The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 3, 2057

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“Prince Darko,” Leona said.

“Why does he call himself that?”

“He hasn’t explained it,” she replied.

“And he wants to see me?”

“He says you and he have something in common.” That can’t be good. The Cleanser said that he would be contacting him again in the next few days, not the very next day. But it would be odd to have two different nicknames anyway, so it probably isn’t The Cleanser come calling. No, but it is an unusual coincidence. They have to be wary about everyone they meet, but when a strange young man interrupts Leona’s walk with her little big brother, there is an even greater cause for concern.

“He didn’t say anything else?” Mateo asked.

“No, but he claims to be a salmon, just like us. He stressed the part about being just like us, in fact.”

“I don’t like you talking to people who come out of nowhere in the park. How the hell did he find you?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Well,” Mateo began,” send him in, and cancel my 10:30.”

“Yes sir,” Leona said, snickering.

Mateo grabbed the miniature bat from the corner while Leona opened the door and let the stranger in. Prince Darko took a look at it and said, “you don’t need that.”

Mateo did not respond, because it was an obviously stupid remark.

“May we speak alone?”

“She’s my partner. I don’t like to be away from her.”

Darko looked at Leona like he did not approve of their relationship.

“She stays, or you go. Or she stays and you go. That would be even better.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“No der,” Mateo spat. “I don’t trust anybody. But I especially don’t trust anyone who claims to be a prince.”

“I’m not actually a prince. That’s just what my mother always called me, and now that I’m a salmon, I have trouble answering to anything else.”

“You mean...” Leona started.

“Yes,” he answered before she finished her question. “The powers that be implanted the name in my brain so that I can’t use anything else, just like they do with resurrected salmon. I’m sure they get a good laugh out of it.”

“Well, Prince Darko,” Mateo said. “How can we help you?”

He was struggling to come up with the right words. “I’m your...third leg.”

“My what?” That was inappropriate.

“Of the tripod,” he clarified. “We’re a tripod. You, Leona, and I are three of a kind. I’m on your pattern.”

“Since when?”

“To be honest, I was on this pattern before you were, so technically it’s mine.”

“Where have you been?”

“It’s a big, big world,” was all he said.

“That’s not an answer,” Leona said.

“I lived in Ohio,” Prince Darko explained. “I don’t know why, but only recently did The Delegator contact me and inform me of your existence. I’ve been doing this alone for forty-five days.”

Mateo looked over to Leona who told him that he would have begun in 2012, a full two years before Mateo’s first jump. “What have you been up to then?”

“Nothing interesting. I was in my house when it happened. When I jumped back into the timestream, there was another family living there, which was a lot of fun at midnight. Fortunately, I had paid for an entire year of self-storage, so I took all my camping supplies, and I’ve been living off the land ever since.”

“Just like that?” Mateo asked suspiciously. You realized what was going on within one day, which is not yet a pattern, and took the opportunity to start a new life. How could you have known that it was going to happen again?”

“I didn’t. I just...needed somewhere to live, and my tent was already there. It was only after I jumped again that I discovered my timeslipping wasn’t going away.”

Mateo looked to Leona again who only shrugged her shoulders. His story was believable enough, but it was still weird that they had not yet heard of him before. Why did the powers that be wait to bring them together? “Why did the powers that be wait to bring us together?”

“I was told that you were busy running for your lives. I guess they didn’t want to interrupt that.”

“You seemed to have been told a lot. How long was your conversation with the Delegator?”

“Look, I understand that you need to feel me out and size me up, but I’m just telling you what I know. I’m not here to hurt you, or step on anyone’s toes. I’m just trying to keep my head down and do what I’m told.”

“That’s not really our style,” Leona said. “We question everything, and we resist.”

“That’s fine,” Prince Darko said with some excitement. “When I say I do what I’m told, I’m referring to you. Tell me what to do. This is your show.”

“Please wait outside,” Leona told him dismissively. “We need to discuss your application.”

“Very well,” Prince Darko said humbly, with a bow.

“Hope for the best, plan for the worst,” Mateo argued after the stranger had gone.

“Never do anything without having an answer for why,” Leona argued back.

“Never assume you already have the whole story.”

“Never be surprised.”

“Treat everyone you meet with respect.”

“Do not relinquish control of your own life.”

She had a point there. He had no answer to it. “Um...pack the essentials?”

“Did you hear what he said about it being midnight?”

“Yeah, he jumps at the same time we do, which would make sense.”

“No,” Leona complained. “He’s from Ohio. Midnight there is eleven o’clock for us. He’s not on our pattern.”

“So, he’s an hour early. He can’t control that. What exactly is the problem?”

“Don’t you think, if the powers that be wanted him to be part of the group, they would have us on the exact same schedule?”

“Since when do we do something “just cuz the powers say so”.

“That’s a good point,” Leona said hesitantly. “I guess.”

“I feel something for him,” Mateo said. “It’s the same feeling I had when I first met Danica. I think we may be related.”

“Funny that didn’t work when you were dating your sister, Frida.”

“We’re not gonna talk about that!” Mateo yelled, likely loud enough for Prince Darko to hear.

“Whatever.” Leona crossed her arms like a little child.

“Darko is a Croatian name,” Mateo said. “Just like Daria, just like Mario, just like Danica, and just like Mateo.”

She closed her eyelids softly and shook her head slightly. “I suppose I didn’t know that. That would be another odd coincidence. And I imagine, if you two are related, it’s not out of the realm of possibility for the powers that be to keep you apart, just for funsies.”

Mateo stuck his head out the door and looked down the hall to Prince Darko. “Hey, are we related?”

“I am the illegitimate son of Mario Matic.”

Without saying anything else, Mario pulled himself back through the doorway. “Well, there you go. That was easy.”

“Why didn’t he say that when he was pleading his case?”

“Why’s the sky blue? Why does it always fall butter side down?”

“Light scatter and half spin,” Leona said, like he was a dummy for not knowing the answers.

“We’re letting him into our group,” Mateo said, taking charge. “And we’re going to see where it goes. “Treat everyone you meet with respect,” he repeated.

“I sure hope you’re right,” Leona said in a cautious voice.

“If he kills us and where’s our skin, then that’s life. I’m seventy-one years old.”

She scoffed and shook her head. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Were I you,” Mateo said to her lovingly.

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Overwritten: Confused and Grumpy (Part II)

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Brian and I make some big decisions. If I’ve been given a second chance at life then I have a responsibility to go full force. College was nice the first time around, but it didn’t really help me in the end. One thing I do know is what companies are going to succeed and when. Sort of. I don’t exactly have perfect recall, so it’s not like I can invest in a company and sell it off the day before it makes a big dip. I also feel the need to keep myself particularly anonymous, in case Horace Reaver or his sponsor realize that they weren’t the only ones who went back in time. Instead, it’s my job to tell Brian what stocks to buy, and give him by best estimate as to when to sell them. Everything is in his name. Lincoln Rutherford is nobody.

While we’re living off of our investments, we move to Kansas and try to keep tabs on Horace Reaver. Our families are shocked by our massive shifts in lifestyles, but the money I send to my parents on a weekly basis is enough to keep them from asking too many questions. I assure them that it has nothing to do with guns or drugs, and they consider that to be a satisfactory answer. It’s fairly easy to convince them since there is a paper trail, and I’m not lying. We don’t do anything too big because, again, we don’t want to raise suspicion. The IRS and the FTC are threats to us as well. As far as we can tell, Reaver isn’t killing anybody. But then again, he’s just a kid at this point in the timeline. He does check himself into a mental institution, but we don’t quite know why.

After a few months of being completely confused and grumpy about sometimes having the knowledge of two conflicting outcomes of events, Brian makes a suggestion. I start to keep a journal, and even later publish my writings to a public blog, under the guise of fictional stories. I write down anything and everything I remember from the alternate timeline, so that when this timeline overwrites my memories, I have some reference to go back to. I half believe the timey-wimey ball will erase my stories from the web just because, but it keeps rolling and leaves me alone. I spend a not insignificant amount of time rereading my own work after the memories in question have left me. The stories feel like just that; stories. They don’t seem real to me, and I barely recall even writing them down. It’s like another person’s life, but everything he does is what I would do. This gives reliable ol’ Brian yet another bright idea. Since my memory loss is giving me a fair amount of stress, he helps me check myself into the same mental institution as Horace Reaver. This allows me to get a closer look while also hopefully actually helping me feel better. Again, it’s not like I’m lying.

“My name’s Kyle,” a man several years older than me says with his hand outstretched, like we’re meeting for a business lunch.

“Lincoln.”

“You don’t like to talk in group.”

“No.”

“You’re losing memories?”

“I am.”

“I think there’s something more to it.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Kyle eyes me curiously. “I’m just gonna throw something out there. Know that I’m a lawyer, and I can tell when you’re lying. So it doesn’t matter how you answer. I’ll know the truth from your reaction; your microexpressions.”

“Give it a shot,” I say, trying to sound as cool as possible. Does he know?

“Are you a time traveler?” He does, what the hell?

“No.”

He smiles and lifts his head in understanding.

I take a chance, “I mean, yes. How did you know?”

“I’ve seen it before.”

“How do you know they weren’t lying?”

“No, I mean I literally saw it. A few years ago, my friend disappeared before my eyes in a cemetery. I just saw him about a week ago. He came to prove that he’s still alive and well. But I can tell that he’s the same.”

“What do you mean he’s the same?” I repeat.

“I mean for me it’s been years, but I can tell that it’s only been a few days for him, not because he hasn’t aged, but because he hasn’t grown. He’s been skipping time. I don’t know why since I’m not in his circle of trust, but he’s not my concern. I only used him as a template so that when a second guy told me that he was in a similar condition, it just confirmed it. Time travel is real. That second traveler actually lives here.”

“Horace Reaver,” I say.

“He’s talked to you too,” he says, only half as a question.

“As far as I know, he does not know about me. I would appreciate it if you kept me to yourself. It’s possible I was sent back with him to keep him in line.”

“Why would he need that?”

“He killed people in the future.”

“So you’re not having memory problems?” Kyle asks, not as worried about learning that his little friend is a murder.

“No, I am,” I clarify. “But my memories of 2038 have yet to be overwritten, so they’re still there. I know what he is, and I have to stop him.”

“We can do that together. As long as it means you’re not planning on killing him.”

“My friend says that you can’t kill Hitler.”

“He’s as bad as Hitler?”

“No,” I say, holding back a terrible laugh. “It’s just an expression. If I tried stopping him before he becomes what he becomes, then I could end up being the one who makes him what he becomes. So for now, I’m just going to watch.”

“He has big ideas about the future, Lincoln,” Kyle admits. “He doesn’t want to take over the world, but he wants to make it a better place. Whether he’s capable of this is yet to be seen, but he certainly believes that to be his destiny.”

“I see.”

“Since you apparently know what he turns into, should I stop him? Should I crush his dreams?”

I think about this for a moment. Brian says that Hitler's Time Travel Exemption Act is not to be taken so literally. If time doesn’t want you to do something, then you won’t be able to do it. One thing to keep in mind is that Reaver is in the same boat. He knows the same things as me, if not more. He’s apparently already shown an interest in doing things differently. Perhaps his entire goal is to prevent his own murders by making his life better, so he’s not necessarily fated to become a maniac. There’s a chance to save him, but I have to be in it for the long haul. No single moment makes someone who they are. This is going to be a fulltime job, and I’m going to need help. Kyle is perfect, because I don’t have to convince him of the truth. I just need to stay with him, and make sure that we’re making the right decisions. But from behind the scenes. It is absolutely imperative that Horace Reaver know nothing of my involvement, or the plan fails; whatever that plan may turn out to be. “Foster his dreams,” I say, almost like an order.

“How’s that now? He wants to build a multi-billion dollar conglomerate. Are we sure that’s wise?”

“All the better. He wasn’t a billionaire in the original timeline, and that’s the one where he kills people. I was never familiar enough with the case to fully understand his motivations, but if he’s rich, maybe that’ll be enough. At the very least, we’ve stepped on a number of butterflies by helping him. We must diverge from the other timeline as much as possible. I understand this now.” I grow very serious and start pointing my finger at Kyle. “But you have to stay with him. You have to make him a better person. Don’t give yourself away, but don’t slack off. Give him what he needs, even if he doesn’t know what that is.”

“What are you going to do?”

I shrug. “I’m going to do what I already know. I’m going to become a security guard. And if he ever does build that conglomerate, I’ll be the first in line to apply.”

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Microstory 230: Perspective Five

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Perspective Four

Ever since that movie came out, I haven’t been able to crankily say that I’m too old for this ish. I thought it applied back then but now, I really, actually, truly am too old. For some reason, when I first became a cop, I didn’t think I would be doing it my whole life. Most people make a career out of this, or maybe they make a lateral move to private security, but it ain’t no steppin’ stone, that’s for sure. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but I’ve been doubting my life choices for years now. I’m not gonna lie and say that I was one day from retirement, or some poetic nonsense like that. I’m still years away. Thanks, Obama! That was a joke; I voted for him twice, and I’d vote for him again if I could. And it’s not just because I’m black. I’m a woman too, and I seriously considered the platforms of the candidates before voting, despite what the republicans claim about “the black vote”. In fact, were it not for Palin, John McCain would have been a serious contender during my mind’s inner debate. But maybe that’s just the result of me having trouble focusing on one thing for too long; hence, this paragraph right here. I was assigned to be the partner of yet another rookie recently. I go through them like candy, not because I can’t get along with them, but because the bosses consider me to the best at training new officers. I kind of feel like a foster mother, always temporary until something better comes along. But I’m happy to do it, and I’m proud when one of my former little birds goes on to do something great. This one’s tough, though. He took to the job immediately, evidently a grand departure from his history of starting but never following through on new projects. He’s eager to learn and willing to take on the boring tasks, like paperwork. He doesn’t complain, and he doesn’t automatically think he knows what’s best. No, what makes this difficult is that he was just involved in a shooting. Many law enforcement officers spend their whole careers never firing their weapon in the field, like me. The fact that it happened to him so early is suspicious, at best. I fully intend to stay on this side and show the department my support and trust in him, but I worry it won’t be enough. I wasn’t on the scene at the time, nor was anyone else left alive. He has a long road ahead of him, and I guess for once I’m glad retirement isn’t in my near future, so I can keep fostering him.

Perspective Six

Microstory 229: Perspective Four

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Perspective Three

When I was a child, I wanted to be a scientist. In fifth grade, I caught wind of this branch of science called biochemistry. I latched onto it, not because I had any clue as to what that meant, but because it sounded sophisticated and impressive. Flash forward three years later and I’m failing science class. And wouldn’t you know it, it’s all due to the chemistry section. I had this idea of science in my head, but I didn’t have any aptitude for it. I just kept deluding myself into thinking that I’ll eventually be able to figure it out, and things will just work themselves into place. That was a terrifying moment, looking at the grades hung up on the wall of the hallway. What was I going to do with my life now? I had no clue, but I was determined to find my passion...just as soon as I spent a bunch of years aimless and wasteful. I barely graduated from high school, and had to drop out of college, partially due to money constraints, but also because I was an idiot. I kept myself up with minimum wage temp jobs for a few more years. During my free time, I started taking whatever continuing education program I could find at the community college. Web development, plumbing, EMT training; it was all nice to know, but nothing came of it. I even took a few airplane flying lessons, but didn’t quite have the scratch for it. One day, my mom was forcing me to get all my crap out of her house when I stumbled upon a book. It was dedicated to my grade school years. There were report cards, some of my best assignments, and yearbook photos. Each year also listed what I wanted to be when I grew up. Every year since preschool, I listed policeman. It wasn’t until fourth grade that I changed my answer to some kind of science professional. It was a child’s dream, no better (if not worse) than scientist, but nothing else was working, so I might as well give it a shot. I’m not a month out of the academy when I’m sent out to track down an alleged kidnapper. Finding him is surprisingly easy, and I do everything right, following all protocols. But he’s not well in the head, and after a bunch of nonsense about losing his teenage infant daughter, he insists on blitzing me. I have no choice but to shoot him dead. Maybe I should have worked harder in photography class.

Perspective Five

Microstory 228: Perspective Three

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Perspective Two

I’m still not sure if this was a good idea or not. After I won the lottery, a part of me wanted to do something practical; to invest in my future. Another part of me wanted to do something fun, something spontaneous, something stupid. These two halves of my heart collided and compromised on some farmland. I don’t know what I was thinking, though. After taxes, I only earned a few hundred thousand dollars, and it’s not like I had any experience. I spent my whole life in the city, with my dream of living in the country being created when I was a child and my parents convinced me that my dog went to live on a farm. Even after growing out of that lie, I still yearned for “fresh air”. Whatever that means, I’ve yet to be impressed. I bought some land with a halfway decent barn. All I needed to do was commission a tiny home, build a fence, plant some crops, lease some equipment, find some animals, and learn how to do everything. Easy. Of course, it wasn’t. I hired an extra hand, but I’m not able to pay him much because I’ve yet to turn a profit, and I’m nearly out of my winnings. The only good thing about this plan was that, even though people knew I was a lottery winner, I didn’t seem like a winner to them. The number of people who asked me for handouts were few and far between, especially once they found out that I wasn’t exactly a millionaire. Today, I’m rather grateful for my decision, and almost think God might have had something to do with putting me here. Sure, I’ve been placed in quite a bit of danger, but now this girl who has literally run into my life has a fighting chance. She’s either in late middle school or early high school. She’s been dressed up in one of those terribly unflattering gowns they used to put on babies for photographs two centuries ago. She’s obviously malnourished and exhausted. With barely a thought to consequences, I call the police and tell them what I know. I then take the girl out to my truck and drive off, because there’s no other farm for miles, and this will be the first place the kidnapper looks. I knew there was something off about that guy. A woman can always tell.

Perspective Four

Microstory 227: Perspective Two

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Perspective One

I lived my whole life in a commune. My parents fall on the spectrum somewhere between love-dovey tree-hugging hippie, and paranoid down-with-the-government gun freaks. This sounds like they would be normal people, but they aren’t. We lived almost completely off the grid. We grew our own food, organic of course, and sometimes had enough left over to sell. Before I was born, my family still lived within society, and they started canning food for an oncoming apocalypse. The great thing about being paranoid about the end is that no one can really prove that it’s not going to happen. It’s perpetually in the future, so as long as you don’t focus on a date—like Christian doomsday howlers—you’re safe. Not long ago, my aunt and uncle stormed in with a horde of private security operatives, removing me and the other children from what they deemed a cult. This wasn’t, strictly speaking, legal, but another good thing about my parents being afraid of the government is that they refused to press charges. In the eyes of the law, I should still be sent back to them, but their hate speech and violence during the proceedings were enough to convince the court that theirs was an unsafe environment. My aunt and uncle were extremely rich, so it was an jarring change of pace moving in with them. I had to start school at a preparatory academy, but ended up being dropped to homeschooling because my education up to that point was insufficient at best. Despite all the security my new guardians invested in, they were no match for my captor. He was utterly delusional, and insisted that I was living in squalor. I’m just a kid, so I couldn’t stop him from taking me away. I spent two months in a room. He stuffed me in a baby’s crib and hit me if I ever tried to speak, because he thought I was much younger than I was. I started chewing on my hairbrush as soon as he allowed me to have one. He was having trouble deciding whether I was an infant or a preteen, I guess. I could only chew a little at a time, and would have to hide the sharp handle under a doily when I wasn’t using it. But today, I’ve finished with it, and I’m satisfied with the results. I crawl back into my crib, tuck it under my chest, and wait. When he comes up, I stab him with it and run off. The good thing about the man thinking I’m someone I’m not is that he doesn’t know my parents forced me to run three miles almost every day since I was eight.

Perspective Three

Microstory 226: Perspective One

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I’ve been locked in this life for three years now. I thought college was going to be the hardest thing I ever did, but then again, I said that about high school before that. I’m starting to think that it’s never going to end, and I’ll just continue in this vicious cycle throughout time. Each minor victory is but a brief reprieve from the hell. Whenever I try to claw my way out, I sink in deeper. Every job I get, every project I start; it all leads to nothing. And each time I fail, I lose a little more faith in myself, making it harder to try again. But I have to keep going now, because I have another life to think about. She’s been with me for two months now, and I feel so blessed. Her mother was a junkie who abandoned her, and I don’t regret choosing to take on this responsibility, not for a second. She’s my precious little girl, sleeping soundly in her crib. I reach over and try to wipe a smudge off of the screen, but there’s nothing there. No, what I’m seeing is in her room. The baby monitor isn’t exactly capturing video in 4K, so I’m going to have to go in there and see what the deal is. I walk softly up the stairs, careful to not wake her. But I always forget that seventh step squeak. I really need to get that fixed, but it’s okay for now because she hasn’t move. She really needs to get her rest, and so do I; she was screaming her head off all day yesterday. Fortunately, we live out in the country, and no one can hear her cries. I slowly remove the keys from my pocket, not wanting them to jingle against each other. I unlock the door and peek in. She still hasn’t moved. I walk over to the dresser to see what the “smudge” is. There’s some kind of dust or something on it. I pick up the shavings and let them fall through my fingers. What is that, plastic? As I’m trying to think it through, I feel a sharp pain in my side. Blood trickles out of me and runs down my leg. I instinctively swing back, but she’s already run through the door, screaming for help. I start to go after her, but falter from the pain of the sharpened hair brush, still stuck in me. She shouldn’t be able to get far, but I’m still worried, especially since I don’t know how she got out of her chains.

Perspective Two

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 2, 2056

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Another day, another year. There was nothing particularly different about the second of May in 2056, but it felt like a new beginning. They were finished with the whole Horace Reaver debacle, but due to the laws of time travel, there was no guarantee that he would never return in some way. Mateo had already dealt with Reaver’s bomb in the 32nd century, but he was only there due to a glitch. What would things look like when he actually landed in that time period during his regular pattern? Would the world have changed? How many times? For the better? Worse? Leona told him that they would not find out for nearly three years, from their perspective.

The two of them had been so busy with their problems, that they were falling behind on the news of the times. Rainforests are disappearing, fires are increasing, and the whole planet is getting hotter. Traveling anywhere in the world is as easy as driving to work was in Mateo’s time. Computers have gotten smaller. Babies as foretold in Jamiroquai’s Virtual Insanity were a real thing now, designed perfectly by their rich “parents”. As the mooninite population increases, Earth’s population stabilizes, and scientists are beginning to move out to what’s called the asteroid belt. And soon, The Beatles will be in public domain.

“So, about the same?” Mateo asked, jokingly.

“Yes,” Samsonite replied. “Same same but different.”

“Any plans to go out in a spaceship?”

“No, why?”

“The Head Guard said we’ll be going through space soon.”

“I don’t know anything about that. Mayhaps he was referring to another few decades.”

“Mayhaps.”

“What are you two talking about?” Leona asked, coming into the room. They were living back in Topeka. Due to climate change, many people had migrated to the area, but many more were searching for better conditions towards Canada. Housing prices were relatively low, so they were all living together in a nice multi-family home.

“The long and winding road,” Samsonite explained.

“That I can relate to,” she said.

“What are we going to do this year?” Mateo asked.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve not had a job.”

“The Delegator could appear at any moment and give us one, especially since we’re talking about it.”

They all stared at the opposite wall for a few beats. No portal. Good for now.

“Let’s just all have a nice brunch together and see where life takes us.” And that’s exactly what they did. They had brunch, and then they had lunch, then a snack, and then dinner. It was a day of food. They didn’t talk about the choosing ones, or being salmon. They didn’t discuss global issues, or the future. They just talked. About the celebrities of the day, many of them children of the celebrities Mateo and Leona used to follow. They told jokes and made up stories. While Theo was in the middle of a fascinating anecdote about shrinking fish, Mateo disappeared from the table.

He looked to the sky and found two moons gazing back at him through twilight. He was standing on the edge of a gigantic canyon, probably larger than that other one. An ocean threatened to pour into it from behind him. A few aliens enjoyed the evening on the beach. He felt a little heavier, which Leona said might be expected on a different planet. Great. Next time, Mateo resolved, they would have to have a plan of action. It would seem that as long as they kept busy, they were pretty much left alone. But if they ever grew too comfortable, they would be ripped away and thrown into some new adventure. Rule Number Ten, stay active.

“Do you recognize me?” a man asked. It was The Cleanser. Figures.

“I do. I don’t understand how you’re still alive.”

“The timeline where I died was erased when your pattern was disrupted.”

“But how do you remember that?”

“Choosers always remember.”

“Why do you go against the others?”

“They’re children.”

“Literally, or is there more to it than that?”

“As you know, the child of two salmon will be taken from their family and raised by a certain someone. This someone doesn’t do a very good job, and that child will grow up as, not only a choosing one, but...” he trailed off, looking for the words, “but also as kind of a dick.”

“What makes you different?”

“I fell through the cracks.” He shrugged. “It happens. I was raised different, and so I have a different perspective.”

“Who are your parents?”

He smiled. “Too soon.”

Mateo lowered himself to the ground. He was doing it because it was difficult to stand under his own weight, but he also hoped to give the impression that he wasn’t scared out of his mind at the moment. “You want my help for your...crusade.”

“You’re very perceptive. I’ve not heard this about you.”

“I’ve gotten smarter. My—” he stopped himself, remembering what happened last time they were faced with an enemy. “You stay the hell away from Leona.”

The Cleanser held up his hands in defense. “Hey, I got no beef with her. I’m not in love with her from another timeline, or some creepy nonsense like that. I’m just here to talk.”

“You’re here hoping to indoctrinate me.”

“I killed Horace, and all those guards.”

“You’re not doing a great job so far,” Mateo amended his previous statement.

“I feel bad about it. I felt worse than I thought I would; not about Reaver, mind you, but the others.”

“Go back and stop yourself.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“I’ve decided to change tactics. It’ll be a lot harder, but I think we can accomplish something...together.”

“Unless you’re telling me that you’re going to stop killing, we’re already done.”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“I’m trying to put an end to all this; all this suffering.”

“Your problem is with the choosing ones, so why kill salmon along the way? What did we ever do?”

“You were given bad information. Don’t blame The Delegator. He was one of the first of us, and something went seriously wrong with his brain. I’m not sure what, but his mind is all jumbled. That’s why they made him middle management.”

“What’s the good information?”

“There is no difference between salmon and choosers. We’re more like a subspecies of humans. The only reason we seem to be more powerful is because someone, long ago, decided that Generation Two salmon were pure, and so they were given control of their powers, while other people’s powers were suppressed. Not everyone can travel through time, and salmon are just the ones being batted around like a cat toy.”

“Are you saying that I could will myself to control my pattern? I could go back to 2014?” Mateo was suspicious, but hopeful.

The Cleanser paced a little, trying to figure out how to dumb things down for Mateo. “Right now you’re a prisoner. You could walk through the door...but you need the key. The chooser who is in charge of you has that key. So yes, you could go back to 2014, but you would have to steal the key from your captor.”

“In other words, I would have to kill them.”

“Yeah, but first you would have to find out who it was. And ya know they’re...intentionally hiding themselves from you.”

“But we have encountered choosers before. My half-sister, Reaver’s daughter,” Mateo listed.

“Right, but they’re not the ones in charge of you.”

“But they’re in charge of someone, and I could theoretically relay that information to that salmon.”

He laughed, “assuming you could somehow find out who they’re in charge of, you would still need to find a way out of their proverbial jail cell. And then they would have to break you out of yours. If we were being literal, this would be simple. But it’s nigh impossible. There’s no actual cell, and no actual key.”

Mateo nodded, mostly to himself. “So you’re saying there’s a chance.”

“I’m not. You are.”

“There’s a chance,” Mateo whispered.

“I’m going to be contacting you again in a few years.”

“Whose few years?”

“In a few days,” he clarified.

“Are you going to tell me your name first?”

“No.”

Mateo jumped back to the dinner table on Earth, at the exact moment he had left. No one so much as noticed. He decided to keep the detour to himself.

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