Indents, woo~

Rory en Lamadu awoke with the sun’s sharp glare in his eyes. His senses soon began to return; notably, his sense of touch. The bed sheet he was sleeping under was not the soft nylons of his apartment but a rough, unfamiliar texture—if he had to, he would label it as the potato sacks of old. A quick glance around the room told him that the rest of the room was in no better shape than his beddings; dark, muddy brick surrounded him, coupled with a dirt floor. The sun came from a small hole located a few meters above him, and a hole it was; no glass stood between.

He was utterly confused. His last moments were spent in a pristine white laboratory, one of the few bastions humanity still owned. Now, he was stuck in what seemed to be medieval pit; a greater transition could not be made. He suddenly realized the terrible heat he was in—not even in field experiments had he endured this level of temperature. Perhaps it was the humidity, but Rory cared not. He brought his wrist up, moving to wipe the sweat off his forehead, when a searing pain attacked him. Shocked, he brought his wrist down. That was when he noticed it. Locked around his wrist was white rectangular box. Compared to his mangy surroundings, it seemed unreal—a piece of fiction. Yet, he knew what it was. He knew now—he remembered everything.

“Rory, we’re almost done calibrating it. Wanna go for a test?”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“C’mon, they do it all the time.”

“They’re not normal. God knows what happens when you use it. Maybe you’ll get teleported to a volcano or something.”

Rory was but a child—fourteen years of age. And yet, he was not in school. No, humanity could no longer wait for their children to go to school. At the brink of destruction, they needed all the bright minds they could muster. And so, children were picked out at birth, sent to private academies, and then set out as scientist, engineers, and military commanders. But intelligence is not wisdom, and so, these children were not given free reign. Their minds would be carefully used by mentors; experts at their respective fields; experienced enough to make wise, and not just intelligent, decisions.

Rory’s mentor, the admirable Professor Isaac, brought it forward. It was a piece of technology reverse-engineered from them. Them, who crushed every single military operation the Human Alliance had sent out, and it was one of the reasons why. It, nicknamed Chronos by the Greek-loving researchers who found it, allowed the user to stop time. It was not an unlimited power, however. You could only stop as much time as you sacrificed—indeed, to use the device, one must spend time. Where? They didn’t know. The user would disappear until the inputted amount of time pasted, and then they would pop back, the device being “charged” for that much time.

“Maybe with this, we’ll finally be able to fight back.”

“Sure, once we reverse-engineer every other piece of infallible technology they have.”

“Don’t be a downer.”

“I’m not a downer, I’m a realist—” Rory would not be able to finish his complaint, however. He was interrupted by a massive explosion; not the kind that went “boom”, but the kind that went “vrrrrrrmmm”. Humanity affectionately nicknamed this phenomenon the “Cosmic Vacuum Cleaner”, and it signified only one thing: they were invading. Rory could see Elli, full name Elliwyn, the coworker whom he had set his affections upon—a one sided affair, as Rory’s friends loved to tell him—come running towards them.

“They’re here, go, go!”

“Go where!? This is a goddamn dead-end!” At this, Elli blushed—apparently she had not thought that far.

“Then hide or something—” She was unable to finish her thought, as the bottom half of her torso disappeared, blood rushing everywhere. Rory was still shell-shocked, being the youngest, but Isaac had, in the back of his mind, always predicted this would happen. He held a sinister smile.

“They want to kill all of us, huh? Well, fuck them.” He grabbed Chronos, bound it across an unsuspecting Rory, and typed a few numbers in the panel below its solid white body. “Live, Rory, live you fucker.”

Rory now noticed his mentor’s scheme; he did not input a couple hours, nor a few hours, and indeed not a lot of hours either; no, he input 3.5 E 6.

“What the hell are you—” he interjected, his vision growing hazy, but not so hazy as to miss his dear professor’s head disappear, deconstructed at the atomic level.

3.5 E 6 hours, huh? Some quick mental math told him that he had been out for around four hundred years. Four Hundred Years. And this was what human civilization looked like? He sighed. It all went wrong with that damned Mars Colonization program. We never should’ve. But how could we know? How could we possibly know about that damned tablet, about those damned messages, about that damned species? And here we are, from the rulers of the Earth—conquerors of disease, of nature—to a bunch of dirty rats squabbling in the dirt, to be laughed at in history classes.

In the midst of Rory’s angst, a pretty face appeared through the door—well, more of an opening than a door. A gentle, lovely face, adorned with an even lovelier smile, the dirt and dust streaked across seemingly only adding to the rustic beauty. Long brown hair adorned that face, crusty and rough from maltreatment. She spoke words, but it seemed only gibberish to Rory’s ears. He stared at her blankly. Realizing his confusion, she laughed awkwardly, scratching her head, and walked into the room. She pointed at herself, said something to effect of “Loria”, and then pointed at him. My name?

“Rory. Rory en Lamadu. Researcher.” He added the last part for himself; no doubt she had no idea what a researcher even was.

She pointed at him in a way he found strangely cute, and said, “Rory?”

“Yes,” he said, pointing at himself, “Rory.”

“Rory!” she exclaimed, clapping. Does she think I’m five? She then pointed out the door, making exaggerated eating motions. Food? Well, he’ll have to eat eventually. He still had no idea where he actually was. He began to sit up, testing his muscles—still fine. No atrophy after four hundred years. Good. Taking a look at himself, he noticed that he was wearing a raggedy white tunic together with a pair of oversized trousers; no signs of his khakis, or his dress shirt, or his lab coat.

As he walked outside his little room, he noticed a myriad of children sitting at a makeshift table—at least six, ranging in age from what looked like four to fifteen, all dressed as he was. This must be an orphanage. Must’ve gotten picked up by them after I reappeared. It’s only natural, I suppose. I am fourteen; four hundred and fourteen now. Loria pointed at one of the seats, motioning for him to sit. In front of him lay breakfast: a wooden bowl filled with what looked like porridge. Somehow, it didn’t exactly excite his appetite. Nor was he hungry. Four hundred year fast—should probably be a world record. Still, she had apparently rescued him. Left alone in the wilderness, he very well could’ve died. It would be rude to outright reject, so he bitterly brought the spoon down. It tastes like nothing.

After finishing his meal, he motioned towards the outside—there was something he needed to check. Loria looked unsure of herself, but realizing that he should be one of the “big kids”, suddenly smiled and gave him a thumbs up. I’m glad that human communication hasn’t changed that much. Walking outside, he looked at the sun. Holding his hand up and counting the distance the sun was from the horizon, he estimated that it was around 8 o’ clock. He then looked down at his wrist; Chronos had the much more mundane function of telling time. It was set at GMT-0, and so, with some subtraction he could calculate the time-zone and thereby location he was currently in. GMT+1—sounds about right. He was still in Europe. He began to eye Chronos more seriously. I should test it out. It’s not like there’s much to lose; he had already lost everything, though everything was not much.

The procedure to stop time is far more convenient than to lose time; only natural, as the model they found was designed for military use. All you had to do was slam the cube down and hope you don’t cut yourself in the process—they had never gotten around to sanding it, either. He pressed down, gently at first, and then putting in more and more force until the cube depressed with a satisfying click. Sound began to distort in his ears, before quieting entirely.

He looked inside—no one was moving. He reached down, grabbing a handful of dirt and releasing it midair. It stayed, unmoving from where he left it. The entire world had stopped. How convenient. He decided to take a stroll through the city—he had the time, after all; four hundred years of time.

He walked, and walked, through a frozen glimpse of the city’s daily life. He could see men, commuting towards their jobs; women, hanging clothes outside their window; merchants, dragging their wares along. He could see beggars, he could see prostitutes. Whatever he could see, however, excluding the passersby’s, was covered in drudgery—evidently he was not in the rich part of town. As he continued to move, he began to reconstruct a theory on the apparent fate of humanity after his departure. First, they had not fully wiped out humanity. Intentionally, for else this pocket of monkeys would not exist. Second, they advanced human development. Four hundred years is not enough time for humans to learn to farm, to build, to innovate. Third, they did this for entertainment; it’s like a kid pouring water into his ant farm when they get too big.

That last point enraged him the most. For millennia humans have been the de facto rulers of their known space—they beat nature, they beat disease, they beat their own psyche, and now they’re just some toy? No, no… He wouldn’t let them. They’ll be back, no doubt. They’ll be back to check on their ant farm. Well, when they do, they’ll find the ant’s armed to the damn teeth. He looked around him. You bunch of damn monkeys—I’m going to arm you, I’m going to teach you, I’m going to lead you. Because fuck them.

He walked in front of a cart-driver, staring him down. How many children have you beaten? How many slaves do you own? How many peasants have you abused? I don’t care. But the cart-driver soon began to care; Rory felt Chronos growing hotter, sound once again distorting. At once, he felt searing pain spread across his torso as the cart slammed into him. He fell to the side, scrunched over in pain. He looked over for help, but only received a passing look of curiosity and a kick to the side, his vision beginning to blacken.