They met where two highways crossed and neither seemed to lead anywhere important on a map. A gas station squatted on the corner, sun-faded signs buzzing softly. Max leaned against his car as Maggie pulled in, dust trailing behind her tires. She stepped out first. Same steady eyes, same way of scanning everything before settling on him. Older, maybe sharper. Beside her was Suki—late teens, backpack slung over one shoulder, headphones resting around her neck like a pause button.

Max had just folded the paper when his flip phone buzzed against the tabletop, rattling the spoon in his saucer. The sound cut through Pinky’s Place like a voice from another room. “This transmission is coming to you.” Max froze. He hadn’t changed that ringtone in years. Dora raised an eyebrow as she passed. “Popular guy?” “Something like that,” Max said, already flipping the phone open.

Pinky’s Place smelled like frying butter and sugar, the kind of place where time slowed down on purpose. Max sat in a cracked red vinyl booth, a slice of blueberry pie half gone on the plate in front of him. He drank his coffee black this time—no cream, no sugar—letting the bitterness settle him. It felt deliberate, like a small promise to himself.

Max Cube woke to the hum of the roadside motel’s air conditioner, a tired machine coughing cold breath into the room like it had something to prove. Morning light crept through the bent aluminum bl…

Snow dusted the street outside Dane Kaye’s bungalow, drifting in lazy spirals past the living-room window. The house was quiet in that soft, winter-morning way—no music yet, no clatter of holiday b…

Five weeks later, the air inside the Portland Retro Pop Expo buzzed like a warm engine. Dane Kaye had gotten used to this by now—the steady flow of fans, the neon lights, the surprisingly comfortab…

A couple of hours after the buzz of Comic Expo had faded into evening, Dane and Nanci found themselves tucked into a corner booth at The Copper Lantern, a dim little bar three blocks from the conve…

Dane Kaye adjusted the collar of his faux-leather jacket—an almost perfect replica of the one he’d worn as Max Cube on Shadowfist. The fabric creaked familiarly as he rolled his shoulders. It still…

You can reach, but you can’t grab it… London, 1835. The rain tapped its secret rhythm upon the glass as Ada Lovelace sat across from her friend, Margaret Somerville, the fire’s light cu…

It was raining in this city. In most cities on most planets in most Versions it was raining. And what that meant, about all of this, the Professor (XX years in) still had no fucking clue. Sometimes…

Maggie sat in the corner booth of the near-empty diner, a lemon tart glowing gold beneath the dim lights. The hum of the radio filled the silence—some old country song about leaving and returning. …

The Professor ran his hand over his bald head, wiping the dirty rain. Coughed lightly. His glasses were fogged from the weird humidity flux of the downtown core, the chemical weather of the city. H…

Max Cube stood at the center of the dim safehouse, his trench coat damp from the acid rain outside. He looked at the faces around him—Maggie leaning against the wall, Wraith cloaked in shadow, Gone…

The late afternoon light was at an angle that made the diner window into a mirror, reflecting the rundown buildings and shops, many with wood over the their windows and ‘out of business&#8217…

Max Cube sat in the corner booth of the diner, his back to the wall, one arm draped over the cracked red vinyl seat. A pile of quarters glittered in front of him, stacked neatly like ammunition. Ev…

The Professor sipped his coffee, watching the busy city street outside, sunny, cold. He used to go out for coffee a lot, reading, writing, thinking. He didn’t get out as much as he used to. T…

Max Cube jolted awake, the ghost of a dream dissolving as fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. His head rested on a stack of quarterly reports, a pen still clutched between his fingers. For a moment…

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The gunfire sounded like thunder and rain and volcanoes and earthquakes. Bullets and pulses and plasma projectiles tearing and shredding the sky like hateful fireworks. Nemain was terrified. Faded,…

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Max Cube leaned back in his chair, flipping a domino tile between his fingers like a coin. The back alley café smelled of strong coffee and frying oil, but neither he nor his opponent touched their…

Oh, Sinnerman, where you gonna run to?Sinnerman, where you gonna run to?Where you gonna run to? Dexter looked into the mirror. Cracks. In the mirror and on his face. Creases around the eyes, the mo…

Max Cube leaned back in the cracked vinyl seat of his rusted-out muscle car, the city lights of New Metro flickering off the windshield like ghosts. Rain tapped on the hood as he popped in a casset…