Bright lights and big cities: K.B. never used to be fond of them, but she loves the way New York lights itself up; she can see her hands and other people's lips, even under the brim of her Reds cap. The flight delay means she'll miss the game, but she doesn't care, if only because she's seen that team too many times before, and the urge to borrow an M-16 will only keep rising.

She camps out by the employees' entrance. Two sets of overlapping memories repaint the corner in summer sun and from every angle. Part of her misses being part of a set, but belonging is too dangerous to contemplate, and she's not the woman she once was anyway.

The sidewalk shakes under her feet and the railing vibrates in her hands. Must be some game going on in there, New York versus Chicago, white on blue and blonde on blonde, with only a brown braid and an auburn bun lending any color. The crowd has to be rocking to the rhythm of the pounding bass pouring out from the speakers, every last fan drenched in sweat, hands and feet aching as the power of their belief fills the arena. That was her arena once; that was her rush once, and she can almost feel it now, almost even hear it now in her head. But it's not hers anymore. Nothing is the same anymore, and the world of blonde ponytails and #25 jerseys is a closed and silent mystery to her more than it ever was.

Maybe Erin will explain it to her. Erin, who's been going stir-crazy these last nine years from bleach fumes and the pressure of one ego split twelve ways. Erin, the other bookend to the set that Blaze broke up back in '05. K.B. reminds herself to ask whether Catch kept in touch with Erin the same way that she did with the twins, or if Catch didn't think of it, or if Erin deleted the e-mails unread and never picked up her phone. Not that she has laying a guilt trip on ET in mind, not at all.

Checking her watch, there's still more than half an hour before the game should end, and she needs something to do to keep herself from dying of boredom. The drugstore on the opposite corner sells Liberty stuff now, and it's still early enough that she can buy a cheap notebook and a retractable Sharpie and still stake a claim to a prime place near the door. She waits as patiently as she can, only the constant on/off of the Sharpie in her hand reflecting her nervous energy. The tip flashes in and out of sight as pressure builds and releases, builds and releases.

Fans begin to trickle through the public exits, their bright blue standing out even in the semi-darkness of the city. #25, #25, #25- only the placement of the name gives away the age of the jersey, reveals how long the wearer's been following this team. Even though K.B. knows the truth, she still looks for variation, for #20 or #10, something that isn't #25. Are the fans so clued in that they know the players are all the same, or so zoned out that they don't know there are any other players on the court? She knows better than to look for anything older than the blue, though, because the fans who were there before she was know better than to come around these zealots and make them try to remember. Some of the young fans try to join her, to engage her in conversation, because she can see their lips moving, but she snuggles deeper into her Ohio State sweatshirt, pulls her cap a little lower over her face, and lets them think her antisocial, or maybe one of the crazy people who used to make coming out after night games a unique experience.

Almost time now, according to an internal clock that still ticks away. She knows the rhythm and timing well, or at least she used to when she was a bookend and not a Catch, back when Shameka was Shameka, before… everything, really. And sure enough, two tall ponytails and one brown braid emerge in a neatly size-ordered line: Rebecca, Cathy, and Tiffany, most likely, or maybe Rebecca, Barbie, and Christi. What matters to her is that they're all too tall to be guards, and that's what really counts, so she lets the little kids run in front of her with their bright orange cards, their bright blue jerseys, their bright white smiles, their bright blonde hair. She looks over their shoulders at the signatures: handwriting exactly the same, autographs with exactly the same flair on the same place on every sheet. She shivers and dreams of cleansing her blood.

Guards this time, two ponytails, one thick set of shoulders: Laurie, then, and one of her teammates. The light's fading, and K.B. can't see the other guard's hair color, so she fumbles out her notebook and offers it for signing. She doesn't recognize the woman's name or number, so probably one of the rookies, maybe even someone who hasn't had a personality of her own since she was seventeen. K.B. doesn't care at this point, though her conscience, sounding way too much like Catch, suggests that she should.

A guard and a forward emerge. The taller one is dressed to the nines, and her smile is broader than any of the others' were. Christi, then, Christi Meeks who used to be Shameka Christon who used to be K.B.'s teammate. The realization hits K.B. like a punch to the stomach, complete with a spear of nausea in her gut; she'd forgotten the first couple of years before Indiana was dragged into hell, when she was still light-skinned and tattooed, and the sickening horror she had felt whenever New York swaggered into Conseco with their bubblegum and their identical faces, dragging Erin along behind them with pleading eyes and a hard line to her mouth. Six years wore the memories away, but she remembers everything now, and it takes all her self-control not to throw her notebook at the two Liberty players, at Becky's smug face. Instead, she opens the book again and presents it to the guard to sign. This one is Sherry Baker; the name sounds vaguely familiar, but K.B. isn't interested in just another clone.

More time passes. Two more guards emerge, deep in conversation but more than willing to sign for the fans who remain. Both of them are wearing faded blue sweats, the exact shade lost with time and a thousand washings. One of them undoes her ponytail and redoes it; there's something familiar in the arc of her arms and the deliberate movement of her hands, but K.B. can't put her finger on it and lets it lie, sticking her notebook out for the other guard, who is apparently an Ashley of some sort. She does the same for the other, who hesitates just a fraction of a moment when she's done with the Sharpie, trying to get a good look under the brim of K.B.'s cap before she returns the marker. And then she starts off with a deceptively long stride, one hand on the small of her back as she twists around to say something to Ashley, blowing a bright pink bubble and popping it absently.

K.B. looks at the page, and her eyes widen in fear and horror at the name in narrow, looped script: "Erin Thorn #5", it says, but that's not Erin's handwriting, and that can't have been Erin who signed it, because Erin's not blonde, Erin's not just another guard, Erin's not just another indistinguishable Becky. She looks up sharply. The two guards have almost worked their way to the end of the line. This could mean the end of everything, but K.B. has to know just how sick Becky is. She calls out once, "ET! Erin!" And the blonde turns, her brow furrowing, her mouth moving, but K.B. doesn't need to hear what Becky has to say.

She hands the notebook and the marker to a little kid, pulls her cap down so low she can barely see, and descends into the ground to catch the train back to her cheap hotel out by LaGuardia. Exhaustion, or maybe despair, falls on her like lead. After all of this, to come so far and know so much is gone, her heart is almost too heavy to beat. She slumps in her seat on the E train, blending in with the late night crowd, and barely has the strength to make the transfer at Roosevelt Avenue. She's almost too drained to make it back to the hotel, and it's for the best that she arranged to stay in New York for several days. As soon as she opens the door, she makes a beeline for the bed and collapses on it without bothering to remove her sweatshirt or her shoes, and it's three days before she stirs again.