I closed my eyes and visualized the plan. It was a dancer’s trick; I was once a member of my Commune’s dance team. Going back in time to kill a murderer was a bit different from performing a jazz-kick routine, but the technique stuck with me.

There was a tear in my Hazmat suit, and I had stopped wearing the mask a while ago. It didn’t matter; if my mission worked, there wouldn’t be any Commune Rules at all, because the Hydra wouldn’t have killed 99% of the world’s population.

Alarms clanged in the background, but the machine was already whirring under my fingertips. I had built the damn thing, and I knew how to use it. Stepping into the portal, I mentally finished my final routine, my dance of death. The door swung shut.

I would enter through the backdoor. She would be four years old, playing with her mother’s chemicals when she knew she wasn’t supposed to. I would have my gun ready, and I would do what I needed to.

My mission was clear: I would kill myself before I had the chance to kill anyone else.