The Second Chance (Round One: The Fitzpatrick Center)

Time turned; empires fell. Quantos opened his eyes.

The river of Time flowed through the fabric of existence, burningly bright against his single remaining organic eye. Everything he saw was radiant with its colorless fury; shelves stocked with the trappings of a materialistic life glowed with their impending disintegration. He shook his head, laughing sadly; what use was stockpiling the debris of mortal existence? Everything would return to dust in time. Nothing was safe from the ravages of-

WE GET IT. GET YOUR ASS IN GEAR, QUANTOS, WE’VE GOT SHIT TO DO.

The noble cyborg winced slightly as the voice reverberated inside his head like a jet engine in a meat locker. He still hadn’t gotten used to this particular penance. Ever since Time Itself-

DON’T YOU TALK ABOUT ME.

Quantos narrowly restrained himself from gritting his teeth. Patience was a virtue, after all; there would be time enough for complaints when he was dead. Again.

“Are you, er…”

He turned in surprise to face a gangly teen of indeterminate gender in a disheveled uniform awkwardly holding a broom. Dust was gathered on the youth’s clothing, presumably from cleaning, with a battered pair of Chuck Taylors trailing dirt on the tiled floor. Holding the broom out like a half-hearted barrier, the newcomer eyed him with an even mixture of apathy and distrust.

“You looking for something? Cause you’re not s’posed to be back here. This is employees-only.”

“We’re all looking for something, child,” Quantos said serenely. He curled the fingers of one hand into an ancient warding gesture he’d learned on the plains of Africa. “I am simply a wayward traveler, just as you.”

The youth’s heavily-lined eyes narrowed. “Uh huh. Well, look, I gotta ask you to leave, I’m-”

“This has been pleasant,” the cyborg said brightly, staring at something invisible on the far wall. “I must continue on, though. The winding path of my many-threaded destiny demands that we must sadly part.”

“Are you-”

There was a boom and a flash of hideously green light, and when the slightly shaken androgyne dared to look again, the mysterious man had gone. There was only the slightest whisper of ABOUT FUCKING TIME to indicate that he had ever been there.

The youth sank to the floor, overcome by emotion and the sudden desire to admit that everything the cyborg had ever said was right.

________________

Boom, flash; Quantos was standing out in the open, labcoat billowing in a nonexistent breeze. Around him rose the white arches of modern commercial architecture, pocked here and there by cannonfire and laser burns and carrying the occasional sconce of depressed-looking flowers. Distantly he heard gunshots. A nearby barricade caught his eye, jammed between half of a bench and a gurgling fountain. It seemed to have been made from a number of storefront advertisements, and an array of women’s lingerie glowed happily at him as he strode toward it.

A metal arm forged from the remnants of an early 20th century car plunged behind the barricade and emerged with the collar of a highly startled soldier, who yelped in surprise and tried to sucker-punch the air. Quantos grinned at him reassuringly. “You see what I did there! Technically I haven’t moved at all; I merely jumped to a point in time where the earth’s rotation would bring this exact spot to where I had been a few minutes previously. Of course, taking into account the nature of time travel I had to adjust for a few years here and there, nothing major. I could do it in my sleep!” He laughed merrily. The soldier stared in horrified confusion.

“Please, I’m just looking for a paycheck-”

“Simplicity itself!” Quantos said gleefully, and dropped the soldier back behind the wall of bras. He strode off with powerful steps, calling over his shoulder, “You could probably manage it yourself, if you were me! Ha ha ha!”

The soldier sat frozen for a brief second as the cyborg’s booming voice faded off into the distance, confused as to why he suddenly felt deeply ashamed for not being the man who had just assaulted him. Nervously he fumbled for his radio; pressing a button on its side, he spat, “Position 13, reporting a potentially hostile individual, possibly in possession of teleportation fields, apparently acting alone!”

The radio snarled back with a rush of static. “You’re not the first to call in with a story like that, Private. Hold your position until further orders arrive. Report any other disturbances ASAP.”

“Yessir.”

“And Private?”

“Sir?”

“Heavy reinforcements are on their way. Between you and me, if you hear engines, run.”

“Good to have you on my side, sir.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up and get back to shooting, soldier, this war's not over yet.”