Five minutes, he told himself. I can endure that long. I can endure Oscar dying for that long. I can endure being lost, and hopeless, and hunted, for that long.

At 1.13 he was still sobbing, and so he ran the app.

[activate grief_ease level:5]

He felt it kick in, like a balm, smoothly, not all at once, but bit by bit, easing the pain, turning the sobs to sniffles, turning the utter hopelessness to mild gloom.

He lay back and stared at the ceiling of this tiny room.

He was in the Bunker. That’s what the three current members of the Convergent Complexity Collective (or “C3”, as they usually referred to themselves) called their work and sometimes-live space. It was in some long-slummified warehouse district on the outskirts of DC. It had been a hub for sometimes far more people, and seldom less. He wished he’d encountered it under better circumstances.

The little room he was flopping in had no windows, just painted masonry and bare concrete. The amenities were a lumpy futon mattress they’d dragged in here for him, a side table the one named Tempest had hammered and sawed together on the spot from scrap wood, and a cheap plastic storage bin for Rangan’s meager possessions, all of them gifts from the C3.

This was life now.

Well, fuck it, Rangan told himself. Move forward. It’s the only choice there is.

He rose up, used yesterday’s shirt to wipe his face and blow his nose, then pulled on a BLACKHAT 2037 long-sleeved tee shirt two sizes too small for him; the jeans he’d been wearing all week, the socks he’d worn the last three days; and his own closed toed shoes, which he’d been informed were mandatory in most parts of the Bunker. Then he sighed, memories flashing through his mind, of the first morning he’d woken up here, the argument he’d heard them having.

He can’t stay here, Tempest had nearly yelled. He’ll get us all caught, get us all killed.

What do you wanna do with him? Cheyenne, the big one with the black dreads had shot back. Toss him out on the street? Hand him over to ERD for the reward? Why don’t we just waterboard him ourselves?

Cheyenne’s right, the third woman, the one who called herself Angel, had said, Axon’s a hero. He and Synapse made Nexus 5. We owe him. What about solidarity, huh?

Look, Tempest had gone on. I’m sure the guy’s a saint. But he’s on the fracking most wanted list. This is serious shit. Not just cops. Homeland Security. Chandler Act. Terrorism. Deep dark hole shit.