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First Meetings

Summary:

We know Walter rescued Toby from a pit boss and caught Sly hacking a bank and that the early Team Scorpion included Walt, Toby, Sly, Happy, and Mark, but how did Walter meet them and draw them all into Team Scorpion?

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

The commotion at the VIP table was quickly drawing the attention of everyone in the Coronet Room. Walter noticed that many in the room were making an effort to not look at the two men involved in the altercation. “Who is that?” Walter asked.

“Guillermo Torrente,” the high roller who had hired him answered in an undertone. “Head of the Mejios Syndicate.”

“Not the pit boss. The guy with the hat.”

“I don’t know his name. He’s a regular. One of the best poker players I’ve ever seen, but he’s an addict. He doesn’t know when to stop. He cleans out the high stakes table. If he would just go home then, he’d be the richest man in the room. But when high stakes won’t play with him anymore, he switches to other games, ones he’s much worse at. He loses it all, and gets into deep debt with unfortunate people, like Torrente. Torrente doesn’t seem to be in a good mood. I hope the kid is good with his creator, because he may be meeting him tonight.”

“No, I can’t let that happen,” Walter muttered, getting to his feet and heading over to the two men.

🦂

Walter unlocked the door to his apartment. “You can stay here tonight. We will figure out what to do about your situation in the morning.”

“Little bro!” Megan greeted him cheerfully. She frowned as she saw Walter’s guest. “Who is that?”

“Megan, this is Dr. Tobias M. Curtis.”

“Oh, no. No, Walter. I thought we agreed. I am not letting another doctor turn me into a pincushion just to tell us what we already know. The diagnosis isn’t going to change, no matter who you ask. No more specialists, Walter.”

“He’s not a specialist. We agreed to no more third or fourth opinions, not until I find someone who can help you.”

“Megan—it is Megan, right?—I’m not here for you, though, if you need a doctor—”

“I don’t,” she insisted, pushing up off the couch and stomping down the back hall.

“She’s, uh, testy, sometimes,” Walter said. “Anyway, you can sleep on the couch. Do you need anything?”

“Me? No, you’ve done more than enough for me tonight.”

“See you in the morning, then.”

🦂

Toby sat up as Walter walked across the living area from the hallway to the kitchen. “Good morning.”

“Morning. Listen, I have to go to work. Do you have a job or somewhere you need to be?”

Toby shrugged. “Got fired.”

“For what?” Megan asked, steadying herself on the back of the couch.

“Told my boss that, in a room full of psychiatrists, we all knew micromanaging was a symptom of compensation, and we could all guess what he was compensating for.”

“So Walter isn’t the only one who has a problem with authority.”

“I don’t have a problem with authority. I have a problem when authority doesn’t go to the one who knows the most.”

“You mean you,” Megan pointed out.

“On most subjects, yes, my IQ means I know the most.”

Megan glanced at Toby. “Sorry, my brother’s a narcissist.”

“I am not a narcissist. When you have a 197 IQ, accurate self-assessment might look like narcissism to normals, but it isn’t.”

“Oh, so now I’m back to being just a normal.”

“Megan,” Walter complained. From the smile she gave him before making her way into the kitchen, Toby could tell the whole exchange had been the typical sort of banter every well-adjusted set of siblings developed, rife with apparent insults that weren’t really insults but rather endearments born of long habit. Walter turned to Toby. “You’re welcome to stay here for a couple days; we’ll try to figure out something for you. Or don’t stay—I’m not your keeper—but if you go back to the Coronet Room, Torrente will most likely kill you, despite our deal.”

“I can’t gamble anyway; I’m broke.”

🦂

Toby was finishing up the meal he was preparing for his hosts when they arrived home from work. Megan came directly into the kitchen. “What is this?”

“Chicken alfredo,” Toby answered. “Dinner.”

“Thank you,” Megan said. She leaned against the counter. “So, you’re a genius.”

“And you have M.S.”

Megan frowned. “Walter tell you that?”

“No. You’re still in the early stages, but you’re starting to show consistent symptoms. Progressive, hunh? That’s a rough deal.”

“It’s the hand I was dealt,” Megan replied. “It’s not Walter’s hand. If anyone can learn enough neuroscience to make a breakthrough in my lifetime, it’s Walter. If he finds better treatments or a cure, that makes the world a better place for a lot more people than just me, but I do not want him to give up his life to fight a losing battle to keep me alive. I definitely don’t want him to drag other people into his crusade.”

“He didn’t drag me into anything,” Toby assured her. “He dragged me out of the Coronet Room. I gamble. Lost more money than I should’ve to someone I shouldn’t have. Walter intervened before things got unfortunate. He didn’t even mention that he had a sister until we arrived here. He did not bring me here to treat you.”

“If Walter didn’t tell you about the M.S., how did you know?”

“You said it: I’m a genius.”

“And just as humble as my little brother,” Megan observed drily.

“What’s your IQ?” Walter asked, walking into the kitchen.

“178,” Toby answered, serving the pasta onto three dishes.

“Specialty? And what is this?”

“Psychiatry—behavioral analysis. This is dinner; chicken alfredo, the one meal I can reliably make without ruining it. A token of my appreciation for you pulling my fat out of the fire last night.”

“This is unnecessary.”

“You two both worked today. I didn’t. It seemed to make sense for me to cook dinner.”

“It was efficient, I suppose,” Walter agreed, sitting down.

🦂

“I don’t know what your plans are, Dr. Curtis, but I may have failed to mention that the bank has asked me to relocate to their LA branch. We will be flying out on Saturday.”

“I will be out of your hair by then, I promise,” Toby assured Walter.

“Oh no, it’s not a problem. In fact, I was thinking about the company I’m starting. It could be beneficial to have behavioral insight into how normal people will respond to software configurations I implement, or likely entry points into a system.”

“Is this a job offer? You do understand my charm has gotten me fired from every job I ever had. And I’m a gambler, employed or not,” Toby warned.

“You listen to good logic when you hear it. And what you do off hours is your business as long as it doesn"t impact our business. You do understand the job is in LA? If you want it, you"ll have to move across the country with us.”

“I’m from LA originally. Moving back is not a problem.”

🦂

“Walter, that garage will be perfect for you and the business you want to start. You should take it.”

“There’s not a good place for you, even with limited remodeling.”

“Walter, be realistic. I’m not going to be living with you that much longer. I’m going to need more and more care.”

“I will help you.”

“We both know the best help you can give me is by spending your time on your research, not on helping me get out of bed. If my goal was to stay out of a facility for as long as possible, I would have stayed in Ireland. Our mother would have given up her whole life to be my full time caregiver. I’d have had an extra three years at home, probably. But I came here with you, knowing the trade I was making.”

“I know you will most likely need fulltime care before I have a cure—”

“Say what?” Toby interrupted. “Walter, Megan, I don’t want to rain on anyone’s parade, but a lot of people have been trying very hard for a very long time to come up with a cure for MS.”

“None of those people had a 197 IQ,” Walter replied.

“I don’t doubt your intellect, or your motivation,” Toby said. “Just your available time. We still don’t understand what causes MS. Without knowing the cause, a cure is going to be damn near impossible. The research necessary is going to take you longer than the life expectancy of a sufferer.”

“I will save you,” Walter told Megan.

“I know you’ll try,” Megan said. “But whether you find a cure or this disease kills me, you are more valuable working on your research than you are physically taking care of me as my body fails. We both know this.”

“Fine,” Walter agreed. “But you’re not there yet. You don’t need full time care. I’m not dumping you in some facility until it is necessary.”

“Walter, brother, it is inefficient for you to pass up the best place for you and your business for an apartment I won’t live in for a more than a few months.”

“We don’t know how your disease will progress,” Walter argued.

“Doctor, help me out here,” Megan said, turning to Toby. “What is the likelihood I’m still independent in six months?”

Toby sighed. Walter appreciated facts, good or bad. Megan was above all else, realistic. Hopeful, but realistic. “One in three,” he answered.

“And in a year?” Megan pressed.

“Megan, he’s my boss and I need this job,” Toby protested.

“In a year,” Megan insisted.

Toby hesitated and then answered honestly. “It is statistically unlikely, given your current symptoms and the standard rates of progression for your type of MS, that you will be able to function without full time care in twelve months. Quality of life should remain high for several years, but an independent lifestyle is exceedingly rare.”

“You see, Walter?” Megan said.

Walter frowned. “Okay, but we’re going to find you a place that will be aggressive in preserving your quality of life and your physical strength. I’m not letting you go somewhere that’s just going to warehouse you. Nerve damage is unlikely to recover significantly, so when I find a cure—and I will find you a cure—whatever state your body, nerves, and mind are in at that point is likely as good as you’ll get. You understand?”

“Of course, Walter,” Megan agreed. “I know we’ll find the best place for me.”

🦂

Walter went back to his room to work on his laptop a few minutes later. Toby turned his attention to Megan. “Optimism is good for someone with your condition. You need good things to look forward to. But false hope sets you up for disappointment, likely at the worst possible moment.”

“You’re worried I’m expecting Walter to cure me,” Megan surmised.

Toby nodded. “At the most generous estimates, your life expectancy is ten years. Even with brilliant minds working on the problem, understanding the cause of your disease will likely take years. A cure is a minimum of five years intense research, and then trials and approval cycles. If Walter does find a cure—and there’s no guarantee of that—it will be too late for you. I’m sorry.”

“I know that it will take a miracle to save my life,” Megan agreed. “I know the traditional researchers working on MS are nowhere near a cure. I know this disease is almost certain to kill me, unless some freak accident kills me first. If the only chance I have is a miracle, I’m putting my money on the guy with the 197 IQ delivering it. This is a horrible disease, Dr. Curtis. A cure would be earth-shattering for hundreds of thousands of sufferers and their loved ones, present and future. Even if it doesn’t come in time for me, even if Walter only finds improved treatment methodologies, or the cause, or some single key among the dozens necessary to develop a cure, if his drive to save me progresses the research field a single step down the road to a cure, that’s still valuable. So I encourage him. Not because I think I’m going to outlive my disease, but because I think science will someday find a cure and that finding the cure is worthwhile.”

🦂

The last night Toby, Walter, and Megan were living together, Toby again made chicken alfredo. As they settled into the meal, Megan asked her brother, “How was your day at work? Efficient?”

Walter frowned. “I still haven’t tracked down the hacker. It makes no sense! The collision exploit the hacker used was elegant but not all that complex. Nothing to suggest top 10 hackers in the world, which means I should be able to track it.”

“If I was going to rob a bank, I’d make off with the money and stay off the grid for a while,” Megan said. “You can’t track a hacker’s digital footprints if there aren’t any footprints.”

“If you were going to rob a bank, you’d pull the fire alarm and make off in a bright yellow Lamborghini,” Walter retorted.

“How much money did your hacker get away with?” Toby asked.

“Not much, just $2500,” Walter said. “The bank doesn’t even care about the money. The exploit’s been corrected.”

“The scenario doesn’t make sense,” Toby pointed out. “The idea of robbing a bank – that goes to a get rich quick mentality. 90% of human history is a quest for quicker riches. So that makes sense. But the minimum cost I’ve seen for a hacker bid is $500, and that’s for casual website hacks.”

“Hacking a bank is riskier than the average hack. You get some people’s passwords, most people will shrug it off. You start messing with people’s money, and they get upset. High likelihood that someone will notice and someone like you will get put on the hacker’s trail. I’d think there’d be a risk premium,” Megan told her brother.

“And if you know the hacker you hired is more likely than usual to get caught, you’re going to want to give them a little extra incentive to keep their mouth shut. So $1500, minimum?” Toby guessed.

“About that,” Walter agreed.

“So we’re proposing that some criminal out there paid a hacker more than they were going to get out of the hack? The scenario doesn’t make sense,” Toby repeated. “And $2500? You could get more robbing a convenience store a gun point. Heck of a lot easier, too. Are you sure this wasn’t a trial run at embezzlement? Someone trying to see how much they could get away with at once?”

Megan shook her head. “The bank my brother works at used to have a problem with embezzlement, but Walter put an end to that two years ago.”

“And the source of the hack was definitely outside the building. I traced it to a local coffee shop before the trail disappeared.”

“Okay, so trial run for a bigger hack. Would the collision exploit work? Yep. Would anyone notice? Yep. Would the forensic analysts the bank employed be able to track it back to them? Nope. Call that good. Have there been further attempts to use the same exploit? I know you said the bank corrected for it, but do you have any alarms to sense when someone’s trying that same back door again?”

“I do, and they haven’t been triggered.”

“You may be looking for someone considerably younger than you think,” Toby speculated. “Someone young enough that $2500 seems like a lot of money. All from one account?” Walter nodded. “Look for someone under the age of 21 in the life of the account holder. Betcha fifty bucks that’s your hacker.”

“You said you were broke. You don’t have $50 to bet. And I don’t gamble.”

“You don’t gamble,” Toby said incredulously.

🦂

The problem is that suicide is so messy, Sylvester Dodd thought to himself. The other problem, of course, was that there didn’t seem to be any other choice. His father wanted a son who fit into his military world. A highly intelligent, highly emotional, exceptionally anxious son who didn’t play sports and ran from a fight was not in his career plans. His mother...he supposed she liked him well enough, but she would not defend him to her husband and so he had never felt like he belonged in their home.

When staying had become more anxiety-inducing than leaving, Sylvester packed a bag and used his mathematical and computer skills to liberate $2500 from his parents’ bank account. He had headed for the only place he could imagine feeling safe: the city that had created the best superhero in the history of comics.

In downtown LA, no one would take any notice of a teenager with no parents in the vicinity.

He checked into a hotel and spent his first night away from home sanitizing the room. It wasn’t so bad that first night, when he was occupied. But then the room was clean. He was alone, awake, and anxious. A gang shootout drove him from that hotel within two days.

This hotel was in a good neighborhood, but Sylvester had no money and no street skills. He had no more food, he was out of sanitizer, and he had no more hope. He logged back into the bank, thinking he’d borrow a bit more from his parents and then figure out a long term plan. The exploit he’d used a month prior had been blocked. They must have figured out how he got in. Police officers were probably tracking him now. How long would it be before they found him and hauled him off to jail? Prison was a dirty, dirty place. He couldn’t get arrested, but he couldn’t survive with no money and no way to get more.

A knock on the door made him shriek. It was all over. Sylvester went to the door. The man outside was younger than Sly had expected. He also wasn’t wearing a police uniform. Sly opened the door to the length of the locking chain. “Hello,” Sly said uncertainly.

“Hello. Are you ElG16?”

Sly shuddered. “You aren’t LAPD. FBI?”

“Neither. I work as a forensic analyst for the bank you hacked. It was easy enough to track you to the coffee shop, but how did you mask your retrieval of the money once you got it into cyberspace?”

“It was just a matter of using a spoof algorithm. The most common wireless hotspot carrier vSpot with 87% of the market cornered. 23% of Angelenos have such a device, so with just five people in the shop it was statistically likely that someone would have that device. There were 27 people in the shop. I just had to sniff out a device ID.”

The forensic analyst talked with him for most of an hour about the hack, computing, and theoretical mathematics.

Finally, Sly couldn’t stand it anymore. “If you are going to call the police, will you just do it already? It’s freaking me out.”

“I’m not going to call the police. The bank already wrote off the loss. I hadn’t seen code that elegant from someone so young. I was intrigued. I came to offer you a job.”

“I am not robbing banks for you, whoever you are.”

“My name is Walter O’Brien. I have a 197 IQ. You have, what, a 175?”

“176.”

“Parents never know how to raise children like us. You’ve never fit anywhere and now you’re desperate. I’m offering you a job at the company I’m starting, working with other high IQ individuals to provide solutions.”

“No hacking?”

“White hat only,” Walter promised. “Now, it’s late. We’ll find you a place to live tomorrow, but are you going to be okay for the night? You seemed pretty anxious when I arrived. I know it can be difficult to be out on our own, even with our intellect.”

“I’ll be okay,” Sly agreed. “But I don’t have any money for the hotel or an apartment.”

“I’ll take care of that. Okay, Sylvester? I am not going to call the police, or your parents, but I am going to come back in the morning. If you are not here, I’ll have to tell the bank what I’ve discovered and it will be in their hands whether they pursue charges.”

“I will be here,” Sylvester promised.

🦂

“What’s on tap for today, boss?” Toby asked, entering the garage.

“We have the Smith job. Can you and Sylvester handle that?”

“Sly can handle the job and I can handle him,” Toby agreed.

Walter nodded. “How is he doing?”

“He’s starting to settle in. You know how hard it is to grow up like us. In an unbearable situation, evolution gives us fight, flight, or freeze. Sly’s got the flight psyche. That’s why he ran away from home. Then he ended up in a still unbearable scenario with nowhere to run. It takes a toll on the body and mind. You have to give him time, especially with the OCD and phobias. I’ll go with him on this Smith job and keep him calm. What are you doing?”

“There is a fabrication contest in Venice this afternoon. I want to see if there is anyone who could actually build some of our theoretical solutions. I’m solid on physics, and I could learn the finer points of engineering, but it will take time away from my research for Megan, so it seems more efficient to bring an engineer on board, at least as a contractor.”

“Makes sense to me. Good luck.”

“Luck doesn’t exist.”

“It’s a phrase, 197.”

🦂

“This is brilliant,” Walter said, mostly to himself, as he inspected one of the fabrications. He turned his attention to the engineer. “What gave you the idea to use a magnetic spring coil to modulate the clamp strength?”

The answer was simplistic. Walter continued to press, guessing the genius engineer was accustomed to dumbing things down for the judges and observers. Within ten minutes, however, it was clear. The person he was talking to was not the engineer who had designed and built the piece.

“Who engineered this piece?”

“I did,” the boy said, sounding puzzled.

“I’m not one of the judges. I just want to talk to the mind that designed this.”

“You are,” he insisted.

“We both know I am not,” Walter replied, but the boy wouldn’t budge.

Walter knew he’d found what he was looking for, he just needed to locate the engineer behind this boy’s presentation. He stayed in the area, trying to see if anyone was coaching the boy or paying unusual attention. He saw no signs of any outside collaboration through the end of judging and the awards ceremony. The fabrication took a well-deserved gold.

As everyone else dissipated, the boy went not toward parking or public transit, but instead along the beach. Eventually, he met up with a young Asian woman. Walter watched from a distance as they exchanged project and prize for cash.

Once the boy was gone, Walter closed on the woman. “Excuse me! Hold up a second, I just want to talk to you about that clamp.”

“I don’t talk to strangers,” she said shortly, picking up her pace.

“My name is Walter O’Brien. Tell me your name, and we won’t be strangers.”

“I’m not talking to you, Walter O’Brien.”

“Well, actually, you are. If you’re worried about the competition committee, don’t.”

“I’m not. They can’t do anything to me.”

“Why do you let the kid pass your work off as his?”

“Don’t like being judged.”

“Your design is brilliant, miles ahead of anyone else at that competition. You’re a genius.” It was the only logical explanation.

“Thanks, I guess,” the engineer mumbled.

“I really am interested in what gave you the idea to use that magnetic spring coil. Your stand in couldn’t explain it to me. There’s a place near here on Oceanside with good food. Join me? Let’s talk mechanics.”

The engineer looked reluctant, but she followed him to the restaurant. By the time they’d finished their meal and conversation, Walter was convinced. She was a genius, and the sort of mechanic he’d been looking for. Walter considered offering her the job on the spot, as he’d done with Toby and Sly, but her closed personality made him wonder if she could even function on a team. Sylvester was finally starting to get settled in after a year with him and Toby. A sharp edged engineer might make him regress. It might be better to keep her at arms’ length, employing her only at need.

He could imagine what Megan would say, if he presented her with this conundrum. “You’re wondering if she can work with a team—so why aren’t you working with yours? You’re worried what adding her to the team will do to the behavioral dynamics on the team. Why not ask the Harvard trained behaviorist?”

“She’s right,” he muttered.

“Who is right?” The engineer demanded.

“Mm. My sister,” he answered. “Look, I employ a team of high IQ personnel to provide genius solutions to real world problems. I came to the fabrication contest looking for an engineer we could contract work out to, but now I’m thinking you might fit on our team in a more permanent capacity, if you’re even interested.”

“A mechanic always needs work,” she answered grimly.

“Before I lay out a formal offer, I want you to meet one of my existing team members. Could you be back at the beach wall at 7:30 tonight?”

“I suppose.”

“Great.”

🦂

“Hey, Walt, have you heard anything from Happy Quinn?” Toby asked, a week after she’d turned up at his apartment door unannounced. That had already been a week after Walter had offered her a place with Scorpion.

“No, but she’ll show up eventually. The job offer is better than her current employment. It is illogical for her not to join us.”

It’s not all about logic, especially for someone will abandonment issues like she has, Toby couldn’t say that to Walter. Happy had to have known Toby would take a report of their conversation on the beach back to Walter, but the conversation in his apartment had been 100% therapeutic, and Happy could absolutely expect full confidentiality.

“Speaking of showing up,” Sly commented, nodding to the door.

Toby didn’t recognize the bearded man who had just walked in. He seemed confident, like he knew where he was and what he was doing, so it was unlikely he’d wandered in accidentally. “Can I help you?” Toby asked.

“Mark, you made it,” Walter said, getting up from his desk. “Mark, this is my team. Dr. Tobias M. Curtis—Harvard psychiatrist and behavioral analyst—and Sylvester Dodd—theoretical mathematician and statistical analyst. Guys, Mark Collins—frequencies and audiology. Sly, Mark and I were discussing the use of string mathematics to model and approximation for Giovo’s Theorem that you and I were working on this morning.”

“It showed promise in our early calculations,” Sly admitted.

Just like that, the three of them were off into an exceptionally technical mathematical discussion. Toby had no real interest in theoretical mathematics and within minutes the conversation had outpaced his comprehension of the material. That didn’t bother him. Instead he focused his time on analyzing the apparent newest member of Scorpion and wondering whether he should ask Walter for Happy Quinn’s contact information so he could reach out to her. He suspected she would find the sense of home she craved here, as they each had, but he understood her reservations, too. Would any words he might say to Happy help convince her or would they just scare her off for longer? And what about this Mark character? He was clearly brilliant, but he had some personality issues. This early, Toby wasn’t sure whether it was just the usual quirks of genius with low EQ, or something more diagnosable.

🦂

Megan tried to keep up with her brother’s business, but he was incredibly tight-lipped about it. Starting a business was hard, she knew, and Walter wouldn’t want her to know if the business was struggling. She knew Toby was still gambling, and that he was an addict. She had pieced together that there were at least three others at Scorpion, but she knew next to nothing about them, even names.

She finally started to get some clues when the press began speculating about the government unit code-named “Scorpion” who had fixed the LAX software crisis. Shortly thereafter, the same unit foiled a biohacking attack against the governor and his family. Who but the best hacker in the world would be able to counter-hack a field few people even knew existed? By the time Scorpion staved off a nuclear meltdown, the press had gotten the story straight: Scorpion was a group of high IQ government contractors led by Walter O’Brien.

Finally, she couldn’t stand it, or being stuck in the hospital, with nothing to look forward to except more PT, and bullied her brother into taking her to the garage to meet the team. He wasn’t thrilled and was as awkward as ever introducing her to his employees. “So, um, this is my sister, Megan.”

No one spoke, not even Toby, which told Megan everything she needed to know: Walter was just as tight-lipped with them as he was with her.

“Hi,” she said brightly. “Thought you guys were geniuses. Someone say something smart.”

A beautiful woman edged through the group of geniuses. “Hi, Megan. I"m so sorry. I"m Paige. They were just... playing a spirited game of…”

Toby finally chimed in, with the grin she associated with him. “Move Sylvester’s Stuff Around.”

“Yeah... so they"re a little out of it,” Paige explained and then fell silent. Once again, no one spoke. Paige frowned at them. “Guys, this is when you introduce yourself.”

The big guy, presumably Sylvester, came forward. “Hello, Megan. Nice to meet you. Walter has told me so much about you.”

She shook her head. Toby’s behavior gave lie to that idea. “No, he hasn"t.”

The big guy looked uncomfortable. “No, he hasn"t,” he admitted and melted away.

Toby slid into the gap. “Hey. Dr. Tobias M. Curtis,” he said, as though they had never met.

“It’s a pleasure,” she said, acting her part.

“Hey, I"m Happy.”

“And I"m dying, but you don"t see me telling everyone,” Megan quipped and immediately regretted it. Like the big guy, Happy didn’t seem to know how to take her humor.

Toby came to her rescue, because of them all, even Walter, he always knew how to take her. “Yes! Inappropriate self-deprecating humor to put others at ease. I like your approach.”

If she had the motor skills to pull it off, she’d have bobbed a grateful curtsy. Instead, she told him the one thing she knew he wanted to hear. “I like your hat.”

Notes:

The dialogue you recognize is from Season 1 Episode 2.

A note on the publication date: I wrote this long enough ago that I can"t offer an exact date on when, but the document it"s currently housed in (not the original) was created in 2019.

Series this work belongs to: