“Innovation requires sacrifice,” Martin said. He reached behind his chair and pulled open a door that had been hidden within the paneling.

A dense web of glittering status updates—gossamer trails of YAY! BetterTacos for dinner! and Anybody know a good tongue modification service??—interlaced with raw Profile data. Some user’s holiday pictures burst from the web and splattered across the doorway. Before they were sucked back inside, Ambrose saw a big black dog with a fuzzy Santa hat and a massive pile of red and green gifts. These were replaced by someone else’s Friend list, thousands of tiny faces that dilated and stretched to slurp hungrily at the raw data as it flitted and spun away.

Hypnotized by the chaotic beauty, Ambrose watched until a pattern emerged. Thoughtstreams braided and thickened like DNA strands, working in time with other strands to create a pistonlike motion within the web. It resembled the inner workings of an ancient combustion machine, nourished and powered by Profile data.

Ambrose shivered. The thing—the engine—radiated an inhuman chill that corrupted the bitmapping of the office. Little fleshy patches of Martin’s face appeared within the leaves of the plant. One leaf was composed entirely of nostrils. Ambrose tore his gaze from the doorway to look at Mistletoe. He could see through her neck to the wall on the other side. Her pigtail slithered through the empty space.

He blinked, and she was whole again.

“Twitterbrained doorway,” she said.

“It’s some kind of engine,” he guessed. “Taking fuel from all those user Accounts.”

“Allow me to present the heart of Unison 3.0,” Martin said, standing up. A thin tendril of negative space from the center of the doorway licked the edge of his face, stretching his mouth into a frozen skeleton smile three feet long. Then it snapped back into place. “The gateway to ourselves. I’m pleased to give you the opportunity to beta test its capabilities.”

“Beta test?” Mistletoe asked.

“It means we’re lab rats,” Ambrose answered. And to Martin he said, “I’m done with this.”

Martin shrugged. “You’re free to go. Just remember, without calibration, your mind will fragment completely in a matter of days. What’s the point of going irreversibly insane when the antidote is within your grasp? I don’t want to lose you.”

The plant began to leak a yellowish, foul-smelling fluid onto the floor. Ambrose wondered what it would feel like to lose control of his mind forever. Would it hurt? Would he be able to remember what it felt like to be normal?

“All you have to do is make a single new Friend,” Martin said, “and you can have your life back.”

Mistletoe grabbed Ambrose by the sleeve. He noticed for the first time that he was wearing a dark blue suit identical to Martin’s, right down to the gold U on the lapel.

“Let’s go, Ambrose.”