Doren Damico

The Unraveler

Justice is a time traveler.

If you asked Justice what time travel is like, she might tell you this story:

“There is no time machine,” she explained again to the intake agent. “It’s more like teleportation of consciousness. Except I’m still learning to use the interface.”

“Hmm,” he responded looking at her medical scans on the virtual screen between them.

Justice smiled for the cameras. It didn’t really matter what she said. She’d already made the pivotal mistake that placed this body in a behavior mod center. They would hold it, try to assimilate and recondition it. But it would die within a day.

The intake agent tapped some virtual buttons. The arms of the chair slapped med patches on the body’s arms.

“Moments now,” the intake agent murmured, collapsing his kit into a handheld device. “You will sleep.”

She couldn’t change this course, but she could still speak with the borrowed mouth.

“Momentarily, sir. Only momentarily,” Justice used the mouth to say. “I should have paid more attention to derivatives–” she began to slur, “I’d be able to calculate how long to–“

The herenow won and the body slept.

–metabolize and reset the interpretive functions of the parietal lobe, she finished the sentence with her changing consciousness.

Justice dreamed. The Unraveler dreamed. The avatar dreamed. It was a race of respective intentions. Dreams of a thousand worlds and iterations–trying to remember: Which one is real? Dreams clawing time apart in search of a single cherished moment. Dreams of blue-green waves under ice.

Justice woke up on asphalt, her skateboard a few feet away, wheels up and still spinning. Someone in the background laughed. She had to teach herself to breathe again. Time travel was like that.

On Time Travel —The Unraveler’s Proof dmd

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