Tango

Detroit hums low. Like something broken, still running.

Tango drives slow. Always does. Knows the city too well to rush. Knows the potholes that’ll eat your axle. Knows which blocks have eyes.

His sedan coughs over wet asphalt, heater whining. Smells like baby wipes, old fries, and engine smoke inside. Picture of Jolie taped to the dash, corners curled like they’re trying to let go. Like she’s trying to fly out of the nest too soon.

He taps her face once with his thumb. Then again. Just to feel grounded.

The app pings. New fare, five minutes out. He sighs, accepts.

The man gets in without a word. Older. Pale. Coat too clean. Smells like paper and printer toner and clean glass. Got that look like he’s already somewhere else.

They ride in silence.

Tango hates silence.

“You from here?” Tango tries.

Nothing.

“What kind of work you doing downtown?”

The man blinks slow. Doesn’t look up. “Theoretical physics.”

Tango laughs once. “My sister’s in that shit. Hand to God.”
Still nothing.

“Something about quantum entanglement, I think,” Tango adds.

The man raises an eyebrow a twitch. Looks up, meets Tango’s eyes for less than a twitch. Still says nothing.

The traffic thickens like blood clotting. Detours lead to more detours. Construction peeling up the bones of the street, exposing the city’s ribs. Billboards flicker. Half of them glitch from rain damage. One blinks a logo for the research facility the man’s headed toward. A circle inside a circle. Looks like a bullseye or a hole or both, maybe neither.

“That where you’re headed?” Tango asks.
“Uh huh,” the man finally says.

Tango drops him off outside the building. No thank you. No tip. Just the slam of the door. $6. One star.

The app says, Keep going! You’ve got this! Tango mutters, “Fuck you.”

The app frowns, says, Maybe it’s time for a break?

He pulls over. Idles. Hands on the wheel like it owes him money. Heat leaking from the vents. Tango turns off the heat, rolls down the windows, embraces the cold.

Snow starts soft, a whisper. Like the city’s talking behind his back.

He signs off the app. Done for the night. Then a text:

CUTTER: where you at mfer??? ride???

Tango takes a deep breath, shaking his head no. However, resigned, he responds:

TANGO: omw

CUTTER: yah yah yah

Tango finds Cutter outside a boarded-up liquor store. Bandana loose around his neck. Hoodie up, flat-brim Tigers hat pulled low, rain dripping off the brim. Got that wired look in his eyes like he’s only halfway through the night.

He jumps in the backseat. Always the back.

Tango doesn’t say a word. Just looks at him in the mirror.

Cutter’s digging in his backpack. Plastic rustling. Little zip bags flashing. The smell hits fast.

Tango shakes his head. “Come on, man.”

Cutter grins. “It’s inventory, this is gonna put Jolie through college.”

“Put that shit away.”

“It’s legal in half the state.”

“It ain’t legal in this car.”

Cutter shrugs, tucks it. “You still uptight as hell.”

“You still stupid as hell.”

A pause. The kind that stretches too long and thins out the air.
Cutter finally leans forward, his chin on the backrest. “You ever think about leaving?”

Tango doesn’t answer.

“I mean it,” Cutter says. “Whole city’s a graveyard with a gas bill. They puttin' up buildings for people that don’t even live here yet, hoping more that they’re just gonna all of a sudden show up rather than build something for the people who’s already here. So here we are. Still chasing tips. Driving people from one place we can’t afford to the next place we can’t. And even if we could afford it, they wouldn’t even want us there, for real. Shit, they’d shut it down before they’d let us in at all. I say again, so here we are—”

“I ain’t chasing shit,” Tango says. “I’m just driving. I’m figuring it out.”

“That job. The one I told you about. Security. At that white coat facility. They’re still hiring.”

“I ain’t standing guard over other people’s shit.”

“You and me, man. Legit checks. No more app shit, no more dimes.”

Tango shakes his head.

“It’s indoors, bruh.”

“That’s worse.”

“How?”

“It just is.”

Cutter leans back, sighs through his teeth. “They don’t care about your record. Not this place. They just want warm bodies who don’t ask too many questions.”

“I ask questions.”

Cutter grins. “That’s your problem, been saying that. Come on. You done your time. You a father now.”

Tango’s jaw tightens. He thinks of Jolie. Thinks of Mara, no room left in her eyes for excuses.

They pass a cluster of cops leaning on squad cars under busted streetlights. Eyes track the sedan like predators track prey.

Tango slows. Cops don’t blink.
He speeds up again.

They both stay silent. Eyes straight ahead.

Tango checks the rearview.

Cutter peeks over his shoulder.

They both look ahead.

“We good,” Cutter says.

“Yeah. We good,” Tango says.

"Just think about it," Cutter says. "They’re doing something down there. Like, real something. Why shouldn’t we be a part of it?”

“I’ll think about it,” Tango deflects.

“Think fast, ‘cause I got us interviews in the morning.”

Cutter cheeses, smile filling up the whole rearview.

Tango can’t help but smile back. Though his smile fades fast.

Home is a two-bedroom apartment stacked with five people. Tango’s mom, a cop. His sister, Nevaeh, a physics student going on damn-near a decade. Mara and Jolie, wife of two years, two-year-old daughter, respectively, no coincidence, respectfully. Everyone tired. Always tired. Well, everyone but Jolie. She hardly sleeps. Everyone stretched thin, though; even Jolie.

They eat in the living room. The TV plays protest footage on mute. Tango mentions the job. His mom nods like it's gospel and praises God between bites. Nevaeh frowns.

"That collider isn’t safe," she says. "They’re trying to punch through spacetime without knowing what’s on the other side.”

Jolie babbles.

“Is that really what they’re doing?” Tango asks.

“Yes. And no. It’s the most—it’s the simplest way I can put it.”

“So sorry we’re sooo dumb,” Tango jests.

“I didn’t say dumb. You said dumb.”

“‘It’s the most dumbed-down I can make it.’ Your words.”

“I didn’t say that. I thought it, but I didn’t say it.”

“Anyway, I’m not going to be near any of the science shit—sorry, Jo. That sounds more like your kind of people. Probably gonna want to hire you more than me. Anyway, you saying I can’t trust science now?” Tango says, eyes still straight ahead, watching molotov cocktails hit riot shields.

“Just keep your eyes open. And don’t ask too many questions,” Naveah says.

“That’s the second—”

Naveah cuts him off, “You, too, Mom. It’s fucking crazy out there. Sorry, Jo. But it is.”

“I’ll be all right. Just like Tango’s about to be, they got me behind a desk. Don’t you worry,” Tango’s mom assures whoever’s listening.

Mara catches Tango’s eye. 

Soft voice. "You need to try. For her. For us. Please.”

“Does it matter that Cutter got me the interview?”

“Usually, yeah, it would,” Mara says, “but it can’t anymore.”

Tango nods. Doesn’t mean it. Maybe he does. He nods all the same.

He shows up at the interview with wet shoes and a secondhand tie. The security supervisor barely looks at him. The admin winces when he hands over his resume. They ask about arrests before asking about experience. Tango is used to it all.

Then the fare walks in. The scientist from before. Doesn’t recognize Tango. Says something about his sister’s potential, though. Slides a folder about her across the table. Says they need minds like hers. Pure minds. Then he looks up, sees Tango.

Tango takes the folder, touches his sister’s name, opens the folder— 

The scientist snatches the folder from Tango.

The security supervisor whispers to the admin who whispers to the scientist who leaves without another word. Without a single word to Tango.

The admin shrugs a half-hearted apology. More of an explanation. Well, an excuse, really.  Tango’s and his sister’s names are so similar. Well, they start with the same letter, anyway. Well, their last name does. Honest mistake. Can he confirm her number, actually? 

The security supervisor stays stone-faced. The position has already been filled. There was only ever one.

Tango walks out before he breaks something.

That night, Cutter texts. 

CUTTER: come see what I’m guarding

CUTTER: my bad about the job

CUTTER: we good?

CUTTER: bring food, I’ll smoke you out

They meet in a construction zone. Cutter’s in uniform, barely. Grinning. They smoke. Talk shit. They eat fries.

“Did Naveah take the job?” Cutter asks.

Tango shrugs, inhales, holds it.

Cutter slides off the hood of Tango’s car. “You should see this shit,” he says.

“You just got this job. Literally today. Trying to get fired tomorrow?” Tango asks, exhaling.

“Pay’s shit. Hours are shit. I got other plans,” Cutter says, approaching a large hatch, round, seamless, set in an even larger, cylindrical tube. Cutter opens the hatch. Cold air spills from the seams, now visible and glowing.

Tango knows he shouldn’t, but he slides down the hood of his car, and, as if transfixed, hypnotized, mesmerized, magnatized, he approaches the hatch door.

Cutter swings it wide open. Below: a tunnel glowing faintly. Then flickering. Then pulsing.

"They're firing it up," Cutter says. "Dark matter or some shit. We got front row seats.”

Tango takes another hit, passes it to Cutter. They watch the lights chase one another.

Then, the air snaps. 

The light stutters. 

A blast—

Like being ripped in half. But not blood. Not bone. Something more elemental, something smaller, something deeper. A separation. A divide. Split.

Tango slams into a pile of four-by-fours. Cutter lands against a pile of rebar.

Tango shakes it off, focuses his eyes ahead.

Across from him: another him.

Not a twin. Not a clone. Something wrong in the face. Wrong in the way it breathes. Like it hates the air. Like it’s poison. But it’s still him, Tango. Another him. Like staring into a mirror without the mirror.

Cutter stands. Stares at his own double. Laughs once. Steps forward.

Cutter’s double stands, too.

“Cutter, don’t,” Tango pleads.

"It's me…” he says. “I ain’t scared of myself.”

Cutter reaches out. The other Cutter does, too.

Their fingers touch.

And they vanish. Both of them. Like bubbles, popped out of existence. Just, gone.

Tango backs away, trips over his feet. Pushes himself up. Runs. 

Tango checks over his shoulder.

The other him, his double, follows.

The city is chaos. People running. Glimpses of shadows, others chasing them. Silhouettes that move wrong. They shimmer like heat over asphalt. Lightning flashes as they disappear in pairs.

Tango drives. Hard. Fast. Swerves through barricades. Watches people implode and explode and vanish all at once when they touch their other selves. Ahead of him, in the rearview, everywhere. He watches helplessly as a woman falls just inches short of her front door. Watches her double absorb her. Gone. Tango speeds away.

The other Tango tears ahead, running behind, racing after Tango’s car like a magnet drawn to its opposite pole. Through glass, narrowly avoiding cars, through people, to Tango.

Tango makes it home. Apartment torn apart. No sign of Mara or Jolie. Closet door bangs. 

Tango peeks through the slats.

Jolie’s doppelgänger slams against the door. Scraping. Toddling. Hungry.

He backs away from the door in horror. Pushes the dresser he built Jolie in front of the closet, muffling the scrapes. Heart hammering.

Fridge still humming. Mara’s schedule magneted to the front. She’s at the hospital. 

Tango races to the hospital. Tires scream around corners. The sky’s split open and pour, the streets shine like glass. The power flickers in waves. Something's wrong with the air—it feels too thick, like a pool that’s too full of people.

He skids to a stop outside the ER entrance. It’s both chaos, predictably, and shockingly deserted. People running out instead of in. A nurse screams into a walkie. A man is holding his own hand like it doesn't belong to him. His double crashes through a glass window from three stories up, landing on the man, popping them both out of existence.

Inside: alarms. Red lights. Emergency generator power. Bodies on gurneys with eyes wide open, not blinking. Not breathing. Fighting against the straps holding them in place.

Tango pushes past the front desk. Grabs a nurse by the sleeve. “Mara Wade. Where is she?”

The nurse stammers. “Radiology. But it’s—there’s something—”

He doesn't wait. Takes the stairs two at a time.

Mara’s in the hallway. Hair wild. Scrubs soaked. Blood on her cheek that’s not hers. Some that is.

“Tango—”

“Where’s Jolie?”

Mara’s face folds in on itself. “Nevaeh had her. She was supposed to bring her here. I haven’t heard—”

A crash down the hall. A wall bulges. Like something pushed through it from the wrong side.

Then the screaming starts. Doppelgängers. Inside.

They aren’t chasing anymore. Not exclusively. Not them, anyway. Like they’ve learned. Adapted. Their forms flicker less. They still move like water through drywall. Tangible nightmares. Some crawl. Some hover. All wrong. All toward Tango and Mara.

Tango grabs Mara’s wrist. “Come on—“

Mara grabs Tango’s wrist and pulls him the opposite direction. “This way.”

They sprint through the chaos. Dodging flickering lights, broken stretchers. A body twitches on the floor. No face—then two.

Then—

“Nevaeh!” Mara shrieks.

Nevaeh turns. Jolie in her arms. Cradled tight. Still whole. Still her. Still awake, whimpering.

“This way,” Mara says.

They find an MRI machine room. Tango slams the door shut. Lead-lined. No windows. The lights flicker but hold.

Nevaeh transfers Jolie to Mara’s arms.

Tango kisses Jolie’s forehead until she pushes him away.

They listen to Jolie babble for a long while.

Finally, a silence Tango enjoys.

Nevaeh breaks the silence first. “I think I know what’s going on.”

“I care more about how to stop it. You know how to do that?” Tango asks.

“Yeah, actually. I think I do,” she answers.

“Stay here. Lock it. Don’t open for anyone,” Tango says, forehead to forehead with Mara.

“What about—” she says.

“Not even me. I mean, until you know it’s me. For sure for sure.”

Mara wants to argue. Doesn’t. Just nods.

Tango stares at his daughter one last time. She stares back. Like she understands. She babbles like she doesn’t.

Tango and Nevaeh hit the streets like old times, like kids. Boots splashing through puddles that weren’t there an hour ago. The city warps around them. Power surges. Trees bend the wrong way. Every shadow drips.

“Where’s yours?” Tango asks Navaeh.

“I, uh… She’s—it’s not coming back. Yours?”

Tango shrugs. “I’ve outrun it so far.”

They make it to the police station. Two cops are at a checkpoint outside. Nervous. Shaky hands. Guns already drawn.

“Hands up!”

“We’re looking for our mother,” Tango says.

“You're one of them—”

“That doesn’t even make any—” Tango spits.

“Watch out!” Navaeh yells helplessly.

The sky flickers. The cops’ doubles arrive. It happens fast. Two bursts of light. Bones crack. Wet sounds. Screams. Then silence. The cops are gone.

Their mother pokes her head out the front door. Civilian clothes. Hair matted. Gun in hand. Blood drying on her shirt.

“Tango. Navaeh…” They don’t hug. Mom gets in, and they run.

The car spins out, then away.

Tango’s double is right behind them. Chasing.

"What do we do?!” Tango and their mom ask Nevaeh at once.

Nevaeh has always answered, so she answers, "Lure them into the collider tunnel. All of them. It might contain them long enough. We trigger another collision. Push them back through the rip. Maybe... Maybe we get some people back, too.”

“Will that work?” Tango and their mom ask Nevaeh in unison again.

“Got any other ideas?”

Tango hydroplanes to a stop, jolting them all.

Jolie’s double is in the middle of the street, toddling forward.

“It’s not—”

“I know.”

He peels out, heading straight for the toddler, straight for his daughter’s doppelgänger.

“Wait, look,” Nevaeh says, face pressed to her window. Tango slows. Watches. People are running toward the collider. Toward some edge, some invisible perimeter. Children in bike helmets. Elders in slippers. A couple still holding hands like they were at a picnic. They watch them cross the invisible line. Their doubles slam against it. Disintegrate. Ash.

Tango looks ahead, at Jolie’s doppelgänger. Her eyes shimmer like oil. Her mouth doesn’t open, but the sound that comes from her is laughter—almost.

Tango floors it.

Tires spin, catch, launch. The sedan hydroplanes, skidding hard toward her.

But the other Tango appears.

Steps in front.

Scoops the Jolie double out of the way. Sidesteps the sedan.

Tango jerks the wheel. The car fishtails. Slams into a barricade. Flips. Glass shatters. Metal screams.

Everything goes black.

Tango wakes upside down. Seatbelt dug into his chest. Blood in his eyes. His arm’s pinned. The windshield is a web of cracks.

Nevaeh’s next to him. Unconscious. Breathing shallow.

His mother’s in the back. Face against the window. Still. Too still.

Tango groans. Tries to move. Fails.

Then he sees them. Through the broken windshield. Just beyond the smoke. His double. Cradling the Jolie double. Rocking her like a lullaby.

The not-Jolie reaches out, touches his chest.

Tango coughs. Screams through gritted teeth, "If you touch me, she won't go with you. She'll be stuck here. You’ll leave her behind."

The double turns. Expressionless. Until—

Footsteps. Fast. Hard.

Around a blind corner, Mara. Holding the real Jolie.

Tango inhales sharply.

Jolie reaches toward the window. “Look, mama. Me.”

Mara screams, skids to a stop too late. “No! Don’t—”

But it’s too late.

Tango’s doppelgänger grabs Mara, holds her still with inhuman strength.

Jolie and her double stretch out their hands. Fingers inches away.

Mara fights, to no avail.

The Tango double looks at Tango. For the first time, he speaks: "It’s the only way to get home.”

“But what about us? Where do we go?” Tango pleads. Tango thrashes against his seatbelt. Blood fills his mouth. “No! Don’t do this. Please. Don’t—”

“You’d do the same thing, if you were me.”

The double reaches out. Touches Tango's cheek. Gentle. Like forgiveness.

Jolie's fingers brush her double’s.

White light, singed hair. Then—

Nothing.