To the Crossroads

VP and BP Rankings
Claire - 141 VP - 3100 BP - 2 Achievs
Sam - 139 VP - 5900 BP - 3 Achievs
Erin - 134 VP - 8100 BP - 3 Achievs
Emi - 125 VP - 9250 BP - 3 Achievs
Myra - 121 VP - 4000 BP - 3 Achievs
Marissa - 111 VP - 3950 BP - 3 Achievs
Chloe - 106 VP - 7550 BP - 2 Achievs
Emily - 106 VP - 7500 BP - 3 Achievs (2 used)
Liesa - 104 VP - 4400 BP - 3 Achievs
Norah - 103 VP - 0 BP - 3 Achievs
Dawn - 78 VP - 9000 BP - 3 Achievs
Riley - 77 VP - 8800 BP - 3 Achievs
Laura - 4000 BP - 2 Achievs

Andy woke in the grey-gold hush of the Suite, the world caught in that weird, forgiving pause between first light and the obligations of day. The room’s colors were all softened: ocean blue and linen white, with the faint gold of sun on the comforter, and none of it quite real until he flexed his hand and felt Marissa asleep against his side. She was on her stomach, hair fanned out over his bicep, her breathing slow but not quite even. For a long time, he just lay there, not wanting to disturb the balance, and let himself drift at the shallow edge of sleep, listening to her.

He could tell the moment she truly woke. The muscles along her back tensed, her breath paused, then she exhaled, a deep and unfamiliar sigh. Usually, when Marissa woke up, it was with the brisk reassembly of self—already parsing the next appointment, the next checklist item, already folding last night into narrative. Not today. She stayed as she was for a minute or more, face turned to the pillow, every line of her body relaxed and weightless.

Andy felt the urge to say something, but held off. It didn’t feel like the right moment for words.

She turned, slowly, sliding the sheet up under her chin. For a long time, she just looked at the ceiling. Then she rolled her head to face him, hair flattened on one side, cheeks marked by the pillow seam, and blinked until the world resolved.

“Morning,” he said, soft enough to match the room.

She smiled. “Is it?” Voice raspy, a little hoarse. “Feels more like…” She trailed off, searching for the phrase, and he let her. Eventually she said, “I dreamed about the concert. Not the music—just the walk afterward.”

He nodded. “The city felt more real than the stage,” he said. “You said it yourself.”

Marissa didn’t answer for a bit. She folded her arms under her chin, studied him. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Always.”

She picked at the edge of the sheet, her nail tracing the stitch line. “You saw what I saw, right? My parents, outside the hall?”

He said yes, then added: “It was them, but older. Not 2008. More like—” he stopped, unsure how to phrase it.

She finished for him: “The way I last remembered them.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

Marissa looked at her hands, flexing the fingers one by one, and Andy realized she was comparing them to her mother’s. “They knew,” she said. “They talked as if they knew the accident had already happened. They talked about Sarah like she was already grown.”

“They did,” Andy said. “They were proud of you.”

She closed her eyes, drew in a long breath, and let it out through her nose. “I’m not sure if that makes it more comforting, or less.”

Andy waited.

“I thought,” Marissa said, voice low, “if I could see them again, it would be a chance to say goodbye on my terms. But it wasn’t really goodbye, was it?” She opened her eyes, studied him. “You did that for me, didn’t you?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“You do,” she said. “Don’t lie.”

He looked at her, the sharp blue of her eyes even in this soft morning. “I wanted you to have it. I just… didn’t know I could.”

Marissa propped herself up on one elbow, the sheet sliding down, the curve of her shoulder marked with last night’s fingerprints. “It wasn’t just the concert, Andy. My mother—when she touched my face, it was exactly how it felt when I was a kid.” She looked away, toward the salt-blurred window, then back. “But I knew it couldn’t last. Even in the dream, I knew I couldn’t keep them.”

Andy traced a line up her arm, thumb gentle at the inside of her wrist. “I didn’t want you to lose them again,” he said. “But I think I made it worse.”

She shook her head, once, deliberate. “No. You gave me a day I’ll remember longer than any real one.” She reached up, brushed a stray hair from his temple. “That’s the thing about grief, isn’t it? It’s never the day you lose someone that haunts you. It’s the next day. And the next. The space they leave keeps growing.”

Andy thought about that. He said, “Sometimes I think I’m still stuck on that first day, just stretched across years.”

Marissa smiled, small and true. “You’re not,” she said. “But you used to be.”

He let the words land.

For a while, neither spoke. He watched the slow sweep of the ceiling fan, the way the light crawled up her arm, the ridges and valleys of the sheet between them.

It was Marissa who broke the silence. “Can I ask something else?”

Andy nodded.

She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling now. “When you do these things—these wishes, or whatever they are—does it feel like you’re in control of them? Or does it just… happen?”

He paused. “It's not something I can really control. When I want something badly enough, and clearly enough... It just seems to clock, somehow. It used to be smaller,” he said. “A feeling, a hunch. Now it’s like the world is bending to make what I want happen, but not always in ways I expect.” He hesitated, then added, “Sometimes I’m afraid of what it’ll cost. Or who pays.”

She thought about that. “You mean like a price?”

“Yeah.”

Marissa shifted again, closer. “Last night,” she said, “when my mother touched me? If I woke up this morning with nothing left—no hands, no music—I wouldn’t regret it.” She glanced at him. “I want you to know that. I know what it’s like to lose control. I also know how rare it is to get something back.”

He felt a tightness in his chest. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said.

Marissa smiled, a little lopsided. “You can’t,” she said. “Not unless you start running away.”

Andy grinned, the tension fading.

Marissa watched him, then looked away, toward the ocean through the window. The sound was a hush, the rhythm of waves more implied than heard. “I made a decision,” she said. “About the music. About myself.”

Andy raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

She laughed, quiet. “This is the part where I’d usually make it a long metaphor. But I’m tired, and my brain hasn’t spun up yet. So I’ll just say it: I like being a therapist. I like fixing things, for people who need it. But I’m also going to play again. Just because I want to. And what Mom used to do... I want to do that to, somehow. To honor her, and because it's another easy to help.”

Andy nodded, smiling.

She added, “I don’t want it to be a second job. And it's not just a way to stay close to my mother. I want it because I love it.”

“Sounds right,” Andy said.

“It is,” she said, with a conviction that made it final.

They lay together a while longer. At one point, Marissa moved her hand across his chest, then stopped at his heart, palm flat. “Do you remember what you told me last night?” she asked.

“Which part?” he said.

She smirked. “That you wanted me to be happy. Not just as a function of someone else’s need.”

He remembered. “Yeah.”

Marissa slid her leg over his, propping herself up on his chest. “I want you to be happy, too,” she said. “But I need you to know—I’m not ready to marry you. Not now. This is all… too new, for me. But I do want to be with you. And revisit this, when the time is right.”

He kissed her, slow. “That’s all I want.”

She looked at him for a long, soft second. “Is it enough?”

Andy smiled, and let the answer be a kiss, and a yes.

They held each other, the world outside the window brightening, the rest of the Suite still and private.

A while later, when the sun was all the way up and the room had changed from blue to yellow, Marissa disentangled herself and sat up, the sheet pulled around her waist.

They got up, dressed in silence. Andy watched as Marissa stood in front of the mirror, fastening her hair, her posture taller than he’d ever seen it. She caught his eye in the reflection and grinned.

“What?” he said.

She shrugged. “Just making sure I’m not dreaming.”

Andy laughed. “If you are, I'm glad I’m in it.”

“You are,” she said, and the answer carried through the morning like a promise.

When they stepped into the rest of the Suite, the world felt both smaller and brighter.

Laura was already up when Andy and Marissa stepped into the kitchen. Both bodies were by the counter, one stirring a mug of tea, the other leaned against the island, arms folded. Four plates of scrambled eggs lay on the island, still steaming. She turned in sync when the couple appeared, four blue eyes focusing with unnerving simultaneity.

Andy nodded a silent greeting. Marissa moved to panel by the elevator door, tapped on it, and gave a small sound of approval, then tapped some more. Then she walked back to the island. “I made the transfer,” she told Laura, “I want you to have that extra day.” Without waiting for Laura’s reply, she moved to the coffeemaker, poured herself a cup, and sat at the breakfast bar without a word. She wore the dress from last night, but no makeup, hair twisted up. She looked younger, or just unburdened. Andy watched as Laura’s left body followed Marissa’s movements with an almost mathematical precision, while the right lingered on Andy a beat too long before breaking away.

“Thank you for the points,” Laura said, both voices layered together.

Marissa shook her head. “You don’t have to thank me.”

Laura said, “You didn’t have to do it, either.” She sipped her tea, then added, “I’m going to use them after breakfast.”

Marissa glanced up, a question in her eyes.

Laura explained, “You said you wanted the points to go to use, not just to sit. So I’ll buy the Date before I go to see my mother.”

Marissa’s mouth quirked, a micro-smile, and for a second she looked like she’d just solved a puzzle nobody else saw. “Good,” she said. “I hope you get what you need from it.”

Laura shrugged, “It’s not about need. It’s just—” and the right finished, “something I want to do.”

Marissa nodded, as if this was the most ordinary conversation in the world. “I think you deserve that.”

There was a pause, the only sound the small rattle of a spoon on ceramic, and forks on plates. Andy found himself oddly sidelined in his own Suite, a supporting actor in a play he didn’t have lines for. He poured himself orange juice, cut a banana, and let the two women hold the table.

After a minute, Marissa spoke again. “I know things went to hell at the end of last round,” she said. “And that you and I had our… differences.” Her tone was clinical, but not cold. “But I want you to know, I didn’t give you the points out of charity. I gave them because I meant what I said: You were owed more time than anyone got, and I didn’t want to see you short-changed.”

Laura’s right hand drummed fingers on the countertop. “We both fell apart,” the left said. “It’s not a secret.” She added, “You could have just let it be my problem.”

Marissa smiled, and this time it was almost sly. “You and I both know what happens when you let something sit instead of dealing with it. I just wanted to cut out the middle part.”

Laura looked at Andy, then Marissa. “You’re very good at your job,” she said, in stereo.

Marissa shrugged. “It’s a living.”

Andy snorted. “This is the weirdest breakfast I’ve ever had.”

Both of her turned to him, synchronized. “What’s your plan for today?” they asked, two voices fusing into one.

Andy shrugged. “I’ll visit Claire, give her what help I can. Today is Chloe’s date. I want to make sure she gets her time, too.” He tried not to look directly at either Laura, because there was no etiquette for addressing a pair.

Marissa took a sip of her coffee. “You’ve got your hands full, as always.”

“Them’s the job,” Andy said, deadpan.

Laura quirked a smile. She pushed her mug aside, both hands flat on the counter. “I’ll be out most of the morning,” she said. “If you need me, I'll go visit Mom, then I'll go to the Sky Archive.”

She looked at Marissa and softly said, “I’m glad you’re okay.” Then, as if remembering it was allowed, she reached across the counter and squeezed Marissa’s hand, just for a second, before pulling away.

Marissa blinked, surprised by the touch. “You too,” she said, and it was clear she meant it.

A minute passed in silence, everyone working through their breakfast at different speeds. Eventually, Marissa finished her coffee, got up, and put her mug in the sink. She paused behind Andy’s chair, rested her hands on his shoulders, and kissed the top of his head. “I’ll be at the Archive,” she said, then moved to the door, her movements decisive but somehow not rushed.

Andy turned, watched her go. “See you before lunch?”

She nodded, and her smile lingered all the way to the hallway.

With Marissa gone, the Suite felt oddly hollow, like a theater after the curtain. Laura's two bodies drifted together near the sliding glass door, both staring out at the morning, backs to him, arms crossed in the same way.

He let her stand there a minute, then said, “You want to talk about it?”

Both turned, in perfect unison. “No,” the left said. “Yes,” the right said. Then the left, again, “Maybe.”

Andy waited.

Laura walked back to the counter, stopped just beside him. She reached out and touched his hand, lightly, her fingertips cool and precise. “Are you worried?” she asked.

“About what?” Andy said.

Laura looked at him in stereo, the way she did when she wanted to see through bullshit. “About how much you can do now,” she said. “About what it means.”

Andy considered. “Yes.”

The left Laura moved to the kitchen, mirrored the right, so that both stood beside him, hands braced on the countertop. “You didn’t ask for it,” she said, “but you use it anyway.”

He nodded. “That’s what frightens me. I don't know that I could stop. I can't control it.”

The right Laura shook her head, slow. “I don’t think it’s dangerous. Not yet. I think you’re too afraid to misuse it.”

Andy smiled, but it was thin. “What if I hurt someone I love?”

Laura said, “If you ever hurt me, or someone else, I’ll tell you. And if you ever go too far, I’ll stop you.”

Andy felt something loosen in his chest. “That’s all I need.”

Laura looked at the clock. “I should go,” she said. “If I want to buy the Date before I see my mom.”

Andy stood, feeling awkward. “Do you want company?”

Laura shook her heads, a little too forceful. “I want you to be here when I get back.”

“Okay,” he said.

She hugged him, both bodies at once, one on each side. It should have been overwhelming, but instead it just felt safe, like a shield against a world that never played by the rules.

When she let go, both faces wore the same expression: a kind of resolute sadness, but also something brighter, a sense that she was carrying it by choice.

She left, feet echoing in the hall, and Andy watched her until the sound faded.

For a few minutes, he stayed where he was, the silence thick as fog. He sat back down at the counter, drank the last of his orange juice, and tried to remember what it was like to have a day with no obligations.

He realized, after a moment, that he didn’t want one.

He put the glass in the sink, rinsed it out, and stood for a long time, just listening to the sound of his own breathing.

The world outside the Suite was bright and clear. The tide was in, the sun was up, and the only thing left was to go meet it.

---

Andy left the Suite before the sun cleared the line of the hotel’s roof, choosing the path to the Inner Gardens. He didn’t have a real plan for the morning, only a sense that if he stayed inside he would come apart. The air was already soft and wet, the kind that stuck to skin and made every step feel like moving through a living thing. The stone walkways were still dark with dew, and everything he touched—the leaves, the rough bark of the little mango tree by the gate—left his fingers shining.

He took the winding path that doubled back on itself, not because it was faster but because he liked the way the view changed with each turn. There were benches at the crossroads, places where the gravel paths diverged into three or four options, and if you sat there long enough the sun would eventually find you from every angle. He thought, for a second, that he might stay there all day and just let the world turn.

She was waiting at the first bench, as if she’d been poured out of the morning’s gold. Arabella sat with her back straight, hands folded on her lap, the shade from an acacia tree dappled perfectly over her face. Samson Drei lay at her feet, head heavy on his paws, looking at nothing. He didn’t wag or lift his head when Andy approached, just shifted slightly to acknowledge him.

Arabella wore a dress the color of smoke, her hair pulled into a twist that let a few strands fall loose around her ears. She looked tired, but in the way of someone who had found a certain peace inside it. Her eyes tracked him as he walked up, and for a moment Andy had the strange sense that she saw right through him—past every feeling he thought he’d hidden in the last day.

He sat on the end of the bench, leaving a respectful half meter between them. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all.” She smiled, but her eyes were rimmed in a way he hadn’t noticed before. “I was hoping you’d come.”

He nodded. “It seemed like the day for it.”

Arabella glanced at Samson Drei, who blinked, then looked away again. “He is tired,” she said fondly. “He was up early, chasing lizards.”

Andy shrugged and scratched the dog’s ears. “He’s a good hunter.”

“A very good one,” Arabella agreed. “Though he remembers none of his failures from day to day.” She paused, then added, “I sometimes envy that.”

Andy waited, not wanting to push.

Arabella looked up at the sky through the web of acacia leaves. “Do you remember what I told you about Seshat? About how I measured out every story, every boundary, every season?”

“I remember,” Andy said.

Arabella nodded, almost to herself. “I told you I was left behind, after Isis and the others vanished. But I didn’t say what it felt like, to measure a world that was emptying faster than you could count the hours.” She picked at the fabric of her skirt, not meeting his eyes. “It was grief, Andy. Grief on top of grief. Not the sharp kind, but the slow erasure, the way you realize something’s gone only because the noise is missing.”

She watched him to see if he understood. He did.

“I thought,” Arabella went on, “that if I ran the seasons perfectly, if I made every contest and every rule hold together, maybe it would matter. Maybe the act of making sense would keep the rest of it from falling apart.” She let out a tiny, unsatisfied laugh. “It didn’t.”

Andy looked at her. “What did you do?”

She was quiet for a moment, as if measuring her answer. “I let myself be changed,” she said. “The end of Egypt was the end of Seshat. I could feel it—the story was finished. The world didn’t need a recordkeeper anymore, not the way I had been.” Her gaze went distant. “But the only thing left for me was to watch the world thin out, one god after another going silent. It was an honor, to witness their leavetaking, but each of them who left, made me grieve for what was being lost.”

She looked down at her hands, fingers steepled. “At the end, I did something I had never done before. Geshtinanna was given to me by grief—Anna pressed herself into me and the world named what came out. Seshat was drawn out by what the world needed. Every identity before had been a response to something outside me. But I could see what was coming, and I did not want to feel it.” She paused. “So I built Hecate on purpose. I did not wait for grief to shape me. I chose cold, and I chose distance, and I built them into the structure before the grief arrived, so it would have nothing to take hold of.”

Andy hesitated. “You became Hecate.”

“I made her,” Arabella corrected him, “From the ruins of what I'd been, yes—but made, not grown. It was the first willful act of my existence, and I wore her longer than I wore any other self.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I kept away from Anna, after that. Anna was the source—she was the original grief, the one who had given Geshtinanna her first shape. If I had let her near me while I was Hecate, she would have found the seam. One touch of her sorrow and the whole construction might have unraveled.” She looked at the garden paths. “Anna knew this. She kept her distance too. It was the most generous thing she ever did for me.”

Samson Drei shifted, the movement slow and deliberate, as if to punctuate the line. The sun had finally cleared the roof, and light scattered over the acacia, tracing little shifting halos on Arabella’s cheekbones.