The young woman with the mechanic's coveralls introduced herself as Kira. Her companion, a quiet man with scarred hands and three months on his clock, was called Dev. Both had been part of the warehouse resistance, tasked with maintaining communication networks and supplies.
"Caron sent us as soon as he heard the vault team might have survived," Kira explained, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "It took us two days to track Elena, another day to convince her we weren't Timekeeper plants, and then she finally told us about this place."
"And you weren't followed?" Martha asked, already checking the hidden door's security.
"We were careful. Took three different vehicles, backtracked twice, went through the sewers for the last mile." Kira's expression was grim. "But I can't promise we're completely clean. The Timekeepers are everywhere. They've checkpoints on every major road, patrols in neighborhoods that never saw security before. New Greenwich is locked down like a military occupation."
Ray was kneeling beside Greta's cot, examining her injuries. She had a broken rib, possibly two. Cuts that had been hastily stitched. Burns on her wrists that looked like restraint marks.
"They interrogated you," Ray said quietly.
"For twelve hours." Greta's voice was hoarse. "Wanted to know about the vault team, about safe houses, about Caron's location. I told them nothing."
"How did you escape?"
"I didn't. Leon let me go."
Everyone in the room turned to stare at her.
"What?" Martha's voice was sharp.
Greta shifted on the cot, wincing. "They had me in a cell, draining my time in increments. Five minutes every hour, to keep me weak but alive for questioning. Leon came in alone, maybe three hours after my last session. He looked... different. Tired. Maybe even guilty." She coughed, pain flashing across her face. "He unlocked the cell, disabled the security cameras, and pointed to the door. Said, 'You have ten minutes before the shift change. Don't waste them.'"
"Why would he do that?" Sylvia asked.
"No idea. He didn't explain. Just looked at me and said, 'Tell Ray Shivers that some debts can't be repaid with time.' Then he walked away."
Ray's mind raced. Leon, the relentless hunter, had let Greta go. The Timekeeper who'd chased Ray across New Greenwich, who'd nearly caught them in the tunnels, had deliberately released a prisoner.
"It's a trap," Dev said from his corner. "Has to be. Let one go, follow them back to the others."
"Maybe," Martha said thoughtfully. "Or maybe Leon is having second thoughts about the system he serves."
"Timekeepers don't have second thoughts," Kira countered. "They're true believers."
"Everyone has second thoughts eventually," Sylvia said quietly. "When you see enough of what the system really does, what it really costs... it changes you. Even the believers start to doubt."
Ray thought about Leon's face at the Weis party, the way he'd studied Ray with something that might have been recognition. Not just recognizing Ray as a fugitive, but recognizing something in him. A mirror, maybe. Someone who'd been pushed too far by a system that demanded too much.
"We'll worry about Leon's motivations later," Martha decided. "Right now, we need to hear the rest. Kira, what happened to the others?"
Kira's expression darkened. "Marcus died during the extraction. Timekeepers cornered the distraction team in the bank. Marcus held them off so Vin and Greta could escape through a back exit. He... they drained him completely. His clock hit zero before the Timekeepers even stopped shooting."
Ray felt the words like physical blows. Marcus, who'd been his friend. Who'd accepted ten hours when Ray barely had any to spare. Who'd volunteered for the most dangerous part of the mission knowing he might not come back.
"Vin made it out with a bullet wound in his shoulder," Kira continued. "He's hiding in Milltown, at a safe house the Timekeepers don't know about yet. Greta was captured at the scene but escaped. The Timekeepers classified Marcus as a terrorist, said he was armed and dangerous. They're using his death as propaganda."
"Of course they are," Martha said bitterly.
"There's more." Kira pulled out a tablet—battered, but functional. She powered it on, showing them a news feed. "This is from yesterday."
The screen showed Philippe Weis at a press conference, standing behind a podium bearing the Weis Corporation logo. He looked composed, authoritative, every inch the powerful executive.
"—cannot and will not tolerate acts of terrorism against the time banking system that keeps our society functioning," Weis was saying. "The criminals who attacked our Milltown branch and murdered a security guard are enemies of civilization itself. One of these terrorists was killed in the act. The others are being hunted as we speak."
"Murdered a security guard?" Ray repeated. "That's a lie. The distraction team was non-lethal."
"Truth doesn't matter to him," Sylvia said, her voice hollow. "He's creating the narrative he needs. Make you all look like violent radicals, justify the crackdown, turn public opinion against anyone who sympathizes with the resistance."
The video continued. Weis's expression became grave. "I am also deeply saddened to announce that my daughter, Sylvia Weis, has been kidnapped by these terrorists. She was seen with them before the attack, clearly under duress. I am offering a reward of fifty years—fifty years of time—to anyone with information leading to her safe return."
Sylvia laughed, a broken sound. "Kidnapped. He's telling the world I was kidnapped. That I'm a victim, not a willing participant."
"It's smart," Martha admitted. "If you're a victim, you can be 'rescued' and brought back into the fold. Your betrayal becomes temporary insanity, not actual rebellion. He can save face and maybe even save you from prosecution."
"I don't want to be saved." Sylvia's hands clenched into fists. "I want to burn his entire empire to the ground."
Kira fast-forwarded the video. "There's more. After the press conference, they aired 'interviews' with captured resistance members. Obviously coerced, probably tortured. People saying Ray Shivers is a murderer, that he killed Hamilton for his time, that the resistance is just common criminals pretending to have a cause."
Ray watched himself being painted as a monster. The media showed his image—enhanced from security footage, probably from the Weis party—alongside words like "terrorist," "murderer," "sociopath."
"Does anyone believe this?" Ray asked.
"Some do. Some don't." Kira shut off the tablet. "But the important thing is that people are talking about it. About you, about the resistance, about whether the time system is fair. Weis is trying to control the narrative, but the conversation is happening. That's something."
"It's not enough," Ray said. "We need to do more than just be a conversation topic. We need to act."
"Agreed," Martha said. "Which brings us back to Caron's message." She held up the paper again. "He wants to regroup. Says the resistance cells that survived are waiting for direction. We can rebuild, but we need a plan. Need to know what we're rebuilding toward."
Ray looked around the room—at Greta injured on the cot, at Martha with barely a year left on her clock, at Sylvia who'd lost everything to join their cause, at Kira and Dev who'd risked capture to bring them news.
Then he looked at the time capsules on the floor. Twenty-five years. And his own clock: 105:13:28:16.
"We're going to do what Hamilton wanted," Ray said slowly, the plan forming as he spoke. "We're going to prove the scarcity is manufactured. Not just with data—with action. We take the time we stole and we distribute it. Not to the resistance, not to people who already believe in the cause, but to the people who need it most. The ones dying in Dayton and the Fringe because they can't afford another day."
"Direct distribution," Martha said, nodding. "Bypass the banks entirely."
"Exactly. And while we're doing it, we spread the vault data. Show people the proof. Let them see for themselves how Philippe Weis and people like him have been hoarding time while manufacturing poverty."
"That will make us even bigger targets," Dev spoke for the first time, his voice rough. "Every distribution is a risk. Every person we give time to is a potential informant if the Timekeepers pressure them."
"I know. But what's the alternative? Hide here forever? Watch Philippe consolidate power while people die?" Ray shook his head. "Hamilton didn't give me a century so I could hide from the fight."
Sylvia stood, moving to stand beside Ray. "If we're doing this, I'm in. All the way. My father wants to pretend I was kidnapped? Fine. Let him keep thinking that while I help tear down everything he built."
"I'm obviously in," Greta said from the cot, trying to sit up and failing. "As soon as I can walk without passing out."
"Which won't be for at least a week," Martha said firmly, pushing Greta back down. "You're on medical leave whether you like it or not."
Kira and Dev exchanged glances. "We'll need to check with Caron," Kira said. "But I think he'll approve. This is exactly the kind of action the resistance has been too afraid to take. Going directly to the people, proving the system can be beaten."
"Then we start planning," Martha said. She moved to the table, pulling out a new sheet of paper. "First priority: identify communities where distribution will have maximum impact. Places where people are desperate enough to accept time from fugitives, where word of mouth will spread the story."
"Dayton," Ray said immediately. "That's where I'm from. I know the neighborhoods, know the people. They're dying every day. If we give them time—real time, not the scraps the system allows them—it'll change everything."
"Dayton is also crawling with Timekeepers," Sylvia pointed out. "After the vault robbery, security there will be heightened."
"Which is why we need to be smart about it. Small distributions, different locations each time. Never the same pattern twice." Ray's mind was working through the logistics. "We give time to people at bus stops, in alleys, outside factories. Quick transfers, then disappear before anyone can react."
"You'll need disguises," Kira said. "Your face is all over the news. Sylvia's too. You can't just walk around Dayton looking like yourselves."
"I can help with that," Dev offered. "Before the resistance, I worked in theater. Makeup, prosthetics, costumes. I can make you look like different people."
"How long?" Martha asked.
"Give me a day. I'll need to source materials, but I can do it."
Martha was writing furiously now, building lists and timelines. "While Dev works on disguises, we need to reach out to Caron. Coordinate with the surviving cells. Make sure we're not accidentally interfering with other operations."
"And we need to secure more safe houses," Sylvia added. "One location isn't enough. If this one is compromised, we need somewhere else to run."
"Elena might know of other places," Ray suggested.
"She'll be back in two days with supplies. We can ask then." Martha looked up from her notes. "This is risky. Every distribution increases the chance of capture. Eventually, they'll catch us. We need to be ready for that."
"Ready how?" Ray asked.
"Exit strategies. Dead drops for the data so even if we're captured, the information survives. Protocols for what to say and not say under interrogation." Martha's expression was grim. "And we need to accept that some of us might not make it through this. Might die, or worse, might get drained and imprisoned."
The room fell silent. It was one thing to talk about revolution, about fighting the system. It was another to acknowledge the personal cost.
"Marcus is already dead," Ray said quietly. "Martha sacrificed herself—nearly died—getting us out of the Weis Building. Leon is hunting us. Philippe wants us dead or broken. We're already paying the cost. The question is whether we pay it while accomplishing something or pay it for nothing."
"Well said," Greta croaked from her cot. "Now someone give me more painkillers and let's start this revolution properly."
Despite everything, Ray smiled. They were battered, hunted, barely surviving. But they had purpose. Had a plan. Had each other.
His clock read: 105:13:24:37.
Still so much time.
Time to make Marcus's sacrifice mean something.
Time to prove Hamilton was right to trust him.
Time to change the world, or die trying.
---
Over the next three days, the safe house transformed into a planning headquarters. Dev returned with boxes of supplies—makeup, hair dyes, prosthetics, clothing from thrift stores across multiple zones. He worked on Ray first, darkening his skin tone, adding a fake scar to his cheek, changing his hair color from dark brown to bleached blond.
"You look like a completely different person," Sylvia said, studying Dev's work.
"That's the idea," Dev replied, already starting on Sylvia's transformation. "The Timekeepers are looking for a wealthy young woman with perfect features. We're going to make you look like a factory worker who's seen hard years."
For Sylvia, the transformation was more dramatic. Dev aged her with makeup, gave her rougher hair, added the kind of stress lines that came from years of poverty. When he was done, even Ray had trouble recognizing her.
"I look like my mother might have looked," Sylvia said quietly, studying herself in a mirror. "If she'd been born in Dayton instead of New Greenwich."
Martha worked on logistics, using the limited communication equipment to make contact with Caron. The messages had to be brief and coded, but gradually a picture emerged: the resistance had lost about forty percent of its members in the crackdown. The rest had gone deep underground, waiting for direction.
Caron's final message was simple: *The people are ready. Give them something to believe in.*
On the third night, Elena returned with supplies and news.
"The city is on edge," she reported, setting down bags of food and medical equipment. "Checkpoints everywhere, random searches, people being arrested for 'suspicious behavior.' But there's also anger. Lots of it. People are starting to question whether the crackdown is really about catching terrorists or about maintaining control."
"Good," Martha said. "Fear and anger can be useful, if directed properly."
Elena looked at the transformed Ray and Sylvia. "I almost didn't recognize you two. Dev does good work." She pulled out a tablet. "I brought you something else. Footage from Dayton, recorded yesterday."
She played the video. It showed a street corner in Dayton that Ray recognized—three blocks from his old apartment. A crowd had gathered around something. As the camera zoomed in, Ray saw what they were staring at: graffiti on a wall.
In large letters: THE SCARCITY IS A LIE. WEIS HOARDS WHILE YOU DIE.