The Last Queen, Chapter Four: The Weight of Time

 Chapter 4: The Weight of Time**

**2035: Ten Years Later**

The McCarthy mansion stood weathered but proud, its marble facade etched with the scars of a decade’s storms. Meyersdale’s skyline had grown sharper, its neon lights now laced with holographic streams, the city pulsing with Alexander’s neural tech. In Dr. Amanda Albright’s lab, a sterile fortress beneath the hospital, Max’s cryogenic chamber glowed, its blue light casting shadows across the faces of those who waited. Victoria, 58, leaned on a cane, her dark chestnut bob streaked with silver, her deep blue eyes weary but resolute, her pearl earrings a constant. Alexander, 60, stood beside her, his gray hair thinner, his gray eyes heavy, his gold wedding ring glinting as he gripped her hand, their gazes locked in shared grief. Tracy, 28, now a lawyer in a black dress, her long chestnut hair pulled back, her silver bracelet catching the light, glared at Albright, her warm brown eyes fierce. Clara, 30, clutched her silver cross necklace, her light blonde hair vibrant, her hazel eyes tearful as she gazed at Max’s form in the chamber, his body unaged but softer, his hair longer, his chest fuller.

Clara’s voice broke the silence, her eyes on Max’s frozen form. “He’s changing,” she said, her gaze distant, her fingers twisting her necklace. “And I… I got married, Max. I’m sorry.” Her eyes filled with tears, her gaze lifting to Victoria’s, seeking forgiveness.

Victoria’s cane trembled, her eyes snapping to Clara’s, her voice sharp. “You promised to wait!” Her gaze held Clara’s, her pearl earrings glinting with her anger. Alexander’s hand tightened on hers, their eyes meeting, his voice low. “Clara, you were his world.” Tracy’s gaze hardened, her eyes on Clara, her voice cutting. “Ten years, Clara. You couldn’t hold on?”

Clara wept, her eyes on Max’s form, her voice breaking. “I tried, Victoria. I waited five years, but David… he was there when I was alone. I love Max, but I couldn’t live in limbo.” Her gaze met Tracy’s, pleading. “I’m so sorry.”

Albright, her crimson lab coat pristine, her raven black hair framing emerald eyes that barely aged, studied the chamber, her gaze calm. “His mutations are progressing,” she said, her eyes meeting Tracy’s. “He hasn’t aged, but his body’s becoming… female. We need thirty more years for a cure.”

“Thirty years?” Alexander roared, his eyes on Albright, his voice shaking the lab. “We’re aging, Amanda! He’s our son!” Victoria’s cane hit the floor, her eyes locked with Albright’s, her voice icy. “You said ten years. Now thirty? What are you hiding?”

Tracy stepped forward, her eyes fierce on Albright, her silver bracelet glinting. “You’re barely aging, Amanda. What’s your game?” Her gaze held Albright’s, her lawyer’s mind dissecting every word.

“Science,” Albright said, her eyes calm, her smile faint. “Max is unique. His DNA holds answers we don’t yet have. Thirty years will give us the technology to save him.” Her crimson coat seemed to glow, her presence unshakable.

**2055: Thirty Years Later**

The lab was colder, its machines more advanced, their hum a constant drone. Victoria, 78, sat in a wheelchair, her eyes on Alexander, 80, his frame frail, his gold wedding ring loose on his finger, their gazes locked in shared pain. Clara, 50, her light blonde hair graying, stood by the chamber, her eyes on Max’s form—now distinctly feminine, with long chestnut hair and curvaceous hips. Tracy, 48, a senator in a tailored suit, her silver bracelet a constant, glared at Albright, her eyes fierce. “He’s not Max anymore,” Clara whispered, her gaze on the chamber, her marriage to David a distant regret, her cross necklace heavy with guilt.

“We need fifty years total,” Albright said, her eyes on Tracy, her wrinkles deeper but her presence unchanged. “The world isn’t ready for him—or her—yet.”

Tracy grabbed Albright’s arm, their gazes locked, her voice low. “You’re playing God, Amanda. What’s really going on?” Albright’s eyes met hers, unreadable. “Progress,” she said, her crimson coat a stark contrast to the lab’s sterile white.

**2075: Fifty Years Later**

Victoria and Alexander were gone, their graves in the McCarthy estate’s garden marked with simple stones. The lab was a relic, its machines outdated but functional. Clara, 70, her hair white, her hazel eyes dim, stood by the chamber, her eyes on Max’s goddess-like form, a woman frozen in perfection. Tracy, 68, her chestnut hair gray, her senator’s poise unbroken, faced Albright, her eyes fierce. “What have you done?” Clara sobbed, her gaze on Albright, her voice weak.

“Not yet,” Albright said, her eyes on Clara, her crimson coat unchanged. “Soon.” Her smile was faint, her gaze distant, as if seeing a future only she understood.

**2125: A Century Later**

Tracy, 100, lay dying in a hospital bed, her eyes on a plush doll with chestnut hair—Maxie, her childhood treasure, named for her brother. She clutched a diary, her gaze on its pages, where a hologram chip hid the truth. “Max, I love you,” she whispered, her eyes distant, her voice fading. Albright stood by, her eyes on Tracy, her crimson coat a constant, her face unaged. The chamber glowed, Max’s form a vision of eternal beauty, waiting for a world that had forgotten him.