The walk across campus felt surreal.
Six hours underground experiencing consciousness transformation, frequency dissolution, unified awareness, and divine communion—and now Lia was walking past the science building where students hurried to 8 AM chemistry lab, past the dining hall where breakfast service was starting, past residential quads where people were just waking up to normal Thursday morning.
They didn't know. None of them knew.
Didn't know that beneath the chapel, seven frequencies had converged. Didn't know that dimensional barriers had been negotiated. Didn't know that humanity had just chosen conditional acceptance of refugees from dying parallel Earth. Didn't know that within forty-eight hours, consciousness integration would begin, transforming human awareness irrevocably.
Normal world, normal morning, normal people living normal lives.
For another forty-eight hours.
"I need coffee," Marcus said. His voice sounded strange—hoarse from frequency exposure, or from screaming during transformations, or simply from hours of not speaking while experiencing unified consciousness. "And food. And possibly medical attention because I'm pretty sure my brain is bleeding."
"Your brain isn't bleeding," Grace said with professional certainty. "But you are experiencing cognitive stress from processing experiences human neurology isn't designed to handle. Coffee and food will help. Also sleep, but we probably can't afford sleep right now."
"Why not?" Elena asked. "We have forty-eight hours before integration begins. We could rest, recover, approach this from stable mental state rather than exhausted delirium."
"Because," Thorne said, pulling out her phone and checking messages, "the university is going to notice Professor Finch is missing. Campus security will investigate the chapel basement. Federal authorities might get involved if they think there's illegal research happening. We need to establish narrative, create cover story, prevent interference before refugees arrive."
"What narrative?" Omar asked. "What possible story explains seven students emerging from condemned catacombs at dawn looking like we've experienced mystical transcendence and dimensional contact?"
"We don't explain that. We explain that we were investigating Professor Finch's disappearance, found his research notes indicating he'd been exploring historical catacombs, went down to search for him, got lost, spent night underground, emerged exhausted but safe." Thorne typed rapidly. "I'm emailing the dean now, reporting Finch missing, expressing concern, requesting search and rescue without mentioning frequencies or refugees or consciousness transformation."
"That's deception," David said. "Lying to authorities about situation with significant public interest implications."
"That's necessary," Thorne countered. "If we tell truth—dimensional refugees, consciousness integration, decision made by seven students—we get institutionalized, investigated, possibly arrested. Project gets shut down, integration gets prevented, refugees dissolve, and our choice becomes meaningless. So yes, I'm lying to authorities. Lying to protect decision we made properly, through correct protocol, with full understanding of consequences."
"Ends justify means?" David pressed.
"Ends contextualize means. In this case, temporary deception serves greater good—allows consciousness integration to proceed under conditions Original Twelve approved, prevents bureaucratic interference that would doom refugees and humanity both. Is that ethical? Depends on your framework. But it's necessary regardless of whether it's ethical by standard you're applying."
David looked uncomfortable but didn't object further. But Lia could see the internal struggle in his eyes. His Christian ethics valued truth-telling highly, but he also understood that absolute adherence to single principle often violated other equally important principles. Sometimes wisdom meant choosing which value to prioritize when values conflicted.
"David," Lia said quietly, "are you okay with this? The deception?"
He was silent for a long moment, staring at his coffee. "I'm not okay with it," he said finally. "I'm not okay with lying to authorities, with promoting a program that caused deaths, with violating principles I've built my life around. But I'm also not okay with letting thirty-four thousand conscious beings die because I'm too rigid to adapt my ethics to unprecedented circumstances."
He looked up at her, and she saw the pain in his eyes. "I keep thinking about what Jesus would do. Would he lie to save lives? Would he break rules to show mercy? I don't know. The Bible doesn't have a chapter on interdimensional refugee crises. But it does say to love your neighbor as yourself, and it does say that greater love has no one than to lay down their life for their friends. And if lying to bureaucrats is the price of saving thousands of lives..."
He trailed off, shaking his head. "I don't know if I'm rationalizing or if I'm genuinely making the right choice. I just know that doing nothing feels like a greater sin than doing something imperfectly."
They reached the small café on campus edge, ordered coffee and breakfast, sat in corner booth away from other students. Seven exhausted people trying to look normal, trying to pretend they hadn't just experienced divine consciousness and made civilization-defining choice.
"We need to prepare families," Yuki said quietly. "Tell them we're volunteering for experimental consciousness research, that we'll be different afterward, that we might not recognize ourselves for while. Give them chance to object, to say goodbye to who we were."
"My parents will lose their minds," Marcus said. "They'll think I'm joining cult. They'll try to intervene, get me psychiatric evaluation, prevent me from volunteering."
"Mine too," Elena added. "They'll think I'm being brainwashed, that I'm not thinking clearly, that I need to be protected from myself."
"So we don't tell them," Omar said. "We tell them we're doing intensive research project, that we'll be unavailable for few days, that we'll explain everything afterward. We protect them from knowledge they can't handle, protect ourselves from interference we can't afford."
"That's more deception," David said. "More lying to people we love, more violating principles we value."
"That's protection," Thorne countered. "Protecting families from knowledge that would terrify them, protecting project from interference that would destroy it, protecting refugees from dissolution that would end their existence. Sometimes protection requires deception. Sometimes love requires lying."
"I don't know if I can do this," Grace said quietly. "I don't know if I can lie to my family, deceive authorities, violate principles I've built my life around. I don't know if I can live with myself afterward."
"You don't have to," Lia said. "You can walk away. You can go back to normal life, pretend this never happened, let others make the choice. No one will judge you. No one will blame you."
"But I'll blame myself," Grace said. "I'll know I had chance to help, chance to serve, chance to make difference, and I chose safety instead. I'll know I let fear override love, let comfort override courage, let smallness override growth."
"So we do this together," David said. "We support each other, remind each other why we're doing this, help each other through the difficult parts. We're not alone in this. We're network, not individuals."
"We're network," the others echoed.
"But we need to be careful," Thorne warned. "We need to maintain cover story, prevent interference, protect the project. We need to act like normal students doing normal research, not like people who've experienced divine consciousness and made civilization-defining choice."
"How do we do that?" Omar asked.
"We compartmentalize. We separate our experiences from our behavior. We remember what we've learned but don't let it show in how we act. We maintain normal appearance while processing extraordinary reality."
"That sounds exhausting," Elena said.
"It is exhausting. But it's necessary. And it's temporary. Once integration begins, once refugees arrive, once consciousness transformation becomes visible, we won't need to hide anymore. We'll be able to be honest about what we've experienced, what we've chosen, what we've become."
"And if integration fails?" Marcus asked. "If refugees dissolve, if consciousness transformation doesn't work, if we're left with nothing but deception and violation of principles?"
"Then we deal with that when it happens. But for now, we focus on what we can control. We maintain cover story, prevent interference, prepare for integration. We do what we can to ensure success rather than worrying about failure."
They finished their coffee, paid their bill, walked back to campus. Seven exhausted people trying to look normal, trying to pretend they hadn't just experienced divine consciousness and made civilization-defining choice.
Trying to pretend they were still the same people they'd been before descending into the catacombs.
Trying to pretend they hadn't been transformed by frequencies that dissolved individual identity and revealed unified awareness.
Trying to pretend they were still human.
When they weren't sure they were anymore.