Clock Breakers

Rule 7: Each Hour is Someone New

The cabin was nice and clean, with that old familiar musk of worn wood. We landed in the general area, a splice between a living room, entryway, and the kitchen tucked into the corner.

"Kitchen," I said, gesturing to the white tile and smooth counters, "eating area," I said, pointing to the small table, "crash corner," I said, gesturing to the couch in front of the fireplace, a small box TV off to the side. Nash looked around the walls, setting his duffel bag on the table. The house was bright from windows covered in thin white curtains.

"Closet," I pointed behind the table, "and bedrooms," I said, pointing to the door on the opposite wall. Nash nodded, taking his bag from the table and moving towards the door. It led to a short hallway, connecting two small bedrooms and a shared bathroom. He picked the room to the right. I took my bag into the left room, dropping it on the bed before opening the curtains, revealing the flat green field between us and the distant city. I opened the window, breathing in the fresh air and sighing. I tossed my bag under the bed and rolled onto it, my hands behind my head. We were exhausted, physically and emotionally, but I didn't know if Nash was ready for sleep - or if he even could sleep in the daylight.

"Freeze," he said quietly, lightly shaking my mattress. "Freeze."

My eyes snapped open and I sat up, looking over at him drunkenly.

"Oh hey," I yawned, my fist finding my eye, "what's up?"

"Do you... do you have any food?" he asked sheepishly, his face tinting as his shoulders rose.

"Nash, you're a grown ass man. Of course I'm gonna feed you," I said, swinging my legs off the twin bed. He followed me to the kitchen, where I pointed him to the table. He sat quietly, his eyes alert and soft like a puppy as he played with his hands on the table.

"You look like you had a nightmare," I yawned, grabbing a box from the cabinet above the stove. I turned and he shrugged, looking around again. "You can relax, Nash, we're totally safe here. Nobody's gonna show up, no one knows this place exists."

"Yeah... I thought no one knew we were on that island either." I took a flat pan from the cabinet beside the stove.

"I'm sorry about Juniper, Nash," I said quietly, pouring some mix into a bowl and turning on the stove. "I wanted to help her but we had to get out..."

"No, I know," he said, his voice less fragile. "I get that. And you were right to get us out, we would've been killed if we stayed. And you were right, she could have just ported out..."

I looked at him sadly. He was no longer dangerous, but he was still in pain. I took the bowl to the sink and turned on the tap. I brought the bowl back to the counter and began mixing it with a fork, digging through the cabinet over the stove again for my secret ingredient. I glanced over my shoulder before shaking some into the bowl, making sure Nash couldn't see what I was making. I poured the mix into the pan, listening to its quiet hiss as I dug for a spatula. The kitchen would smell like it in a minute, but he was distracted enough - maybe he wouldn't notice.

He was staring off into nothingness, his thumbs dancing around each other slowly and gently. I turned the stove down a bit, watching his hands. They weren't rough and calloused, they were soft and gentle. For always dressing like a young professor, his hands seemed nice for music. Not for anything with strings, and barely for piano, but maybe something else. Maybe typing, or playing synthetics on touch screens. Good hands for petting dogs and holding kittens, but not running turtles across the road without gloves.

His sleeves were cuffed at his elbows, and I could see his trail of birthmarks in the sunlight. I remembered the dents in the Mask's skin and fought back a shiver. Just a costume. I ran over his shirt, still neat and smooth, folding gently as he leaned over. His collar was pressed, the top button undone because that's as casual as he could go. His neck was blank, neither holding scar nor sunspot or any hint of facial hair. His face was smooth too, and clean. No mark of a hard life laid in it except for his eyes, clouded in mourning. Even his hair was still relatively neat.