“It hurts my brain to think at,” Lookout said. “That’s a Witten particle flying around like a balloon with the end undone. Because life has to be hard, right? They don’t do that.”

“Witten?” I asked.

“Gravity particle.”

“Oh. In the past?”

“Yup.”

“That’s got to be Vista.”

Lookout turned slowly, then stared up at me.

She turned back to the screen, brought her head back, and swung it at the flat face of the cube.

Swansong caught her head before it made contact. Her voice was low. “People are watching.”

“It mucks everything up. There’s a giant smear in the middle of it and it’s impossible to pick things out.”

“Work around it,” Swansong said, her voice still quiet. “As much as we don’t want it to be true, others define us by how we act when we’re at our lowest and our worst.”

“I’m not that low,” Lookout said, typing now. “I’m frustrated.”

“Frustration can bring you down as easily as any other sentiment,” Swansong said.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

“Do we have any time travelers here?”

“Pretty sure we don’t,” I answered.

“No way to go back in time and tell Vista to not smear my crime scene recreation? Why did she even do that?”

“Headlights, to shed some light on the scene.”

“There are other ways to do that!”

“Voice calm,” Swansong said, her own voice quiet and firm. “Even when angry, we restrain ourselves.”

“Do you, though? You kind of rant sometimes,” Lookout said.

“When was the last time?” Swansong asked.

“This morning,” I said. “You didn’t like how your clone pierced the teabag when she put it in your cup.”

“In her cup,” Swansong said. “She pierced the bag she was placing in her cup and then she gave it to me while taking my cup.”

“Scandalous,” Lookout said.

“Do you know how I know it was my cup? Because hers is chipped and scratched from top to bottom. I thought she forgot and gave her the benefit of a doubt, that cow abused that graciousness, and she did it with a smile.”

“You don’t need to tell me,” I said. “I heard the entire thing while I was getting out of the shower.”

“I apparently need to tell you because you didn’t get the full picture. That weakling has died eight times and it wasn’t enough to teach her any sense.”

“By that definition you died too,” Lookout said. She was back at work, sitting on a case, keyboard in lap, typing. Apparently she could hold a conversation and work at the same time.

“No. Death is the province of failures. Between the two of us, I am doing fine, and she is the failure and eternal disappointment. Do you know how I know?”

“You have a better fashion sense,” I said.