Her tiny fists clenched, digging into the plush fabric of Bram’s shirt as he held her. The scent of motor oil and sawdust, usually comforting, now felt like a shroud. Vance’s satisfied smirk, the way his eyes twinkled with malice, burned into her vision. He knew. He knew she was more than a baby. And he was weaponizing that knowledge, using it to accelerate his scheme, to twist the knife before she could even crawl. “Well, look at that little tiger,” Vance crooned, his voice a gravelly rumble that prickled the hairs on her neck. He nudged her foot with his polished wingtip shoe. “Got a real temper, don’t you? Just like her old man, eh, Bram?” Bram, oblivious, chuckled nervously. “She’s a spirited one, alright. But those tummy troubles…” He sighed, looking at Dessa with worry. “Maybe we should take her to Dr. Periwinkle again, just to be sure.” Selah’s stomach gave another familiar lurch, a dull ache blossoming into a fiery knot. The 'paradox ailment' she’d dubbed it, the timeline's payback for meddling with fate. It was a constant, debilitating reminder that every calculated move came with a cost. She hated it. She hated feeling so powerless, so beholden to an invisible, unforgiving force. Two days later, the sterile scent of antiseptic filled the examination room. Selah lay on the crinkly paper of the exam table, stripped down to her diaper. Dessa clutched her hand, her brow furrowed with concern. Bram hovered, looking like he might spontaneously combust from anxiety. The physician, a kindly woman with spectacles perched on her nose, pressed a cool stethoscope to Selah’s tiny abdomen. Selah braced herself, expecting the familiar, agonizing spasms to erupt. She’d always assumed the pain was the universe punishing her, a slow, agonizing erasure from existence for daring to alter the timeline. The doctor hummed, moving the stethoscope around. “Hmm, tummy’s a little distended. And a good amount of gas, I’d say.” She pressed gently on Selah’s lower belly. Selah’s legs instinctively drew up, a whimper escaping her lips. It hurt, but it wasn't the searing, twisting pain she'd come to associate with temporal retribution. It was… a baby pain. The doctor straightened, a gentle smile on her face. “Well, Dessa, Bram, I think your little Selah has a classic case of colic. And those cries? They sound a lot like a baby who’s cutting some molars. I can see a couple of bumps back there already.” Colic. Teething. Not paradox flare-ups. Not existential erasure. Just… baby stuff. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Selah blinked. The universe wasn’t trying to kill her. The universe wasn’t even paying attention to her. All this time, her carefully constructed strategy, her extreme caution, her fear of dissolving into thin air—it had all been based on a misunderstanding of infant digestive issues and erupting teeth. Pure, unadulterated fury flared through her. Fury at the cosmos for not bothering to explain. Fury at her own infant body for its inconvenient, misleading pains. Fury at Vance, who was now operating with the clear advantage of her self-imposed limitations. No paradox sickness. No cosmic rules. No more holding back. A fierce, predatory glint entered Selah’s wide, innocent eyes. Vance wanted a fight? He was about to get a CEO-level ass-kicking from a six-month-old with nothing left to lose. Back in her crib-boardroom, the Rust-End district spread out beyond her window, a chaotic symphony of sputtering engines and distant sirens. Selah surveyed her domain. The Fisher-Price spy-phone, a chunky plastic toy with oversized buttons, sat beside a stack of empty diaper boxes, her makeshift filing cabinet. She was strategizing her next move, mentally reviewing Vance’s ledger, the coded names, the phantom ‘Apex Link Holdings’ that glowed like a malevolent beacon in her mind. Her new, no-holds-barred approach meant moving faster, bolder. She required leverage. She sought information. And an ally was essential, even if that partner was a sippy-cup-wielding toddler who’d once insulted her in Morse code. Suddenly, the bright red Fisher-Price phone began to emit a series of strange, warbling squawks, followed by a high-pitched shriek. It wasn't the toy's usual cheerful jingle. It was… a dial-up modem? In 1988? Her head snapped up. Corin. She picked up the receiver, a plastic banana that smelled faintly of stale baby food. A rapid series of taps vibrated through the toy, a familiar pattern. *“Vance. Federal. Big trouble. Meet. Park. Tomorrow. Sandpit. Noon.”* Selah’s lips pressed into a thin line. He was going straight for it. No pleasantries, no toddler bickering. Just business. Good. This was exactly the kind of blunt efficiency she prized. She tapped out a quick reply, a message only another reincarnated tech mogul would understand: *“Agreed. Information. Prepare. Now.”* Just as she placed the banana receiver back in its cradle, the front door downstairs creaked open, followed by Vance’s booming voice. “Bram! Dessa! My favorite entrepreneurs!” Selah’s ears perked. The forced joviality in his tone set off alarm bells. She wiggled to the edge of her crib, peering over the rail. From her vantage point, she could see a sliver of the living room below. Vance, immaculate in a charcoal suit, stood beaming, a briefcase clutched in his hand. “I’ve just received the most marvelous news!” Vance announced, practically vibrating with suppressed glee. “The investors are champing at the bit! We’re going to fast-track things, make a real splash!” Bram, wiping grease from his hands with a rag, looked up from his workbench, a hopeful smile blooming on his face. “Fast-track? What does that mean, Mr. Vance?” Vance spread his arms wide, a grand gesture that belied the malevolence in his eyes. “It means we’re having an investor gala, Bram! Tonight! At the old Rust-End warehouse! We’ll show them the whole operation, celebrate our success, and finalize the funding!” He clapped Bram on the shoulder, a little too hard. “And, of course, sign all the necessary paperwork to make it official!” Selah’s breath caught. Tonight? He was accelerating his timeline. He was going to use this “gala” to finalize Bram’s unwitting involvement, to bind him to Apex Link Holdings before she could even formulate a proper counter-attack. The forged signature, the transfer forms, the money laundering… it would all become undeniably real in a matter of hours. Her crib-boardroom suddenly felt less like a strategic command center and more like a cage. Vance’s plan was hurtling forward, an unstoppable train, and she was just a baby, trapped in her playpen, with a gala to crash and her parents’ entire future hanging by the thinnest thread. She had to stop him. Tonight.

The Midpoint Meltdown