He heard the muffled crunch of bone as he hit the ground. The pain flared up and died in the same instant.

A cold tide swallowed Crane whole, and in his frozen delirium he felt a padded surface beneath him-like some sort of bed-and then he seemed to fall again and his eyes snapped open, and Kingston stared up at the spires of New York.

***

Francesca was not typically a woman of prayer, but as she arrived at work she thanked each God she knew of that she'd never indulged in twitter.

"You're trending!" The receptionist called out brightly as Francesca crossed the foyer.

Trending. She knew enough about that phrase to understand that the interview yesterday had gone off like a nuclear bomb. She wondered whether, in the fallout, she had won the war or lost it.

This morning's events had left her suspecting the latter.

She'd been dreaming-a rare, uncomfortable experience-only to find her eyes open and resting on the high white ceiling of her bedroom. A barely muffled chorus of yells was swelling in her front yard.

In a daze, Francesca walked across the room and threw back the curtains only to be blinded by an array of gaudy signs and banners. Eventually she could make out the sizeable crowd beneath the bright stream of colour, and took in the snarls and the jeers and apparent tears that broke out like a tropical storm at the sight of her appearance.

A protest. Oh, for God's sake. She pulled the curtains shut again.

It was earlier than she would have liked to get out of bed, but the noise was stronger than any stimulant. Francesca took her time in the shower, letting the hard, steady drum of water on her back drown out the yelling.

She dressed leisurely, cooked herself an omelette, and wondered if it was worth asking the gardner to re-seed the lawn this afternoon.

Eventually, at ten to eight, she knew she'd have to bite the bullet and head out there. She picked her smartest lavender duffel coat and held her briefcase close. As she undid the latch, she half expected the crowd to spill into her foyer but-and it was worse, almost-the two-hundred-odd people came to a standstill one by one.

They stepped away from her porch. They lowered their signs.

Aside from the occasional impatient camera flash, Francesca headed for her garage in near silence. Her heels clacked, and their eyes tracked her path. She could sense the hunger in the baited breath of dozens of reporters and disputers.

Eventually, someone broke formation.

"Are they safe in there, Dr. Lane-Riley?" A weak voice cut through the crowd. "I thought my boy was doing his time upstate. But he's not, he's with you, so could you possibly let me know that he's safe?"

Francesca swallowed and kept walking. If she spoke one word, everyone would demand her voice. After yesterday's interview she could not afford a single misplaced syllable.

"I'd like to know." The woman tried again. "It's not like anyone told me this was happening! Did Dennis know? Dennis Murphy?"

Francesca reached the car door.

"Dennis? My son, Dennis?"

"Answer her, bitch!" A hand gripped her shoulder and Francesca was forced roughly to the ground.

She yelled in shock before scrambling to look up at her attacker. A man almost her age with cigarette breath that would cling to the sleeve of her coat for eternity. She twisted madly, trying to find an opening in the forest of bodies. More hands found her coat sleeves. More voices.

"My daughter Victoria, she's a vulnerable kid who shouldn't be in there. Is this legal, can we appeal?"

"My son-"

"My friend-"

They clawed desperately at her clothes and her arms and her hair and Francesca tried to struggle through the bodies to her car. She emerged in the front seat and revved the engine violently, hardly caring whether they bothered to get out of the way, before speeding up the drive. She was saved the trouble of waiting for her gates to open, as they had already been bashed inwards and forced apart.

Francesca didn't really consider herself a vulnerable person. She'd nursed both parents through all the inevitable illnesses. She faced their deaths with only the most necessary of emotional breakdowns. She'd worked the past three decades for this: building up her profile, planning, campaigning. She'd punched through every glass ceiling she caught her reflection in and picked the shards from her fingers with a smile. She'd waited for technology to catch up with the machine that was her own goddamn mind. She could cope.

But, for every second of her drive to work, she felt like some monster had slipped its claws around her neck and crushed her throat.

***

As he picked himself up off the ground, Crane blinked round in numb surprise.

He stared up at the hotel. Down at the entrance. He looked up at the sky behind the city spires and tried to spot the seams behind which he'd see some alternate world.

He wasn't a criminal. Of course not. He'd worked hard at school, won a full football scholarship, and had been due to start college in the fall before the plague hit and Angie's sickness put any plans on permanent hold. He'd been disciplined, smart, hardworking if a little pessimistic-all traits that had kept his heart beating through three years of hell.

Crane laughed at the sky. Even as he heard them, his own thoughts seemed rehearsed.

A victim was stumbling across the sidewalk towards him and Crane withdrew his knife for another fight. So many fights. None of them real.

This one was smaller than the subway victim who'd busted his shoulder. A young girl, dead as she was frail, diving for his neck.

The blade slipped from his hands and landed at the victim's feet. Crane barely noticed. He had found himself standing in a convenience store, lit with the intensity of a film set. He heard screams. Someone's yell. An order.

"Crane! Keep that thing steady!"

His voice. Younger. Shakier than it had ever been facing a victim. "Yeah. Sorry."

The slow rhythmic chant filled his head: Angie, money, medicine... this is why I'm doing this, he thought as he held the gun tighter to the boy's head, I'm saving her. This is saving her.

In his reality, the victim's teeth sank into his neck. Hit an artery. Crane collapsed. It fed on him for a while, tearing at the fatty muscle in his legs and abdomen, until it waddled off, full, and Crane died and woke with his clothes and skin intact.

He picked himself up off the ground.

***

Man, parties were tedious, Francesca thought as she tossed back her head and let the wine rush down her throat. Networking was pointless when she knew everyone in the room had already googled her today. And it was hot in here.

It was some sort of gala. A prize table of floral displays and expensive wine stood centre stage at one end of the dimly-lit glass hall, and above hung the words: Celebrating Women in STEM. Sure, Francesca supported a notion that kissed her lab-coat-clad ass, but that didn't mean she wanted to show up for the social.

For an hour or so she made polite conversation with men and women who she forced herself to see as potential backers. Without this illusion, she would have never have endured the repetitive questions about her work.

What made you decide to start your project?

Did these young men sign on for this?

How did you get state approval?

Somewhat more practical than the demands from this morning's crowd but repetitive nonetheless. She began to mix and match her answers, just to stay entertained.

The night drew on. She refilled her drink. Talked some more.

"Ma'am." A hand was on her arm.

For a split second she tensed up, feeling the pull of a hundred protesters, but Francesca recovered quickly and turned, preparing up a smile, to see that she recognised the eager face behind the wine glass.

She met the eyes of her intern.

"Where have you been?" She sipped at her drink.

"Talking, I think, to a former British Prime Minister."

Francesca swept over the crowd behind Michael and caught sight of the blue pantsuit. "Yes. Great woman. We were at school together."

"Oh-oh yeah, your mom was British! You grew up in England." Michael barely missed a beat. Bless, so pleased to please. Like her own walking Wiki page.

"Smart kid." Her voice swayed slightly.

"Did you ever think of going into politics, ma'am? I've been considering politics."

"You wanna change things," She muttered, "Don't stick your face on a campaign poster. If I learned anything from my father, it was that."

He nodded awkwardly. "Right. Noted."

She made him go get them some more drinks, and then, as he stood at her flank with wide young eyes, she began to really study his features. He was attractive, probably, a lean kid with slicked back brown hair and trimmed whiskers. She'd given him the brief instructions to 'dress smart' partially as a test, and he'd passed with flying colours in a starched blue dress shirt and slacks. The choice was neither showy nor understated, which was probably why he'd thrived in this ballroom, hopping from party to party like some kind of entrepreneurial leech.

They stood together in the painful silence of distant orchestral music, but eventually curiosity got the better of her and Francesca cleared her throat.

"Michael."

"Ma'am?"

"The CCS. You've seen enough of the beta test. What do you think of it? Honestly?"

Michael deliberated long enough for her to finish her glass.

"I guess I'm a supporter of free will and all that, but..." He shrugged. "There was a shooting. In my hometown."

"A shooting?"

"Uh, about ten years ago now. Six people were killed. Some religious nut, I never... I never read the full report. The guy... well, they said he'd beaten up his girl or something a few years before. Got let out of jail early. Good behaviour, low capacity, budget cuts, they gave us a lot of reasons why he was released... what I'm saying is, if they could have just kept him in there..."

"The people who died would still be here." Francesca finished in solemn quiet. "I think I read about that one. West Auburn, right?"

"Yeah." His voice had grown taut.

"Those deaths were avoidable." She said. "I will make them avoidable.That's why I'm working on a solution."

Michael shrugged again. "My big brother was one of those six."

"I'm sorry."

It was all she could think to say.

It was too dark in this hall. The air was stifling. Without a word, Francesca put down her empty glass and headed for the bathroom. She swung open the glossy wood door, took in the huge gold space, and found Ms Jane Lennox fixing her eyeshadow in the mirror.

Francesca sucked in a long, cold breath.

"Dr. Lane-Riley." Ms Lennox smiled brightly.

"Ms Lennox. Some coincidence, huh?"

The journalist batted her lashes. "I'm interviewing tonight's prize winners. A filler report, really; it wasn't my first choice assignment."

Francesca doubted this, somehow. She nodded, and began the pretence of reapplying her own face.

"You're trending." Ms Lennox said coolly. "Isn't modern media incredible?"

"What do you hope to gain from this-this public frenzy?" Francesca gripped the basin beneath her palms so firmly she suspected it could crack. "You're a cable news journalist, so it can't be about the money. Is it a personal thing?" She laughed hysterically, tipsy and trembling, "Did I hurt you, somehow?"

The resultant silence was broken only by the sharp clink of makeup containers as they were sorted. Francesca watched Ms Lennox top-up the black paint that ringed her awful, bright eyes.

"The intellect and the resources to create a virtual reality." The journalist began to pack her tools away. "Highly marketable. Theme parks, maybe, or some kind of fantasy simulation. But you, Doctor, chose to build a prison. Give dear Jack my love."

Work done, she sauntered from the bathroom, heels clacking sharply against the marble floor.

***

There were around three dozen people who had taken refuge in the old hotel tower, and all of them seemed now to be gathered in the luxury dining room on the top floor. Crane had taken on each floor at a time searching, in a trance, for any sign of life. He checked as many rooms as he could be bothered to-and stopped once he found the half-decayed corpse in the deluxe suite on floor forty-two-but eventually as he neared the great double doors on the upper floor he heard voices swarm like wasps.

His hand hovered at the door but his palm turned of its own accord and pushed against the hard gristle of his chest, beneath which he heard the steady drum of a heart that was unmistakably his. An illusion. A computer program. Bullshit.

His hands swept involuntarily over his body, feeling desperately for any trace of the Victim's bite. But he found none. His skin was smooth, unbroken, unchallenged.

And he'd felt it, without a doubt, after his every atom was crushed by the Manhattan sidewalk...he'd surfaced on a bed with his veins frozen over.

A hollow thud sounded from beneath the doorframe, followed by a rush of cheers, and Crane finally burst through the door.

His people were barely crammed into the hall. The gilded tables and chairs had been shoved aside and the survivors had moulded themselves into a circle around Toria, who stood atop the empty buffet table like it was an executioner's platform.

Curled beneath Toria's boot was Jack Lennox.

His mouth was bloody and the way he held his side made Crane think Toria had kicked in a rib or two. As Crane tried to fight through the excited crowd, he watched her raise her boot once more. Lennox braced for impact, and any sympathy Crane might have felt was overwhelmed by the memory of being pushed off a roof.

"Why the fuck did you do that to Crane?" He heard Toria scream wildly, voice alight with rage, dark features glowing and spitting like hot coals, "We took you in, jackass, so why?"

Aside from the occasional grunt of pain, Lennox was silent. Odd, Crane thought, when the guy had hardly been shy about his motives up on the roof. An explanation right now would have saved his ass. As Toria kicked again the impact shunted his scrawny frame forwards, and Lennox caught Crane's eyes over the jostling crowd. The little bastard flashed him a bloody grin as if to say, oh, hey, I was right.

"Kick his ass, Toria!" Someone yelled.

"Little bitch deserves every blow! You kill Crane, we kill you!"

Crane recognised the voices as he pushed through the mass of stinking bodies. Alex. Sanders. Harvey. Old Elias. The Westerson brothers, who were hollering with the intensity of football fans. As the hysteria hit Crane at full force, he understood why Lennox now kept his mouth shut. Bad news was the father of anarchy. Smart kid.

"Hey," Crane finally made his presence known from the back of the room. "Assholes. I'm not dead."

Like some crude biblical parody, the crowd parted as they grew aware his presence. Crane launched himself onto the table and grabbed Toria's arm while she was too shocked to pull back.

"Stop." He spoke gently, letting her collapse against him, "He's had enough."

Her frame shook. "You... Jesus, I saw you hit the fucking floor and your head twisted and there was blood-"

He shook his head. "No. No. Look, I need to talk to you in private."

A hand latched onto his ankle. "Crane." Jack's voice was a feeble croak. "Can we trust her?"

With furious disbelief Toria swung between them both. "What's going on?"

Crane pulled her close and spoke under his breath. "We need to talk. Without..." He was aware of the eyes tracking their very movements. The executioner's platform had become a stage. "Without a crowd."

Her breathing finally slowed. She nodded wearily before gesturing to the body at the feet. "Him too?"

Crane pulled Lennox up roughly by the crook of his elbow, and nodded. "Him too."

Toria narrowed her eyes. "The kitchen. Behind the bar. There's nearest."

Crane faced the crowd. "Show's over, folks. Go get some rest. We're relocating tomorrow."

It was bittersweet to watch the familiar faces nod and disappear. They still listened to him now, but eventually the illusion of Kingston Crane, Hero of the Apocalypse, would flicker out for all of them.

Crane and Toria dragged Lennox into the sweeping kitchen space behind the dining room.

"Okay." Crane said quietly, "You gave me your proof. Tell me what the fuck you expect us to do about it."

"Proof?" Toria said sharply. "What proof? Proof of what?"

Lennox sighed. "I suppose this is the quickest way... Toria, let me show you the reset button."

She laughed shakily. "Reset button."

Lennox pulled a kitchen drawer open and Crane wondered how in three years the gleaming piles of cutlery within hadn't been swiped by some desperate thief. Perhaps things were programmed to re-spawn as and when they were needed. Just like-he felt a punch to the gut-just like the food crates he'd been so proud to have scavenged for everyone.

Lennox bowed like a magician and pulled a carver's knife from the drawer.

"Lennox! Shit!" Crane lunged a second too late as Lennox slid it across his throat. Blood sprayed, Lennox hit the ground in a spasm of shock, and for a few awful moments Crane and Toria watched his eyes flicker out. Then the body seemed to glitch and a moment later Lennox sat cross-legged on a pristine white kitchen floor, twisting the knife between his forefingers.

"Told you." He said, "Reset button."

***

The world was spinning, but it wasn't unpleasant. Waltzing in the eye of the storm seemed to grant her a level of clarity. Part of her knew she'd had enough to drink, but there was something nice about feeling so resolute.

Francesca was beginning to wish she had messed with the Lennox kid's immortality principle. But, still. There were other ways to fuck with the journalist.

She had the cab driver drop her at the lab, and she found herself standing above the technician's bay, watching the screens with interest. The inmates were gathered in a hotel building. Some sort of communal event on the top floor. Perfect-a closed system.

"Those boys are getting too comfortable. This is a punishment, isn't it?" She met the technician's eyes. Lana McCarthy, thirty seven, too reliant on this paycheck to argue. "Can you increase the AI numbers and spawn them in the hotel, please?"

The woman nodded slowly, clicked through a few protocol screens, and hit enter.

Francesca sat back in anticipation, feeling the control she'd lost to the journalist slowly creep back into her system.

***

"It's a trick," Toria stammered. "Has to be."

"No." Crane said quietly. "The same thing happened to me. After I fell. We're in a fucking simulation, Toria. None of this is real."

Toria's knees hit the floor. "Jesus." She muttered. "Jesus."

Everything afterwards happened very quickly. Alex burst through the door, and Crane clocked the blood on the boy's shirt, and the scene of chaos in the dining room behind him.

Victims. Dozens. A ridiculous, impossible number, running at any and all exposed flesh. People were already down, limbs torn off and whimpering as they were trampled in the carnage.

"How the hell did they get past my barrier?" Toria snapped wildly.

"They were spawned." Lennox said, "Something on the outside has changed. Crane, we really need to leave."

"Leave?" Crane could already hear the screams from the floors below. Reset button or otherwise, his people were suffering.

"No, he's right. Go." Toria snatched a bundle of knives from the drawer and thrust them into Crane's arms. "The kid's immortal, apparently, so do what he says. Whatever the hell it is you have to do."

Lennox was dragging Crane back into the dining hall before he could give his lieutenant a proper goodbye. The last he saw of her was a blur of motion as she pinned a victim to the counter by its arms and began to slash.

Crane stared down at the slight figure of Jack Lennox. He seemed to shudder at the sight of the victims encircling them, but the look in his eyes was cold. He'd seen this coming. Who the hell was he? A thousand more questions roared loud in Crane's head. But as the victims drew closer, only one seemed important. He turned to Lennox and handed him a knife from Toria's pile.

"How do we get out of here?"