Glint and Precurse

Always Fill in the Third Option

Omucks – 155

My vision is pure black. What I see now is nothing compared to what you might see when closing one's eyelids. It is a pure, empty, voided perception of the physical world around us. Along with sight, I can neither hear, nor speak, nor feel. I am alone. The only things left in this world are you and I, wandering aimlessly through the plane of no existence.

Screams fill my ears, slowly subside, and make way for one constant, high-pitched tone to ring in my ears. At the same time, a bright light fills my vision—which surprisingly does not feel as uncomfortable as it should—and gently fades into a low-detail, black and white view of rocks. As the other senses come to me, so does the sense of touch and feeling, filling me with pain, but calming down in time. I am aware. I am aware of where I am, who I am, and what I must do.

Reaching down to pick up the device, I slowly adjust to the new sensation of movement given to me by this body. Celerity is not something of which I can say this new anatomy grants me, but as long as I am swift and decisive, it will be of no disadvantage against the young boy.

I grasp the device firmly between my sharp, metal talons, gracefully lifting it without any struggle or inefficiency. Because of the electromagnetic link this body has with the device, I am capable of interacting and changing the desired destination at will, using nothing but my mind. The simplicity of travel this feature grants me is so exasperating! I can, at will, cycle through thousands of times and universes in a matter of seconds, each appearing for less than the tiniest fragmented moment. With this form, I truly am a god.

World line number one, 1989, one hour and thirty minutes past midnight.

Just by thinking it, I am here. Moving forward, I notice that my motion is being withheld. I pause for a moment, then try putting one foot out in front of the other. This time I was able to take those steps. I glance behind my towering figure, and examine what it was that was holding me back. On the concrete—of which I spawned on—there is a mutilated pile of garbage, mostly consisting of plastic and paper, spread across the ground as if it were the aftermath of a nuclear explosion. Stepping back to get a broader view of the scraps, I notice that some kind of covering is caught on my body, trailing behind me with each movement. I attempt to reach behind and pull it off, but my joints do not allow me to stretch in that particular way. Giving up, I continue on with my mission.

Across from where I stand lies a quiet house, all lights off, one vehicle in the driveway, and an uncanny nostalgic mood reverberating off the surface of the bricks forming the walls. Instinctively, I know that it must be the house of my past self. I do not remember it in the slightest, but I know subconsciously that I had lived in that small building at one point or another. Step by step, I thunder toward the abode, rippling reality with each passing moment. As I approach the back end of the house, I hook the device—which had been in my hand the whole time—on the second loop attached to the side of my waist. Next to it, hanging on the first loop, the moecoil sways and tosses with it as I lumber on.

As my arrival closes in, the back door of the house slides open. There, in front of my very eyes—if you might call these optical eyepieces my eyes, or even organic eyes in general—stands the small figure of a boy of what age I do not know. Accomplishing what must be done is going along better than I had imagined it would have! It looks like I will not have to enter the home of this child at all, as he appears to have come to me out of consent. It is almost as if he has been expecting my arrival, knowing what is supposed to happen to him, acknowledging that death is the only answer to this madness. As he stares into my forgiving, passionate eyes, I slowly raise my arm into the sky. I am about to win. With this one swift motion, everything will be forgiven, repaid, and ultimately fair.