Overwritten: The Other 2038 Problem (Part VII)

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My children. My life becomes uneventful, except for my search for my kids. I’m not given any information about the people I’m guarding in this special prison for time travelers. The inmates are forced special medication to prevent them from being able to manipulate the spacetime continuum. In the movies, the not-so-crazy person always escapes from the psych ward by pretending to ingest the pills, but secretly spitting them out while the orderlies aren’t looking. That was not an option in this prison. The medication is given through injections, once a week for salmon and three times a week at least for choosing ones. A salmon named Dr. Baxter Sarka jumps into the time period on the regular to dose them personally. We often chat with each other, and he explains what he knows about the whole situation. There are people out there who are capable of jumping through time and space. They’re immortal, lazy, and just complete assholes. They use their abilities to screw with other people who can jump through time. The basic difference between the choosers and the helpless salmon appears to be superficial and contrived. Sure, there seems to be this thing where two activated salmon birth a choosing one, but that’s not the only way to create one, and it doesn’t always happen. The division between these two classes is, any way you slice it, arbitrary.

Being what The Delegator referred to as an “accidental salmon” I was neither choosing one, nor truly salmon. I was not put on no particular pattern, and no particular choosing one was put in charge of me. If I wanted to go anywhere through time and space while I wasn’t on the job, I could put in a request, and someone would be dispatched to ferry me. I spent most of that time in present-day New Jersey, poring through records, hunting for the two kids that I had adopted in the other timelines. But they were nowhere to be found. My son’s parents didn’t have any children in this timeline, and I could find no trace of my daughter anywhere at all. After years of denying it, I had to accept the fact that either Reaver or I had altered the timeline enough to prevent both of their births. I had erased my children from existence by going back in time. I continued to press for someone to take me to the first timeline, but was rejected every time. It’s never been clear whether that means the original timeline no longer exists, or if they can no longer access it. Or—and this is the most likely explanation—the choosing ones simply don’t give a shit.

It’s January 1, 2038 as I’m writing up my final two blog posts, noting what I remember from that first timeline. I can feel the memories slipping from my mind as I type them out. But also, my brain is becoming fragmented and confused, but it’s more than the usual overwriting side effects. I actually feel sick to my stomach, and I’m starting to have trouble remembering pretty much anything that happened to me for the last two decades. I feel myself become nobody, a nothing. I spend the rest of the night and part of the next day in a stupor. I know that I’ve had a life; that I’ve done things, and that I’m real, but there’s nothing there. I’ve been hollowed out like canoe wood. My other brain functions are being compromised as well. I can’t remember which side to hold the spoon, or why food matters, of what food looks like, or what word I just said. It started with an “f”. What? I just had a thought about letters, but I can’t remember what it was. Did I forget something else again?

“Hello, father,” a voice says to me.

Some of my brain function returns to me, but only enough to survive the next minute or so without forgetting how to breath, or keep my eyes open. “Cranberry,” I grunt. Nailed it.

“I do not understand what is wrong with you,” the girl says. I recognize her. I saw her once in prison...I think.

“Me either,” I say.

She continues to speak, but I don’t understand many of the words. Sometimes, my ears turn off, which I didn’t know was possible, but then again, I don’t know much. “...whereas before you were having trouble distinguishing the two timelines, now it’s like you’ve never had a timeline.”

Yeah, I’m a non-person! I yell. I don’t think I said it out loud, though. “Not personing the non-person life as non-people often do with their non-person lives.” I think that’s drool bubbling from my lips. Drool or air. There was something I heard the one time about cyanide or rabies. Or was it rabbits? What’s it?

“Fuke!” she yells. But I can’t hear very well. I think she might have said a different word. People often say different words than they say. That’s just how it goes. It’s it. “I need Baxter.”

“You’re a bastard!” I scream as loud as possible.

“That is not quite an inaccurate description, if I do say so myself.” She craps her finger and a man don’t know from having met before appears in a fascist. Flascist. Fla—uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, “uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...”

“He is not well,” the dog says, admittedly. That baxter dog. He’s not a dog though. That—I didn’t say that.

“That, that, that, that, that, that, that, that, that, than, that cat, then bat.” Prat, I mutter to my mind.

“Sarka, what the hell are we gonna do?”

The man looks in his back blag. “I’ve not been given the equipment I would need to help him. This is an unsanctioned appointment.”

“Well, what do you have?”

“Literally nothing, see?” He opens his cat and shows it. No blood, he was right. Good boy, baxter dog boy.

“Where’s your fur, you feather plucker!”

“Lincoln,” a calming voice claims. “It’s okay.”

“Don’t kill me, bull!” Idiot. “BULL!” Bad dog. “Bull-goddamn shit!” Dammit. “Shit! Shift!” I slam my fist on the table to demand order. “Heyoooooooo!”

“Please try to remember who you are,” my lovely daughter, Melly says.

“Dotter Thracker Snorkel.”

She either rolls her eyes or make a sad face, whichever is which. “He’s trying to say Doctor Baxter Sarka.”

“Yeah, I got that,” the dog replies with friendly, deadly confidence.

I stand up and try to run into the wall, but I just trip and fall asleep on the table for two years.

“He’s losing it, getting worse,” the doctor says. “I can’t do anything to help him unless somebody puts a goddamn thing in my medical kit.”

“I can try something,” Melly fries.

I wake back up and watch her. She closes her eyes, exhales deeply, and twists her neck to prepare. She puts her palms together in a prayer position before ceremoniously lifting them up and placing them softly on her beautiful head. She slowly drags her fingers down over her face. The face changes. The placement of the eyes, the shape of the nose. Nothing changes too dramatically. She still looks like her, but fresher, with softer skin. She presses on her chest and her breasts disappear. She places one hand on her head again and forces it down before pulling on her wrists and shortening her arms, one after the other. Little by little, she adjusts her body, regressing her age ever downwards. When finally she stops, she’s a little girl, only a few years old.

“I didn’t know you people could do that,” the doctor dog says. He is stunned, and a little scared. And also.

“They can’t,” she says, still sounding like a woman. She coughs and chirps and whimpers while tapping her fingers on her throat. He voice becomes that of her young self, “I’m the second most powerful of all.” She turns her attention to me. “Daddy.”

My eyes begin to water as I look upon her. “Where have you been? Where are you?” Who are you?”

“I’m your daughter,” she answers.

“You’re the one who took Reaver back in time. You did this to me. You made me lose you. You ran away, and you ran from my thoughts.”

“I am the daughter of Leona Delaney and Horace Reaver, two salmon. I was placed in your care after some time in the system. Choosing children cannot be raised long by their salmon parents. Nor can they be raised by some regular guy. Once I turned three, I was taken away to live somewhere else. This would have happened whether I was with my parents, or with you. I’m sorry for leaving you, but I had no choice.”

“But you’re from an alternate timeline.”

“Yes.”

“And you prevented your own birth; your own existence.”

“Essentially, yes.”

“Then how are you here? You’re not here.”

“I am here. Choosing ones have the benefit of surviving any temporal adjustment. It doesn’t matter that a version of me doesn’t exist here. In fact, there can be only one of one person anyway. I was born, and I’ll always exist. Like I said, I’m not like the others. I’m more powerful, and because of that, I can’t be killed by any means.”

“Why did you push your birth father to the past?”

“I was trying to get him to make things better.”

“Things are not better.”

“But they are. What happened to you was an accident. I did not intend on that, but you’ve had a greater effect on the outcome of events than you realize. Horace Reaver has attempted to kill people, this is true, but he’s not succeeded. You’ve made him a better person just by being around. He’s not great, and they’re still gonna lock him up, but you’ve helped the world by sacrificing your life and being at his side. His technological advancements have saved more lives than they’ve ruined. You’ve created a balance, and the timeline thanks you for it.”

“I don’t remember any of this. I remember that I’m supposed to remember. I remember what I feel, and I know what I feel now, but I do not recall the events leading up to this moment.”

“I know, you’re sick. It’s because you’re not genetically predisposed to time travel, as most humans aren’t. We avoid shifting their time placements for this very reason. About the most a normal person can take is a quick teleportation. Anything beyond that and we end up with this.”

“So I’m going to be like this forever? A nonperson?”

“Not if you come back to me. I’m going to help you, but you have to trust me.”

I’m not neurologically capable of declining the offer. “What do we do?”

“We start...with a hug,” Melly says melodramatically.

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Microstory 255: Perspective Thirty

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Perspective Twenty-Nine

I am Prince Malvolio, heir to the throne of Atlantis, and Knight of the Eleven Realms. My mother lets me do whatever I want, and she never makes me clean my room. I spend my days battling sea dragons and finding hidden treasure. When I was six years old, I discovered that the man I thought was my father was actually not. And I knew it, I just did. There was no way I was related to this drunk who hits me and my mother. My real father is actually Aliouso, Master and God of Wave and Sand. He has been on important business for the last few years, mediating peace talks amongst the three races of Miandralu. But one day, he will return to Atlantis and remove the evil fake father from his place. After he and my mother have finished their reign, he will pass the crown to me, and I will rule with my love. She is a human from Landrealm who’s come to visit us with her friend and mentor, Professor Collywobbles. She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, with or without her mask. She does not like to speak, but I can hear the music from her heart. Hers is the most soothing and amazing voice in all of Elevendrel. Others think they know her. They call her their class pet, and they take comfort in her embrace, but they do not understand her. When she and I draw, it is as if we are one person, with a singular vision. We create worlds together, and we help fix the problems of their inhabitants. I know that she feels the same way about me, even if she cannot tell me so out loud. Last week, an evil duke came to our chariot and tried to steal her mask. But I took care of him. So what if I was suspended for three days? No one harms the Imperatrix and gets away with it. But now I am back, and can see my love again. I think I’ll finally make my move and sit next to her. We’ll be holding hands by the end of the school year.

Perspective Thirty-One

Microstory 254: Perspective Twenty-Nine

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Perspective Twenty-Eight

This is my frog, Professor Collywobbles. He’s a real frog, but he’s also not a real frog. When he’s in his tank, all he can do is sit there, and sometimes swim around. But when I draw him, he can do whatever I want him to. He can talk, play the drums, and he can solve the national debt crisis. I like to draw myself into Professor Collywobbles’ stories so that we can go on adventures together. When I’m in Professor Collywobbles’ world, I don’t have to worry about people looking at me, or judging me. I am free to talk as I please, and I always know just what to say. I don’t have to wear glasses either, because Professor Collywobbles has cured by eyes. Last week, he and I needed to pay a visit to the Queen of Atlantis, but I can’t hold my breath that long, and so he designed a special mask that converts water into air, and it also allows me to communicate telepathically, because there’s no talking underwater. As we are awaiting audience with the Queen, I notice that Prince Malvolio is staring at me. I look away for a moment, and then look back, but he’s still staring at me. I tell Professor Collywobbles that I’m not feeling well so that I can get away and be alone. While I’m picking seaflowers, I look up to find that Prince Malvolio has followed me. I ask him what he wants of me and he says that he just likes to hear me sing. When I tell him that I’m not singing, he assures me that he can hear my soul, and I never need to utter word. I turn away and almost want to cry, because I don’t want him to look at me with my ugly mask on, but he says that I’m beautiful. He asks me to come with him so that he can show me his favorite spot in all of Atlantis. We swim together for hours, through sea caves, around schools of fishes going to class, and even a little on the surface. The city is bigger than I realized. Finally, he stops on the edge of an underwater cliff and sits down, but there’s nothing there. There are a lot of particulates in the water, and it’s pretty dark. I ask him why he likes this place so much, and he says that no one else would come here because it’s boring. That’s what makes it special. It’s just for him. I point out that I now know about it but he just hugs me and smiles. Then he says that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Perspective Thirty

Microstory 253: Perspective Twenty-Eight

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Perspective Twenty-Seven

I’ve had more jobs than I can count over the years. I had to consult an expert to figure out how I could trim down my résumé, because it was just too many pages. I was worried about it, because potential employers don’t want you to have such a long a résumé, but if I just cut things out, would they not wonder what I was doing during all these gaps? It’s all worked out, though, because now I’ve found what’s turned out to be the best job ever. Sure, driving a school bus doesn’t sound glamorous, but it’s incredibly rewarding. They say that, if you want to meet new people, you should be in sales. But if you want to observe people, public transportation is the thing to do. The kids are extremely loud and rambunctious, but they’re also more respectful than you’ve probably been led to believe. They have a lot of fun, and they break the rules sometimes, but they don’t fight, and they’re not destructive. Kids are a lot more understanding and caring than you probably knew as well. There is one little girl in second grade who has trouble fitting in. She wears very thick glasses because she’s practically blind, literally never speaks, and spends almost all of her time drawing. Though she doesn’t have any friends, her peers are exceptionally protective of her. Students who don’t already know her have tried to tease her in the past, and other kids rally to put an end to that nonsense. She’s very loving and pleasant to be around. Somehow, her classmates figured out that, although she does not generally interact with others, she is not bothered by human touch. She allows them to hug her if they’re feeling down. They affectionately refer to her as their class pet. She’s given me some of her artwork, and a not insignificant amount of it involves cats. And I suppose that makes sense, because cats are similar in certain ways. Unlike dogs, cats do not like being pet, or touched in any way, really. They tolerate it because they know how important it is to their feeders. There’s a special kind of nobility in that. I learned this all from my son. He hates school, but likes to research random things.

Perspective Twenty-Nine

Microstory 252: Perspective Twenty-Seven

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Perspective Twenty-Six

My best friend complains about people a lot. Make no mistake, most of the time, he’s in the right. He just also usually forgets that normal people simply cannot keep up with him intellectually. He is, by no means, a genius, but he does have very superior intelligence. He picks up new material extremely quickly, his retention is off the charts, and he tests well. It can be pretty intimidating to be around him. Now I’m no moron—and I doubt he would ever choose to associate with anyone with an IQ under 120—but I struggle in school a little bit more. It hasn’t always been this way. Picture a line graph. One line shows you how difficult the material is, and one line shows you my level of comprehension. When I was a kid, my intelligence was higher than the difficulty level. As I grew older, both lines began to curve up, but right at the end of middle school, they crossed paths. I had one year in ninth grade where everything was perfect, but everything after that has been downhill. I’ve become smarter, but not as fast as I need in order to keep my grades up. Now that I’m in college, the classes just go straight over my head. The things the professors teach seem rational at the time, but then when I try to reapply this knowledge back home, nothing makes sense. I had my IQ tested again, and it was about the same. It’s just that I’ve dug myself a hole, and I can never get out of it. I took education for granted when I was a child. Everything was easy. I don’t remember learning how to read. As far as I know, it’s just something I’ve always been able to do. Multiplication tables? Fine. I didn’t realize until it was too late how much harder life would get. Everything I do is just designed to get me closer to what I really want. And every step is supposed to be easier than the last, but it never is. But I’ve realized what my real problem is. School just isn’t for me. I am fascinated with so many things. I want to know a little bit about pretty much every field, and every topic, but I don’t want to be an expert in any single thing. I’m thinking about quitting school and joining the workforce full time so that I can pick and choose what I want to learn from the internet, and community college classes. I hate being told what I’m supposed to know. I need to be in control.

Perspective Twenty-Eight

Microstory 251: Perspective Twenty-Six

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Perspective Twenty-Five

There’s a guy in my psychology class at college who just cannot keep his mouth shut. He takes every opportunity he can to show us just how ignorant and stupid he is. He’s one of those people who don’t own a television set, and who believe themselves to be superior because of it. TV is a form of art; to deny that is both ridiculous and insulting to the thousands of jobs the industry supports. He’s constantly spouting of statistics that are in no way true, claiming that smartwatches cause psychopathy, or that sharks are now smarter than apes. I feel like this kind of thinking is fostered in society today, that he’s allowed to think the way he does despite being totally wrong about everything. Because “everyone is special” and “their ideas are valid”. Just the other day, he says that he doesn’t trust hospitals, and that “women were having babies for millennia before modern medicine.” Yeah, they did, and ya know what happened? They died. There were babies dying all over the place back in the old days. Just because we’ve traditionally done something a certain way, doesn’t mean it’s the right way. You know what else we “traditionally” did? Slavery. Should we go back to that? No, of course not. We've moved on from it, progressed to a better way. Though, I guess that's not a perfect argument, because not everyone agrees. There’s another girl in my class who claims that slavery was ultimately a good thing because—and I quote, I swear—”now all the black people are here in America and get to have all the opportunities that we have”. Oh man, that was infuriating. I wanted to punch her in the face right then and there. Fortunately, we were talking through an internet chat, and I was able to cool down before I saw her again. But I’m definitely blocking her after the semester ends. Now that I think about it, she’s always been an idiot. Back when we were in middle school together, I remember that she was the one who said she was pro-life because abortions were often performed following birth. She actually thought that doctors delivered babies, and then drowned them in a tub. This is why the rest of the world hates us, and why China is winning. Maybe I should just block her right now.

Perspective Twenty-Seven

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 7, 2061

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When they woke up the next day, Leona had some questions. “Why did you not tell me about The Cleanser before? How often have you spoken to him?”

“Just a couple of times. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you,” Mateo replied honestly. “We just got done with Reaver, and I guess I didn’t want to burden you with the next thing.”

“We’re in this together,” Leona said before amending, “at least, we’re supposed to be.”

“I know that.” And so Mateo told her about everything; his meetings with the Cleanser, him witnessing her and Prince Darko’s private conversation, and a few things from his past he figured he’d get off his chest. In the end, it was comforting to let her all the way in. She was right. They were a team, and they needed to be honest with each other.

She shifted the subject a bit after that was all done. “Is The Rogue interested in acting out the tribulation period from the bible?”
“Might could be. I don’t know.”

“Well, what’s meant to happen during this period? What are the tribulations?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

“Well, Catholics don’t really believe in the tribulation period. Not really. And I’m not exactly a scholar on the matter.”

“They don’t? You’re not?”

“Yeah, there are different interpretations of the text. Some believe what you read in those books, or see in those movies. But those are dramatic interpretations. Those are glamorized. Things are a lot more simple in the original book. People don’t generally realize quite how much humans supplement the Word with their own personal beliefs. There is not as much detail as you would think, and so people sort of make things up to fill in the gaps; try to make it more clear.”

“What do you believe?”

“Just like with most people, my personal beliefs are just that, mine. I don’t follow every single thing the Church does, and I don’t listen to everything the Pope says. He’s a leader, not a god. And he’s definitely not God. Personally, I try to ignore anything the bible says is going to happen, and focus more on what it says happened. I treat the book as an historical record with flourishes. These stories were written before the computer was invented.”

“What does the computer have to do with anything?”

“I just mean that it’s hard to predict what’s going to happen when you can’t so much as fathom future development. They didn’t say anything about the computer being invented, much less vehicles or electricity; not even almost, not even a little. I find it hard to believe they knew what will happen when Christ returns, if he ever does.”

“So there are parts of the bible you just straight up don’t believe?”

“Yes, of course. There are tons of examples, and I would have more if I had chosen to dedicate myself to studying it. But the major problems I have with it are, like I said, when it tries to predict the future with so little understanding of it.”

Leona nodded her head consistently while she was processing. “Well, what might that mean for the Rogue’s intentions?”

“If he has plans to act out the coming of Christ, then I suppose he’ll have to reveal his power to the whole world, which I doubt the other powers that be would allow.”

“I mean just in terms of what he does to us. The tribulations.”

“If he wants to act out the tribulations, he’ll have very little to go on. The text is vague and brief on that matter. It tells us what life is going to be like for seven years, but it doesn’t go into specifics, and you have to gather this information from a number of different places. There’s no single scripture that just lays it all out for you.”

“Oh.”

“I think we may be overthinking this whole thing.”

“How so?” she asked.

“I would assume his use of the word tribulation was more general. It probably has nothing to do with the bible. I think he just means we’re gonna suffer.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” she conceded. “I guess I was just hoping we would have a road map for where this was going. So we could plan accordingly.”

“I doubt the man would be so obvious, even if he were borrowing concepts.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” The Rogue interrupted.

“Um...” Mateo replied with a scowl. “This is a private conversation. We would appreciate you waiting your turn.” He swept his fingers through the air, palm down so as to incautiously send him away.

The Rogue laughed. “I like you, kid. You show me no respect. I don’t get that from other people.”

“I know what you are,” Mateo lied.

“What?”

“I know your secret, what you’re trying to keep from us. I know why you’re doing all this. I know where you come from.”

The Rogue was notably distressed by this, but only for a second. He was determined to keep his guard up.

Mateo was hoping to glean some information from him by pretending to already have it. But instead, all he learned was that there was something to be learned. And if there was anything he learned since falling into his pattern, it was that the truth always comes out.

“You’re lying,” The Rogue said, but was unsure.

“You’re right,” Mateo replied. “But I know someone who does know what you are. I just need some time.”

“Well,” he said. “You have today, at least. That’s what I’ve decided. Every other day will be a tribulation, and you get breaks in between.”

“That’s so generous of you,” Leona said sarcastically. “What happened to Prince Darko?”

He was annoyed. “It was not my intention to show you what The Cleanser did, but I could not control that. I can, however, control what you know from this point on. I shall not explain Prince Darko except to say that he lied about his pattern. It would seem that lying runs in the family.”

“So he really is my brother, though?” That wasn’t much, but it was something to remember.

“Each tribulation will come with a reward,” the Rogue went on, “besides the not dying part.”

“A reward?” Leona asked. “Like being able to survive multi-day spacecraft trip?”

“Like a pizza party, or something,” the Rogue corrected. “I don’t know, I’ve not thought much about it. I doubt you survive this next one.”

“How can you not know how it turns out?” she pressed.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a time traveler, and one who is not bound by a pattern. Can you not just skip ahead and see whether we survive or not?”

“Leona,” Mateo warned, “don’t poke the bear.”

“I could do that, yes,” the Rogue said. “But I much prefer to be careful.”

“Careful of what? Disrupting the spacetime continuum?”

“No. Careful of spoilers,” he answered in a British accent, which was another pop culture reference. This man liked his movies and TV shows. That was important, because they might be able to use it against him in the future. If only there was a way to communicate with Leona without anyone knowing. They could never be sure if they were being spied on from another dimension. What was that about virtual telepathy?

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Overwritten: Trust (Part VI)

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Presumably because of my ultimate failure to kill Mateo back in 2023, and more recently because his family kidnapping did not go well, Reaver began to lose faith in me. He still seemed to have no idea that I was working against him, but he did gradually tease me from his life. I remained in the employ of Reaver Enterprises, but in a more general position, working as a security officer with all the other grunts. In the year 2034, we’re in one his newest facilities, the purpose of which has never been clear, and was likely irrelevant. It was built over the ruins of a house that had been just completely wrecked by some sort of artificial intelligence malfunction. Immediately upon Mateo’s return to the timestream, I realize the AI malfunction had something to do with him, and the facility was built for the sole purpose of keeping him contained.

At the moment, alarms are going off around the building, and I’m leading a team of two other security guards, neither of whom I trust. For a while, things are going all right. We’re just wandering the hallways, no idea where we’re going, and only one of us knows why. But then the target of our pursuit shows up. He’s with two other security guards. I don’t know them very well and, of course, do not trust them either. “Status?” I ask as part of protocol. I still carry weight in the department, and am respected by all.

“We’re showing this newbie the ropes,” one of the guards says as he’s motioning to Mateo.

Mateo lifts his hand and tips the brim of his hat down as a greeting, but does not speak. That’s smart of him. It’s harder to tell when someone’s being deceptive if they don’t say anything.

I’m not sure what to do. If they’re loyal to Reaver, once they find out their “newbie’s” true identity, they’ll turn him in for sure. Then again, I do not recall any new conscriptions. Assuming these two do not know what they have in their hands, then Mateo is a very good liar, and I have a responsibility to play along. But if they do know him, and they’re helping him, then I should secretly assist. This can go one of two ways. I can order them to station themselves in an area of the building I know there to be fewer obstacles, or I can order them into the lion’s den and hope they go against these orders. It all depends on their relationship to Mateo, and they’re impression of me. I trust my instincts and remain in character, ordering them to the basement. They stand there awkwardly after accepting their new assignments, so I usher my team through the doorway, allowing Mateo’s team to make the right decision.

Not long afterwards, though, things get complicated. Reaver gets back on the intercom. “That’s it! I’m calling in the cavalry. Boys, this is who we’re looking for!” My heart sinks as Mateo’s face appears on the walls. Now everyone knows who we’re looking for. What’s worse is that my team knows that we just encountered him. But there’s nothing I can do about that. Now that the entire building knows what they’re doing, I have to get back to Mateo and protect him personally. It’s my only choice. Reaver continues, “bring him to me and I will write you a blank check!”

As we reenter the stairs, my team tries to head down, but I start to go up. “What are you doing?” one of them asks.

“I have to go this way,” I say. Maybe they’ll shake it off and let me go.

“You told him to go down, remember?”

“You go ahead,” I order my team. “I’m gonna check up here in case they ignored my orders.”

“That makes sense,” the other one says. “If he’s trying to get away from us, then he’ll make a point of subverting orders.” These guys are too smart for my own good. I won’t be able to get away from them, so together we rush upstairs.

Both luckily and unluckily, we do find Mateo and his possible accomplices again. I block their path, still not sure how I should proceed. Who are these two? Are they trying to help Mateo too? Or are they on their way to Reaver right now?

One of the guards in this other team holds up some kind of cannon. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What are you doing?” I ask, weapon pointed where they would expect it to be. “Why is Reaver so interested in him?” I’m still trying to get a feel for whose side they’re on.

“Stop us and you’ll never find out,” Number One answered.

I shake my head in disbelief, still needing to hold onto my cover. “That sounds like the opposite of the truth.”

All of the sudden, some random guy appears from one door while a girl comes out of the door on the opposite wall. They each force one member of my team through the other one’s door. It’s like they knew this was going to happen, and were waiting for them. “What the hell?” Curious, I reopen one of the doors to find the room empty. More time travelers. Awesome. Or awful. I lower my weapon towards the floor, so I can gauge the remaining guards’ reaction. And then I see it in their eyes. They’re not trying to bring Mateo in. They are trying to help. I still don’t know why, or who they are. But I know I can trust them.

Before I can reveal my true intentions to them, a man comes out of nowhere down the hall. But he’s not actually in the hallway. It’s some kind of mashup of the real environment and another place. Outside. I guess I might call it a portal. “Excuse me?” he asks. “Have you ever been to Stonehenge?”

This is my chance. This guy seems different than Kyle, or Reaver, or even those two mysterious door-walkers. He is in some kind of position of authority. I have half a moment to make a choice. Either I continue to help Mateo, or I take what might be my one opportunity to get some answers. Mateo seems to be in good hands with his friends, so I leave them to it, and walk towards the strange man who has the ability to form a teleporting bridge to Stonehenge.

He, almost lovingly, sets his hand on my shoulder and smiles. The walls of the building melt away, and all that’s left is Stonehenge. He opens his mouth to begin his speech, but then he sees something in me. He crooks his neck. “Who the hell are you?”

“I am Lincoln Rutherford,” I reply honestly.

“Are you a salmon, or are you a choosing one?”

Dowhatnow? “Neither. Both. What are those things?”

“I can sense that you’ve been separated from the timestream, but you’re not on my list. What happened?”

“I was in an alternate timeline,” I explain, “with Horace Reaver. Someone snuck into his prison cell and pushed him backwards in time. I was just caught in the crossfire, I guess.”

He lifts his chin but keeps his eyes on me. “I’ve not heard such a thing. An accidental salmon. When was this?”

“Four years from now,” I say, “and eighteen years ago.”

“Interesting, tell me everything.”

For some reason, I feel that I can trust this man with my story. And so I do just what he asks and go over my entire life’s story. I tell him what I remember from the other timeline, and also what has already been overwritten. I explain the blog, what I believe to be my job to stop Horace Reaver from causing further harm. I bring up Brian and Kyle and Duke, the train, the other train, Mateo’s family who Reaver kidnapped, the door-walkers; everything. This guy just pulls the information out of me. Brian knows everything, and I’ve discussed some of this with others, but only to a low degree. It’s nice to get all of this out to a second person, and possibly gain some perspective.

After I’m done, he again says, “interesting.”

“What happens now?

“Horace Reaver is becoming a problem for us. We are preparing a response to his actions.”

“Just now? He’s been screwing with the timeline for years now. How could you let it go this far?”

“Oh, they don’t really care about the timeline. Everything can be corrected, one way or another. It’s not hard for the people I work for.”

“You’re not the time police, or something?”

“Oh, heavens no.” He laughs. “I don’t know exactly what the choosing ones are, but they’re not that.”

“Huh?”

“We estimate twenty-five years before Mateo finally apprehends Mister Reaver and brings him to justice.”

“That’s over three weeks in Mateo-time. You don’t really think it’ll take him that long, do you?”

“Why not?”

“He’s smarter than you give him credit for. And now that he has Leona, he’ll be unstoppable.”

“That may be true, but either way, we’ll need your help. Reaver isn’t our only problem.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“You’ll be in your element. We’re building a security team, and we would like you to be in charge of it, as Head Guard.”

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