Figueiredo’s other hand reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out something that looks like a slim black pen. He clicks one end and I hear the faintest whisper above my surging heartbeat as the thin veil of the invisibility cloak slides off my shoulders.

Lips that look like my own twist up into something that could be a smile. I preferred the yelling.

“Ah,” he says with the low voice I heard in my head this whole time. “You’re here.”

As much as Kaori wants to blame me, he’s the reason why we’re all in this dumpster fire. More than all the other versions of myself I’ve met, being in this same space as him feels like if we get too close, we’d smash each other apart. Anti-matter and matter obliterating on contact.

“I thought I would drop in,” I say with a shrug.

The shrug and the snark help so much. The character, the armor that I slip into to keep me from vibrating right out of my body.

“You know, I’m actually surprised,” he smarms. “Which I find very interesting.”

He buries both hands in the pockets of his pressed khakis, walking closer until he’s a few arms’ lengths away. I drop my hands from the All-Eye and turn to him, keeping my face still.

“Oh, good.”

“How’d you get the machine to send us a false reading?”

Another shrug. Focusing on him instead of the All-Eye monster behind me helps slow my manic heartbeat. “Your pet has a new favorite dad.”

“Mm.” Two steps closer to me, slow and unafraid over glowing-hot coals. “Now, you have a word for this, yes?” He flicks one finger between us.

“Invasion,” I offer.

He shakes his head. “Surrender.”

I can’t tell if he’s playing the role of the patient diplomat bogged down by the seriousness of this negotiation or whatever. Heavy accent or no, I’m sure it took him all of a week to become fluent in English. His thin gold glasses that reflect the light, his patient half-smile—everything about him bugs me with how it’s scripted. Some smug, smashed kaleidoscope version of myself that seems like the worst things that Narek accused me of brought to life. He’s got to have a weapon on him somewhere, but if he really wanted me dead, I’d be a pile of ash already.

“You know that’s not why I’m here,” I tell him.

I can see Figueiredo’s hard angles in the lines of the All-Eye and the rest of his machines, his chin and cheeks in their facets. We’re both standing with our hands resting high on our hips with our heads tipped to the side. I step back and cross my arms across my chest.

“While we’re sharing.” I bob my head to the side, towards the machine. “How does it work?”