Max sat in his office on his lunch hour. The Chemical Brothers were playing on his laptop. The video for Block Rockin' Beats reminded him of that time when he and Colleen were on the reality TV show 'SpyGame'. And the song Music: Response reminded him of the time he was walking along the Thames at midnight and the Beast was spilling forth into the World but everyone was still happy and safe, for a while anyway.

Control sat alone at the top of the glass tower. The city stretched beneath him in every direction, a lattice of streets, lights, towers, and moving vehicles. From this height the people below were indistinguishable from the traffic. Patterns rather than individuals. Variables rather than lives. He preferred it that way. The walls of the observation room were transparent, but Control wasn't looking at the city.

Miranda exited the elevator into the lobby. Guests and staff moved about the elegant space with a low hum of pleasant chatter. There was no violence here, it was gone. There was no death here, just normality. It was beautiful but it was also eerie. Miranda was absolutely sure that the fighting had happened but now there was no sign that it had.

P.L.U.R.E.A.L.I.T.Y stood before the console as though it had been waiting for her. The chamber around them was too large to understand. Its walls vanished into darkness, interrupted only by columns of cold blue light and impossible machinery that seemed to extend upward, downward, and sideways depending on where M.E.I chose to look. Across the central display, a thousand realities turned slowly.

So many things were orbiting the penthouse suite. A multidimensional space station, an angel, a chess game, a noodle shop, a grieving father, a street gang, a paravagabond semi-amnesiac, an android and . In the part of his mind that Morganfokker had specifically assigned to the task he was tracking each variable and calculating their impending vectors. Objects in the suite were levitating from the severe psychic pressure caused by the confrontation between Morganfokker and Miss Appeal.

The noodle shop was almost empty. Rain whispered against the windows, turning the neon signs outside into long streaks of red and gold. Somewhere behind the counter, a kettle hissed. The smell of broth, ginger, and star anise hung in the warm air. Tatterdemalion sat alone at a corner table. Or, at least, she appeared to be alone. A chessboard rested between two steaming bowls of noodles.

Miranda knew that killing was part of the job. When she had been recruited by Omega Station 12 they had kept a lot of secrets from her but they had always been honest about that. She washed her face clean of blood in the hotel room. Morganfokker had gone upstairs to the penthouse to confront Miss Appeal. If she was even here.

Maggie drifted through the celestial void where neither time nor distance held any meaning. There was no up or down, no stars to chart a course by, only an endless sea of silver mist illuminated by rivers of soft blue light. Her great white wings were folded tightly around her, wrapped like a comforting robe against a breeze that did not exist.

Previously in the Metaplex: Miranda and Morganfokker stood across the street from the Belladonna Gala Hall. The sun was rising over the city. White-gloved doormen and valet drivers were shift changing. Every so often Miranda would catch her reflection, small and distant, in the glass of the front doors swinging open and shut, like eyes blinking, waking up from a dream.

P.L.U.R.E.A.L.I.T.Y. had discovered 14,722 connections. None of them made sense. She stood before the terminal in Sublevel Nine, watching names and events spread across the screen. MIRANDA. MAX CUBE. MISS APPEAL. PROJECT: REBIRTH. OMEGA STATION 12. THE PLEXOTRON. She arranged them chronologically. Failure. She arranged them geographically. Failure. She arranged them according to probability, causality, metaphysical resonance, cafeteria purchases, personnel records, and frequency of appearance in damaged memory fragments.

Ten: The way he looks at me when I eat. He mostly eats the same as me, whatever's on the menus at the roadside diners we stop at. He never says anything about what I pick or how long it takes me to finish or if I leave stuff on the plate. But he almost sort of peers at the food going into my mouth.

Max Cube woke with a gasp, convinced he had finally escaped the impossible dream. Morning sunlight spilled across cracked concrete, and he laughed. "About time," he muttered. Then the sky folded itself into perfect squares, birds flew backward, and his shadow waved before he did. He sighed. "Still dreaming," he decided. If he was trapped, he might as well experiment. He imagined himself sitting inside a tiny noodle house where the Crimson Tongs should have burst through the door snarling, demanding tribute.

Mr. Wei said it was time to open the shop back up again. It had been a week since Mei's funeral. He had asked Miranda to keep working there, at least until they could find someone to take Mei's place. This wasn't what Miranda had expected when she agreed to the mission. She could only hope that she had successfully done what the Professor had needed her to do.

P.L.U.R.E.A.L.I.T.Y. came online at 03:33:33. Her optical sensors flickered to life in the darkness of Sublevel Nine. Diagnostic routines cascaded through her neural lattice. Power cells: nominal. Memory core: fragmented. Motor functions: operational. A single word escaped her lips before she even understood language. "Miranda." The sound echoed through the silent chamber. She sat upright on the cold maintenance table. Dust drifted through shafts of pale blue emergency lighting.

Three months had passed. The Night of the Wolves felt like a dream to Miranda - she wasn't exactly sure what had happened but she had a lingering sense that things had worked out. She was equally uncertain about how she had started working at the Noodle House or renting the room upstairs. She helped out however she could and she hung out with Mei during their off hours.

Miss Appeal pushed the last report aside and stared at the ceiling. The events at the Noodle House should have produced chaos. Every projection, every probability model, every intelligence estimate suggested the same outcome. Something extraordinary was supposed to happen. Instead, nothing did. She flipped through the reports again. Customers arrived. They ate. They paid their bills. They left. No explosions.

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Golden Dragon Noodle House, Lantern Street, Kowloon Market Mr. Wei standing between his daughter, Wei, and the Crimson Wolves. Wei is holding a cleaver, four of the Wolves baring knives like claws and teeth. Everyone freezes and turns at the sound of a noodle bowl hitting the floor, near the front door. Except for Jian “Red Fang” Luo, leader of the Wolves.

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The Professor stared at her. For a moment, the only sounds in the tunnel were the distant rumble of turbine shafts and the rhythmic clicking of the Plexotron's crystalline relays. "You?" he said at last. Miranda immediately regretted opening her mouth. "Forget it." "No no, hold on." The Professor adjusted his glasses and peered at her as though seeing her for the first time.

"Shit shit shit!" Miranda blinked; she wasn't used to hearing the Professor swear. He was rapidly adjusting dials and levers on the portable Plexotron interface they had jury-rigged before going into hiding in the deep maze of maintenance tunnels that lined the inner workings of Omega Station 12. "I sent him to the wrong point," he explained, even though she hadn't asked.

Rain hammered the alleyways of Kowloon Market like thrown nails, turning the neon reflections into rivers of blood-red light. Steam rolled from sewer grates and noodle carts alike, carrying the scent of garlic oil, pork broth, and cigarette smoke into the midnight air. At the end of Lantern Street sat the Golden Dragon Noodle House. It was small. Old. Honest.

Depending on the frequency. Pending. Penance. Perchance. To sleep. Yeah, that's it, he was probably dreaming. That's why everything felt smoother, more spacious. Like he was floating. He knew he couldn't walk like this anymore, for hours, through the city. Steady stride, boots on concrete. He was too tired, too sore most days now. Except here he was walking. Some people have cities in their dreams.

Miss Appeal let the holodisk spin down in its cradle, the faint hum dissolving into the sterile quiet of her office. The projection above her desk flickered once—an afterimage of testimony, faces, data streams—and then collapsed into nothing. She didn’t sigh. She rarely did. Instead, she reached forward with precise, practiced movements and slid a stack of translucent reports into a neater alignment, their edges catching the cold overhead light like sharpened glass.

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YouTube video by plureality

## Group Chat: *Junkyard Dogs*(Established 1999 – “Still Loud, Still Loyal”) --- *Tara (Admin):* Okay. I need everyone who has been here longer than five minutes to sit down. --- *Rico79:* Why do you type like that. Just say it. --- *Tara (Admin):* I got a message. From… someone. An insider. Who may or may not have recently “discovered” this page.

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## Reply *From:* Tara *To:* Max Cube *Subject:* Re: For the Loyal Dogs — Max, I read your message three times before I could even type. And I’m still not sure my hands are steady. When Mom st…

## Private Message *From:* Max Cube *To:* Tara (Admin – Junkyard Dogs) *Subject:* For the Loyal Dogs --- Tara, I’m not sure how to start this without it sounding like a prank. It’s not. First — I know about the Junkyard Dogs. I’ve known for a long time. Back in ’99 when your mom started that board, someone slid a printout of a thread into our dressing room.

## Group Chat: *Junkyard Dogs*(Established 1999 – “Still Loud, Still Loyal”) --- *Tara (Admin):* IT’S OFFICIAL. WORLD. TOUR. --- *Rico79:* I JUST READ THE WEBSITE STATEMENT THREE TIMES. I AM NOT BREATHING. --- *NeonAngel:* SINDI. DWIGHT. MARIANA WINTERFOX. WHAT TIMELINE IS THIS?? --- *BasslineBeth:* Disco Queen + Rock Legends + Country Icon??? This tour is a genre blender and I love it.

Official Statement – The Mana Junkies May 2026 For nearly two decades, we stood still. In the past few weeks, we went back to where it began — small rooms, wood floors, borrowed lights, and faces close enough to see the songs breathe. Now it’s time. We are proud to officially announce the Last Train Out – World Tour 2026…

Group Chat: Junkyard Dogs (Established 1999 – “Still Loud, Still Loyal”) ShadowSparkle23 has joined the chat. ShadowSparkle23: Hi… um… I hope this is okay? I’m here because I’m a huge Sindi Shadows fan and someone on Twitter said if I wanted to understand the whole rehearsal hall thing I should “ask the Junkyard Dogs.” So… hi. Rico79: Oh this is adorable.

Nashville Soundwave 101.7 FMMorning Show: “Holly & The Highway”Host: Renee HollyGuest: Dwight Goodfellow Renee Holly:Well folks, this is one of those full-circle moments we live for. Sitting across from me is a man whose 1967 smash hit “Heartbreak Train” just climbed back onto the streaming charts this week — nearly six decades after it first rode the rails to number one for eight straight weeks.

Group Chat: Junkyard Dogs (Established 1999 – “Still Loud, Still Loyal”) EchoChamber:… … I just got something sent to me. I need everyone seated. Rico79:WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS.JUST POST IT. EchoChamber:Fine. NeonAngel:NO.NO NO NO. BasslineBeth:THAT IS ANGST.THAT IS 100% ANGST. OldRoadieMike:And that is absolutely Sindi Shadows. Tara (Admin):Zooming in. Enhancing.

Rolling Rocks MagazineBy Adrian Keller | Senior Music CorrespondentMarch 2026 Issue Max Cube on Dive Bars, “Last Train Out,” and That Sindi Shadows Rumor If you’ve been anywhere near a music forum in the last two weeks, you already know: The Mana Junkies are back — but not the way anyone expected. Instead of kicking off their long-announced reunion with a splashy arena show, the band has been quietly surfacing in century-old dive bars under aliases like Jelly and the Fishes and Broken Halo & the Freight.

Group Chat: Junkyard Dogs (Established 1999 – “Still Loud, Still Loyal”) Tara (Admin):Okay.So the San Francisco article is everywhere now.“Jelly and the Fishes.” Rico79:I KNEW NEVIN WASN’T MAKING IT UP. Nevin Loutz:THANK YOU.I would like a formal apology from everyone who reacted with the laughing emoji. BasslineBeth:You get one (1) apology.But only because there’s a newspaper involved now.

San Francisco Chronicle – Arts & EntertainmentBy Carla Mendoza | Entertainment ReporterFebruary 25, 2026 Mystery Band at Mission Dive Bar Turns Out to Be Legendary Rock Act — and They Left the Money Behind What was supposed to be an ordinary Tuesday night at a small Mission District dive bar turned into a piece of rock-and-roll folklore. The bar, The Lantern Room, had advertised a local act called “Jelly and the Fishes.” According to owner Rafael Ortega, it wasn’t unusual for newer bands to book under quirky names.

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User Post – Junkyard Dogs Nevin Loutz: Okay. You’re all going to think I’ve finally lost it. I was in San Francisco last night. Work trip. Nothing glamorous. I ducked into this little dive bar in the Mission — sticky floors, neon beer signs half burnt out, stage barely big enough for a drum kit and two amps. The chalkboard outside said: “Tonight: Jelly and the Fishes” I figured, why not?

YouTube video by plureality

YouTube video by plureality

Adventures in the metaplex. Fractal fiction. Magical operations. Mental illness. Collaborative art.

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YouTube video by plureality

Group Chat: Junkyard Dogs (Established 1999 – “Still Loud, Still Loyal”)Admin: Tara M. (Daughter of original founder, “MamaJunkie” – 1963–2023) Tara (Admin):Okay… I just saw it officially posted.“Last Train Out.”It’s real. They’re back. Rico79:YOU’RE LYING.Tell me you’re lying. Tara (Admin):Not lying. Max Cube press conference. Maggie, Dexter, Angst, Darius, Felix. All of them.