Clock Breakers

Rule 8: Make No Connections

"Okay," I said to myself, "Let's write down when the hell I was in here before I poof away." I left the note back on my desk, only a few seconds after I'd taken it, and ported back to the cabin. I needed a steady lab-point, or at least somewhere to think of a plan. I looked down at myself. First, I needed a change of clothes. That would probably give me some head start on Nash, especially if the first place he checked was here. I went to the thrift store on the outskirts of town, the opposite side from the crash. I wrote down when I entered the door, trying to estimate the exact second without looking too suspicious.

I nodded to the guy at the desk, bulky and aware of me. I looked through the clothes for anything I could use without being encumbered, checking the windows religiously. Some worn jeans and a baggy sweatshirt in hand, the man at the counter scanned them painfully slowly.

"How you payin'?" he asked, looking me up and down.

"Cash," I said, fishing for my wallet. His fingertips were resting on the edge of the counter, just waiting for the signal to grab the gun he undoubtedly had. "Here," I said, handing over the money, checking the window again.

"Hey man, you waitin' on somethin'?" he asked quietly.

"WPT situation," I said, grabbing the clothes. "You got a bathroom?" He straightened in understanding, checking the window before nodding and gesturing for me to follow. He unlocked the door just beside the counter.

"Take your time, I'll knock if anything happens."

"Thanks, man." I locked the door, listening for a moment until I knew he was back at the counter. I checked the pockets of my cargos, making sure nothing was left behind as I pulled on the new jeans. I washed my face in the sink, slipping the baggy sweatshirt over my head afterwards. Average white guy, once again. I checked my mouth in the mirror, pulling my cheek out to check the metal sore growing in my mouth. Didn't look too bad, a bit of peroxide would fix it right up. I leaned on the sink, thinking about what I had to do. I had to be the one to kill the crew. Maybe I already had been and would be. In that case, I couldn't just deliver the final blows I'd seen, I'd have to make all the attempts too. Save your paradoxes and don't kill your past. Was I willing to be a murderer to save Nash?

The answer was yes, always, and a hundred times over. He was sketchy, he was glitchy, he said the wrong things at the wrong times, and he'd been slipping further and further into solid crime until I left. But there was still an innocent man, months and months ago, looking at me with curiosity and thinking me the dumbest, luckiest man alive for never following the rules.

I sighed, rubbing my face again. I pulled out my notebook. The first one dead was Cooper, shot on the battlefield. Before that, I stopped him from drinking poison coffee. That was... oh gods, when was that? It was in the trenches, 1917, in... June? No, maybe August? I groaned in frustration. Something was missing here. If I had that damn computer, that would tell me everything I needed to know.

The computer.

I walked out of the bathroom, nodding to the clerk.

"Be careful, my man," he said.

"You too."

I couldn't port in his bathroom, he'd think I died. There was no window or other access point. I ducked into an alley, scattering the rats with my marching and playing with my watch. If I could get to the computer, it would tell me where and when to go. I couldn't use it when Jaysk was on station, which was practically 24/7, so I'd have to use it...

I ported in behind him, watching Cooper slowly turn from the computer in his hangar.

"Cooper."

"Freeze," he said, pocketing his wrench and standing. "What brings you here? I was just... working on this new machine for tracking temporal fluxes."