Heather Sanderson, PhD in physics and Masters in electrical engineering, class of 1972, fifteen-year veteran of technology at a national bank, shepherding them from literal rusting mainframes to the new microcomputers. And recruited into President Bush’s taskforce to find out why millions of Americans just like her had been physically altered following the strange pirate broadcast that broke into TV and radio transmissions all over the planet on June 19th, 1989.

The message said only this: “THE PAST IS BETTER THIS WAY.”

Within a week the first reports of spontaneous mutations and physical aberrations began to surface. Humans were being altered by something, or someone. Humans like Heather, who began turning purple in July and by Halloween did not need to pick out a costume.

“What’s the preliminary look like, Dr. Sanderson?” the director asked. She turned in her chair and delivered the news.
“Failed to disprove the null, sir,” she replied. “No apparent patterns in the polarization. The only thing we’ve found interesting so far is the neutron event that preceded the pirate broadcast.”
“That’s to be expected, I guess,” George replied, trying not to linger on a particular feature of Dr. Sanderson’s altered physiology. “Congress has approved the full ten-year funding request for the collider project in Texas, maybe we’ll get some answers with an atom-smasher the size of a small town.”
“Sir, I’ve been thinking about that,” Dr. Sanderson said, adjusting her glasses thoughtfully. “What if the SSC is what enables us to send messages back in time at all? I mean,” she cleared her throat, trying to ignore her attraction to the director and keep this conversation strictly professional, “If it reaches the theoretical maximum luminosity and confirms the predicted behavior of chronitons, what if that’s what allows some future advanced civilizaton to, if you’ll pardon the slogan, ‘reach out and touch someone’ decades in the past?”
“I don’t buy into that urban legend, Dr. Sanderson,” George said dismissively. “To be frank I’m a little disappointed in you for entertaining what’s almost certainly the least likely explanation. A time-traveling gene bomb, sent by a person or persons unknown, solely for the purpose of turning normal people into-” and here he caught himself, noticing Dr. Sanderson’s ears drooping at the direction of his rant. “-into normal people with certain handicaps? It doesn’t even make sense as fiction. If my pulp mags ran a story like that when I was a boy, I’d have canceled my subscription on the spot.”
“I’m sure you’re right about that, sir,” Heather sighed, feeling self-conscious about her deformities yet conflicted by the delightful way certain parts of her drew the director’s eye without fail. “But to be honest, we don’t even have the beginnings of a framework that organizes potential motivations half as well. I just think it’s less a matter of pure physics and more a matter of human behavior. I’m no anthropologist, obviously, but from my empirical experience as a woman,” she slightly emphasized the word, “I could believe some young pervert with access to as-yet undeveloped technology would be capable of such a thing.”
“Well, I can’t fault the explanation for motive,” director Locklear conceded, glancing at the chief scientist’s well-endowed figure in a way he mistakenly deemed to be stealthy. “But let’s not proceed on the hypothesis that we’re deal with some sort of juvenile delinquent from the far-off year 2000. Anyway, I’m going to need your full report on the results by tomorrow. Once you’re done updating the findings, send them over to publishing.” He sighed and glanced at his watch. “Speaking of living in the future, I still can’t believe you folks can send a fully type-set report halfway around the world over the phone lines,” he said, shaking his head.
“Desktop publishing is a digital-first medium,” Heather pointed out. “Back in finance, I was responsible for moving the bank’s internal reports from electric typewriters to mini-PCs. We got used to flashing bytes around the campus and only printing hard copies as-needed pretty quickly.”
“Well, that’s a young person’s game,” the director said, throwing up his hands. “Give me a Rolodex and a fresh ink ribbon for my good ol’ Underwood and I’m all set. Even by candle light!” he smirked. But when he looked back at Dr. Sanderson and the way her face was flushing crimson, he quickly clarified. “You know, back before light bulbs!” he chuckled awkwardly. “A-any, I’ve got to phone the missus and tell her I’ll be home in time for the speech. Good evening, Miss- I mean, Dr. Sanderson.”
“R-right, of course, sir! Good evening, director.” She watched him leave and then reached for the stack of green bar printer paper, tearing off a few pages to fan herself with. She tried hard not to think about a candle-lit room with just her and the director, sharing a glass of wine and enjoying each other’s… company.

There were apartments at the research campus set aside for people like her, people affected by the strange mutation epidemic. She wasn’t the only one working on the project; at least three more women presented similar symptoms, one of them colored yellow and sporting pitifully small and useless wings instead of Dr. Sanderson’s long, spiraling cranial horn.
Upon entering her personal sanctuary she hung up her coat, kicked off her heels, and pulled off her stretchy top before collapsing with a heavy sigh into her favorite armchair, wiggling her aching toes. She rested a moment and tried to keep her mind off the office page who’d openly leered at her on her way from the lab. She’d allowed herself to get all worked up from the attention and needed to ground herself. Taking a deep breath, she reached over to the end-table and clicked the record button of a small tape machine.

“Dr. Heather Sanderson, personal log, November 5th, 1989. Personal observation: the urges are getting worse. And not just on my part, even relatively well-behaved men like… Director Locklear… are starting to be affected. I suspect the pheromones that Dr. McTaggart mentioned are at work. I’m probably shedding ‘good vibes’ like a cat sheds hair in summer, and not just picking up on what the men are putting out. Whew!” She fanned herself again before continuing. “I can barely get through the day as it is, hope this is just my imagination.”
“Something else happened of note. Today, for whatever reason, I was signing reports and not paying attention. Then I caught myself writing something that wasn’t my name. I looked back and had accidentally put the other words in three places across two documents. I’ll have to ask around and see if anyone knows what ‘Twilight Sparkle’ means. It almost sounds like a code word or something rather than a name. Hope I’m not just going crazy.”
“Anyway, today’s experiments failed to produce results. I’m more convinced than ever that what we’re looking for is too advanced for us to detect. Maybe the Max Headroom incident was just the beginning of something bigger. I don’t have any leads, though. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to work with theory instead of transistors. And then there are the aforementioned distractions. Maybe I just need a vacation. Haha, fat chance of that. Anyway, Tw- … Dr. Heather Sanderson signing off.”

She hit the stop button and considered, not for the first time, erasing the whole tape. Instead she hefted her bulky figure out of the chair and walked into the kitchen, not bothering with the light switch. She poured herself a glass of wine, lit a candle, and returned to her small bedroom with both.