Being spoken to as if Renee is somehow in command of her would irritate Morgan at the best of times. Now, when she's been operating past her fucking limit from the moment she saw stage lights staring into her apartment, it makes her want to snap. Her eyes narrow, her hands flex, and she lets herself imagine that she is a pulsar: shedding fingers of white flame, spinning and bursting and perfect.

But she's learned that trying to reach out for flames -- or for static, or for the shapes of things, or for anything else -- only ever aches like a missing limb. And she's learned that this version of herself regrets causing people harm. So.

"And when did we establish that it isn't a simulation?" Her voice has been mostly flat anyway, but the narration promises that this time it's flat with dislike. "You're proposing that it's more likely we travelled through time?"