Dean Margaret Whitmore's office occupied the top floor of the administration building, overlooking campus with panoramic windows that should have been beautiful but felt surveillance-oriented from inside. Lia sat in uncomfortable chair between Marcus and David, part of semicircle formed by the seven research assistants facing the dean's massive mahogany desk.
Dean Whitmore was in her sixties, grey hair severely pulled back, sharp eyes that missed nothing, decades of academic politics creating expression that assessed everyone as either asset or liability. Right now, she was clearly assessing whether the seven students in her office were explaining Professor Finch's disappearance honestly or hiding something catastrophic.
She was right to be suspicious.
"Let me understand," she said, reviewing notes on her tablet. "Professor Finch was conducting historical research on medieval catacombs supposedly existing beneath Aethelgard Chapel. Research none of you reported to me, to the history department, or to campus facilities. He disappeared three weeks ago—also unreported. And last night, all seven of you decided to search these forbidden, potentially dangerous catacombs without notifying campus security, without proper equipment, without any safety protocols."
"That's correct," Thorne said calmly. She sat slightly apart from the students, positioned as graduate assistant who should have known better but was clearly the most responsible adult present. "I take full responsibility for the poor judgment. Professor Finch had mentioned the catacombs in his lectures, suggested they contained historically significant artifacts. When he disappeared and we found notes indicating he'd been exploring them, I decided to search. The students insisted on accompanying me. We should have notified authorities first."
"Yes. You should have." Dean Whitmore fixed each of them with penetrating stare. "Anyone care to explain why you didn't?"
"Pride," Omar said smoothly. "Academic pride, hubris of thinking we could solve mystery ourselves. Professor Finch was our mentor. We wanted to find him, wanted to understand what he'd discovered. We didn't consider that our desire to help might endanger ourselves or violate university policy."
Good answer—true enough to be believable, vague enough to hide frequencies and refugees and consciousness transformation. Dean Whitmore's expression suggested she didn't believe it entirely but couldn't identify specific falsehood.
"And what did you find in these catacombs?" she asked.
"Medieval architecture," Lia said, stepping in with her area of expertise. "Remarkable preservation. Stone corridors carved in thirteenth or fourteenth century, covered in religious iconography and Latin text. Possibly constructed by monks, possibly used for storage or meditation or both. Professor Finch had set up research equipment—lighting, cameras, computers. We found evidence he'd been documenting the space systematically."
"But not Professor Finch himself?"
"No. Just his equipment. Some research notes. Indications he'd been exploring deeper than we ventured."
"How much deeper?"
"The catacombs appear extensive," Marcus said. "Multiple levels, complex layout. We explored maybe twenty percent of accessible space before deciding we needed professional help. We're not trained for spelunking or archaeological excavation. We got disoriented, spent hours finding our way back to surface. Now we're reporting everything properly and requesting official search and rescue."
Dean Whitmore made notes, expression unreadable. "Campus security will seal the chapel basement entrance immediately. I'm contacting local authorities about search and rescue operation. If there's any possibility Professor Finch is trapped or injured down there, we need professional extraction team." She looked up sharply. "And if any of you are withholding information relevant to his safety, now is the time to share it."
Seven faces showing seven versions of concerned student expression. Seven perspectives coordinated through quantum entanglement to present unified false narrative without breaking character.
"We've told you everything we found," Thorne said. "If there's more to discover, professionals will find it."
"They'd better." Dean Whitmore closed her tablet. "You're all banned from chapel basement pending investigation. Campus security has your photos, will escort you off premises if you attempt access. Additionally, you're required to attend counseling—Group session with campus psychological services, three sessions minimum, to process whatever trauma you experienced during your underground adventure. Dr. Rivera will coordinate schedules."
Grace maintained perfectly neutral expression, but Lia felt her amusement through entanglement. Telling them to process trauma through therapy when Grace was the therapist-in-training and they'd all just experienced consciousness transformation that made normal therapy look like kindergarten arts and crafts.
"We understand," David said, and Lia could hear the strain in his voice. "Thank you for your concern."
But inside, David was wrestling with the weight of the lie. Every word they'd spoken was technically true—they had found medieval architecture, they had found Professor Finch's equipment, they had gotten disoriented. But they'd also omitted the consciousness transformation, the dimensional contact, the decision to accept refugees. They'd presented themselves as concerned students rather than the architects of humanity's future.
It felt like a violation of everything he believed about truth and integrity. But it also felt like the only way to protect the choice they'd made, the lives they were trying to save. The ends didn't justify the means, but sometimes the means were the only path to the ends.
"Concern?" Dean Whitmore laughed without humor. "I'm concerned about liability. Seven students injured or dead in condemned catacombs would destroy this university's reputation. You're lucky you all emerged safely. You're lucky I'm not expelling you for violating multiple safety policies and unauthorized access to restricted areas. Consider mandatory counseling and chapel ban as light consequences given circumstances."
"We do," Elena said. "We're grateful."
"Good. Now get out of my office. I have real problems to solve."
They filed out, seven exhausted students trying to look appropriately chastened rather than like people who'd just experienced divine consciousness and made civilization-defining choice.
In the hallway, Marcus leaned against wall, closed his eyes. "That was terrifying. I thought she was going to see through us, realize we were lying, demand truth about frequencies and refugees and consciousness transformation."
"She didn't," Thorne said. "Because we told truth about what we found, just not truth about what we experienced. We found medieval architecture, we found Professor Finch's equipment, we got disoriented. All true. We just omitted the consciousness transformation, the dimensional contact, the decision to accept refugees."
"That's still lying," David said. "That's still deception, still violation of principles I value."
"That's still necessary," Thorne countered. "If we told truth about what we experienced, we'd be institutionalized, investigated, possibly arrested. Project would be shut down, integration would be prevented, refugees would dissolve. So yes, we're lying. But we're lying to protect decision we made properly, through correct protocol, with full understanding of consequences."
"I don't know if I can do this," Grace said quietly. "I don't know if I can live with myself afterward, knowing I lied to authorities, deceived people I respect, violated principles I've built my life around."
"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 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.