Microstory 1604: White Savior

< > Table of Contents

This next one is a very sensitive topic, the answers to which I do not claim to know. I hesitated to tell this story, but have determined it’s better to let the truth be out there, than to pretend that it didn’t happen. Like I’ve explained, I am a voldisisil, which makes me a spirit type of human subspecies. I was born this way, due to the existence of a third parent that participated in my conception unbeknownst to my biological parents. But there are other spirits, in other universes, with different reasons for being. Some would be considered good, while others are pretty clearly bad, but most end up in a gray area. Unlike mutants and witches, spirits sometimes don’t take sides. They let their soul guide them, and don’t necessarily try to rationalize against their impulses. This doesn’t mean that they’re evil, but they don’t always think things through, and they actively repulse any attempt at criticism. There’s one man in particular that I believe we should discuss. His given name was Wyatt Bradley, but once he discovered what he could do, he started going by the moniker White Savior. Different versions of Earth have different historical experiences with race and nationality. Some are undeniably worse than others. Wyatt Bradley was born to one of these. Racism was prevalent, insidious, institutional, systemic, and seemingly insurmountable. He saw it all over the place. Everyone saw it, and anyone who didn’t see it was lying. Do not think that Wyatt discovered his abilities, immediately threw on a white suit, and started running around. He wrestled with the idea, and ultimately succumbed to his urges, which is what I was talking about. He surrendered to his soul, and did not heed the lessons that the wise people around him taught him as he was growing up. There is a reason that humans are a trinity of mind, body, and soul. All three are required to make a person. A mind alone is a computer, a body alone is a pile of viscera, and a soul alone is a ghost. None of them is meant to be without the other two.

Wyatt wanted to do something about the racism in his country, and perhaps the world, and it felt to him like his soul powers were the best way for him to accomplish his goals. He was an aidsman, meaning that he was called to action against injustice, but in a literal sense. He possessed a general psychic connection to the human collective, and could let himself be drawn to pockets of extreme civil unrest. On the surface, he simply appeared to be a teleporter, but he couldn’t just go wherever he wanted. He could only go to these places of turmoil, or back home. Like I was saying, he put on a white suit, and wore a steel mask. Basically, he wore a fencing uniform. But he was not a fencer. The weapons he carried were all blunt instruments, and tasers. He used these to attack people who were attacking minorities, and this regularly meant attacking the police. Wyatt’s public identity was extremely controversial, but he paid no attention to his critics, even members of the black community who saw it as wildly offensive, and altogether unhelpful. He didn’t think that he could conquer racism with his methods, but he believed he could deter some of the more violent components. “If the white cop is worried about getting a dose of his own medicine, he’ll stop giving it to his victims. If he does it anyway, he answers to me,” White Savior was once recorded saying in a rare case of him saying anything to anyone. He was predominantly quiet, though not mute, instead allowing his baton to do the talking for him. They eventually got the message. Whether or not any given individual respected this message was another story, but Wyatt’s actions were not without a little progress. Instances of police brutality against minorities dropped within months of White Savior’s arrival. It would seem that law enforcement was taking notice, and changing tactics. Unfortunately, this meant that they learned to be more subtle with their racism, because he was only drawn to the violence, not general mistreatment or abuse, and definitely not systemic oppression. After a few years, his activity took a toll on his body, and his sanity. I’m not sure if he ever admitted to himself that he wasn’t really helping, but he retired just the same, and withdrew from society completely. Within the year, everything was back to normal.

Fervor: Monkey Boots (Part V)

« < » > Entire Story

Hilde and I turn around when we hear people behind us. A man and woman are standing a few meters from us in the lobby. They’re wearing extremely outdated garb, and looking around. “Hello,” Hilde says, as brave as Slipstream. “This might be a strange question, but what year is this?”

The man looks at his timepiece. “We were to understand it would be 2030.”

“That’s five years in the future,” I point out.

“It would be five hundred and twelve for us.”

“You were trying to go to the future?”

“Well, we weren’t really trying,” the woman answers. “We’re salmon, so it just happens to us. The math checks out. We should have jumped today.”

“Let’s go outside,” Hilde suggests, “before the other people in this building find us.” We step out and see nothing but trees and plants. The air is crisp and fresh, completely free from human pollution. We’re standing next to a wall of lavender. “I don’t think it’s 2030, or 2025. I think you’re still in...uh”

“1518,” the woman says. “By the Julian calendar.”

“That’s exactly what year it is,” another woman says, having walked out from the building. “Who are you people?” It’s a younger version of Jesimula Utkin. Is that good or bad?

“Paige,” I respond, not wanting to antagonize her just yet, or let on that we know something about her personal future.

“Hilde.”

“Laura.”

“Samwise.”

“Samwise?” Jesimula questions? “Like in Lord of the Rings?”

“Uhuh.”

“What year are you all from?”

“2025,” Hilde says. “We hitched a ride in your magical building.

“1994, originally,” Laura answers for the two of them. “I think your building interfered with our latest attempt at a salmon jump.”

“I think your salmon jump interfered with our building,” Jesimula counters. We were trying to get to 1491.”

“I think the powers that be wanted this to happen. That explains the time pigeon we received, telling us to come to these coordinates.”

Jesmula breathes to center herself, then redirects her attention to the two of us. “What were you doing in my building?”

“We were just looking for directions. We have nothing to do with this,” I lie unconvincingly.

“That’s bullshit. If you weren’t time travelers, you would be freaking out right now. Who are you? Are you trying to stop me?”

We don’t say anything.

“Answer me!”

“Yes,” I finally say truthfully. “We’re trying to stop you. We have witnessed the future you look forward to,” I say untruthfully. There’s no reason to bring Future!Jesi into this. “It does not end well. You should return, and cancel all of your plans. Try doing something good for the world.”

“I am doing something good for the world. I have no clue what future you saw, but I assure you that I have nothing but good intentions.” She gestures to her building. “This facility is in a unique position to study diseases and potential cures across all of time and space.”

“Have you never worried about cross-contamination?” Laura asks.

“We do,” Jesi affirms. “Which is why you four being here is such a problem. You’ve breached our safety protocols. Maybe it is you who creates the virus that spreads through the future you claim to have seen.”

“We didn’t say jack about a virus,” Hilde remarks.

“I guessed, based on the purpose of my company.”

“The virus isn’t from the past, it’s from the future. Everybody’s future.”

“Are you sure?” Jesimula asked, suddenly dead serious.

“Yes.”

“Who told you this? How did they know? When in the future did it come from? Be specific.”

“We don’t have specifics,” Hilde says to her. “We can tell you only that we can’t tell you everything, because it violates a rule of time travel.”

Jesimula shakes her head. “That’s not gonna fly. You’re all going to the hock until we get this sorted out.”

“You have your own jail?” I question.

“You don’t?” she asks rhetorically.

We spend a few hours being watched in the J.U. Mithra jail cell in the basement before the ad hoc guard gets tired of it, and leaves. As soon as the door closes behind him, we hear the flapping of wings from the floor, along with bird coos. “They must be studying bird diseases, or something,” I guess.

“I don’t think that’s it,” Samwise says.

I lean forward as the flapping and cooing continue, until a bird suddenly appears from the stones, as if they were nothing more than a hologram. It nearly takes off my face as it flies around, bewildered by the abrupt emergence into close quarters.

“Catch it!” Laura whispers loudly.

I try to go for it, but it’s way too fast. Then Hilde stretches her arm out, and the thing just lands right on it, like it’s finally found home.

“Are you a wizard?” I ask her.

“I have some falconry experience, believe it or not,” she answers as she’s unraveling the note attached to the pigeon’s leg. like it’s no big deal. “Birds just know this.” She clears her throat, and reads the note, “Paige, take a picture of the wall outside the cell. What the hell?”

“Should I do it?” I survey the group. They all just shrug, so I take out my phone, and snap a photo of the wall, because it sounds innocuous. Immediately afterwards, another version of me appears in front of the wall, shocked and confused. Shocked as well, I look back down at my phone and tap the little thumbnail to open the photo I just took. I get a strange sort of burning sensation in my eyes, and then I find myself on the other side of the bars, looking at the past version of myself. I then watch as she looks down at her phone, and disappears to close the loop. “What in the world just happened?”

“Have you never done that before?” Laura asks me.

“No.”

“I thought you were a time traveler.”

“I was a stowaway. I’ve never done it myself. I didn’t know I could.”

“Hilde,” Laura says, “show her the note.”

“My God, it’s in my handwriting,” I realize when Hilde hands it to me. I flip it over. “And it’s written on the back of my receipt for coffee this morning.”

“Yikes,” Samwise says, “you just bootstrapped yourself.

“I beg your pardon, I’m fourteen.”

“No, I mean if you don’t write that note, you may inadvertently create a temporal paradox.”

“You mean another paradox,” Hilde reminded him. “The bootstrap itself is already one.”

“What boots are we talking about?” I’m getting a bit angry being left out of this.

“It’s an ontological paradox,” Hilde starts to explain. “If you write that note, then the only reason you wrote it is because you’ve seen the note come to you from the future. But the only reason the note came to you from the future is because you wrote it.”

“So...?” I ask patiently.

“So, who came up with the idea to write the note? You didn’t. You’re only gonna write it because you know you’re supposed to. There’s no actual cause. It just comes out of nowhere.”

“They do that on 12 Monkeys all the time,” I bring up. “They meet someone one day who talks about having seen them years ago, so they go back further, to that moment years ago, and meet them again...for the very first time.”

“Yes, well that works because it’s a piece of fiction,” Hilde says. “This is real life.”

“Is it, though?”

“Just write the note,” Samwise says with his foot down, “and let’s get past this.”

“Well, how do I get that pigeon back here?” I ask as I’m taking the present-day receipt out of my pocket, and starting to write the note.”

Samwise and Laura give each other this look before she starts to answer. “Okay, well, it’s a little weird—and neither of us knows why it works this way—but you have to find a podium, or a podium-like object. Then you have to stand over it, and say, if he or she does their schoolwork seriously; does well, takes school.”

“It’s not even a real sentence, but that’s what you have to say,” Samwise adds.

“It might not be a pigeon,” Laura says. “It could be an owl, or a dove, or even a finch. Any one of them can take your message to wherever and whenever you want them to.”

I look around the room. There is no podium-like thing around, and certainly no podium.

“You might have to go somewhere else,” Hilde suggests.

“No, this is stupid. I can write the note anytime. What I need to do is get you three out of there.” I look around again. “The keys are usually on a hook on the other side of the room, just outside of reach of a rope made out of clothes tied together.” As I’m scanning the walls, we hear movement on the other side of the door.

“The keys aren’t gonna be in here,” Laura warns. “But you need to go. Get yourself out. Use another picture, if you have to.”

“I’m not leaving you,” I argue.

“Paige!” Hilde starts to say, but then the guard comes back in the room. “Run! Now!”

“Hey!” the guard shouts.

I turn to run, but I don’t get far. Something pokes me in the back, and I suddenly can’t move a single muscle. My phone slips out of my hand, and I fall to the floor. All I can see is my Blue Marble homescreen. My eyes start burning again, and before I know it, I’m on the ground, outside again. The pain has subsided, and I’m able to stand back up. I get into a crouch and gather myself before looking around. I see tall buildings, and old cars driving around. The people, their clothes, and everything around me; it all just screams 1970s. At the very least, I can safely say I’m no longer in the early sixteenth century.

A woman kneels down and helps me up. “My God, are you okay?” she asks in what sounds like a British accent.

“I’m fine, I just need to get back,” I tell her as I’m scouring the ground. “My phone. Where’s my phone?”

“Back at your place, I would imagine,” the woman says. “You couldn’t take it with you.” She laughs.

“Oh crap, I wasn’t holding it. I have to be holding it!”

“Okay, it’s okay. Where are your parents? Do you know where you’re staying? I assume you’re not from South Africa?”

“This is South Africa?”

“Quite.”

“What year?”

“Paige?” I hear a sickening voice I am all too familiar with. “Is that you?”

I close my eyes, and slowly turn around, hoping this is all just a nightmare. When I open them, however, I find that it is not. It’s just my nightmare come to life. Standing before me is my awful birthmother. Behind her is my just as bad birthfather.

“It is you,” my mother says in awe. She almost looks like she’s about to break down in tears of joy, but I know her too well. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” the woman who was helping me says with her hand open. “My name is—”

“Paige Turner!” my mother scolds me, ignoring the woman. “It’s been over a year. Where the shit have you been!”

« < » > Entire Story

Microstory 885: Evitable

< > Table of Contents

The thing about programs like this is that you’re not meant to know you’re in a program. They hook you up, and load your consciousness into the servers, while simultaneously temporarily blocking the last day or so of your life. There won’t just be a chunk of time missing, however; you’ll have a blurry sense of being alive during that period of time, but since you don’t remember what happened, your mind fills in the blanks, to explain why you are where you are when the program begins. Most of the time, this doesn’t come up anyway, because people don’t run around rehashing their yesterdays, unless something noteworthy happened, or someone else asks about it. But for me, it doesn’t remember, because I always retain my full memories. The point of these exercises is to behave the way you would in the real world, where your actions have lasting consequences on your and others’ lives. The belief that this is all just as dangerous as anything is generally vital to the purity of the system. I never thought that I needed that, though, because the fact of the matter is that I’ve always believed virtual realities to be nothing less than parallel dimensions of reality. I’ve always cared about what happens to these people, even though they’re so-called non-playable characters. To me, just because they’re programmed to believe they are real, doesn’t mean they aren’t. Hell, we’re all programmed, in one way or the other. I’m not saying we’re living on the thirteenth floor, and just a virtual reality that happened to create its own virtual reality. I’m saying everyone grows up being taught to follow societal norms, or to rebel against those conventions. While we all decide our own morality, those decisions are—every single time—informed by our past experiences, particular our interactions with others. This is just a different form of programming. So when I walked into the mall, knowing that I was part of a simulation, that didn’t mean I didn’t care.

Everything seems normal in the mall. People are browsing the shops and eating in the food court. Kids are playing on the train, and couples are resting their heads on each other’s shoulders. A janitor walks down the promenade pushing a big, gray cart. He’s bobbing his head to his music, causing passersby to smile and dance a little with him. Then he just stops and casually walks away, leaving his cart in the middle of the rotunda. As if on cue, random people from all over the mall assemble upon the cart. Children are widening their eyes, for they’ve seen things like this before. This is a flash mob, and they’re all about to dance. But they don’t. Each of the random people reach into the cart and pulls out a gun. They start spraying bullets all over the place, shouting things like, “Trump for four terms!” and “illegals go home!” And “hashtag-NRA-Lives-Matter!” I take out my sidearm, which my current persona is fully licensed to carry as the head of a private security firm. I start shooting the maniacs in the heads, retargeting as fast as humanly possible, and desperately trying to finish them off before any more innocent people get killed. I do pretty well. Nineteen injured and twelve dead.

The programs starts over, without telling me whether I succeeded in the mission or not. I go right back to where I started at the entrance of the mall. Again, the programmers have tried to wipe my memories, so I won’t have the benefit of forethought, but my brain just doesn’t accept that. Still, in order to preserve this concept, I watch the janitor head for his mark with as much patience as before, determined to not react any earlier than any other agent-in-training would. The murderous flash mob converges on the gun cart again, but when they pull their arms back out with the weapons, they start moving in slow motion. I reach for my hip, ready to end their lives before this gets bad. All the innocents are moving in slow motion too, so it’s not like they have time to escape. I’m the only one with the ability to stop this, but I have to do it right. I look closer, and realize that this is an entirely new set of killers. They didn’t just restart the program, and they didn’t only change the speed of motion. They also changed the characters, which only cements my conviction that these people are no less real than you or me. I couldn’t save the victims in the last round, but I also couldn’t save any of the killers. I only had one choice in that scenario, but this one is markedly different. This time, I can save everybody, and I have a moral obligation to do so. I race towards the crowd of killers. As I pass by a security guard, I steal the taser that she was reaching for. I take out my own taser, and then I just start shocking the shooters in the neck. I return to my memory archives to recreate the scene from before. While the faces are different, and they’re moving at a different speed, they’re still staged in comparable positions, and acting in the same order as before. I can exploit that weakness in the program, and end this all before it starts. I keep tasing the gunmen, one by one, starting with the one I know will shoot first, and working my way down the list. My arms are outstretched, so I can disable two of them at once. By the time the program ends, all of my opponents are incapacitated, affording me the time to disarm them completely, but I never get the chance. The technician releases me from the program, and sits my chair up. I’m sitting in a circle, with all my classmates, who have all presumably been through similar, if not the exact same, thing. They’re disoriented as their full memories come back, and I do my best to fake those symptoms. Our instructor steps forward. “Yours were the worst ratings in the history of the program. You all failed.” She looks directly at me. “Except for you. You will be our only recruit. Congratulations. The rest of you can go get your memories of this organization removed from your minds.”

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: April 4, 2028

« < » > Table of Contents

The first thing Mateo felt was the air below him. The ground rushed up towards him and he crash landed onto a dirty mattress. It wasn’t perfectly aligned, so he rolled off onto the cold, hard concrete.

Leona was panting heavily and sweating as she helped him back up. “I’m sorry. I had a hard time getting back in here. Reaver Enterprises bought up this whole warehouse district. We had to break down the little makeshift hospital and get out quick. They have a surprisingly heavy amount of security, even though this particular unit is empty. It took me forever to get in here with a mattress.”

“Thanks for bringing it.”

“Well, I literally wouldn’t be alive without you, so...”

“I love you too. I have one question.”

“Did we share a dream during the surgeries?”

“I guess that answers it.”

“Yep.”

“So...we’re, like, connected?”

“I would call it Quantum Entanglement.”

“I do not know what that means, but it sounds good.”

“Here, I brought these too.”

While he was putting on the change of clothes that she had for him, they heard a ruckus outside. Someone was about to come into the warehouse. Leona grabbed Mateo’s hand and bolted. “There’s an exit in the front.” They ran to the other side, through the office, but they were blocked off. They saw flashlights and heard the garbled sounds of a radio. They were either security guards or police.

“Come on,” Mateo whispered loudly. “Upstairs.”

“To what end?”

“Just follow me.”

He led her up the stairs to a carpeted area. It was dusty and extremely hot. Fortunately, it was also dark, and there were a few large empty boxes left behind by the previous tenants. He directed her to the corner. “They can’t keep a guy like me in jail forever, but this would go on your record.”

“What? What are you doing?”

Back down on the main floor, they could hear the security guards talking to each other, “someone’s been squatting here.”

“How did I miss that? I come in here to call my husband every night.”

“Guy must have just moved in. He must be upstairs.”

“Mateo, don’t do this,” Leona begged.

“If you make a sound, you’ll ruin my plan. Just let me do this for you.” She tried to stop him but it was too late. “I’m here! I’m here!” he called out as he began to walk back down the steps, arms over his head.” The security guards held their futuristic taser-thingamajigs towards him. “No need for violence. I was just looking for a safe place to sleep.”

“We’ve already called the cops,” one of them said. “Here are your new bracelets.”

The other one handed Mateo something that resembled handcuffs. There was no chain between the two pieces. Instead, it had a completely straight bar. On it were blinking lights and a small speaker. “Whoa, what is this thing?” Mateo asked with fascination while he attached them to his wrists.

“Standard issue law enforcement pacification cuffs,” Guard Number One said. “But our company is allowed to use them since we designed them.”

“Why does it need an electrical system?”

Guard Number Two smiled. “Because of this.” He tapped a button on his phone.

A small jolt caused Mateo to jump on instinct. “Oh my God, that’s awesome!”

“With these, we can keep you in the designated area; like a mobile invisible fence,” Number Two explained.

When Number One tapped on his own phone, it just made the cuffs vibrate. “We can send you audible warnings, and even tag things we don’t want you to be around like weapons or computers. If you get too close to the contraband, it’ll shock you.”

“The cops have sedatives in there that can be injected at their leisure.”

“They said we have no reason for such a thing, though.”

“Nonsense!” Mateo said as they escorted him out of the building. “You’re the first line of defense. If anyone needs that sort of thing, it’s you.”

“Right?” Number Two asked rhetorically.

A police cruiser pulled up beside them. Number One opened the back door, and let Mateo in. He was completely alone in there. “Where the hell is the driver?” he asked.

Number One shrugged. “Don’t always need them anymore.”

“That’s badass,” Mateo said, but they couldn’t hear him. They had already closed the door and let the car return to the police station on its own. He imagined that the security guards were trying to figure out whether he had been living under a rock. He just hoped they moved their conversation to a second location so that Leona would have a chance to escape.

When the car pulled up to the police station, he was greeted there by an Officer Salinger who calibrated her tablet to the pacification cuffs. “Are we gonna have any problems?” she legitimately asked.

“No,” Mateo answered genuinely.

“Look, personally, I’ve known people with no place to live. Unemployment is getting worse. Even we’re feeling it, as you saw by the fact that no one actually arrested you on scene.”

“Is that legal?”

“—ish,” she replied. “I just want you to know that, even with all this automation bullshit, I think we have better things to do than drag in someone who just needs to get out of the elements, but the owners of the building you stumbled onto have deep pockets, so I have no choice but to put you through processing.”

“I understand. And I appreciate how I’ve been treated. I’ve been...away for a while, and wouldn’t have expected such manners.”

She laughed awkwardly. “I should definitely not be saying this. But as the job becomes more about directing drones and cross-referencing security cameras, and less about tackling black people for no reason at all, we’ve weeded out a lot of the more aggressive applicants.”

“I should say so.”

After a pause, she began to escort him up to the processing area. She set him down in one of a row of interview tables. He was the only one being processed at the time. “What is your name?”

“Mateo Matic.”

She showed him her palms like she was setting up for a high-ten. “Hands up like this.” He mimicked her. She lifted her tablet and took a picture of his fingerprints. She eyed the screen curiously. “How do you spell your name?”

“M-A-T-E-O M-A-T-I-C.”

She tapped the keys as he spoke. “You are not in the system. I don’t suppose you have any identification?”

“I do not.”

She tapped some more keys, trying to figure out who he was.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. She wasn’t going to understand, but she had this way about her that compelled him to be honest with her. “Check—”

“What?”

“Check death records.”

She looked at him apprehensively, but seemed to give it a shot anyway. She read from the screen once the results came back. “Mateo Matic, born March 21st, 1986. Declared dead in absentia five years ago following a year of officially being missing, and several years of an unusual lack of activity.”

“That sounds about right.”

“You fell right off the grid. You didn’t so much as check your email. Why did you fake your death?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

She looked back at the screen. “Your adoptive parents died in the meantime. Your birth father is unlisted, and your birth mother actually went missing back in 1994. Forgive me, but this is all very strange.”

“Well, when you put it like that...”

“Are you a secret agent?”

“No.”

“Are you part of some strange religious cult? Do you live on a boat? This is a safe place. If a crazy science fiction writer is keeping you hostage, you can tell me.”

“No, it’s nothing like that, it’s...” She made him feel like he wanted to be honest with her, but that didn’t mean he was going to reveal to her the whole truth. “I’m fine. Nothing nefarious.”

She switched off her tablet and put it away. “I’m calling in the big guns. You’ll spend the day in holding while you work out your story. I wanna help you, Mateo. I really do. You have kind eyes. But you’re keeping something from me, and I don’t like that.”

“I get it,” he said. There was nothing more he could say.

She quietly removed his pacification cuffs and replaced them with an anklet that was clearly based on the same technology.

He was sitting up on his bunk minutes before midnight when Leona’s voice came to him out of the aether. “Mateo,” she whispered. “Mateo. Can you hear me?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in your leg.”

“You hacked my anklet?”

“I hacked the whole system.” The gate to his cell slid open. “All you have to do is get through the treeline and hold out until your jump. Then they’ll lose you forever.”

He checked the hallway to make sure that no one was watching. The gate to the holding area opened on its own. “Just keep opening these doors and I’ll see you next year.”

“I’m waiting for you out here.”

“Fool!”

“Quiet!” She whispered. “You’re not wearing a cone of silence.”

He moved as stealthily as he could through the station. As he stepped out of the back door, the anklet sent a surge of pain throughout his body. He could see Leona standing on the other side of the parking lot. “Dammit! I can’t turn that off!”

“I can make it,” he struggled to say. He half-walked, half-crawled across the asphalt, hoping to be out of sight of security cameras before his jump. It was looking more and more impossible.

Officer Salinger burst through the door and pointed her weapon at him. “Stop!”

He looked over to Leona. “Go! It’s almost time! I’ll be all right!”

Time blinked, but not everything changed. Different cars were in different places. The air was a bit warmer. But Leona was in the exact same place, wearing the exact same clothes, and with the exact same expression on her face. She hadn’t so much as moved a centimeter. She looked at her watch and jogged towards him. “It’s past midnight. Why are you still here?”

“I’m not. Look, everything’s different.”

She looked at her surroundings. “Holy shit, Mateo. You’re right, it’s 2029. I just jumped through time with you.”

« < » > Table of Contents