Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hunt was now on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was all the opening they needed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"CUT!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

"No! I’m gonna win!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you too."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

James chuckled.

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

"Sounds good," Britta replied.

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

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

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

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

Had she grown too comfortable?

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Annie felt her stomach clench as he continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Realistic?"

"Yeah! Realistic."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sebastian giggled. "That's silly!"

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

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

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

"Were there any others?" Sebastian asked eagerly.

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

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

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

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

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

"Did they go on adventures?" Sebastian wondered.

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

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

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

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

"What happened to them?" Sebastian asked quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sebastian shook his head.

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

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

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

"What about Mommy?"

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

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

"I miss her," Sebastian said quietly.

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

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

"Good night, Seb," he whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

"Then what is the point?"

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's what made his unprompted message so jarring.

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

Jeff: So… I have some news.

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

NOTICE TO ALL STUDENTS, FACULTY, AND STAFF

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

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

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

Thank you for being part of the Greendale family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Troy: If we were ever normal 😂

Britta: I’m definitely not missing it!

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

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

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

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

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

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

But something was missing.

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

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

Shirley: Annie? Everything okay, sweetie?

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

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

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

Britta: Annie????

Troy: ANNIE EDISON WHERE ARE YOU? 🔍👀

Shirley: @Annie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Britta: Wouldn't miss it.

Shirley: I'm already looking at flights!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

Britta: In which case, where is everyone staying?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Troy: Annie? You there?

Abed: @Annie

Britta: Maybe she's in a meeting?

Finally, Annie's response materialised.

Annie: I'll be staying with my mom.

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

Annie: Things change.

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

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

Annie: Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Troy: Thanks.

Troy: I think?

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

Troy: Any volunteers? 😂

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

Jeff:🖕Hard pass.

Troy: Wow, rejected before I even asked! 💔

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Britta: Can't wait! ❤️

Shirley: Love you all! Safe travels! 😘

Troy: This is going to be EPIC! 🎉

Abed: Until Friday, then.

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Abed turned to Troy, there was a moment of hesitation. They both raised their hands simultaneously, attempting their old signature handshake, but somehow their timing was off, their fingers fumbling against each other awkwardly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All eyes immediately turned expectantly to Britta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"La vee?" Troy said, confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Annie hummed in acknowledgment, but didn’t reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both Annie and Abed immediately bristled at the implication.

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

"Absurd," Abed agreed with equal conviction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where rebellion fermented, not bottled but poured,

In shadows and whispers, it once was restored.

Look not to the stars, but below your feet,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dean, I don't think—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

"Really, it's not—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, he decided to abandon subtlety entirely.

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

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

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

She caught herself, seeming to search for safer ground.

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Piñata?" Britta repeated, looking genuinely bewildered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Britta's shoulders tensed. "Shirley—"

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

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

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

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

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

"Excuse me?" she said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Britta didn’t stop.

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

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

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