Sunday, February 21, 2016

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: March 21, 2014

Mateo, Leona, and Prince Darko slipped out of the house quietly and headed for the street. Their phones were waiting for them on the steps. Danica had been right that time would always tether them together. They hadn’t thought to test that before. Like any good time traveling device, their phones told them exactly when and where they had landed. It was Ann Arbor, Michigan on March 21, 2014. The prison guard had said that personnel don’t ever work in the same time period they live. Wait. “This is the day of my jump. My first jump.”
“It is,” Leona agreed. “What a coincidence.”
“I do not believe in coincidence.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Okay well, I do...” Mateo began. “But not in this case. I’ve been given a second chance. I can stop this. I just need to get to the graveyard.”
“The powers that be will never let you stop yourself from starting your pattern,” Prince Darko said.
“Shut up,” Mateo and Leona said in unison.
“I have to try this. I have to save my parents’ life.”
“And what about me?” Leona asked.
“What?”
“What happens to me?”
“Well...I mean. What does happen to you?”
“Well, you and I never meet. If we ever do, you’ll be fourteen years older than me.”
“But you’ll still be here. I mean, this version of you will. You’re here now.”
“Not necessarily. You’ll be changing the timeline.” Prince Darko pointed to Leona. “Since this woman is out of her natural time pattern, she may be able to remain here, and there will be two versions of her. But probably not. I’ve not heard of it. In all likelihood, she’ll be erased. As will you. And that’s assuming you miraculously pull this off. But you’re a salmon, not a chooser or power. You’re not allowed to change things unless you’ve been assigned to.”
“But you are,” Mateo said to him. “You’re one of the powers, so you could change it for me. And you could find a way to keep Leona and me from being erased. I’m not trying to stop myself from meeting her. I’m just trying to save my parents’ lives.”
“I’m not a power,” Prince Darko said.
Leona shook her head.“What are you talking about? You clearly are. You were in the chooser block.”
“Yes, I’m a chooser,” he agreed. “I’m not a power.”
“They’re not the same thing?”
“You’ve been using them interchangeably, but no, they’re not. Choosers get to choose how they manipulate time, usually with some kind of specialization. For instance, I’m an object threader. I can touch and object and move back and forth along its time path, but I’m bound to it. I can’t move past its existence, and I can’t travel in any other way. The powers that be, on the other hand, can manipulate time in any way they like, and they use this...power to jack with other people’s lives. Bottom line is that choosers are just salmon who aren’t controlled by the powers.”
“Oh my God!” Mateo nearly yelled. “Why didn’t anyone ever tell us this?”
“People don’t seem to know,” Prince Darko said. “I’m not sure why. You’re right to be upset; it’s a pretty big deal.”
“Wait, this doesn’t make any sense,” Leona said. “A few years ago, you claimed to be on our pattern, just an hour earlier. We saw you jump into the future, and you were there waiting for us.”
Prince Darko shook his head in confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do,” Mateo said. “Stop lying. You said that you had been on our pattern for two years before we got on it. You said we were a tripod.”
“I’ve never met you two,” Prince Darko claimed. “Not before today.”
“I just told you to stop lying.”
“Mateo,” Leona said. “He’s a time traveler. He must not have experienced that yet. That is our past, but it’s his future.”
“Oh, right,” Mateo said, but he was still not completely clear on the matter.
“I don’t know that that’s true. I mean, yes, that is a sound theory, Miss...Leona, right? But that doesn’t sound like something I would do. I mean, I know you guys don’t know me, but I know myself, and tricking people into trusting me just isn’t my style. I’m not saying I’m an angel; I was imprisoned for a reason, but not for anything like that.”
“Why were you locked up?”
“I just met you. I’m not going to tell you something like that. Sorry.”
“If you didn’t know us, why did you think we were breaking you out of your cell?” Leona had her hands on her hips.
“What did you expect me to do? Question it?” He scoffed. “I didn’t want to be there.”
“That makes sense.”
“Well, even if you’ve not yet done it,” Mateo said, “I’m already mad at you for trying to tear our relationship apart.”
“Rule number five, Mateo,” Leona said to him cautiously.
Mateo had to think through this for a moment. Which one was that? Avoid alternate versions of yourself? No, that was a tip for later. Treat everyone you meet with respect, as they may unexpectedly return. That one works. At this point, Prince Darko had no reason to hate them. Best not to antagonize him, as they may still have a chance to keep him on their side. “You’re right.”
“What rules?” Prince Darko asked.
“Do you go by Prince Darko?”
He was taken aback. “My mother used to call me that, but no. Darko will be fine, thank you.”
“Good,” Leona replied.
“But Mario Matic is your father,” Mateo questioned, but wasn’t sure which answer he wanted.
“Yes, he is. I’ve encountered him a couple of times.”
“That means we really are brothers.”
Darko lifted his chin and stared into Mateo’s eyes. And then he leapt over and gave Mateo a big bear hug. “I had no idea.” He wouldn’t let go. “It’s so nice to finally meet someone in my family I might actually be able to get along with. I don’t know what you think I’ve done in my future, but I promise you that I will never be on anyone else’s side but yours.” He finally released Mateo from his grip. “You included,” he said to Leona. He really did act drastically different than when they first met.
“Then maybe you can help us. I need to warn myself. You were right that I can’t stop this from happening. But I might be able to save my parents. Get us to Topeka.”
“I would need an object that’s going to or was at some point in Topeka.”
“Oh right.” Mateo frowned. “There’s no way. If this were the future, we could just call someone in our family to scoop us up with a fancy airplane.”
“We can still use an airplane,” Leona said reluctantly. “If you insist on messing with time, then all we need to do is find a flight going from Detroit to Kansas City.”
“Yeah, that could work,” Darko nodded. “Kind of a tall order, though. Normal people aren’t just allowed to go up to commercial airplanes. So if you don’t want to go ahead and purchase a ticket and sit through an entire ride, which wouldn’t take any more time, then we’ll have to sneak in.”
“That’s true.”
Suddenly, a little Toyota pulled up next to them on the street. A young man stepped out and handed Mateo the keys, along with a five dollar bill. “Be careful with it. This baby has to get me to Topeka, Kansas by tonight. I’m going to a funeral.” He then walked into the restaurant.

“What is happening?” Mateo asked. “Were we just...”
“...handed a miracle?” Darko asked, taking the keys from Mateo and tossing them through the passenger window.
“I don’t like this,” Mateo said.
“We have to take our opportunities,” Darko said.
And so they took him once again by the shoulders and threaded the car to the future.
They were suddenly in the Topeka cemetery. The driver of the car they had threaded was nowhere to be seen. People were standing around having fun, beers in hand.The Rogue appeared before them. “I’ve let you come here to watch,” he said. “I won’t let you alter time, though. This is just to give you perspective.”
“This is cruel,” Leona said.
“Cruel is my...” he sighed. “Sorry, I’m not going to say that. That’s a dumb line.”
“There’s Saga and Vearden,” Mateo pointed out. The door-walkers were in a conversation with some of Mateo’s friends, Frida being one of them. “Half-brother,” he said to Darko, “meet my half-sister.”
“Interesting,” Darko said. “I didn’t know Aquila had any family.”
“You know her?”
“We’ve met.” He smiled and looked around a bit. “Dad?”
They instinctively turned their heads to where Darko was looking. It really was their father. “I didn’t know he was here tonight.” He was watching the other Mateo intently, but was making no effort to reintroduce himself. Instead, he was talking with Mr. Halifax, the Gravedigger.
“Why are there so many salmon here?”
“This is an important occasion,” the Rogue said. “The two of you are considered the most influential salmon of all.”
“No one was there when I made my first jump,” Leona said.
The Rogue lowered his face but kept his eyes up, as if looking at her over imaginary reading glasses. “They weren’t?”
They continued to scan the crowd. Danica and Dr. Baxter mysteriously walked out of a crypt and focused on the original Mateo as well. After the door closed behind them, the family name on the crypt changed to read January 3, 1743. “Mateo, you might get to see Daria again,” Leona said reassuringly.
He did want to see her once more, but there was no way he would. “She didn’t know who I was when we met in 2019. And she would never lie to me.”
Daria never did show up, but her nurse from Ulinthra’s facility was there, along with the girl who they saw leaning against him at Daria’s funeral. Mateo stepped forward, thinking it was time to find out who the two of them were. The Rogue held him back again and shook his head. “Not yet, kind sir.” Son of a bitch.
It was midnight. They watched as the other Mateo had his final conversation with Kyle then jumped out of the timestream. Saga and Vearden stopped while they were running to help and ended up walking through the magic tomb portal. After the door changed, Danica and Baxter went through, presumably back to The Constant. Mario and The Gravedigger hopped into an empty grave and never came back out. The two mysterious choosers watched the commotion for a few moments and then looked over at the four of them. The girl waved affectionately while the guy smiled at them, then they jumped away. They were following rule number eleven; keep them guessing. The scene changed and the two of them were back in their house in 2064. Darko wasn’t with them.

Saturday, February 20, 2016

Overwritten: Perspective (Part VIII)

I return to work after a couple of years in recovery. I think they only give me this time off because I’m such an oddity. No one else is like me. A human who has survived such a dramatic temporal shift is rare if not completely unheard of. Each time I see my daughter again, more time has passed, and she spends less time with me, weening me off of her care. Eventually, she’s gone for good, and I never see her again. I keep abreast of the situation with Mateo and Leona year by year. Horace Reaver spends a little time in a human prison, which is apparently good enough for the choosing ones, while it lasts. But Mateo and Leona need his help with something, and so I pull some strings and have him transferred to a different prison. It’s far more complex, and seems more difficult to break out of, but it’s not; not for them. Somehow, I know this. I have some kind of connection with time that I tell no one about. I can’t see the future, and I certainly cannot travel there, but I feel it. I am part of the timestream itself. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, I just know what needs to be done. I gather a list of other salmon within my “range” and assist them as well. They never know, and that’s just how I like it. I even help Reaver out once by sending a message on a convoluted path throughout time. He thinks it's a favor, but it doesn't work out for him. But it’s all for the best. And again, I just know this to be so.
After yet another decade of working at a salmon/chooser prison facility, I am given a special assignment. I and four of my closest friends operate in shifts, monitoring two of the most notorious salmon criminals I’ve met. Reaver is one of them, of course, but his pseudo-partner rival, Ulinthra is the other one. I live underground on Easter Island in a sort of cave mansion. It’s pretty badass, and I feel no need to go anywhere else while I’m not working. The others live with their families in the future. I was ferried there once. It was a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there, I’ll tell ya that. At the moment, my shift partner is taking a nap, and I’m keeping Reaver company. We’ve just returned after a brief journey into the past so that Reaver could finally attend one of his friend’s funeral service.
“I’ve been down here with you for years now,” I tell him, “yet you refuse to speak to me. I’m curious as to why that is.”
“You betrayed me. That’s all I need to know.”
“I never betrayed you. I was never with you. I was a spy.”
“Who were you working for?”
“Lady Justice.”
That got a laugh out of him, which is all I was really going for.
“Melly accidentally sent me back when she sent you back to 2016. I was born to protect people from people like you. It’s fitting that it should end in a place like this.”
“What do you mean, end?” he asks.
“This day today is our final day.”
“How do you know?”
“I can feel it.”
He lifts his chin, not totally surprised. “When did that start?”
“Melly rubbed off on me I guess.”
“She’s a strong one.”
“Indeed. She helped me out when I needed her most. Way I hear it, she did the same for Mateo, against you.”
“She did. I overestimated her loyalty to her father.”
“She wants to do the right thing. All in all, I would say she is the most noble of the choosing ones.”
Reaver chuckled in a way that made it clear that he agreed. He walked over to the corner and rested against the glass. “I’m so tired. Is it really over today?”
“It is. There is nothing we can do to stop it. But it sounds like you don’t want to.”
“Do you?”
“I believe I’ve served my purpose.”
“What are we talking about? My shift partner said suddenly.
I look at my watch. “Is it time already?” My end is coming soon. It’s like I’m being pulled towards it, and it doesn’t feel like darkness. It feels like peace.
“What do you mean?” the other guard asks.
I cover for myself, “oh, I just thought you would be asleep longer.” Before anyone can question what I really mean, someone pulls me out of the timestream.
I find myself standing on a simple garden path. A man pretends to be picking flowers up ahead of me. “Can I help you?” I call up to him.
“I just wanted your last sight to be of beauty, so I hijacked The Cleanser’s jump,” the man explains vaguely.
“What exactly does that mean? Who is the Cleanser?”
“He’s a rival of sorts,” the man answers, but then adds that he’s more of “a partner.”
“He will be the cause of Reaver’s death?”
“And yours, yes.”
“What shall I call you?”
“What do you think you should call me?”
“I’m getting the sense that you’ve been breaking the rules, but you’re so powerful that no one can stop you. You’ve gone rogue.”
He stops haphazardly tugging at a dandelion. “Rogue,” he repeats. “I love that.”
“Glad to hear it,” I lie.
“The Cleanser is trying to rid the world of time travel,” The Rogue says. “In all time periods, in all realities.”
“And you’re trying to stop him?” I ask.
“Not all that much,” he clarifies. “But I certainly don’t want him to do it, even if I thought he would be capable of such a thing. I’m just trying to have a lot of fun. When you’re immortal, every decision you make is meaningless. At that point, all you have left is watching other people’s decisions.”
“If you say so,” respond, but I have no interest in him expanding on his words.
He turns and looks at me. “But I can see that you don’t care.” Can he read minds? He goes on, “no, what you want is true beauty. I thought this garden would do it for you, because of its simplicity, but you want something more. You want to see something no one else has.”
“And do you have any idea what that is?”
“Death.” He snaps his fingers and returns me to the Easter Island cavern, far away from Horace Reaver’s prison cube. Reaver is talking with someone. “That’s the guy I was telling you about,” The Rogue says.
I nod. “The Cleanser.” I can’t hear their conversation, but I see what is likely a bomb. “I’m going to watch Reaver die? I have no interest in that either.”
“Not him,” the Rogue says. “Just wait.”
I patiently wait for them to finish their conversation. The Cleanser mysteriously moves over and picks up Reaver’s pillow. His body shudders away from itself, and then he disappears. The pillow falls to the floor. Just as that happens, all five of Reaver’s security guards appear inside of the cube, including myself.
“This is my favorite part,” the Rogue says. All he needed was a bucket of popcorn. He turns an imaginary dial in the middle of the air and the volume from inside the cube increases.
“It’s a bomb!” Horace yells as one of the guards is pointing a gun at him.
“You see? Without you, Reaver wouldn’t have cared that others were going to die. It may not seem like much to you, but if there’s an afterlife, you’ve increased his chances of going to heaven. You’ve helped redeem him.” He turns the imaginary dial the other direction and lowers the volume. The device the Cleanser left in there exploded and consumes the cube.
“They died anyway,” I say. “I died. Who cares if Reaver was a slightly less despicable human being at the time? Why are you showing me this?”
“I showed you this perspective so that you could die knowing you made a difference. Sure, Reaver is only negligibly better than he was, but what about people you met who already had potential, but were squandering it. What about Micro? What about Brian?”
I laugh at the obscure pop culture reference.
“You mattered, Lincoln Rutherford,” the Rogue claims. “You matter.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better for when you send me back into the loop to experience the death I just witnessed?”
“It is,” the Rogue says.
I lean against the cave wall and let out a sigh of relief. “Do it.”

Friday, February 19, 2016

Microstory 260: Perspective Thirty-Five

Perspective Thirty-Four


I’ve been gay all my life, and I’ve known about it for nearly as long. I grew up in a household where people were people, and there was no normal, and there was no hate. I never felt the need to hide myself, or try to be like everybody else. But I know I’ve been lucky. There are people in this very community who struggle with their identity; not just because their families don’t accept them, but because they’ve yet to accept themselves. I’ve sort of set up this little club-slash-support group for everyone. Well, I didn’t set it up myself, but I helped a lot. It kind of looks like we’re disguising ourselves as a group of extreme sports enthusiasts, but the truth is that a lot of us happen to like extreme sports. It seems statistically unlikely, but it just worked out that way. But everyone is welcome, and there are people who hang out with us but never skate, or anything. Or they do skate, but they do it casually, and really just try to have fun. The point of our club is to have a safe space for anyone feeling left out or unsure of themselves. Our little organization has grown over the years, and we’re even thinking of fundraising and expanding by opening up our own recreation center. But that might be a bit of a pipe dream, and many years down the line, if ever. For now, I’m just content to have a place to blow off steam and get away from all the drama. Unfortunately for that, though, there is a girl in our group that I’m starting to have feelings for. She’s such a badass. She’s fearless but thoughtful and understanding. She’s making me question my own identity, which I never thought I would do; not at my age, at least. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps my friendship with her just feels so strong and right that I’m mixing it up with romance. We just fit together so perfectly that I always want to be around her. But isn’t that what friendship is? I mean, how do you distinguish between a friendship and relationship? They’re about the same as each other except for that one particular thing. And I’ve encountered of lots of couples who don’t do that very often anyway, and they seem perfectly happy with each other. She and I are going to be planning the ski trip together, so I think I’m just going to keep going as is and see where it leads. I’m not switching closets any time soon, that’s for sure.

Perspective Thirty-Six

Thursday, February 18, 2016

Microstory 259: Perspective Thirty-Four

Perspective Thirty-Three

Ever since my bitch cousin moved to the big city and got her angel wings, she’s been all my parents talk about it. I know it’s a cliché, but they really do ask me why I can’t be more like her. I mean, it’s not like I don’t have my life together. I have a decent job with decent pay that I got from a decent education, and I’m doing all right for myself. Sure, there’s no room for upward movement, but so what? They don’t seem to understand that some people are perfectly content working uneventful jobs. My main concern is income and job security. I have those now, so what more should I want, to live in a mansion? I wouldn’t feel comfortable knowing someone could get shot in one room and not be heard in another. So no, a two bedroom apartment is fine for me right now, thanks. The hours are set in stone, and I never have to take my work home with me. I spend my money on the things that I love which is predominantly extreme sports. I do it all; from spelunking to scuba diving, paintball to parkour, rafting to roller derby. I’ve been saving for a major ski trip next winter, and I have other travel intentions as well. But no, that stuff is for teenagers who are, at best, trying to find themselves, and at worst, rebellious. I don’t smoke or do drugs, and I don’t drink very much. What more do they want from me? Oh that’s right, to be like my cousin. She works as a counselor at a crisis hotline, but she’s not as perfect as they think. She’s done things. She’s been involved with certain persons. But I can’t tell them that because I actually like her, and the truth is that she really is a good person. I just wish people would see that I am too. Just because I’m not saving lives doesn’t mean mine is meaningless. I had a teacher in college who seemed to feel like that. To him, the only reason anyone doesn’t pursue the field of social work is because they’re not good enough for it. I mean, he legit had trouble understanding why anyone would have interests he didn’t share. He was either autistic, or just a sociopath. I hope it’s the second one, because then I don’t feel so bad for hating him. What does he know, anyway? He doesn’t have passion. He just has work. He can keep his statistics. I’m going to the skate park.

Perspective Thirty-Five

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Microstory 258: Perspective Thirty-Three

My job is extremely stressful. I don’t get a whole lot of feedback from callers, so I never really know if things went all right. I work for a domestic violence hotline. People from all over the country call us for help with abuse. Sometimes the caller is being abused, sometimes it’s a friend or family member, and we even get calls from abusers who realize what they’re doing is wrong. Obviously being an advocate comes with its limits. Since we’re communicating anonymously over the phone, I can’t go and actually help the people who call in. After they hang up, I can’t be sure if they took my advice, or if they’re safe. I feel so frustratingly powerless to help. I’ve started writing this comic book series about a superhero who never saves people from burning buildings, or fights villains. Instead, she flies around removing people from unsafe domestic environments, and mediating disputes between family members. I’ve still not settled on a name for her, but I’m leaning towards Doctor Safespace. That seems a little cheesy to me, and feels like an advertisement for our services rather than something victims and survivors can look up to. Whatever her name is, she’s not bound by arbitrary laws and regulations. She can go in and stop the violence at its source. Just this last week, I took a call from a child who happens to live in my home town. He was hiding in the closet while his father was drunk again and hitting his mother. It was heartbreaking to hear him tell me what was happening as it was happening. I could hear the screams in the background. It took me awhile to convince him that he needed to hang up and dial 9-1-1. A part of him knew that the situation was serious, and needed to be dealt with, but as a child, he couldn’t help but spend the time telling me about his alter ego, Prince Malvolio. He had clearly created this character in order to escape from his world of abuse, but that was no longer helping as the two worlds were colliding with each other. Finally he agreed to hang up and call the authorities instead. I hope he’s okay. If this weren’t anonymous, I would have Doctor Safespace team up with Prince Malvolio.

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

Microstory 257: Perspective Thirty-Two

Perspective Thirty-One

My sister is being abused by her husband, and I’m having trouble getting her to see the truth. To be honest, I’m not all that worried about her. The fact is that she is an adult, and I don’t feel like anyone can help her unless she admits that she needs help in the first place. They have a son, though. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to confirm that the guy’s physically abusing him as well. My girlfriend suggests I call a helpline about it, but I’m not good over the phone. What I really need to do is speak to someone in person. The problem is that the nearest domestic violence shelter is two towns over, and I have just not had any time. That’s a bad excuse, though, and I know it. I’ve always done that. I am an expert at putting up roadblocks when people try to give me solutions. My girlfriend calls it my most frustrating feature, but she’s helping me work through it. But for now, my priority is protecting that kid. Everything I’ve read on the internet says that when children are involved, immediate action must be taken. So maybe I should ignore the women’s shelter for now, and go straight to child services. What I’m worried about, however, is whether they’ll find any proof that he’s hurting his son. If they don’t, then this will just antagonize and aggravate him further. What is he going to do then? He’ll probably assume that his wife is the one who called the authorities on him, and even if he doesn’t, he’ll take it out on her...and their son. Oh my God, there is no good way to handle something like this, especially not since I can’t get my sister to truly open up about what she’s going through. Should I get someone into the house as fast as possible, or should I try to get the victims out first? Those are just my roadblocks again, though, aren’t they? This is stupid. I’m being stupid. My first order of business is to get help from someone who knows what they’re talking about, and not online. However legit or professional a website is, it’s still only going to be able to give me general information. Somebody needs to hear what’s going on in this particular situation. Somebody needs to hear my sister’s story. And I’m the only one who can tell it.

Perspective Thirty-Three