Christopher ignored the siren call of Addison Montgomery's designer heels clicking across the rooftop. The red-headed storm of the future could wait; a digital ghost was calling him from inside the machine.
"Rain check, Dr. Marsh," Christopher said, spinning on his heel before Nick could bridge the gap.
"Running away so soon?" Nick called out, his voice laced with a knowing amusement that made Christopher's skin prickle. "We haven't even discussed your 'vivid dreams' yet!"
Christopher didn't answer. He ducked into the stairwell, his thumb hovering over the pager screen. The message had come from extension 4202—a corner of the hospital that was currently being renovated. It should have been a dead zone.
He moved through the hallways with a predator's focus, ignoring George O'Malley, who tried to flag him down about a "medical mystery" that Christopher knew was just a swallowed marble. He reached the fourth floor, where plastic sheets hung like ghosts over half-finished doorways.
The air was thick with drywall dust and the scent of stagnant water. He pushed through a set of heavy plastic flaps and found himself in what would eventually be the state-of-the-art neuro-wing.
Sitting on a lonely equipment crate was a figure shrouded in the dim light of a flickering bulb. They were holding a hospital-issued tablet—technology that shouldn't have been this advanced for 2005.
"You're late," the figure said.
Christopher stopped dead. The voice was smooth, cultured, and carried a weight of exhaustion that matched his own. The figure turned, and the light hit the sharp features of Andrew DeLuca. But this wasn't the wide-eyed intern Christopher remembered. This Andrew looked older, his eyes hard and etched with the trauma of someone who had seen the end of the world and survived it.
"DeLuca?" Christopher breathed, his sharp sarcasm momentarily failing him. "You're supposed to be in Italy. Or middle school. I can't keep track of the ages anymore."
"The plane crash changed things, Christopher," Andrew said, standing up. He held up the tablet, which flickered with a digital map of the hospital—marked with red dots where "anomalies" were occurring. "When the timeline fractured during the beach sequence in season seventeen, it sent ripples back. We aren't the only ones who drifted."
Christopher's mind whirred. "Addison. Nick Marsh. They're here because of the ripple?"
"They're here because the hospital is a magnet for tragedy, and the magnet just got stronger," Andrew said, stepping closer. "But you're the anomaly I can't figure out. You aren't from the future, are you? You were born here. In this time."
"I'm a local with a very spoilers-heavy subscription," Christopher snapped, regaining his edge. "Now, why did you page me? Aside from the dramatic lighting?"
Andrew's expression turned grim. "Because the 'script' is trying to correct itself. It realized Thatcher didn't die, so it's looking for a replacement. A life for a life. And right now, it's looking at Cristina Yang."
Christopher felt a cold sinkhole open in his chest. "The ectopic pregnancy. It's not supposed to happen yet."
"It's happening now," Andrew said, checking the tablet. "And if she goes into the OR with Burke like the original timeline, she doesn't come out. The ripple made the hemorrhage worse."
Christopher checked his own pager. An emergency page from the gallery. Cristina had collapsed.
"I can't be in two places at once," Christopher hissed. "If I save Cristina, I reveal my hand to everyone."
"Then let me handle the surgery," Andrew said, "and you handle the distraction. Addison is looking for Derek. If she finds him and Meredith together right now, the emotional fallout will distract Bailey long enough for us to operate in the shadows."