Two Ivies answer, one male, one female. Mildly disconcerting.

He jibes:

“Isn’t the point of having two bodies imprinted with the same personality so you can be in two different places at the same time? One of you is redundant now.”

Both reply in unison: “I want to be here when you activate the interface.”

Alpha bites back impatience. He’ll need someone to teach Trevor how to use the tech.

The child in the chair asks if he’s a super soldier yet. Alpha says he’s close — though the hardware outside might look scary.

Trevor looks in the mirror. Sees the metal studs by his left ear. Thinks they’re cool. Wishes he’d had them before his uncle was attacked.

Alpha explains: it works when he loads an upgrade. One Ivy hands him a USB labelled Mandarin. She uploads it into a circular wedge and presses it to the stud. It whirs. That static noise. Trevor turns to Ivy 2, asks what’s happening in his head.

It comes out in Mandarin.

Ivy 2 shrugs. It worked. Trevor smiles.

“What else can I add?”

Alpha holds up a belt lined with USBs. He got them from Rossum. The Ivy who was in Trevor’s uncle mentioned them. They turned people into Butchers.

Alpha promises they’ll turn the tide. Trevor wonders what else he can upload to his skull.

“Slow down, G.I. Junior,” Alpha says. “There’s only so much vacant real estate in your brain.”
If he wants a new skill, he has to lose an old one.

Trevor reckons History is useless. Alpha disagrees.

“Wrong question. It’s not what we take out — it’s what we put in.”

Muay Thai. Acrobatics. Climbing. Training on repeat. Trevor never thinks about doing it — it just happens. Alpha calls it muscle memory. Trevor asks why they have to swap skills. Alpha doesn’t.

“I’m different.”

He tells Trevor to swap climbing out. Load Small Arms. Maybe hand-to-hand combat. Tactics. Heavy weapons. Trevor asks why.

“Because we’re about to take your training wheels off.”

They zipline from the roof, past the Butchers below. Guns cocked. The Butchers hear. Turn.

Then they’re gunned down.

Trevor smiles.

“I got him.”

“There are a lot more ‘hims’ to get.”

He shoots. Then shoots again. Shoots until the clip’s empty. Weaponless, he starts to shake. Alpha shouts, muffled by Butchers:

“Swap out! Melee Weapons!”

A giant — triple Trevor’s size — charges. Trevor fumbles with the USB. Not fast enough. The sledgehammer swings for his head.

It knocks him off his feet. He hits the deck. Alpha screams his name. But Trevor doesn’t look back. The hammer rises again.

He closes his eyes. Just for a second.

When he opens them, he hears a new sound.

It’s the sound of brains hitting the pavement.

A woman with white, shoulder-length hair stands over him. Pistol smoking.

“Am I late to the party?”

Her name is Ivy. Of course.

Alpha knocks a body off Trevor’s chest and stands.

“That would’ve meant more if you’d been the first one to turn up.”

Turns out the original Ivy, under orders, imprinted hundreds of people with her personality — designed to deliver intel and recruit survivors. No Ivy has brought a recruit yet. Trevor’s Ivy was killed. The new Ivy says they can’t stay in Los Angeles.

Alpha scoffs.

“You’d think they’d have learnt not to pick up the phones by now.”

Ivy looks concerned.

“They’ve gone handheld.”

Survivors call them Wielders. Not like Butchers. Not mindless. They build imprint devices from scrap electronics. Follow orders. Act with purpose. And they’re multiplying.

Alpha’s puzzled.

“Rossum’s already destroyed everything worth destroying. What do they need Wielders for?”

Elsewhere, the Wielders stop. Stare ahead. Blank.

“Directive Two: initiated. Broadcast.”

They walk, slow and purposeful, toward the transmitter pylon at the summit of the Hollywood Hills.

Back at Dodger Stadium, Alpha says they need to block imprinting. There’s only one way: Echo.

But Echo’s a ghost. Last seen freeing Actives from the Dubai Dollhouse. Last Ivy heard, she was infiltrating the Perrin administration. That’s where they’ll go.

Inside the truck lab, they find the other two Ivies. Getting cosy. Ivy 3 is repulsed. The others aren’t. They call it “healthy self-exploration.”

Alpha winces.

“And most of my personalities were designed to fulfil the sexual perversions of the extremely rich.”

They need to pack. It’s a long road trip to Washington.

Ivy 3 watches Alpha. The others ask why — but they already know. They’re the same person. She doesn’t trust him. The others say he’s changed.

Trevor looks out over the burning city. More fires every time he blinks. His eyes sting.

Alpha murmurs:

“I shouldn’t have asked you to fight so soon.”

Trevor turns to him. Points to the studs. Can he take it out?

Alpha shakes his head. The interface is permanent.

But Trevor doesn’t mean the tech. He means the feeling. Not fear — he’s felt that before. He killed people today. Feels like a bad guy. Like the man who killed his uncle Wendell.

Alpha tells him he’s okay. The Butchers were dead the moment they answered the phone. He places a hand on Trevor’s shoulder.

“What you’re feeling — that’s exactly why I need you. If I wanted zombie killers, I’d do exactly what Rossum’s doing.”

Trevor nods. Asks Alpha if there’s anything he’d want out of his own head.

“Lots of things.”

Hours later. On the road. Cramped in the back of the truck.

Ivy 3 doesn’t think they’ll make it. The others are tired. Alpha says they’ve no choice.

In the wing mirror, Ivy 2 spots a bright red light — back in the Hollywood Hills.

At the transmitter, beneath the pylon, the Wielders chant:

“Directive Two: complete. Broadcast.”

Across the truck radio, they hear the screech. That tone. White noise.

Ivy 2 grips the wheel.

“Directive Three: initiated,” she says.