Weeks blur into a grind. Initial hope fuels all-nighters: Murray hauls in scrap metal ("For the Murray's muscle fixes!"), Bentley tweaks algorithms from his workstation, Penelope pilots test drones through mini-vortices. You? Relentless. Day 1-14: Dissecting Bentley's paradox-proofing equations, soldering quantum stabilizers by hand. Nights echo with "He's out there" pep talks.

Month 1: Cracks show. Failed test jumps spit sparks; a vortex glitch nearly sucks Murray in. Hope frays—Murray lifts weights in silence, staring at Sly's cane on the wall. Bentley buries in code, muttering probabilities dropping to "17%." Penelope cries in the RC hangar. You? Skip meals, eyes bloodshot, rigging flux capacitors from scavenged parts. "Not mourning. Building." They beg you to rest; you snap, "Orphanage taught us: Family doesn't quit."

Month 2: Mourning settles like fog. Hideout feels empty—Sly's newsboy cap on a hook, dust on his perch. Murray visits graveside (metaphorical), Bentley drafts "In Memory" vault plans, Penelope packs boxes. Whispers of disbanding. You? A machine. 60 straight days: Cross-referencing Egyptian timelines, hacking Le Paradox's residual data for echoes, upgrading the time machine's core with overclocked coils and your sniper-precision wiring. Coffee IVs, no sleep. "One more variable. He's waiting."

Two Months later

The time machine—now a beast with your reinforced frame, Bentley's AI brain, and jury-rigged boosters—hums to life. You slump in the pilot chair, grease-streaked, triumphant grin cracking your exhaustion. Alarms blare: "TARGET LOCKED: Coordinates Confirmed – Giza Plateau, Egypt, 48 BC. Signal Strong."*