I find Marcus in what we jokingly call his office – a converted storage room with walls covered in maps, photos, and string connecting various Church activities. He's staring at a photo of tonight's scene, the concrete scorched with symbols that my transformation warped into impossible shapes. He doesn't look up when I enter.
"Sarah's looking for you," he says. "More tests."
"I know." I close the door behind me. The room feels smaller than usual, cramped with unspoken tensions. "But you and I need to talk first."
Now he does look at me, and I'm struck by how old he suddenly seems. Not just tired – aged, like tonight took years off his life. "About what happened out there?"
"About what happens next."
He sinks into his chair – a battered office chair stolen from some corporate liquidation sale. The springs squeak in protest. On his desk, a half-empty bottle of whiskey sits next to reports and surveillance photos. Not like him to drink during a crisis.
"What do you want me to say, Vesper?" His voice is rough. "That I'm not worried? That watching one of my best people turn into... into..."
"Into a monster?"
"Into something I don't understand." He picks up the whiskey bottle but doesn't open it, just turns it in his hands. "Something that scares the hell out of every survival instinct I've got."
The darkness behind my eye pulses, like it knows we're talking about it. I remain standing, unsure if I should move closer. "The others feel the same way."
"Can you blame them? Half of them signed up to fight a cult. Instead they're watching reality tear itself apart and their own people turning into..." He trails off, sets the bottle down hard enough to make his desk rattle. "Jenkins quit. Walked out an hour ago. Said he didn't sign up for this kind of shit."
"Just Jenkins?"
"So far. But I've seen the looks. The whispers. They're scared, Vesper. Not of the Church anymore – of you."
The words hurt more than they should. These people are the closest thing to family I've had since escaping the Church. "What are you going to do about it?"
He's quiet for a long moment, staring at the photos on his wall. Finally: "What would you do, in my position? You've got an organization held together by spit and hope, fighting enemies that most people don't believe exist. Your best weapon against them just proved she can tear reality apart with her bare hands. And now your people are starting to wonder if they're on the right side."
"If you're asking me to leave—"
"I'm not." He stands abruptly, starts pacing the small space. "But we need... containment protocols. Guidelines. Something to make the others feel safe."
"You really think protocols will help? After what they saw?"
"No." He stops, faces me. "But it's either that or lose everything we've built here. Everything we're fighting for."
I think about James's theory about the Convergence, about my role in it. "What if what we're fighting for is already lost? What if trying to stop the Church is actually making things worse?"
"What are you talking about?"
I tell him what James found in the records. About my mother, about the possibility that every attempt to fight Them – whether by the Church or by us – is just accelerating the breakdown of reality. His face grows darker with each word.
"If that's true," he says when I finish, "then we're basically helping them. Every time we intervene, every time you use your power..."
"We're pushing things closer to the edge." I sink into the room's other chair, suddenly exhausted. "But if we don't fight them, they'll keep creating more people like their success tonight. More channels for Their power to flow through."
"Jesus." He runs a hand through his grey hair. "No wonder they're not bothering to hide anymore. They think they've already won."
"Maybe they have."
"No." His voice turns hard. "I don't accept that. There has to be another way. Something we're not seeing."
The darkness pulses, and for a moment I taste possibilities – other geometries, other ways of existing. I push the sensation away. "What if there isn't? What if this is just... inevitable?"
"Nothing's inevitable." He returns to his desk, starts shuffling through papers. "We're missing something. The Church, your mother, the Convergence – it's all connected, but we're not seeing the whole picture."
"Marcus..."
"We need more information. James said there were more records? Maybe more since you left?"
"Marcus."
"And we need to track their success case, figure out what they did differently with him. If we can understand how they're accelerating the process—"
"Marcus!" My voice comes out sharper than intended, making the lights flicker. I take a breath, force the power back. "You're not hearing me. I'm not just a weapon anymore. I'm not even sure I'm still human. Every time I use this power, every time I touch that other reality, I change a little more. Eventually..."
"We'll figure it out."
"Will we? Because from where I'm sitting, you've got two choices: either bench me completely and lose your best weapon against the Church, or keep using me and watch me turn into something worse than what we're fighting."
He's quiet for a long moment, studying me. "There's a third option."
"What?"
"We find a way to help you control it. Really control it, not just hold it back." He starts pulling files from his desk. "The Church spent years studying your mother, studying you. They must have learned something about how this power works, how to channel it safely."
"Yeah, and look how well that turned out for them."
"They were trying to use it. To control it." He spreads photos across his desk – surveillance shots of Church rituals, seeding attempts, their mobile labs. "What if we tried to understand it instead? Work with it rather than against it?"
The darkness pulses, almost like it's considering the idea. "That's dangerous."
"Everything about this is dangerous. But if James is right, if fighting this power is just making things worse..." He meets my eyes. "Maybe it's time to try something different."
"The others won't like it."
"The others don't have to like it. They just have to trust that I know what I'm doing." He starts gathering the photos into a new configuration. "We'll set up protocols, make it look like we're being cautious. But really, we'll be learning. Understanding. Finding a way to work with this power that doesn't tear reality apart."
I think about how it felt when I let go, how natural it seemed to exist in more dimensions than humans were meant to occupy. "And if you're wrong? If trying to understand this power just makes me lose myself faster?"
He picks up the whiskey bottle again, finally opens it. "Then I trust you to tell me when it's time to implement the failsafe."
"What failsafe?"
He takes a drink, then hands me the bottle. "The one where James puts a bullet in your head before you can become what the Church always wanted you to be."
I take a long swallow, letting the burn ground me in human sensation. "He told you about that?"
"He didn't have to. I've seen how he looks at you. Seen how much it costs him to make that promise." Marcus takes the bottle back. "Just... try not to make him keep it, okay?"
"I'll do my best." I stand, feeling the weight of decisions made and unmade. "What do you want me to do in the meantime?"
"Go let Sarah run her tests. Let us try to understand what's happening to you. And Vesper?" He catches my eye. "Remember that this isn't just about stopping the Church anymore. It's about finding a way forward that doesn't end with reality tearing itself apart."
I head for the door, then pause. "The others really won't like this."
"No, they won't. But they don't have to like it." His voice is tired but determined. "They just have to live long enough to see if we're right."
I leave him with his whiskey and his photos, his maps of a war that might be unwinnable. The darkness behind my eye pulses with something that might be approval or might be hunger.
Time to let Sarah see what I'm becoming. Time to understand what it means to be both weapon and warning, both human and something else.
Time to find out if Marcus's third option is really an option at all.
Or if we're all just rearranging deck chairs on a reality that's already sinking.