October 1995 – MIT
Stephen read the river before he read his email.
The Charles sat dark and cold, wind worrying the surface like it had a complaint. A sheet of paper skittered along the walkway and snagged on a crack near the bridge railing. Somebody's problem set, corners softened from being carried too long. It tried to lift again when the gust came back, then gave up.
Stephen crossed anyway. He had class later. He had work. He had a day he was trying to keep inside the normal lane.
By the time he got back to the dorm kitchenette, the coffee maker was still doing its slow drip. He checked the clock once and forced himself to stop. Watching it didn't make it faster. He was trying not to turn everything into a test.
He opened his email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: You're not too old for costumes, Quantico Man
McGee's message was short and smug in the way McGee got when he thought he'd landed a clean shot.
California sends its regards and sunscreen. Heard about the Halloween mixer. Do not let Paige convince you "I am already a superhero" counts as a costume.
If Eugene builds another talking pumpkin, I am filing a noise complaint across state lines.
Cooper, go to the party. You can stand near the wall and judge people quietly like you were built for it.
McGee
Stephen snorted before he meant to. It was small but real, and it came out at the exact wrong time because Paige walked in right then.
She had a mug in one hand and a bundle of orange extension cords in the other, looped over her wrist like she'd robbed a seasonal aisle.
"You're laughing," she said. "Who died."
"McGee's dignity," Stephen said.
Paige set the cords on the counter with a soft thump and leaned in to read the subject line over his shoulder. She didn't touch him. She didn't need to. He could feel her there anyway, close enough that the faint green apple smell of her shampoo cut through burnt dorm coffee.
Paige made a quiet sound that could have been amusement if she wanted to admit it. "Quantico Man."
"He started it," Stephen said.
Paige took a sip of coffee. "He is right about one thing. Eugene is already in the lab with a knife."
Stephen blinked. "A knife."
"A pumpkin knife," Paige corrected, then added, "probably," like she couldn't guarantee Eugene wouldn't improvise.
Stephen closed the laptop and grabbed his mug. The coffee was too hot to drink, so he held it anyway. Heat against his palm, something simple and physical.
Paige watched him over the rim of her mug. "Also we are going to the mixer tonight."
"No," Stephen said automatically.
Paige's mouth twitched. "Yes."
He started walking. Paige fell in beside him, the extension cords bouncing lightly against her sleeve. Stephen pretended he didn't notice how much she looked like she was walking him somewhere on purpose.
The lab smelled like coffee that had burned on a hot plate, solder, and wet pumpkin pulp.
Eugene had rolled his sleeves up and positioned three pumpkins on a workbench like they were part of a demonstration. A small speaker sat beside them. A cheap microphone lay on a stack of paper towels. Pumpkin guts were spread across a tray with the careless confidence of someone who believed cleanup was a future problem.
Eugene turned when they walked in. His eyes were bright in that slightly unhinged way they got when he'd decided he was doing something clever.
"Good," Eugene said. "Witnesses."
Paige stepped around a stringy pile of pumpkin insides. "What am I witnessing."
"Autumn innovation," Eugene announced. He lifted a hand like he was presenting a museum artifact. "Behold, the talking pumpkin. It will deliver seasonal greetings, commentary, and potentially useful warnings about the dangers of complacency."
Stephen set his coffee down and looked at the wiring.
Eugene had mounted the speaker inside the pumpkin cavity and taped the mic to the rim. The tape was too thick. The mic was too close. The cable ran in a lazy loop through pulp like it was taking a bath.
Eugene flipped a switch.
The pumpkin shrieked.
It wasn't cute. It wasn't even funny at first. It was a long, wavering scream that sounded like a modem dying in pain. The sound hit the walls, bounced back, and got worse.
Paige jerked her head back and grabbed her mug with both hands like she was trying not to throw it. "Turn it off."
Eugene reached for the switch and hesitated. "It is a controlled experiment."
Stephen stepped forward and killed the power.
The shriek died mid-note and left a thick silence behind it. The fluorescent lights made the pumpkin guts look more offensive.
Eugene stared at the pumpkin like it had betrayed him personally. "That was one time."
"That was enough times," Paige said.
Stephen pointed at the mic placement. "It's feeding into itself."
Eugene blinked. "So it's self-aware."
"No," Stephen said. "It's poorly wired."
If Eugene could hide a mic in a pumpkin and call it art, a contractor could hide anything in a beige box and call it maintenance.
Paige grabbed a marker and wrote on the whiteboard in block letters, hard enough that the marker squeaked.
ECHO CHAMBER
"There," she said. "Title achieved."
Eugene looked delighted by the phrase. "See. Even Paige agrees this is science."
Paige capped the marker. "I agree this is noise."
Stephen rolled up a chair and pulled the mic away from the speaker cavity. He changed the routing, moved the mic to a different spot, taped it with less tape, and tucked the wire so it didn't drag through pulp. Eugene hovered too close, hands fidgeting, wanting to help and also wanting to not be blamed.
"Can I hold something," Eugene asked.
"No," Stephen said.
Eugene's face fell. "That is fair."
Stephen flipped the switch again. The pumpkin hummed, then spoke in Eugene's voice, distorted and nasal.
"Haaappy Haaalloween," the pumpkin said, stretched and wrong.
Eugene clapped once, triumphant. "It lives."
Paige leaned close to the pumpkin like it was a suspect. "Say something useful."
Eugene cleared his throat and spoke into the mic. The pumpkin repeated him half a second later.
"Do not trust your modem," Eugene said solemnly.
The pumpkin's voice warbled and turned it into a threat.
Paige laughed. Not polite. Not careful. Real enough that Stephen felt it land in his chest like a small impact.
He wanted to ask himself why it felt like relief. He didn't. He let it be what it was.
Paige pointed the marker at Stephen. "You're laughing too."
Stephen made his face blank on instinct. "No."
Paige lifted her eyebrows. "Stephen."
He exhaled and let his mouth twitch. "It's a functional pumpkin."
Eugene held up a hand like he was taking a vow. "Thank you. I accept your praise."
Paige turned toward her extension cords. "Okay," she said. "Costume logistics."
Stephen's stomach tightened. He hated that it did. Costumes were not dangerous. They were just public.
"I'm not doing it," Stephen said.
Paige looked at him like he'd said he wasn't breathing anymore. "You're doing it."
"I do not do costumes," Stephen said.
"You do equations," Paige replied. "Same thing. You are Reed Richards."
Eugene's eyes lit up. "Oh my God, yes. You can be Mr. Fantastic. You already look like you're calculating the tensile strength of the room."
Stephen stared at him. "That is not a compliment."
"It is," Eugene said, then faltered. "I think."
Paige reached into her bag and pulled out a blue shirt with a silver four stitched dead-center. She tossed it at Stephen's chest. He caught it on reflex.
He looked down at it. "Why."
"Because it solves the problem," Paige said. "You get a role. You stop acting like everyone is staring at you."
Stephen opened his mouth.
Paige cut him off. "Do not argue. You can argue with me in the lab. You cannot argue with me about Halloween."
Eugene lifted a finger. "I call being The Thing."
"You are not The Thing," Paige said, without looking at him.
Eugene's face collapsed. "Why not."
"Because you would take it personally," Paige said. "And because you already bought a pumpkin helmet, which tells me you are going to be Eugene, but orange."
Eugene brightened again. "That is accurate."
Paige pulled a navy turtleneck and a pale-blue lab coat from her bag. "Susan Storm," she said, like it was obvious.
Stephen looked at her. "That is not a costume."
Paige's smile was quick and sharp. "It is a costume. It is just also my aesthetic."
Eugene pointed at the talking pumpkin. "Does the pumpkin count as our fourth."
Paige stared at him. "Eugene."
"It can be the robot," Eugene said quickly. "Wrong franchise. Sorry."
Paige uncapped the silver marker, grabbed Stephen's wrist, and drew a small four just below the vein. The ink felt cold on his skin.
"Field credential," Paige said.
Stephen stared at it. "Washable."
Paige capped the marker with a click. "Probably."
Eugene leaned in to look at the mark like it was evidence. "Wow," he said. "She branded you."
"She labeled me," Stephen corrected.
Paige smiled at that, pleased. "Exactly."
They spent the afternoon doing just enough work to pretend they hadn't given up on productivity. Eugene cleaned up none of the pumpkin guts until Paige made a sound that implied she might start assigning chores. Stephen corrected one more wire, printed a short list of instructions, and taped it to the bench. Eugene read it, looked offended, then looked guilty and didn't peel it off.
By the time the sun went down, they were dressed.
Stephen's blue shirt fit better than he expected. He didn't like that it fit, because it meant Paige had guessed his size. Paige wore her lab coat like she'd been born in it. Eugene's pumpkin helmet made him look like a seasonal warning sign and he was proud of it.
The Media Lab mixer smelled like fog machine fluid, cheap punch, and warm electronics.
Orange lights were strung along the ceiling. Cardboard gravestones leaned against a wall, one of them labeled RIP CLIPPER CHIP in marker like someone couldn't resist. A guy in a lab coat and a cheap Dracula cape argued with someone dressed as a Windows 95 error message. Nearby, a person in a Schrödinger's Cat costume kept stepping in and out of a doorway with aggressive commitment.
Eugene walked in like he was arriving at his own award ceremony.
Stephen stepped in and felt the room's noise hit him, not dangerous, just a lot. Music, voices, laughter, the squeak of sneakers on polished floor. His shoulders wanted to rise.
Paige looped her arm through his without looking at him. She didn't squeeze. She just anchored.
"Do not disappear," she said.
"I wasn't going to," Stephen replied.
Paige's eyes cut to him. "You were going to."
Stephen didn't deny it. He let her steer him past the punch bowl.
Eugene followed, pumpkin helmet wobbling slightly. He held the talking pumpkin in his arms like a baby he wanted everyone to admire.
He set it on a table near a demo station and flipped the switch.
The pumpkin's speaker crackled, then settled into a low hum.
A small crowd formed immediately because people liked anything that looked like it might break in public.
Eugene lifted a hand. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began.
Paige leaned close to Stephen. "If it screams again, I'm leaving him here."
Stephen watched Eugene adjust the mic with too much confidence. His hand hovered, ready to intervene.
Someone touched Paige's shoulder.
"Paige," a woman's voice said, crisp and direct.
Paige turned with a grin that didn't soften her posture. "Amy."
Amy Farrah Fowler stood there wearing a paper crown wired with thin copper coils shaped like crude neurons. The crown sat crooked. She tugged it straight, realized one wire was poking her scalp, and stopped touching it like she refused to admit she was uncomfortable at a party. She held a plastic cup of punch like it was still on trial.
Paige stepped aside and angled Amy toward Stephen. "Stephen," she said. "Amy Farrah Fowler. Harvard. Neuroscience. She ruins panel discussions in the best way."
Amy held out her hand. "Hi," she said. "Okay, I've heard about you. None of it sounded normal."
Stephen took her hand. Quick grip, quick release. "That's fair," he said. "I do not make a strong case for normal."
Amy's eyes moved down to the silver four on his chest. "Fantastic Four," she said.
"Yes," Stephen said.
Amy looked at Paige. "That tracks. He looks like he'd try to solve a relationship problem with a physics analogy."
Paige laughed. "He would."
Stephen's mouth twitched. "I do not use physics analogies for relationships."
Amy blinked once. "You were about to. I saw it."
Stephen stopped. Paige watched him like she enjoyed the hit.
Eugene leaned in, eager. "Hi," he said. "I'm Eugene. This is my pumpkin."
Amy turned and stared at the pumpkin helmet on his head. "That helmet looks like it's going to take you out before the punch does."
Eugene's hand went up instinctively to steady it. "It's stable."
Amy's gaze shifted to the pumpkin on the table. "That's going to squeal. Like, immediately."
"It will not," Eugene said, too fast.
Stephen pointed at the mic placement with one finger. "It might."
Eugene looked betrayed. "You rewired it."
"I improved it," Stephen said.
Amy took a sip of punch, made a face like the sugar had insulted her, and set the cup down on the nearest flat surface like she needed it away from her. "I kind of want to see it fail," she said. "No offense. Actually, some offense."
Eugene clutched his chest. "That is cruel."
"It's honest," Amy replied.
Paige's eyes sparked. "See," she told Stephen. "Friend material."
Amy didn't vanish after the hello. She stayed. That was the part Stephen didn't expect.
They drifted deeper into the party, the four of them moving like a weird unit Paige had decided was happening. Amy watched the room like she was listening for weak arguments. Eugene watched the room like he was listening for applause. Stephen watched the room the way he always did, but Paige kept him from becoming a wall fixture by adjusting his trajectory with small touches and quiet nudges.
They stopped at a demo table where a grad student was showing off a simple pattern-recognition project and talking like he wanted admiration more than accuracy. He kept saying robust like it was a spell.
Amy leaned in and read the printout. "You don't have the sample size for that confidence," she said. "Call it a proof-of-concept and it's fine."
The grad student smiled too hard. "It's, uh, it's a proof of concept."
"Then say that," Amy replied. "Don't sell it like it's done."
The grad student laughed awkwardly and looked around for rescue.
Paige glanced at Stephen like she was daring him.
Stephen pointed at one of the parameters on the screen. "If you widen your threshold window," he said, voice low, "your false positives drop. You lose sensitivity. Your curve stops pretending."
It came out quiet and technical. No speech. No performance.
Amy turned her head toward him. "Yeah," she said. "That's the trade. You lose sensitivity, but at least your false positives stop wrecking you."
Paige nudged Stephen's shoulder with hers, a small satisfied bump.
Eugene, bored by anything that didn't involve his pumpkin, wandered off to recruit an audience and came back with two freshmen in lab coats who looked like they'd been promised a show.
Stephen watched the costumed crowd drift around them. A periodic table costume with element jokes scrawled on sleeves. A person in a cape insisting they were Chaos Theory, waving a crumpled graph like a weapon. Someone dressed as a blue screen of death who kept collapsing dramatically near the snack table.
Amy looked at Stephen again. "You keep checking the doors," she said. "You're doing it again."
Stephen blinked. "I'm not."
Amy didn't budge. "You are."
Paige didn't rescue him. She let him sit with it.
Stephen glanced toward the exit, then forced himself to keep his head still. "Habit," he said.
Amy nodded. "It'll fade if you stop feeding it," she said. "That's the annoying part."
Paige angled her head toward Amy. "That was almost comforting."
Amy shrugged slightly. "I'm not trying to be sweet. I'm just saying it's not permanent."
Eugene returned, glowing with purpose. "Demonstration time," he announced.
He flipped the pumpkin switch.
The pumpkin crackled, then spoke in Eugene's warped voice. "Happy Halloween," it said, stretched and wrong, like it was underwater.
The freshmen clapped anyway. Someone cheered like it was a magic trick.
Eugene beamed. "See."
The pumpkin squealed once, a brief feedback chirp, then settled.
Eugene froze, eyes wide behind the pumpkin helmet.
Amy's mouth lifted slightly at one corner. "It tried."
Paige laughed. Stephen reached over, adjusted one wire by touch, then pulled his hand back before Eugene could interpret it as permission to ask for more.
Eugene cleared his throat into the mic. "And now," he said, "the pumpkin will deliver an important message."
The pumpkin repeated him half a second later, distorted.
Eugene said, "Do not trust your modem."
The pumpkin made it sound like a threat.
Someone nearby snorted punch out their nose. The crowd laughed louder. Eugene tried to look like he planned it. Paige didn't let him have full credit, but she didn't steal it either.
Amy watched the reactions with a look that wasn't judgment, more like interest. "This is oddly effective," she said.
"It's because it's stupid," Paige replied.
Stephen's laugh came out before he could stop it. Not big. Not theatrical. It still existed.
Paige turned her head slightly toward him. "I heard that," she said.
Stephen stared at his cup like the punch might rescue him. "No you didn't."
Paige leaned closer. "I did."
Amy looked between them. "You communicate through denial," she observed.
"Saves time," Stephen said.
Paige pointed at him. "That is exactly what I mean."
They stayed longer than Stephen expected.
Not because he turned into a social person overnight. He didn't. Paige kept him moving in small arcs through the room, never letting him fossilize near a wall. Amy kept asking questions that were sharp without being cruel. Eugene kept inserting himself at the wrong times and making the group laugh because his timing was bad and his commitment was absolute.
Near the end of the night, Amy checked her watch and made a small sound of annoyance at time. "I have to leave," she said. "My lab doesn't believe in weekends."
Paige frowned. "On a Saturday."
Amy shrugged. "Brains are rude."
Eugene lifted his pumpkin helmet slightly like he was saluting. "It's been real, Amy."
Amy looked at him. "It's been loud. Respectfully."
Eugene accepted that like it was praise.
Amy turned to Stephen. "You're right about the window," she said. "It's annoying."
Stephen blinked. "Thank you."
Amy nodded once, satisfied, then walked away into the crowd and out through the doors without waving.
Paige watched her go. "I like her," Paige said.
Stephen didn't argue. "I can tell."
They carried the pumpkin back through campus, night air cold enough to tighten Stephen's cheeks. Eugene complained about fog machine residue on his sleeves and insisted it was chemical warfare. Paige told him to stop whining. Stephen held the pumpkin by the base so it wouldn't tip.
Back in the lab, the fluorescent lights made everything look flatter and more tired.
Eugene set the pumpkin on the windowsill beside its less fortunate siblings. Paige picked up the marker and wrote ECHO CHAMBER on the whiteboard again, larger this time, then added a small four beside it because she couldn't resist.
Eugene stared at the board like it meant he'd succeeded at something important. "We did it," he said.
Paige looked at the pumpkin guts still stuck to the bench. "You are cleaning that."
Eugene's face fell. "Now."
"Yes," Paige said.
Eugene sighed, dramatic. "Fine. But first."
He flipped the switch on the pumpkin.
The speaker hummed, then the pumpkin said, "Happy Halloween," slightly off-key and a little too loud.
Paige didn't smile. She pointed at the power strip.
"Turn it off, Eugene."
(Thanks for reading, feel free to write a comment, leave a review, and Power Stones are always appreciated. Let me know if you find any mistakes)