"Again and again with the protests." Lorelai flipped through the channels until finding a documentary on the new and improved 'Self-driving cars—the twenty-fifty version', and retrieved her popcorn from the microwave as it beeped.

Another day in her moderately-sized house in her moderately modern suburban neighborhood; she couldn't complain. Price Laboratories had set her up comfortably here, surrounded by quiet neighbors who never bugged her, and far from the perils of the big city of San Francisco. She was isolated, unknown, and months of peace had passed since she'd been brought here, fresh from having delivered what they told her was a healthy baby that would be perfect proof of the success of the experiment.

But she would complain about the TV channels not diversifying their programs. She understood the anger, she did; but all she saw was news of violence, of death, of illegal abortions. News of men scolding women in the streets, reminding them of the law, accusing them of being too lewd. News of President Drum turning himself into more of a dictator than ever before. He'd gotten what he wanted with the abortion ban, and he'd turned his attention to other members of the population: hackers and the unhealthy.

Lorelai had always been a bit on the skinnier side—drugs had done that to her—but she'd always respected a person's right to have the body they wanted. It was no one's business what size pants one wore and what one liked to eat. And there were sometimes health issues preventing folk from being at a normalized weight. So for this psychopath to be hunting down those with body types that didn't affect him in the slightest made Lorelai happy she'd taken that deal with the laboratory to keep her identity safe and her name black-listed. Because the group he considered unhealthy included her, as a slightly underweight woman.

She popped a few morsels of popcorn into her mouth and chewed, enjoying the buttery flavor melting on her tongue. This had become her routine—get up, have breakfast, get dressed, go for a jog, shower, then lounge about watching TV for most of the day. Thanks to the settlement the lab gave her—a pretty substantial sum of money that had made her faint—she wouldn't need to work another day in her life, at least not for a long time. It was like an upgraded witness protection program, where she was sworn to secrecy on what she'd been through and what she'd done for the government, and in return she became filthy rich.

But it wasn't her style to flaunt it. She'd never had much money, and whenever she'd had a couple extra bills, they'd gone towards drugs. Now, the money went towards name-brand food, cool appliances she saw on infomercials, highly rated video games, high-class couture, and swanky shoes she'd never wear or show to anyone. She didn't have any friends, but didn't need any; this was her safe space, her cocoon, and she liked it this way.

The documentary started talking about past events and how vehicles had progressed in the passing decades. "Do you remember back in twenty-twenty-four, when self-driving cars were being mentioned, hinted at, but we weren't sure they'd be a thing yet? Look at us now," the narrator said, sounding way too excited. "Half the country is in possession of such cars, and soon enough the rest of the country will follow."

Lorelai huffed. "Not if you don't make them more affordable," she said, switching to a different channel again. "You don't seem to realize that that rest of the country you refer to is pretty poor, thanks to good old Dictator D." She stuffed her mouth with more popcorn.

When the president had been forcefully elected, she hadn't been born yet. She might not have even been a thought, yet. She was born in twenty-twenty-five, right at the beginning of the dictator's promises to heal the country, to heal the world, and bring it back to its roots. She grew up accustomed to his bullshit, much too used to the bloodshed on TV and the violence in real life.

And yet to continue seeing it, twenty-five years later, triggered her more than she'd expected. Every image of the man's face—grotesque and scarily youthful appearing, considering he couldn't be far from one hundred years old—made her want to stick a joint into her mouth. Or shove a needle into her arm. Or sniff a row of powder from her pristine glass coffee table.

The doorbell rang, thankfully throwing her out of her nightmarish memories of getting high to ignore the world's problems.

The doorbell never rang; she never had visitors. Yes, she knew her neighbors—but from afar. They weren't on a bring pie to the house kind of level, and to be fair, she didn't even recall their first names.

She tiptoed to the door and glanced through the peep-hole. A handsome man, likely not much older than her, was on the other side, looking around himself, taking in the scenery of clean-cut yards and white-picket fences choked with red, white, and blue flowers. He wore a sleek, well-pressed suit. Possibly a business man come to sell her some product that she absolutely had to have?

He didn't give off that open your door and let me sell you something vibe. A missionary, perhaps? Those did still exist—the ones who went from door to door to sell people on religion.

Though most of us have deserted religion by now.

"Miss Greg?" He squinted up at the peep-hole, as if knowing Lorelai was looking through it. She gasped and jumped backwards, one hand on her heart.

"Who are you?" she yelled through the door, approaching her hand to the lock. She was shaking. "What do you want?"

"I work for Price Laboratories," he said, his suave voice carrying under the threshold. His deep, yet friendly timbre shocked her. "Here." He shoved something into the mail slot, and it fell at Lorelai's feet. "My ID, in case you doubt me."

She had been doubting, because Dr. Price himself had told her she'd never hear from him or anyone at the lab, ever.

"You did your duty to us, and we won't come for you again, Miss Greg. Lorelai. Rest assured that you can pursue a more or less regular life now, and though you'll never see us, we'll always be there to ensure your protection."

She fetched the ID from the floor, gaze narrowing on the Price Laboratories logo, and the blurry face in the top left corner. It resembled most other badges at the lab, she recalled. They were all so worn out that you couldn't tell who they belonged to, aside from their names. Spillage of chemicals and explosions had affected almost all ID's she'd glimpsed while staying there; so to see this guy's badge just as used up was reassuring.

He's not lying about where he comes from, at least.

"Jacob McKenzie," she whispered, reading the guy's name. She didn't remember it, but then again, she hadn't met everyone who worked there. Only the doctor, a few nurses, and a few lab-workers who'd collected samples from her. He could have been someone from the front-staff, or even deeper underground. Or maybe a government representative.

She kept hold of the badge and slowly unlocked the door. When she pulled the thing open, she found him standing there, staring at her, neutral-faced and frozen. He held a briefcase in one hand, and outstretched the other to get his badge back.

"May I come in?" He didn't smile, didn't frown. He was utterly expressionless, which contradicted the friendliness of his voice. And he looked young, too; too young for a representative of such a well-established, undercover governmental laboratory.

His abrupt change in demeanor—from friendly to too neutral—rubbed Lorelai the wrong way. "What do you want?"

He flinched as he fidgeted in place, antsy, eager to get into her home. "Like I said, the lab sent me."

"Right, and the lab told me I'd never hear from anyone working there after I left. So, let's try this again," she pinched her lips, "what do you want?"

She wasn't usually so testy, so feisty, but something about this sudden appearance at her door wasn't sitting well with her. The paperwork she'd signed, the discussions she'd had with Dr. Price—all had led her to believe she'd never be bothered by them again. She'd been sworn to silence, and she'd been good about upholding that vow. She was only allowed to discuss the program with other participants; other women who, as it turned out, were placed in the same neighborhood as her.

But she hadn't seen them in weeks, and hadn't been tempted to tell anyone her story. So if not to punish her, why had this Jacob McKenzie come here?

"It's a sensitive matter that's better discussed inside, away from curious ears," said Jacob, lowering his voice and leaning closer to her. "Your neighbors have been observing me since I parked. And I get that you're uncomfortable and distrusting my presence here, but I assure you, this is important."

Lorelai crossed her arms, standing vigil in the threshold. "And again, Dr. Price told me I wouldn't be visited by anyone at the lab, so—"

"—you wouldn't be visited unless something was up," cut in Jacob, his eyebrows scrunching. He gripped the briefcase tightly as he shoved his ID into his pocket. "And something has come up, Miss Greg, so would you please let me in so I can inform you of it?"

She gritted her teeth, hesitating. Gripping the door, she pushed it closer to the frame, debating slamming it in his face. But she thought otherwise, remembering Dr. Price's words. They were watching her, somehow, of that she had no doubt. They'd see this on some camera they'd have planted nearby, and if something was amiss, someone would come.

"Fine," she said, moving out of the way to let Jacob in. "But make it quick, because I don't want any trouble."

She led him to the living room, hurrying to discard her half-eaten popcorn and turn off the TV. He sat on the sofa, a bit stiff-backed for her taste, and set his briefcase on the coffee table to open it.

"Like I said," he paused, running a hand through his sandy, dark blond hair, "this is important. I was dispatched to you specifically, to keep you apprised on some... events at the lab."

"Apprised?" Lorelai almost snorted at his fancy language. Who did he think he was talking to? "Events? What events, and how do they concern me?"

Jacob grew somehow stiffer. "They concern you because they are regarding the child you gave birth to a few months ago."

A silence so piercing swept through the room, it felt like ice wrapping around Lorelai's bones.

The child.

She hadn't thought of the baby since she'd left the lab, with the vague impression that something ominous had happened while she was in there. A strange time-lapse, missing memories, creepy sensations during the pregnancy—she'd stashed all the fears and concerns deep into her brain, not wanting to dwell on them. She'd done her duty, like Dr. Price had said, and been compensated for it. Why would the child, that she'd willingly given to them for the rest of their experiments, concern her anymore?

"What about it?" Lorelai regretted taking the popcorn away, as she'd have welcomed a mushy, buttery piece right about then, to divert her thoughts.

"The child," he cleared his throat, "the children are out of control."

Children.

She hadn't been alone in signing up for the experiment, as she'd later found out. There were a few quick therapy sessions after the birth, a few communal meetings with Dr. Price, that she'd shared with three other women. They'd bonded somewhat, but hadn't kept up communication too much once they were driven to the suburban neighborhood and given their homes and new lives.

And now this dude showed up telling her that not only hers but the other women's children were up to no good?

"They're infants," she said, more to herself than to Jacob, who was now rummaging through his briefcase. Lorelai sat across from him, on a chair, so she couldn't see what was inside. "What could they possibly be doing that you'd consider out of control?"

"I can't get into those details," said Jacob, extracting a few papers that he held up to read. His eyes were a dark, nighttime forest green, she noticed; flickering with yellow when he moved about, but mostly obscure. Not unkind, but focused. "But we need you back to soothe them. Only images and sounds of their mothers seem to placate them."

"Images and sounds?" Lorelai sat back in her chair and cocked her head. "So you've been showing it pictures of me? That's... freaky."

"Pictures and footage." Jacob closed the briefcase, but kept several papers in his grasp. "They need to hear their mothers too, in order to calm down."

She shook her head. "Okay, but what are they doing that you're claiming is out of control? Like I said, they're fucking infants. What, are they crying too much? Drinking too much formula? Wait," she snorted, "did you come here to get breast milk from me? I thought that wasn't part of the contract, Dr. Price said—"

"—Dr. Price wants me and my associates to gather the mothers and bring them back to the lab." Jacob's gaze was stone-cold, piercing through her. He pressed one hand atop the briefcase, the other still clutching the papers to his chest. "Whatever you were told before, all the documents and waivers you signed—consider those forfeit."

Lorelai arched an eyebrow. "Forfeit? All of it? I find that hard to believe." She eyed his briefcase, curious what other nonsense he had in there. "We were put through rigorous interrogations and therapy sessions to not speak of any of this, and now you're at my doorstep telling me to forget about it all? This makes no sense."

"Look, Miss Greg. Lorelai, can I call you Lorelai?" Jacob's firm posture melted, and he scrubbed a hand over his face. He was tall, and his arms filled out the suit jacket he was wearing. He gave off the airs of a bodybuilding businessman, not a super secret lab-worker. "I don't have time for this. Myself and three others were dispatched to locate you and the other mothers. We're never let out of that lab, ever. We had special circumstances, and were each given a file—I got yours. But my associates... all three have defected. Or vanished. Or were hurt, I have no idea. Whatever happened, I lost contact with them, and I can't reach them. And I'm screwed if I come back empty-handed, or with only one of the mothers. I need you to come with me. I need all four of you to come with me."

Lorelai wanted to understand this guy's distress, and he was definitely coming off as sincere, now that he'd broken down and showed himself. He wasn't hiding behind a mask of neutrality, and wasn't rigid with professionalism anymore; but Lorelai didn't yet know if she trusted him.

"So what do you want me to do about it?" Lorelai got up, finding that her legs were turning numb. She needed to walk, to restore some strength to her muscles. "I could come with you, I guess, but I..."

"I want you—I'd like you to call the other mothers." Jacob was dead serious. His voice was low in his throat, and his features were back to their neutral appearance. "You have contact with them, don't you? Help me succeed with the mission I've been given. Call them, convince them, convince yourself to come with me. We need you."

Lorelai stared at the cell phone she'd left on the kitchen counter. Sure, she had the other women's numbers. And sure, they'd turn up if she asked them to. But why would she? How could she be certain Jacob McKenzie was speaking the truth?

"I need proof," she said, glancing at Jacob as she walked backwards to the counter.

"I showed you proof," he pulled out his badge and dropped it on the coffee table, "with this."

She snickered. "No, I need more proof. That's not enough. Any dude from that lab could have found some way to sneak out and fuck up the operation Dr. Price was working on. You say he asked you to do this?" She narrowed her gaze. "Prove it."

Jacob stood and marched up to her. She stepped backward, reaching behind her for the counter, not sure what she was looking for—something to defend herself were he to attack her—but he stopped before coming too close.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He kept his distance, but handed her the papers, those he'd been holding on to for dear life. "Here's your proof," he said, gesturing at her to take the documents from him. "See for yourself."

She took them, and looked down. The first paper was a letter, saying more or less word for word what Jacob had said... and signed by Dr. Price. She knew the signature—it had been all over the paperwork she'd read while enlisting for the experiment, and before leaving it. Four other signatures were there, including Jacob's. The others, she assumed, were the three defective associates.

Probably took advantage of the situation to break free from that place. I was under the impression all employees lived there and weren't allowed out unless terminated.

The other papers were notes from Dr. Price, which she skimmed over, but didn't concentrate on—she'd seen what she needed to see, and thrust the documents back at Jacob.

"No one, no one is permitted outside of the lab unless there are extenuating circumstances," said Jacob, returning to his spot on the couch. "I'm here, so you must be aware that something is up. And if I'm told to bring you in, you're to come in. That's part of your agreement, whether or not it's printed on paper."

He was right, she knew. Dr. Price hadn't put it in writing, but he had mentioned at one point how experiments could go wrong later in the process. He however hadn't anticipated anything would happen with these babies.

"We appreciate you donating them to our cause," he'd said, making Lorelai cringe at the way he spoke of the infants as if they were items, not human beings. But he was a scientist, and he was working towards a greater humanity, or so she'd thought.

Flashes of angry babies swarmed her mind. Babies screaming incessantly, refusing to drink, kicking at their caretakers, being overall terrors. Acting exactly the way she'd always been terrified of, and reminding her why she'd never wanted children in the first place.

She picked up her phone and searched through her text messages for her group chat with Esme, Tegan, and Auryn.

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