“Kaine!” he yelled, not knowing if the Tangent would hear him. “You need to get me out of here!”

Michael saw him, just a glimpse through the white cracks and the bodies of the KillSims that had swarmed his protective Bubble. The Tangent had turned his head toward him, and their eyes met for a brief second, but then he disappeared from view. Hopefully coming to save him. Surely Kaine’s friends were enough to—

Michael’s vision bounced, then went blurry. It bounced again, as if he were on some amusement park ride that jolted his body. Colors smeared together, getting blurrier and distorted. Stretched, darkening, covered in mist, now brightening, everything turning white. He tried to call for Kaine again, but he couldn’t get the words out. Then he was moving, picking up speed, catapulting into a brilliant light, unable to feel anything. There was a terrible rush of noise.

What…? His mind couldn’t form the thought, much less speak it.

The atmosphere popped, and his eardrums felt as if they’d erupted. He screamed—the sound of it was close and contained and dulled, as if he were inside…

A Coffin.

Something hissed loudly; then a bright line of light appeared above him. NerveWires snaked out of his skin and back to their cubbyholes. His body was soaked from head to toe, and every part of him ached.

How had he Lifted? Kaine had been coming for him. Maybe he’d—

Agent Weber’s head appeared above him as the Coffin door swung open.

Her.

Again.

“How’d you find me?” he asked, though the words came out slurred and wet-sounding.

“It wasn’t that hard,” she said, tilting her head so that her face lined up with his. “I did program you and Kaine, after all. Might as well ask me how I find my own nose.”

Michael tried to sit up, the pronouncement like a charge of electricity through his joints. He flailed his arms and slipped and smacked his head.

“Get out, get showered, get dressed,” Weber said, looking away. “You have ten minutes.”

CHAPTER 17

THE REAL WORLD

1

She was waiting for him at the little table in the hotel room’s kitchenette, her hands folded in front of her, resting on the wooden surface. She was dressed in the same clothes she’d worn at the World Summit, or something similar. Blazer, skirt, blouse, heels—she looked like a businesswoman. She always did. She nodded toward a chair directly across from her. No one else was in the room.

“You should’ve brought some security,” Michael said, trembling with anger. “I should choke you to death right now. With the hands you made me steal from Jackson Porter.”