Chapter 2

(In this chapter: mt/ft, mt/Fa, NonConsensual, School, Petting, Public Sex)

1 Planck

Planck ignored how his lungs burned and ran on. The rush of bamboo trees made the suns’ light seem to flicker. A thicker shadow flashed above him: his only warning that his opponent was upon him.

Warning enough. Planck felt that giddy lightness as he triggered his talent, speeding up in time. The enemy soared above him in a slow-motion arc. It was a training dummy: a wooden humanoid, featureless except for slots along its forearms. Darts fired out, crawling through the air.

Though his heart pounded in his ears, Planck had time to think. He ducked and weaved, sliding between the darts. But shooting from above made for strange angles. One dart slammed into his shoulder. The blunt dart didn’t cut, but it still hurt. The jolt of pain broke his concentration, and time resumed its flow. More darts rained on him, pushing him back, down to the forest floor.

Until Chekhov launched in. One good, flying kick shattered the dummy’s head to splinters, and it crashed to the ground.

In the aftermath, Chekhov offered him a hand. “You alright?”

“I’m fine.” He took her hand, pulling himself up. “Ready for the next try. Come on.”

She shook her head. “That’s the third today to land a hit on you.”

“All the more reason to keep practicing,” he said.

“Practice isn’t the only thing that makes perfect.” She gave his less injured shoulder a shove, urging him toward the nearest tree. “Sit back, catch your breath, and think. Why did they hit you?”

He grimaced, rubbing a rib. The second lucky dummy had scored a good one on him. “There was just too much. With such a swarm of darts, I don’t see how I had a chance of dodging them all. I’ll just have to get faster.” Honestly, the thought just made him giddy. He liked going fast. More than the pain in his shoulder, he was irritated by feeling his heart rate slow. “Hence, practice.”

Another shove. “Not like that. You’re still too antsy, too wired. Besides, you’re wrong. It’s not about speed.”

He frowned. “So I couldn’t dodge by getting faster?”

“You could,” she said. “And you, at least, could just teleport out of the way. But that’s not what I’m trying to teach you, here. You almost had it right. Chance. With more luck on your side, dodging wouldn’t take so much skill.” She poked his cheek, just under his left eye. “And luck could be one of your skills.”

“I get the theory,” he said, batting at her hand. “Time isn’t just one dimension. The same talent that goes back and forth on the river of time can also guide you down the river’s branches. But ... you see how fast those things can fire out. Maybe one branch in a million would have them all miss.”

“You’re thinking too much,” Chekhov said. “You won’t get anywhere with this dimension of time if you keep thinking of it as a dimension.”

He groaned. “but that’s what my talents are all about...” He sighed. “Alright, how would you do it?”

She beamed. “Glad you asked. Time for a demo.” She cleared her throat, and called out to the forest. “Give me a defence trial, and make it a tough one.” Her blue eyes changed, glowing yellow.

The dummy reformed at her feet. Darts fired before it even stood up. Chekhov just cartwheeled back out of the way – and twisted to dodge as two more dummies joined the fray. “Sure, if you look at it as raw probability, it seems impossible. A one-in-a-million chance.” She turned this way and that as the darts painted her shifting outline on the trees, but never landed a hit within the lines. “But there are conventions to probability. Things that come up time and again, however unlikely they seem. Someone happens to be right behind you, just as you’re saying unflattering things. The bomb’s countdown stops at just the last second. And the hero prevails.”

She leapt, twisting to let the darts flow around her. In midair, she snapped out her gun and fired off two rounds. Two dummies fell. “What kind of hero gets hit by some training dummy?” She struck a pose, and the last dummy missed every shot, until its darts ran dry. “What kind of hero misses?” She snapped off one last shot, not even looking, and the last dummy fell with a hole in its forehead.

“On some level, people know these conventions,” she said. “And so they come up in stories. Find the stories, and twist them your way. Play the right parts, and the universe fills out the rest for you. For heroes, one-in-a-million chances come up nine times out of ten.” She twirled her gun before slipping it back into its holster. “Any questions?”

Planck picked his jaw off the ground, dusted it off, and reattached it. “So that’s what your routine was like back in the day?”

“Not quite,” she said. “The circus didn’t have animated dummies, and the Citadel doesn’t have a trapeze.” She closed one eye, checking the time. “It’s time we took a break. No arguing.”

2 Maximum

Maximum shuffled into place for his morning mathematics class. He and Aurelia took their usual desks at the back corner, the only two sophomores. Seniors snuck onto the computers at the room’s edges, most of them seeming to do real work, trying to catch up with what they’d already done weeks ago.

Mrs Chesterfield, a thirty-something, bespectacled brunette, went down the class roll. Maximum let his mind wander. He’d come to school from force of habit, but now he just felt ridiculous. Why should he spend himself on something so mundane? He could feel his talent, crackling within him, all but begging him to–

Aurelia elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

“Power, M,” Mrs Chesterfield said, in a tone of irritated repetition.

It hadn’t even registered. “Present,” he said, before he went back to his musing. Now that he knew it was there, it seemed his talent begged him to use it. It wanted him to push it, to stretch it, to see what it could do.

And ... why not? It wasn’t like he’d miss anything. He reached inside himself, and turned on his talent.

That sense of solid weight filled him, as if he held everything pinned down around him. Mrs Chesterfield stopped mid-word. Stillness and silence fell all around, except for what he brought with him. In all the world, he could only hear his own heart, his breathing, and a ticking coming from his wrist. Huh.

He looked at his watch. He hadn’t worn it the day before, but now here it was. It ticked away even while the wall clock stayed still. He watched for several seconds, or no time at all, as the two clocks grew farther apart.

Everything else stayed frozen. He rose from his desk, and turned in slow circles as he drank in the scene. Though he felt heat in his left eye and pressure in his head, he could handle it.

Just what could he do with this? He leaned over a senior who hadn’t left his computer desk, and tapped a few keys ... but nothing changed on the screen. Whatever let his watch still tick, it had limits.

Yet within those limits, he could do whatever he wanted.

3 Maximum (content advisory: non-con)

That thought, more than the power itself, tingled through him. It didn’t take long for his thoughts to follow a similar path to the day before, as he looked to the front of the classroom. He’d always wondered one thing about Mrs Chesterfield, and now he could get that question answered.

He squeezed her breast. Or part of it, at least; it was much too big for him to fit his hand entirely around. The cotton of her shirt overlaid it with a soft texture, while her full-coverage bra leant a sense of firmness. Too much firmness, and getting too much in his way. Her shirt came open easily, but not slowly, and revealed the white bra underneath. Sensual lace, with the hooks set in front; much sexier than he’d expected the stern teacher to wear.

And much easier for him to open up and get to the real prize. Her breasts’ shape barely shifted once the support was taken away. At first, he thought it was just the lack of time. As he felt her up, however, she still seemed much firmer than she should be. Each squeeze found her flesh much denser than April’s.

So they were fake, and that’s what fake breasts felt like. It answered his question, though Maximum couldn’t help his disappointment. Silicone, as it turned out, wasn’t as much fun to fondle as flesh.

He closed up and smoothed over her clothes. Or, to put it another way, he covered his tracks. That gave him a naughty little thrill, like getting away with stealing from the cookie jar. He returned to his seat and let time start flowing, and Mrs Chesterfield just continued with the rest of the word he’d interrupted. She had no idea.

This would be a fun day of school.

4 Planck

The Citadel’s great hall was a massive structure. Its domed ceiling was just opaque enough to look solid, even as it projected other images. Each day, it showed the sky of a different world. That could get perturbing when it showed rains of fire, but mostly it showed lots of different weather patterns. And an awful lot of zeppelins.

The hall’s breadth and furnishing could accommodate all the Realmwalkers at once, plus guests. Hypothetically. There hadn’t been a ball like that in all the twelve years Planck had been there.

With just him standing there, the hall felt empty. The acoustics didn’t help; the arched walls and marble floor made echoes, amplifying the solitude. In the silence, he heard every step as Chekhov came up beside him. “Watching the wall?”

He nodded. “I like to keep track.”

One wall displayed a simplified map of the multiverse. Set into the stone wall, lines of differently-coloured metal pointed in all directions, ran parallel, branched, converged, and bent back in on themselves. Gemstones, each representing a Realmwalker, gleamed in different settings on those lines. All except for one, dull and black in its set near the floor.

“Rosen is out with Marie,” he said, nodding to a diamond. “Mother-daughter bonding and training time. Einstein’s on paradox defence. Some guy literally trying to kill his own grandfather.”

“Oh wow.” Chekhov laughed. “But, where travellers tie history in knots...”

Planck wrinkled his nose. “Where wanderers tie history in paradoxical knots, we straighten the lines.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You have it memorised?”

He nodded. “Heisenberg drilled it into me.”

After a pause, she nudged him with her elbow. “Well, go on, then.”

He sighed, but took a deep breath and began. “We are the Fellowship of Realmwalkers.”

5 Einstein

The topaz, Einstein’s gemstone, sat at the end of a line that flickered instead of shining steadily. “Where wanderers tie history in paradoxical knots, we straighten the lines.”

Jax Anderton III knelt on the rooftop’s edge, piecing his rifle together. On a skyscraper that high, he needed an oxygen mask. Down at the level of the concrete street, the parade continued unawares, celebrating the triumphant liberator.

They knew so little. Both about the future in store for them, and the sniper so far above. His perch was concealed from them, but had a perfect shot. He’d spent years on planning.

He looked down his scope, aiming for the figure at the parade’s head. Thick, wavy blonde hair like the sniper’s own, and a jawline that would look good in history books. He could see how people would follow a smile like the one on Jaxon Anderton I. Yet, he knew it could only end in tears enough to blaze a trail.

Here was the height of his ancestor’s career, the last time honest history could call him a hero. Two generations had been named after him, not to commemorate him, but to make sure they’d never forget his mistakes. But why avoid making a mistake again when you could undo it in the first place?

The sniper lined up his shot. Jaxon’s armour was state-of-the-art, but Jax’s rifle wouldn’t even be invented for another forty years. He pulled the trigger.

Einstein snatched the bullet from the air, thanking his lucky stars for his gloves. Stopping one bullet wouldn’t stop the plan; after getting over his surprise, the sniper would just take aim again. Einstein ran up the wall, not giving gravity enough time to pull him back down.

6 Rosen

The diamond, Rosen’s stone, moved along a line that looked almost like a seismograph. A series of bends showed where the course had been corrected in the past. “Where a dark future looms, we guide the worlds to brighter days.”

Domitia hung from her shackles. She just listened to the wagon rolling along the rough path. She didn’t stretch for the small windows to watch the forest rolling past; she didn’t look at her fellow slaves. She just let her head hang. If only the trip could go faster. Sure it would be less comfortable, but it would be over with. And maybe once they stopped at market, the masters would feed them. She knew better than to hope for any clothing more than the thin, white toga she already had.

The wagon lurched. If she weren’t bound in place, she’d have fallen over; instead, the force wrenched at her arms. Shouting and sounds of battle sounded from outside. The other girls chattered with excitement. Even with barely two of them speaking the same language, Domitia knew what was on their minds.

Hope. As much as she tried to squash it, to avoid getting her hopes high enough that there’d be something to dash, she had to wonder. Could it be the paladin she’d heard about and her one-eyed companion?

As the fight raged on, all eyes stared at the doors. Would they open? Who would be on the other side?

Then, sunlight streamed in. From the wagon’s front, which should have only been a blank wall.

Instead, there stood a hole in space, like a freestanding window or doorway. Either way, a portal to the outside. Through it leaned an adolescent girl with brown pigtails, her eyes shining silver. She wore a black suit of something like padded leather, and a silver-lined cloak with decorative patterns along the hem.

“Come on!” she said, beckoning. “Come one, come all, but most importantly, come– whoa, boobs.” The girl had noticed the half-chest cut of those togas.

Domitia was past embarrassment, but couldn’t help but feel the girl’s timing could be better. Other girls already threw themselves towards the portal, only for their chains to hold them back. Domitia pointedly rattled her wrists.

“Oh!” The girl blushed, and offered an apologetic smile. “Hang in there one second– ugh, I mean hold on. Planck must be rubbing off on me.” She flexed her fingers in a series of jerking motions. More portals appeared, none of them lasting for more than a split-second, and severed the chains from the walls. Though Domitia had braced herself, she still slumped to the floor, unused to carrying her own weight.

Yet even as her arms screamed from the stretching and weight, she scrambled for the exit. She and every other slave with her.

It was no illusion, but a genuine window, and she toppled through it. Sunshine above her, and grass, real grass under her feet. After the frenzy of liberation, the strength left her limbs. She fell forward. Before she hit the ground, strong arms caught her. Looking around, she found herself surrounded by men and women in green tunics. She’d heard of the pink heart emblems they wore, had heard of the abolitionists from another land, but had never thought the Hand of Darleena were real.

“And voila,” said the pigtailed girl, as the portal closed. “Safely out of harm’s way. Not that the harm’s going to last much longer.”

Domitia twisted about in her rescuer’s embrace. The caravan was much farther away than she’d carried herself, far enough that she had trouble making out the guards beyond their red uniforms. They swarmed a figure in a black cloak, but none even got close. With a wave of its hand and a shimmer of grey in the air, the figure threw her enemies hard enough to smash through one of the wagons. Domitia winced, glad to be far away.

7 Schrodinger

Schrodinger’s onyx sat at an intersection where two different lines converged, and gave off steady white light. “Where worlds collide, we soften the blow.”

Katja sat at the airship’s edge, leaning into the railing. She looked past her dangling legs, to the black and blighted farmlands so far below. It hadn’t been a good season, and tensions on the ship ran high. She pulled her hood lower, adjusted her gloves – everything she could to hide her skin.

She flinched as the bar doors banged open, and Carter stumbled out. “Ah, who needs you?” he shouted, with the voice of a man too drunk to control his volume. “Come on, boys, we’re out of here. The beer here is piss anyway.” His friends ignored him, leaving him alone. His hair and uniform were even more of a mess than usual.

Katja didn’t want to deal with it. She turned away, walking quickly.

Too quickly. It caught Carter’s attention. “Hey you!” He stalked after her. “Yeah, you, in the cloak. Hey, I’m talking to you!”

She picked up the pace, but his longer stride soon caught up with her. He got her by the wrist. Her thin limbs had nowhere near the strength to fight him off. Soon, she felt the nearest wall against her back, and smelled the beer on his breath. He was close to her, much too close.

Panic rose like bile in her throat. “Please, no–” She could barely get out more than a whisper.

He had her pinned with just one hand, and the other pushed her hood back. “Knew it.”

The air on her skin felt like exposure, like being out in a storm without an umbrella. She hadn’t wanted anyone to see the deathly grey pallor, the black veins pronounced around her sunken eye sockets, the skeletally gaunt tightness. Everything that marked her as the cross-breed of a human, and an unliving creature of Xaxiltalis.

“You half-dead bitch,” Carter said, spitting right into her face. He grabbed her by the hair, turning her face to look over the railing. “You see that shit? The blight going on down there, thanks to your dear undead daddy?”

She could feel her head grinding into the wall behind her, the bruises already starting. “Please, just let me go.”

Carter barked a laugh. “Oh, no. You aren’t getting out of this.” He wrenched her away from the wall. “Families are starving down there, because of the blight. And you think you can just walk away like it’s not your problem?” He shoved her towards the railing. She stumbled, barely caught herself, and looked over her shoulder to await the next push.

Instead, she saw a man who hadn’t been there before, standing between her and Carter. She had no idea how he could have snuck up on them. He was big like a moose. Other than that, she couldn’t tell details: he wore a hooded jacket and dark grey armour. As he turned to her, it showed a faceless, eyeless mask underneath the hood. “Are you all right?”

Katja still gasped, trying to catch up with her racing heart. She couldn’t even get the words out, to warn the man of Carter’s attack.

Schrodinger caught the fist in one hand without even looking. He pushed, nudging Carter away, and stepped close enough for his height to impose. “This girl has nothing to do with the blight. Yes, dark magic flows from Xaxiltalis. No, it’s not her doing. You’re drunk. Go home. Sleep it off.”

“Like hell.” Carter pulled a knife from his boot, gripping it in a tight fist. “Are you really going to put your life on the line protecting some half-corpse?”