The Timebound

  I open my eyes, remembering what happened last night. Raibu slept in my room -- I had to leave for a bathroom for... obvious reasons, quickly returning to my own bunker. If only teleportation stones weren’t so hard to make, then I’d be able to get around faster. It’s such a shame they use more powerful reagents, though I suppose it's designed to ‘balance the playing field.’ Raibu was sleeping by the time I got back, but it was weird -- when I was walking back, I happened to notice him standing outside, simply gazing at the stars. I think he heard my footsteps, because he vanished in an instant. Still, as likely as it is, I don’t think it was a hallucination. I know I saw Raibu standing out there, with a blue long-sleeve like Aliza’s. Except his hair was also different at the time, with a singular long braid, so was it him? Either way, when I entered my little bunker, Raibu was still sleeping in the same position, seemingly undisturbed. It gave me some time to complete homework before I went to sleep again.

  Yet now, the scent of coffee drifts in, mixed in with fresh clay. Chatter rises right outside, people seeming to enjoy themselves for whatever reason. Considering Raibu’s disappearance, it would make sense if this commotion was his doing. Whatever -- I stretch my arms, wondering what today will bring.

  The sunlight of dawn blinds me as I look in the vague direction, seeing a small booth set up. In the immediate distance is a line of people, all gathering in front of the one person in a booth. I’m guessing that person is Raibu.

  “Hey,” I wave.

  “Greetings,” the voice calmly replies. That wasn’t Raibu -- I wipe my eyes, realizing that ‘Raibu’ now had a long dress the color of terracotta, along with dirt-stained boots. Whoever they were, their gloves stood out -- whereas Raibu seemed to wear only work gloves, theirs was comparatively more dirty, grime marring the otherwise citrine-like appearance. They look at me, one eye the color of a dull gold and the other a blazing orange citrine. “I am just Velvet Pasternak,” they bow, curly hair falling to their shoulders. The only organized part lied in a singular braid, as long as the other hair strands. “I simply like to call myself the Cultivator of Famine.”

  “I’m going to guess whoever Karma is, they’re supposed to be Death,” I ask. I can’t help but snicker: “Did you all name yourselves after the apocalypse?”

  “I mean, we are children,” Velvet answers, appearing like the adult they’re not. They must be the Big of the alters -- that would explain why Raibu said that Velvet was calling the shots. Considering Velvet’s lack of sociability, it’s probably the case that Aliza and Raibu are the ANPs (Apparently Normal Parts), two different ones for handling most conversations. What does that make Karma then? “Otherwise, my pronouns are they/them,” they add, not being much for words.

  “So,” I prod, “You’re the one who made the coffee.”

  “Not entirely,” they answer, still monotonous. “Raibu grew the beans -- I simply decided to use them to make a drink. It’s been an ongoing project of his for a few months. Raibu tends to handle some of the more intensive stuff, while I handle confectionaries.”

  “I thought were supposed to take care of them,” I tease, rubbing their shoulders.

  They flinch a bit at the contact -- reminder to myself not to do that again. “They dislike my cooking. I suppose I only focused on quantity, not quality. It seems that my talent for sweets and desserts is much better than his.” They let themselves smirk, crossing their arms. So they’re also spiteful.

  “Hey!” the guy next in line says. In retaliation, Velvet slams their hand on the table, causing the ground to rumble a bit. “I-I’ll wait,” he says.

  I sigh: “You can’t manage this alone, can you? Move over.” They’re probably going to tell me not to, or-

  “It really isn’t an illusion,” Velvet notes. “You are more positive than yesterday.”

  “Well, I may as well roll with the punches,” I answer, pouring a cup. It’s going to end poorly again, even if they’re here.

  Velvet frowns: “I... never mind. I of all people should know how futile it is to convince one without evidence.” I then take a moment to smell their hands: “I assume you noticed the scent of oil.” It’s hard to notice thanks to the scent of clay, but it’s there alright.

  “Yes -- you’re a mechanic?”

  “I mean, I develop the technology we all use,” they answer, scratching their head. “Most of it was salvaged -- it was an apocalypse --, but your instructions helped with reconstructing various apparatuses. I particularly enjoyed your greenhouse project, though I made my own modifications.”

  I raise an eye. “Oh really?” That was a good project to mimic: greenhouses are good if you can get them running just because an environment to grow any type of crop is really good, but the issue comes with the fact that they’re too small to grow anything at a large scale. While heating stones do exist, the issue is that they don’t act over a large area and require constant replacement. However, should you utilize the right amplifier stone and pocket dimensions, you could efficiently grow an acre of just about anything you wanted. The only valid reason that plan got rejected was because pocket space ‘wasn’t viable’ at the time of my proposal -- despite the fact that numerous adventurers often used them to store their items. Why can’t people be a bit more creative? They really should learn from Velvet.

  “When we properly get a chance, I can show you.” They seem really eager at this, looking away and trying to focus on their work. I decide to look over their coffee rig: it’s well engineered alright. I can see the obvious wear and tear, but it likely comes from the parts Velvet used -- they’re certainly one for maintenance. Hell, it seems like they learned more than me. Maybe that’d make me jealous, but I think...

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  I think I’m just happy someone finally noticed and listened to me. I don’t know how to describe it, but this feels more permanent.

  Velvet then puts their hand on my shoulders. “Just as you protected us, we’ll protect you.”

  “Yeah,” I say, a tear in my eye. I start to move my hand, before Velvet wipes it off for me. Their face, as impassive as it still is, feels softer now -- maybe it’s because I have changed after seeing them.

  The smack of a baton against flesh then resounds in the air: “Alright then,” the local cop what’s-his-name shows up. Of course it’s him, the same cop who’d beat up a kid -- I should know with how many marks he’s given me. “What’s all this?”

  “A simple stand,” Velvet answers. “Me and her,” motioning their head to me, “We were making coffee.”

  He scoffs: “And do you have a license for that?”

  “...No?” Velvet answers. “I suppose I’ll need to take it down.” Velvet moves over, before the stupid grown-up pulls out his gun.

  “FREEZE!” he says. “STOP RESISTING ARREST!” I sigh and raise my hands.

  “You’d be better off complying,” I start, before remembering what Aliza said about being a god.

  oh, I’m about to see a man die, aren’t I?

  “Ok, Velvet,” I start, hoping to ease this over, the scent of clay starting to suffocate. “I’m going to need you to-”

  “And who are ,” Velvet starts, “to ask me to bow down to you? There are only two I bow before, and you are not among them.”

  “FREEZE!” he says again, then pointing his gun at me. His finger twitches, pulling down on the trigger: oh, I guess this is how I die. Welp, it was fun while it lasted. I hear the gunshot, see the bullet move towards me. It’s funny; despite seeing it in slow motion due to adrenaline, I still can’t do anything to change it. All I can do is wait, just like the rest of my life. A body then stands in front of me, taking the bullet with a soft *thunk.* It’s Velvet, their hair glowing like the sun as their mirror grows. A metallic backpack manifests, humming with electricity and connected via wire to a rifle. Unlike the pure colors Raibu and Aliza had, Velvet’s weapon instead has parts that glow like the dawn and dusk of a day and the rest of it a dull grey metal, as if the rifle itself was homemade too.

  “Wrong choice,” Velvet counters as they then fire an orange bolt that collides with the gun. The firearm dissolves in its entirety, leaving the man who commands by fear without any tool to use. He’s left in the same state as his victims: alone and defenseless. “That’s that,” they start, walking forward as their boots crunch against the dirt. The man crawls back, only to be stopped by another rifle shot from Velvet, right in the arm and managing to go through. Velvet then aims for the head.

  “W-wait!” the man stammers.

  “Yes?” Velvet starts, immediately stopping. Weird, I thought they would have continued -- Aliza and Raibu certainly would have.

  “I- you know it’s illegal-”

  “Not good enough,” Velvet finishes, deciding to stomp on the man’s head to knock him out. Nevermind, they’re still a psychopath like the rest of them. ... Actually, sociopath is more accurate considering how easily they could be irritated. I really should remember that the two are completely different terms, especially when I get on the case of others for misusing it. “And to make sure you stay out:” Velvet attaches a mask to his face, along with a canister. “Sleeping gas,” they explain. “This one is of my own creation, albeit modeled after your own anesthetics.”

  “Actually, they’re not mine.” It’s true -- just as Velvet’s building off of my knowledge, I built from the knowledge of thousands of lives and trillions of people. “Still, I’m happy my work is getting some use.”

  “Code 10-33,” the man’s radio starts. “Hendway, do you hear me? We have another god-damn addict. We’re about to bust them, they’re right around the bend of that orphanage.”

  I pick up the radio, hoping those codes haven’t changed: “10-4, I’m on my way.” Hopefully covering my mouth with my hand was enough to muffle my voice to sound like the officer’s.

  “Understood.” The static stops as I start running.

  “And just why are we running?” Velvet asks, floating aside me akin to a flying golem.

  “I’m on a good streak,” I huff. “Let’s not let it end quickly.” We both ‘run’, eventually making it to the a little alleyway a small gang operates in. This is where Lil’ Kid operates -- he’s a good one, just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was on track to go to college, before his mom suddenly passed away and the trauma caused him to drop out, driving him into... a small-time gang member, addicted to the product he peddles. Even when on a high, he still maintains absolute safety and tells his users how to properly care for themselves. I wish I could help him, but I can’t. I can’t be the motivating force when this world hates people like us, people at the bottom. All I can do is try to save his life.

  “Hey, is that it?” Velvet points. I look over, seeing 5 police cars. they need 5 cars for one damn person: that’s how this country always works. I nod, as I reach in my pocket. In response, Velvet pulls out an amplifier stone. “Sorry,” they apologize. “Kleptomania. It’s been a bad habit.” That’s oddly adorable.

  “It’s fine,” I exhale, still out of breath. Velvet picks me up, carrying me over to the scene where the officers are standing at the scene. They loom over the alley, a man slumped over in the alley -- it’s Lil’ Kid, against the wall with a syringe lying against the floor, along with open packets of powder.

  “Why aren’t they approaching?” Velvet asks. It’s true, but I think I know the answer. To confirm my guess, I just walk forward, through the line-up.

  “Hey!” a female officer yells, pointing her gun at me. I only tilt my head back. “There’s an addict overdosing on fentanyl there, don’t touch him.” Of course. OF FUCKING COURSE they think And it’s not like the damn compound is that toxic anyways! It is, but good luck overdosing just by inhaling or being exposed to it. You aren’t going to drop dead just by touching it -- believe me, I was a nurse who constantly used it as an anesthetic.

  “Fuck off,” I snark, continuing to walk forward. I hear the gun click, before Velvet pulls out a scythe, the counterpart of Aliza’s axe and Raibu’s hammer.

  “No,” Velvet states. With a snap of their fingers, spiders web up the useless police, binding them in place. They then turn to me, seeing my own process of inspecting the body. I place my hand against him, feeling the cold seep through -- he’s definitely overdosing right now. I briefly check under his nails; the cold touch, abnormally pale skin, and grayish parts right under the nail suggest opioids are in his system.

  “I need narcan,” I state.

  “Got it,” Velvet answers, handing me an old narcan nasal spray. Hopefully it still works: I tilt Kid’s head up, stuffing one of his nostrils with the device. I push down on the plunger, injecting the spray. Now comes the rescue breaths: I breathe in his mouth, then tilt right, only to see Velvet with a stone: “Use your bandages,” they add. “Wrap them around his chest.” I do as they say, manifesting them so they circle loosely around his chest. Once I finish, they attach the stone to the bandages, causing them to compress on their own. “I never showed you that.”

  “I know,” they say, seeming proud of themselves. They let a little smile slip on their face. Haha. They really are like a child. I think I’m starting to like them. I then give the man breaths, breathing in his mouth and unafraid of ‘contact risks’.

  Thinking about Velvet, Aliza, and Raibu -- they really are children. They’re oddly aggressive, but I would be too after being a wasteland survivor. Plus, they’re willing to listen. Maybe...

  Maybe my life can change. ... Nah, that’s not happening. But, if they escape once this world falls apart, at least I will have existed somewhere. That’s good enough for me.