It was a sudden act. I didn't think about it. We were so close...His eyes were looking at me and calling me in a way...I don't know what went through my mind. It was a reflex action, what the lifelong Eric would have done, the one I've always been, who seems to have been hiding during these months, thinking if it was a good idea to go down that road of back and forth. I hope Paris took it well as a joke. It was a strange situation in which both of us, adrenaline-pumping after having risked our lives, responded strangely. We could have died in a place where neither she nor I, fortunately or unfortunately, belong. It meant nothing. A kiss, only. Nothing. A kiss only means something if the people exchanging it want it to. For me, it meant nothing, for her neither. But, then, why for an instant did Paris respond to my kiss? Why did she let our lips come to meet? And why the hell am I thinking all this?

I don't like Paris. I mean, she's pretty and very attractive, especially when she dresses like that to go to work, which gives her the air of an older, more confident girl. But she's...normal. For all her quirks and oddities, she's a very normal girl. She's not my type. She's not a star like Sophie. Paris and I just have a special connection brought about by a simple lease and belonging, which we share. I am her slave, and she is my mistress. I have kissed my mistress. Greg Gordon comes to mind, and I get chills.

I don't give it another thought. Every time I relive it, I feel my cheeks redden, and I try to shake off the embarrassment and the embarrassing situation it has become. If I don't think about it, it didn't exist. I'll apologize and never get that close to Paris again.

Putting that aside, I try to focus on Diego Marquez's words and my mother's reddish, star-embroidered scarf, which is still knotted around my wrist. It has become more than just a special gift from a deceased relative. Because this, not unlike the kiss, means so much more. I untie it and slip it through my fingers, feeling under my fingertips the embroidered stars and the soft feel of the fabric. I try to concentrate on the few memories I have of my mother, but they are all a blur. I get so frustrated whenever I try to remember because I can't even conjure up the image of my mother's face. I only keep her smell, and that makes my senses manage to reconstruct her in my imagination. What if my mother was a Priestess, and that's why she had this scarf? Impossible. What if she was the one who stole it? Impossible. My mother was a slave but not a thief. I am sure of that. The only thing I manage to get clear from all this ruckus that makes my head hurt is that the religion of the disciples of the Priestess and believers in the Goddess was of vital importance to my mother. That's why I have to find out more about her.

Since today is Sunday, and I assume Paris is spending the day, as usual, with Edgar, I spend the morning drawing conclusions and stirring thoughts. About Paris, about my mother, and the Priestess. Even about the Collapse. Then, to clear my head and stop thinking, I go down to the garden to unload tensions with a soccer ball. It's like therapy.

—You look good. —After a while of jogging and shooting at the goal drawn on the wall, I hear the voice of Paris, who is sitting on the threshold between the living room and the garden. She sticks her knees to her chin and directs her eyes downward. She doesn't look at me.

—Shouldn't you be...?

—Eric, the day has come. It's today. —He doesn't let me finish the question. Now he's looking at me.

I don't need to say anymore. Today is the day when the event I was bought for takes place. Today, I have to be the slave that it seems I have not been for months. The sooner we finish this work, the sooner we can begin mine, which is to find some clues about my mother. The future beyond that doesn't matter to me.

—When do we leave? —I ask.

—This afternoon. After lunch.

She gets up and gestures to leave. I know she's weird about yesterday's kiss because she avoids me. I run to her and take her hand to stop. She does. I gently remove my hand from hers.

—About the other day, I'm... I'm sorry. —I shake my head, dead embarrassed. Helpless. Showing weakness. I've never apologized like this in my life.

—Forget it, Eric, I've already done it.

It leaves me there. Paralyzed. Feeling like the smallest thing in the world. I ask for forgiveness, and she says those words so decisively, so seriously...Like she's another Paris than the one I've known for a couple of months. Actually, on the one hand, I'm relieved to know that for her, it was nothing, but on the other hand, my blood boils for the same reason. And I don't know why.

After lunch, during which I don't see Paris or Mr. Stonecraft, I retreat to my room to pack my luggage. I still don't have much. A couple of changes of clothes, the music player, which is Paris's, but I borrowed it, and the Bible, the book my mother left me as an inheritance. I look at the scarf on my wrist and decide to take it off and put it in the side pocket of my backpack. We are going to go to a remote place where, surely, the Goddess and the Priestess will be present, and I don't want to have any more religious altercations. When I have everything ready, I go down to the living room to wait for Paris. She arrives with an empty backpack slung on her back and not very comfortable clothes for a long trip. She is wearing delicately designed jeans, typical of her economic status, and a shirt. I wear normal, comfortable clothes.

—You won't need them, Eric. —She tells me when he sees how bulky my backpack is. —Empty it.

—I thought we were going somewhere far away and dangerous.

—And we are, but we won't need anything you're carrying. Unless you're carrying a gun, which I don't think you are. Here, go on.

She holds out a small, black pistol, which is quite heavy. It's not electric but with bullets. I take it and hide it in the belt of my pants. Paris has changed. I can see it in her eyes, in her attitude, in her movements. In everything. She's not her usual self. I don't know if it's nerves about seeing so close, something she's dreamed of for so long, or what, but her tone of voice is different. She doesn't look me in the eye when she talks to me either, so I guess the kiss did mean something to her, and she's angry about it. Despite what she says, it seems like she hasn't forgotten. Maybe it's not because of the kiss itself but because of the trust forged between the two of them that has resulted in it happening. As if she, too, is partly to blame for what happened.

—We'll be back home in a few hours, so you'd better take the empty backpack, in case we need more space for books or whatever we're bringing. —She says, dry and direct.

—Okay. Hey, Paris... is everything okay? If it's about...

—Everything's fine, Eric. Everything. —As I approach her to whisper apologies again, she takes two steps away from me and answers.

—Are you ready? —Paris's father appears in his white scientist's coat with the biggest grin I've ever seen on his face. Paris and her father stare at each other. She slowly shakes her head back and forth as if in denial about me. —What, you haven't told him yet?

—I don't think that's such a good idea, I don't know where to start....

—What the hell are you talking about? —I ask because I don't understand any of their strange communication.

—Eric, this trip is not on foot, nor do we need an airmobile. I have...built a new type of transportation...you might say. A machine that will transport you to where the target is marked. I've been working on this for years and years, running millions of tests to make it work. And here it is, at last. —Now, many pieces of Matt Stonecraft's sacrificial work are starting to fit together for me.

—And what does that machine consist of? —I'm not going to get into something I can't get out of. I at least need to know what's going to happen to me. Although, well, knowing that his daughter is coming with me and is exposed to the same dangers, I don't care either. This guy knows what he's talking about, and he knows what he's doing. He has to.

—Eric, you're here—expands one of his hands—and instantly, you're here—. He expands the other one.

My brain fails to grasp what Mr. Stonecraft's words, simple as they are, mean. And so, my face must let me know because they turn to look at each other.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

—Disappear from one place and appear in another? —I ask to see if I've got it right.

—Something like that.

—Look—I say—I don't care what airplane or rocket you take me on to the place Paris needs to go. That's all that matters. So whatever that machine is, I trust you because she's coming with me. I don't need any more explanations.

There has come a time when I just want to end this. Paris and I will never be the same again, and I understand that. I'm her slave, and she only wants me to help her get information that not even Edgar Scofield could. Nothing more. And I only want, with what she knows, to find a trace of my mother that will allow me to rebuild myself to achieve freedom. The one Paris promised me after this. So, everything is closer. Suddenly, I feel nostalgic for the cotton plantation and Mr. and Mrs. Hall. For my former life. I feel a melancholy of all that's past. Of all that I have been. Because I know that, from today, nothing will ever be the same again.

Mr. Stonecraft, with that smile on his face, leads the way to the basement, where he has been cooped up working for too long, in my opinion. I walk right behind Paris, admiring his figure, knowing that she no longer wants to have that complicity, that a kiss has taken us hundreds of miles apart. Did she think we could be best friends? The same thing happened with Sophie. What happens is that I always forget who and what I am, a miserable slave with his destiny already written.

We enter a room illuminated with a yellowish light, whose walls are full of huge blackboards with thousands of formulas written in chalk. In the center is a huge table with hundreds of stacked papers. To be honest, Mr. Stonecraft's hideout is no big deal either. There's not much special about it. He goes to the back of the room to illuminate another room further down, which does fulfill all my expectations. In a very large room, lit this time with white lights. I see so much technology down there that I can't make out much. Some machines on one side seem to be airplane seats, spare parts of all kinds, and tables full of computers turned on. Beyond all that is a sort of room with sofas and a small kitchen. Mr. Stonecraft, after all, has it pretty good. At the back, there is a desk with several screens and what appears to be a shower tray, a circular white platform surrounded by glass of the same shape.

—I have delimited the space so that you can see the limits of the device. —He explains, pointing to the platform. I just want us to leave now. I'm sure that's Paris' wish too. That we go where we have to go and that everything happens. —You have just two hours. I've set the clock so that in two hours, whatever happens, you'll be back. It's the safest thing to do on this first jump. You must be side by side at the time of the jump. Otherwise...you could be stuck in...there.

Matt Stonecraft stands behind the Screen and the desk computers as he gives us directions, fiddling and setting up various things I wouldn't understand. Paris and I wait at the doors to the stage. Mr. Stonecraft approaches me and removes my slave bracelet. He then attaches a strange watch to Paris' wrist. We stand inside the pallet and its crystals. I feel canned and again very close to Paris. Matt Stonecraft goes back behind the desk, typing fast on the computer keyboard.

—Magnetic containers activated—Mr. Stonecraft says from his control panel—Electron injection activated. Main computer in order. You'd better shake hands! —he shouts.

Paris and I, not without difficulty, clutch our hands awkwardly, barely without strength. She doesn't even seem to want to touch me. It was only a fucking kiss!

—Three, two, one...!

Paris's watch illuminates the entire stage in a white fog, which envelops everything and engulfs us. We stop seeing Paris' father behind the glass. I notice how, now, Paris squeezes my hand very hard. So hard that it hurts me. She is afraid and excited at the same time. I feel how my body bends in half breaks. I am breathless. Everything is darkness.

I gasp for breath again, and everything seems to be normal. Everything is normal. I feel the touch of Paris, who is almost tied to me. I look at her after recovering and notice how she opens and closes her eyes continuously.

—What a trip! —I tell her. —Are you all right? —She doesn't answer me and just abruptly lets go of my hand.

I look around to see where we are. Damn! Mr. Stonecraft is a fucking genius who's out of his mind. Seconds ago, we were in his basement, and now... We find ourselves in an alley, small and narrow. Dark, even though it's mid-afternoon. It has no exit. It ends in a big reddish brick wall that rises to almost touch the sky. They are buildings. They are houses. It looks like a city. When I come to, partly from the shock created by traveling a distance of thousands of kilometers in such a short time and partly from not knowing exactly where I am on the map of the Provinces, I realize that Paris has already left the alley. He's running, not waiting for me. I have to lighten my legs to reach her.

—Paris! Paris! —I call out to her. I know she's listening to me, but she doesn't turn around.

She keeps moving. We are definitely in a city. We enter a large avenue, which is crowded with passers-by shopping, strolling, and going here and there...if I look up, the buildings, the houses, and, above all, the airway saturated with hovercars touching the clouds, leave me no room for doubt. We are in a city. But everything seems a bit strange. I see in the distance the five large and imposing buildings of the State of the Provinces, which no other can overshadow, and I confirm that we are in New America. We seem to have moved a few miles within the city itself: from the periphery, where Paris lives, to the center. We are still in New America! Mr. Stonecraft's contraption hasn't quite worked. Nevertheless, chasing Paris up the sidewalk along one of the avenues of New America, I discover that everything is strange to me. The colors, the smells. The people. The people. Everything. It's like there's a...rarefied atmosphere in the city. Indeed, I have not visited many cities the little I know about New America has to do with my stay in one of the State buildings before being auctioned as a slave, and then thanks to Paris, which has shown me the periphery, but I must say that everything has a different tone than I remember, especially after having spent hours and hours in front of the screen.

Even people's clothes are different. Shirts and pants are wider than usual. The hair is generally long among men and shorter among women. Sunglasses and prescription glasses have strange circular designs. Nor can all these things seem like a novelty to me, considering the changes in style, design, and fashion of a city that transforms itself day by day, modifying the ways of thinking, dressing, seeing, and liking a thousand times a day. Seven thousand times a week. This is what the rich people of the Provinces are like.

—Paris! —At last, I reach her. —It didn't work...we're still in New America.

Everything is speeding up. I look around, and the stores are closing, the restaurants and bars changing the sign from “open” to “closed” and the illegal and temporary stalls of runaway slaves on the sidewalk floors are gone. Passersby are walking briskly, down the avenue as if in a hurry, as if they were running away from something. The giant State Screens on the top of some buildings, where they usually give economic and political news, are in black. Sirens can be heard in the background, where the eight main avenues of the city converge in a huge, circular square, the center of political power in the Provinces of New America, where the Presidential Palace and the House of Representatives are located. The sirens and air ambulances, flying at low altitudes, make me think that there must have been some kind of accident.

—Yes, it worked! —Paris shouts at me. —It worked, just...badly. That's all there is to it. We have to find out...

—Paris, please. We're still in the same place.

She holds up one of her hands as if she doesn't understand anything that's happening. She shakes her head and continues to walk up the avenue while all the people walk in the opposite direction. I guess the Provincial Police are cordoning off the area and getting out of the way of the people and any curious onlookers. Accidents involving airmobiles plummeting from the airways in the sky are rare, but they do sometimes happen. They are always the first news on the screen because they are usually dramatic and have behind them an individual or family story that sells and shocks the public opinion of the Provinces.

—Look, I can't take it anymore. If you're angry about that fucking kiss, forget it. I mean it. Just do it. It was just a reflex action, what I usually do with girls! I didn't think about it and forgot that you weren't like the others...I saw my life flash before me when that asshole pointed his gun at me. I've been locked up in your house for two months, I've only seen you, you attracted me... —I try to explain myself even though my words come out choppy and abrupt. I want her to face her fears, her monsters, so that she stops thinking about them. If we both want it to be nothing, it isn't. Why is she making it so difficult?

—You flatter me, Eric, but do me a favor and shut your mouth. —She cocks her head at me, finally.

—No! You better not forget it! —Paris shakes me out of my temper, and I flare up. —Don't! Because you can't do it. Because you liked that kiss too. That's why, isn't it? You feel guilty! You can't look Edgar in the face. Is that why you're avoiding me? Or because you're too scared to accept that you wanted to?

—You want to shut up, Eric! This is not the best time to talk about it!

She raises her voice at me much more than I have raised mine. Several people look at us in their scramble to escape the accident as if enjoying a live couple's fight. Paris takes one of my hands and pulls me close to her tightly.

—I love Edgar, and you know it. You knew it. You betrayed my trust, crossing that boundary. Crossing that line. And yes, I liked it, but who doesn't like kisses? —I see her very upset, like never before. Her hands are shaking. She's very nervous. Her eyes are throbbing. Is she lying? —Now, please stay close to me and keep your mouth shut.

—You have to calm down, Paris. Let's go home.

—Home is far away. —She breathes. She approaches a kiosk run by a sexagenarian who is collecting, like all the stores and businesses on the avenue.

—What do you say?

—Here's what's going on. —Paris shows a newspaper, pointing out today's date: October 7, 168 A.C.

—168? That's impossible!

—You still don't get it? Home is close in the distance but far away in time.

—Where are we Paris? Did you trick me? —I'm furious.

—Not where. When. That's the question. Eric, the trip you were supposed to help me on is this one. A trip back in time. The destination was the time of the Collapse, the most valuable source of information anyone could ever have. But we're in 168, two years before you were born. One before I'm born.