I didn’t understand her. I didn’t like her. I felt like it was weird, having her at the table, saying so little, watching it all.

“I’m worried about some stuff that’s going to come to pass later, I think. I’m worried,” I said, telling her the truth. Then the lie, “I’m wondering if there’re ways to circumvent her, work around blindspots, or if blindspots are a consideration for what comes later.”

A story I imagined anyone aware and mentioned by Contessa’s power might have echoed. Contessa had been Cauldron and I had to imagine each member of that loathsome organization had faced that reality and asked a similar question before.

The only reason I didn’t was because I knew it was futile. I’d read literature on precogs. Determinism. Frankly terrifying.

I wanted to believe that the blind spots would accrue or change the result, but wanting to believe wasn’t actually believing.

It still made for a story to tell that was apparently believable and pitiable. Citrine’s expression softened for the first time.

“No, Antares. I don’t think there’s a way to change the course of events. If she said it, then you can hope she lied because the lie required less steps than the truth.”

I nodded, giving that nod extra emphasis, to sell the act.

“I don’t want to give you false hope,” she said. “Lies are very rarely less convoluted than truth. It’s not how she operates.”

I nodded, again with emphasis intended to betray an anxiety I didn’t feel. That was my excuse to backed out of my conversation with Citrine. My pretense for the conversation that didn’t betray too much.

Which wasn’t right. I did feel anxiety, but it was about other things. About my team, about the imminent disaster. About god-damned Amy, and doing what it took to ensure she got help, as harrowing as the doing was.

Amy. Fuck.

I walked over to a new seat, not next to or especially near anybody. I got my phone out, laying it on the table. I leaned over the table without sitting, thinking about framing.

First steps first. I looked Eric’s way.

“I want to have a discussion,” he told me, before I could open my mouth.

“Disciplinary?” I asked.

“Yes. More or less.”

“I’ll listen to what I have to, do what you require. But can I please call my therapist first? If you haven’t arranged one?”

“We haven’t. And no you can’t.”

“Is this because you have a missile flying toward Amelia Dallon-Lavere? I wouldn’t agree with taking that approach before giving her a chance, but—”

“No missile,” he said. “For now, sit in this chair next to me. We’ll review things.”