When the room went dark, she heard her name. But not her name, her name. Angelique, Angel to her friends, sat in the movie theater waiting for the game to begin and was momentarily thrown off by having her contact’s name be said in the movie’s dialogue.

Did they get caught? Was the State Security Administration already waiting outside for her, that by entering the theater she had signaled her guilt as a spy? And what about Octavia Charles, her contact? Was she already here?

The answer came with a gentle whisper from behind her left ear.

“Stop panicking.” The voice hissed, trying to be firm and gentle at the same time. “Do you think I would really communicate my real name so openly?”

Angel felt the presence of the person fade backwards as they obviously leaned back. Immediately, she dug into her purse and retrieved a pack of cigarettes and offered one to the voice. This was as much to give purpose to the whisper as it was part of the signal that she understood the message. The cigarette was taken and the click of a lighter followed shortly after.

The game was on.

She needed information on Caleb Turner, the leader of the New Grand Army of The Republic, and she needed it yesterday. NewGAR as the SSA called it was a domestic terrorist organization, attacking the institutions that Vladimir Lenin and Leon Trotsky had built in Russia and Stalin helped import to the former United States. The now United American Socialist States.

Canada had been absorbed as had Mexico, and much like the Soviet Union, they were not wholly absorbed, but rather made into semi-autonomous member states. The United States still nominally existed, but was now just a part of a larger nation that offered little distinction between the two; again similar to Russia and the U.S.S.R.

Caleb was born just before the Grand Summer Revolution of 1934. In February of that year, newly elected president Franklin Roosevelt was assassinated before taking the oath of office. It was quickly decided that, per tradition, John Nance Gardner would take over as president, but his elevation and the failure of his policies to help solve the Depression gave Trotsky, already in exile, the fertile ground to seed his revolution — and the chance to return to Stalin’s cold embrace.

So Caleb remembered The United States from stories and books hidden away by his grandfather, and wanted that vision for the future of his country. By the end of 1978, he’d organized NewGAR and began his propaganda machine. He began calling himself the Last American.

That’s what had landed Angel in this movie theater. She was ready to learn from the Last American — about the country stolen long before her mother was even born.

She barely noticed the man sit down next to her, popcorn in hand, laughing at the scene on the screen as if he’d been there the entire time. She felt movement behind her as the woman she was supposed to meet abruptly left.

The man whispered, just above the movie “Octavia said you’re here to learn.”

Was this Caleb Turner?

“I am. My great-grandmother was part of the Blue Belles in 1935.” Angel said, keeping her voice to the same volume and not looking at the voice next to her. “When I was little, my father would tell me stories of the push back against the Reds.”

“Dangerous people your family.” The voice said, dispassionately. “Those memories should have been left in the past.”

Panic began to well up inside Angel. She had assumed that the man was Caleb, but had she been so blind to how the game was played that she had just killed herself?

She looked around for the first time and saw that besides the man and herself, the room was completely empty. She thought she had seen people in the theater when she arrived, how had she missed them leaving?

“Take care sister, if I were SSA you would not be breathing.” The man said, taking another handful of popcorn. “My name is Warner Gilbert, Magistrate of The People’s Committee for Public Safety. We could use your help.”

The People’s Commission was worse than the SSA. She had no choice in her answer. The story of Jack of jack-o-lantern lore had been cursed to walk the Earth because he’d tricked the devil and been both saved and prevented from entering Hell, but because he’d made a deal with the devil, heaven wouldn’t let him in. This was that. The People’s Committee was so feared that just by having this meeting, she would never be safe again.

She could only answer one way.

“What do you need me to do?”

Outside ‘Olivia’ climbed into a waiting car and sped off.

“She was approached by some guy. As I was leaving he said something about being part of the Committee?” Celeste said.

“She’s dead to us now.” Caleb said steering the car gently through traffic. A block out, he backed the car down and was doing what he said was surveillance run. “Even if she refuses, she’ll be poisonous. All her friends and loved ones will know she was approached and will assume that since she’s still alive that she’s in bed with them.”

A short turn without a turn signal let him check for any cars making the same unexpected turn. They appeared to be alone.

“But what if we reach back out, try to see…” Celeste started.

“No.” Flat and firm, leaving no room for discussion. “Look, you say you’re not from here, and I can’t imagine what corner of the English-speaking world you’ve come from that would make you this naïve about the American States, but no one knows you. You don’t seem to exist, and since you asked for help finding your friend, well, keep scratching my back and I’ll try to return the favor.

The truth was that Celeste really wasn’t from here. She wasn’t even from 1985. Celeste Whitlock, originally Banfield, was technically from 2057, but even that wasn’t entirely correct. Born in 1881 in San Francisco, she’d met her husband, James Callahan while trying to save people in the 1906 Earthquake. Shortly after saving him, he’d returned the favor and changed not only her life but the future because he should not have been there to save her. Her destiny was to lay in an unmarked grave either forgotten in Golden Gate Park; one of the rumored forgotten emergency burials. Or she was forgotten in a mass grave in Colma south of San Francisco. It was James Caleb was supposed to be helping her find.

“Well, Mr. Turner.” She said crossing her arms. He was beginning to relax as his surveillance detection routine was coming to an end without any obvious tails. “What now?”

As they made their way through the streets of the UASS’s Capital of Chicago, Celeste grew frustrated, hoping that James was out there. Caleb’s silence to her question left her feeling used.

The truth was, he knew where James was but he was doing something far more important and while he certainly was using her, he was also buying time to protect all of them.

Back at the movie theater, watching Celeste’s car drive away, James pounded his fists on the steering wheel. He was that close, all he would have needed to do was jump out, grab her and travel away from this nightmare. Except, he’d been forced to leave the Anti-Chronometer, their time travel device, hidden away from everyone. If he’d done that, he would have killed them both.

Caleb seemed to trust him—and her apparently—but if he would have blown their cover, Caleb’s reaction could very well be violent.

Magistrate Gilbert walked out of the movie theater alone. James quickly recomposed himself.

“Back to the office, Comrade.” He said climbing into the back seat. “Our work is done. For now.”

James nodded and put the already running car into gear and pulled into traffic.

I’m coming Celeste. Just gotta wait a little longer than our 10 seconds. He thought to himself navigating the car into the Party Only lane.

Inside the auditorium, the movie continued to play. Tears streamed down Angel’s face. In her hand, the small illegal pistol she’d brought just in case, caught the stray tears.

They had given her a choice, but the end result would always be the same. No friends. No family. No one to love her. No children.

The rest of the Party would never accept her, she was an unwilling collaborator; a traitor protected by the secrets she would give. The rest of the world would know that she was still alive because she now traded in information about them and thus, would never give her anything to be used against them.

She pressed the gun to her chest, right above her left breast and directly over where her heart was. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes tightly, and squeezed the trigger quickly, before she could change her mind.

The pop from the .38 was muffled, enough that it wouldn’t draw attention, she hoped. The silence that followed was both terrifying and soothing. There really wasn’t much pain, just coldness.

As the room grew dark, she heard her name, calling her to whatever awaited her next.