subconscious?"
    "Yes. Makes it easy to detect neuroses before they become a problem."
    "That does sound handy." I straightened up. "Well. At the very least I owe you guys a really big favor. Let me know if you ever need a hand out in Detroit."
    "We'll do that. Though we don't get anything as exciting as you do."
    Exciting? That's one word for this. They said their farewells and took off for the flight home. Since they've been gone, in a fit of team spirit or something Lucky's been trying to convince me to move in here—I don't know how much of the "new her" I can take. I haven't brought up her confession from yesterday, and neither has she. Phoenix says we need to do more checking into Renaissance Technologies—like I couldn't think of that on my own, thank you. I've visited my apartment; the cops haven't seen anything odd, and Newton is getting fat.
    Not much to do now but wait until nightfall and see if the vigilante strikes again.

    At least I know I'm not just paranoid. The entire fucking universe is out to get me.
    We spent the afternoon at base, exchanging unlikely plans for tracking down the wolf-killer. Then the phone rang. I seem to be turning into the unofficial receptionist.
    "Revolution."
    "Needle."
    "Reilly. You sound disturbed, what's up?" After the past, hideous twenty-four hours, having at least some of my questions answered had left me feeling, and sounding, almost giddy.
    "I need you to come out to my house." His voice had no tone at all, and my mood plummeted back to its by-now-accustomed depths.

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