They served Freya tea with lemon in a strange glass with a metal holder, and she immediately took a sip. If, in the middle of a cataclysm, with a bright laser beam searing the sky outside, the Pruner ordered tea with lemon—then, damn it, you drank the tea. Even if fear kept Freya from feeling the taste, and the tea just burned her lips and tongue.
Because Freya had been cast in his role—the Pruner’s. And no matter how insane the coincidence, this was her only way out. Especially with the door locked behind her.
Under the circumstances, the question of who “the Pruner” actually was felt beside the point.
Freya sat in a modern armchair in a loft-style living room with exposed metal beams overhead and white-painted walls. The apartment was lit by blue moonlight filtering through the window and by candles they had lit just for her. The air smelled of spent matches and lemon. People in black bent carefully around her.
It turned out there were four of them, and they introduced themselves as the Delta-Null squad. But their black uniforms bore no insignia, and dark-lensed gas masks concealed their faces. The filters in their masks garbled their voices, rendering every word as cold and guttural as a robot’s. Freya, who had a keen ear for accents, could make out neither their origins nor even their gender.
And Delta-Null treated Freya as the Pruner. They offered her a terrycloth robe and their loyalty. They acted like it was her apartment. They spoke to her like they knew her. Realizing there was no arguing with them after all the greetings, the deference, and the robe, Freya blurted it out.
“What if someone else had come? Would you have mistaken them for me, too?”
Her hand flew to her mouth in horror, and she had to grab it to stop herself. But Delta-Null weren’t surprised. On the contrary, one of them straightened his posture as if Freya were reprimanding him.
“No one else could have come,” he answered, each word stressed. “You arrived, milord, at the precise minute. As per protocol. Believe us, we will react if the protocol is breached.”
Like the soldier captured by Susan, Delta-Null had protocols, and they followed them without question. Whatever criteria they were using to identify her as the Pruner, Freya had no intention of disappointing them.
Because these were exactly the kind of people who showed up at your parents’ house if you screwed up. And right now, it was her own life—Freya’s life—hanging by a thread.
“How much time do we have left?” the woman asked, sipping her tea.
The Delta agent in black who had been speaking to her—the one Freya had mentally nicknamed “the Chief,” since the other agents stayed silent—glanced at his watch. There was also the Tall One, who’d met her, now standing on her other side. The rest of the Delta-Null squad were indistinguishable.
“Ten minutes for tea, milord,” the Chief said courteously. “After that, we must depart for the Sanctuary to retrieve what is needed to save this world from the Merge. To save our branch of this world’s story, milord.”
Freya nodded. She’d already read the note the Pruner had left for himself. But even without it, she understood that the people in black, Delta-Null, expected two things from her. First — regal authority, and second — something close to divine power to save the world.
Their anticipation, their worship—evident in every gesture and glance—was terrifying enough to make her teeth chatter. But Freya had been through worse. She narrowed her eyes, peering at the Chief’s black gas mask from under her eyelashes.
“Is there really no one else?” Freya asked.
She had meant to sound ironic, but her voice cracked at the wrong moment, and Freya nearly panicked. She immediately got a grip. People readily forgive odd behavior in their superiors; they invent justifications for it. As before, the Chief took her at face value and bowed.
“You are the only Pruner who agreed to participate in the protocol,” he said humbly. “On behalf of the Deep State, Delta-Null extends its regrets that you must save our world on your own. But your participation is a great honor, and we will lay down our lives to execute the Merge protocols, milord.”
Freya took another sip of tea, finally tasting the bitterness of the lemon. It seemed these guys had no idea what was in the note they'd passed to her.
The rounded, uneven handwriting read:
If you find yourself in this branch of the story and don't understand why or what is happening, follow the destiny I have charted for you.
Delta-Null will take you to the Sanctuary, but the final destination is not what they expect.
Don't be surprised by anything. You'll know what to do instantly. Don't hesitate.
Former allies will try to stop you. The Prophet will ensure your protection, but he is not all-powerful. So I left a gift for you with Delta, something from this place. No one can predict it. So use it.
You being here is my doing. This is the very place the Pruners fear. But I know this is what is best for you.
Trust yourself, and welcome home to your new life. Now you are truly free and can choose who to be.
See you in New York!
With love,
Roman Who Found Meaning.
Of course, it was possible Delta-Null knew exactly what was in the note. Maybe this all was an elaborate test from the Deep State; if she tried to hide anything, they’d drop the act and execute her on the spot.
But the harsh truth was that she had to think fast — and act even faster. So Freya made her decision: the Pruner had decided to screw over his own kind. And she would do the same before the other Pruners came to cut her down. That, at least, was the one thing Freya understood clearly from the note's cryptic message.
But until she deciphered the rest of its secrets, disappointing Delta-Null was not an option. Freya felt like she was on the thinnest of ice, skating over a lake of the deepest shit. Her intuition told her the Pruners were a hell of a lot more serious than the pathetic Mr. K. After all, Mr. K had apologized to the Deep State for her. Now, the Deep State was apologizing to her.
Freya glanced at her watch as if she were in complete control. Seeing the ninth minute was nearly up, she took a final gulp of tea and set the glass down on the table.
“The protocols won’t wait, Delta-Null,” she said, rising from the armchair. “Give me my gift.”
The Delta-Null agents consulted their protocol pads and froze—and Freya’s heart froze right along with them. But then the people in black stirred, pulled a reinforced case from behind the sofa, and presented it to her.
Inside, on a soft lining, lay a sword in green scabbards—a Japanese katana. A scarlet enamel rose bloomed on the hilt, a gold thread woven through the green leather wrapping. Freya hadn’t even played with swords as a kid. But she reached out and took the weapon.
The sword felt awkward under her fingers, heavy. In movies, they usually drew katanas from their sheaths to flash the blade in the moonlight; Freya, however, wasn't even sure she could draw it without fumbling, or if there was some kind of tricky clasp. But the scabbard had a soft, woven strap. Freya slung it over her head and settled the sword against her back.
The weight of the sword felt surprisingly familiar. Freya quickly realized what it reminded her of: the drafting tube she’d carried her freshman year of college. The woman had dropped the painting course that first semester, but now, that familiar weight was a breath of fresh air. Freya squared her shoulders. If that piece of advice from the Pruner's note paid off, so would the rest.
After all, people only ever truly wish the best for themselves, and it was unlikely the Pruner wanted to die. Besides, she could see her reflection in the large mirror at the far end of the room—and in her suit, with the katana on her back, she looked cool as hell.
"Let's move out," the woman said, waving her hand.
That jolt of cool came in handy immediately: Delta-Null threw open the panoramic window, unscrewing bolts as indicated by their protocols. An unexpectedly hot breeze blasted into the apartment, and the white curtains billowed like flags.
Outside, more Delta agents awaited them — they were perched on a window-washing cradle. They'd brought it to descend, and it was convenient. It would have been hard to explain to the soldiers on the stairs that she was now a VIP.
As Freya stepped onto the windowsill and leaned out, the wind whipped at her hair. The platform ahead of her swayed in the gusts, knocking against the wall and chipping plaster from the facade. But Freya hesitated only a second — she stepped over the sill, leaped nimbly into the cradle, and commanded them to descend.
It was only then that she noticed the so-familiar yet utterly unrecognizable Manhattan around her. Freya had never seen the skyscrapers in darkness—they rose around her like giant cedars. And it felt as if the buildings themselves were swaying in the wind along with their platform.
And beyond the skyscrapers, where the bustling, smoky docks of Brooklyn used to be, the moon shone on the sea. Vast and boundless, it rolled its waves toward Manhattan from somewhere out on the horizon. Not a speck of land, not a single light, was visible—nothing all the way to the murky line where the sea met the night sky. From there, thick banks of fog were rolling in.
It was the same to the north, beyond the park, and to the east. Outside of Manhattan, where the rest of greater New York should have been, there was only water.
Freya’s mind was blank. The city, an island in the middle of a calm sea, was a fantastical, unreal dreamscape. But Freya had long realized she couldn't wake up, and she craved explanations.
The woman turned to the Chief and put on a stern expression.
“So, Brooklyn is gone, huh…” she said, drawing out the words.
It wasn't a question. Her expression was one of profound disappointment, tinged with the cosmic weariness known only to those with immense responsibility. The Chief bowed his head with a look of contrition and confusion.
“It happens sometimes, milord,” he said apologetically. “May it be like the first time, every time.”
“And none of the civilians notice?” Freya asked, masterfully concealing her shock.
“The narrativists have an explanation for everything,” he replied. “Or Delta squads and the National Guard will create one.”
Freya didn't continue the conversation and turned back to Manhattan. So, it was wonderful to be with people for whom disaster was nothing new, for whom this was normal—she told herself. But the fighter saw the same thing she did, which meant everything around was real. And it was precisely at that moment when Freya became truly terrified.
But on a platform swaying in the wind, hurtling downward, there are no pessimists. And when they reached a dark, damp alley beside the building—a service area residents never visited—Freya was the first to jump clear.
No one was waiting for them in the alley, though you’d think they would have at least sent an armored limo for the Pruner. Delta-Null fell into combat formation, consulted their tablets, and led Freya toward a street echoing with the furious blare of car horns.
It was too risky to contradict them directly, so Freya tried a subtler tactic.
“The city is gridlocked,” she said pensively, to no one in particular. “A helicopter would be much faster…”
The Chief answered.
“We don't yet fully understand the physics created by the Merge. There could be anomalies in the sky. We have an established protocol for ground travel.”
Freya knew nothing about cosmic cataclysms and all that sci-fi nonsense, but now she desperately wanted to learn. The process was already underway: she’d figured out that Delta-Null had seen a Merge like this before. Or at least, they thought they had. If the Pruner’s note was hinting that Delta-Null was in the dark, it was a safe bet that surprises were guaranteed.
But there was something off about the note itself, too. It read as if the Pruner from the future had written a message to himself. It was unbelievable — but no more unbelievable than the entire world merging.
Or—and a knot tightened in Freya's stomach—the Deep State was playing an elaborate game with her. But unless Mr. K had been conditioning her with white noise, a production on this scale—renting out all of Manhattan—would be too expensive. Even for someone of her stature.
As for the "ground travel protocol" and possible anomalies in the sky, Freya didn't have time to worry.
The street was loud and chaotic. The streetlights and buildings were dark; the silhouettes of people and cars flickered in the headlights like a shadow play. Trucks were stuck in a crawl toward the intersection. White-shirted office workers darted in front of them, fleeing their buildings. Cars slammed on their brakes and blared their horns, and the people screamed back at them.
There was no sign whatsoever of the evacuation mentioned in the emergency alerts. Somewhere near the intersection, a blue police beacon flashed, but people wandered off in every direction. Freya began glancing around for their ride, but Delta-Null gently pulled her toward the road.
Right in front of them, a clerk in a suit jacket and white collar was running, clutching a paper bag. He jumped over the sidewalk barrier—and immediately got hit by a red sedan. The sedan slammed on the brakes, the clerk was thrown onto the hood. Cookies and single-serving creamers scattered across the pavement from his bag.
“Jesus! Is he alive?!” Freya cried out.
Delta-Null rushed the sedan instantly. But not to check on the clerk. Instead, the agents wrenched open the car doors—they were unlocked. The terrified driver’s mouth fell open, confused as to how he could have forgotten to lock them. A stream of pepper spray hit him in the face, and he screamed.
The Chief booted the driver out of the car, and the Tall One got behind the wheel. The other two took Freya by the arms—gently, but firmly—and guided her toward the vehicle.
“Wait, that man…!” Freya protested.
“He's fine,” replied the Chief. “We're ten seconds behind schedule, milord.”
Delta-Null settled Freya into the back seat, and pressed against her shoulders from both sides. The moment the doors slammed shut, the sedan shot forward—Freya didn’t even have time to buckle up. The traffic jam problem was solved elegantly: they drove onto the sidewalk, knocking over mailboxes and saplings, and wedged into the intersection.
Such audacity set off a chorus of horns and shouts from the entire crossroads. A taxi driver tried to cut them off from the right. Suddenly, a retractable parking bollard shot up from the pavement in front of his yellow hood, mangling the taxi’s bumper and pinning the car in place.
Delta-Null gunned it. A police car yielded, letting the frantic sedan pass, and they burst onto a nearly deserted Park Avenue. At this point, Freya finally managed to buckle her seatbelt, though the sharp turns barely jostled her—the solid shoulders of the people in black held her fast on both sides.
Outside, the speed turned the world into a blur. Up ahead, another construction site blocked the road. Freya heard the Chief command the Tall One from the front seat.
“Punch it, we’re one and a half seconds behind!”
“Where the hell are we rushing to?!” Freya exclaimed.
“Brake!” the Chief barked.
In that same instant, the sedan slammed on its brakes. The car shrieked, black smoke pouring from the tires. The Tall One in front wrenched the wheel, fighting to keep the vehicle straight. The sedan tore through construction tape, drove into a concrete ring—shearing off its side mirrors—and came to a dead stop.
Before Freya could exhale, the street ahead suddenly dropped away through the windshield. The sedan lifted off. It took her a moment to realize that a construction crane had hooked the concrete ring and was carrying them—right over the site.
Up front, the agents high-fived, the sound muffled to a dull thud by their gloves.
"A quarter-second late," the Chief sighed. "Sloppy work, Agent S."
So the Tall One behind the wheel was Agent S. He gave the Chief a sharp nod.
“It won’t happen again, sir,” he replied. Freya let out a nervous giggle from the back seat.
“So what now?” she asked, venturing a joke. “Are we flying the rest of the way, or are we going to carjack someone else?”
The Chief turned from the front seat to look at her.
“We land in two minutes and acquire a red Porsche,” he said. “We will exchange it for taxi number 25A. And then we will have arrived.”
“And what if 25A isn’t there? What if it’s, say, 15C?”
“25A will be there, milord,” the Chief replied gravely. “It is the protocol.”
As they were carried smoothly over the construction site, the car swayed gently. At their peak, they were thirty stories high, flying over concrete spires. In the sedan’s headlights, Freya saw that the crane driver’s cab was empty—the machine was operating on its own.
Freya didn't dare ask why. It seemed no one else was surprised by it. Moreover, the Chief gave an order, and the agent to Freya’s left began to switch places with Agent S. As they shuffled around, the concrete ring began to swing more violently. Freya couldn’t take it anymore.
“What the hell are you doing?!”
“The protocol requires our most reliable driver, and we don't have time to wait for reinforcements,” the Chief said, turning to her again. “But we will manage. Nothing threatens your mission, milord.”
With standards this insane, Freya thought, it was amazing they seemed to expect so little from the Pruner. She glanced over at Agent S beside her. He was sitting stock-still, like a statue, clearly ashamed.
Once the crane deposited them on the other side of the block, the race resumed with a new fury. The sedan tore down the empty street toward the Brooklyn Bridge. Intersections flew by in a blur—Freya noticed they were all blocked off by the police.
But just as they were picking up speed, they reached the cloverleaf interchange for the bridge. It was completely gridlocked. Delta jumped out of the car, and amid the astonished shouts of bystanders, they hoisted Freya over the concrete barriers to the adjacent lane and leaped after her.
Here, on the bridge exit, it was empty—for just a second. From the oncoming lane, engine roaring, a red Porsche with the top down shot out. The sports car only sped up upon seeing Delta and Freya in front of it. Then it suddenly braked, cranked the wheels, and spun across the road, leaving black tire marks.
The agents in black shielded Freya with their bodies. The Porsche slid past them another six feet, and Freya saw the driver, an Asian man, pinned by the airbags. They deflated instantly, and Delta-Null dealt with him the same way they’d dealt with the sedan driver—they blasted him with pepper spray and threw him out.
Freya wasn't even surprised when, after a breezy ride down the highway, Delta-Null slammed on the brakes and leaped from the overpass. The drop was about ten feet, but two agents dropped down first and caught Freya in their arms.
The yellow taxi was waiting for them in the parking lot below, filthy and unlocked, like everything Delta-Null touched. When they settled Freya in the back, she saw the license number: 25A.
They took off, weaving through Midtown. It was crowded, but everyone was streaming out of the buildings toward the highways and Broadway, so with the road mostly to themselves, the new driver managed without any crane stunts. The Chief checked his watch again.
“Arriving at the Sanctuary in eight minutes. Exactly on schedule, milord.”
The arrival was viciously abrupt. And Freya was thrown off guard.
The final destination is not what they expect, the note had said—but Freya didn't know what to expect either. You'll know what to do instantly, Roman had written, but Freya understood nothing. Former allies will try to stop you—did that mean the real Pruners?
And now, here she was, pressed on both sides by men in black. And she herself was pinning the katana between her back and the taxi’s grimy seat. Even if she were a master of the blade, she couldn’t have handled Delta-Null, let alone the Pruners. And she was no master of the blade.
The taxi turned between rows of cruciform apartment blocks and headed down a narrow alley. Blank brick walls rose on both sides, weeping moisture from air conditioners. It was only then that Freya finally registered the heat—humid, thick, and nothing like November.
“Four minutes,” the Chief said to the driver. “Hold it at forty miles per hour.”
Driving that fast through the alley was difficult, but the new driver handled it—the old taxi groaned, the steering loose, but it obediently took the turns. At the end of the street, the headlights locked onto a brick wall; the sanctuary, it seemed, was close. Everything would be resolved soon, and Freya’s nerves frayed even more.
“Two minutes,” the Chief said. “Push it to fifty, in case the speedometer’s off.”
They flew even faster. The brick wall rushed toward them. There were no turns, no exits, not even a garage door. Details were lost in the darkness.
Freya braced herself, ready for another stunt, be it flight or a secret passage.
But instead, at full speed, their car smashed into the wall.
The hood crumpled like a tin can, and the impact threw the chassis upward. Inertia launched Freya forward like a baseball. But before the seatbelt could cut into her chest, the airbag caught her—and brutally pushed her back into the seat. So brutally, in fact, that the blade Freya had been carrying on her shoulder now stamped into her back.
A dull ache throbbed in her chest from the impact. But she was, it seemed, alive.
And the men in black beside her were alive, too. One of them stirred to look at her.
“God damn it!” Freya yelled. “What was that? The driver is a half-second late?!"
Up front, the Chief cursed under his breath, drew his legs up, and kicked the jammed door open.
Freya watched as he staggered over to the wall and punched it. First tentatively, then, like something out of an action movie, he drew back and slammed his foot into it.
Then the Chief leaned back into the car.
“We were on time, milord,” he said. “The portal is malfunctioning.”
No, Freya hadn't misheard. The entrance to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters had failed. If it had ever worked at all, and if this whole thing wasn't just some mass hallucination. Perhaps with a little more imagination, Freya might have bought it. But what was happening to her felt too real—and a genuine fear began to set in.
The Chief, seeing her confusion, explained.
“We achieved sufficient velocity, unlike a random pedestrian, milord. There can be no mistake.”
Clearly, he didn't understand her—Freya's—feelings at all.
Then they all climbed out of the car and checked every corner around them, but it was a dead end—in both the literal and figurative sense.
Because it turned out there was no protocol for this scenario—for the case when even the Pruner didn't know where the Sanctuary was or what to do next. And that didn't faze anyone except Freya.
“Awaiting further orders, milord,” the Chief snapped, as if nothing at all had happened. The entire squad went ramrod-straight.
Either the accident had scrambled their brains, or their faith in the Pruner was too strong. Because they didn't relax even when no instructions came.
Freya said nothing. The squad waited, patient and still. Freya reached into her pocket and fished the Pruner’s note out, then read it again.
Right. The note had warned her that Delta wouldn't know how the protocols would turn out. That she would know what to do instantly. Not the most reliable set of instructions, but after the crash, Freya finally saw it.
She had to run.
The only problem was that, from this alley, there was literally nowhere to run.
Freya felt a tremor start in her knees. She needed to breathe. A long, slow inhale…
The awkward silence was broken by the piercing ringtone of her iPhone. Freya flinched and pulled her phone out of her suit pocket..
Instead of a number, the name “The Prophet” glowed red across the entire screen. And whoever this Prophet was, they clearly intended for his call to be answered—the option to decline was simply gone from the display.
The Prophet, it turned out, was no gentleman. Freya didn't even have to do anything, because a second later, the phone answered itself.
But did it really speak?
A strange sound issued from the phone on speaker. It was like the half-forgotten screech of a dial-up modem mixed with the static of an old television. It sounded like song lyrics played in reverse — unintelligible and frightening, yet possessing a perverted harmony.
Freya could have sworn she hadn't heard a single word. The phone emitted no human voice, nothing even remotely like one.
And yet, at the same time, Freya understood. She was being addressed to. The meaning came through, crystal clear and with a bone-chilling calmness.
It was The Prophet. And he wanted Roman to know that New York was rapidly losing its accumulated reserve of the futures. Therefore he, Roman, would have to find his own way to his destination. The Sanctuary. The Prophet could no longer guide him.
“Losing its accumulated reserves of the futures” sounded utterly terrifying. Not just conceptually—the idea that the future, like capital, could be saved up and squandered—but because at this point, Freya had absolutely no idea what was going on.
Secret agents, Pruners, portals—and nothing was working. Freya gripped the phone tighter and swallowed hard. The last thing she needed was to give herself away by speaking.
Even if the insane idea had crossed her mind, Freya wasn't sure how she would have answered. Some automatic part of her consciousness wanted to reply in the language it had just heard—and was lost, because no language had been spoken at all.
Because of this, it was tempting to think she was imagining it all—despite the fact that this was all clearly happening to her. Just as the Delta-Null agents were really happening, now forming a protective circle around her, shielding her from threats on all sides…
Oh god, the Prophet was reading her thoughts—just as clearly as she was reading his.
Another thought from the Prophet came through. Freya understood he considered the futures under control. He would contain the deviations caused by The Merge as more data came in and was ready to switch to crisis mode if the divergences kept spreading. He, Roman, did not need to intervene to mend the story.
It felt like The Prophet meant far more than Freya could ever grasp. The longer his thoughts poured into her mind, the more their meaning slipped away – like drawings in the sand erased by waves until they were nothing but faint, illegible traces. It was like stumbling into a graduate-level mathematics lecture by mistake.
Then, suddenly, the cacophony from the phone stopped. The sound changed. A piercing clarity returned to Freya’s mind. The Prophet was focusing, concentrating everything to deliver a single, vital thought.
He, the Prophet, had not called for a report. He wanted to warn Roman of the risks of leaving his destiny in his own hands. Traitor Illuminati were hunting the Deep State and would try to attack his Delta-Null group.
They would find them. And soon.