It had been two months. Christmas had come and gone with little fanfare, as it usually did for Jack, and his wound was healed to the point it left only a phantom ache when he twisted. The New Year period was a misty haze—all he could remember was the smell of whiskey.

Of course, Hannah had attempted multiple times to pry into his past—each effort had been rebuffed. Eventually, she’d given up, probably thinking she could trick him into spilling something when he was drunk. As far as he knew, she’d yet to succeed.

The days had passed slowly, his boredom only eclipsed by the darkness within. Why did they stay with him? Despite his evasiveness and self-destructive behaviour, they were still there. Still alongside him. Did he even have a right to their friendship? He’d ruin it in the end, like he always did. It was as inevitable as the sun’s rise.

Some days, he just wanted to curl up and die. Even if he’d succeeded—barely—he still felt worthless. On those days, he couldn’t help but notice their glances, and wonder if they were mocking him. They only stayed out of irony.

This was stupid, he knew. But that knowledge couldn’t stop the feelings.

Sitting at his desk, he sighed, cradling his head. He shouldn’t feel so empty. Not when he had people around him, willing to share his burden. Looking at them both conversing animatedly on his sofas, he felt a pang of… something.

They were right in front of him, so why did he feel so alone?

“It helps if you let them in,” said Razor.

He ignored her. He’d always been practiced at that, having ignored the voices in his head since that moment twelve years before. The moment he’d run away.

Hannah said something, clearly enthusiastic. She was far better than he deserved: kind and empathetic, yet also strong and logical. The best kind of contradiction. It seemed so easy for her to help people, whilst he spent so long struggling to make any difference to himself, never mind others.

Lydia laughed in response. A woman who commanded respect simply from the way she walked, and gracefully learned from her mistakes. Sure, she was unpleasant at times, and seemed to have an allergy to basic manners, but Lizzie had been right. She cared about people.

Her focus, originally reserved for her sister, had expanded to others—she appeared determined to be a better person to live up to their expectations.

Did they know how they soothed his soul?

Still, sometimes even that wasn’t enough. It felt like something was missing, a piece of his heart that had been ripped out beneath his notice.

Lydia cocked her head, staring at him, and called his name.

“What?” He snapped from his thoughts, eying them before painting on a smile he hoped was convincing.

“That’s not convincing anybody,” said Lydia. “What is your problem?”

“Error: 500,” he said. “Whoops, something went wrong with our servers.”

Hannah made a face. “That’s Moonquill’s problem, not yours!”

“It’s our problem when our fans can’t even read the story.”

Confused, Lydia said, “we have fans?”

“Sure.” He opened his top drawer, rooting around and producing a small purple machine with foam blades. With the press of a button, the blades spun, whirring. “There’s one right here.”

“Stop dodging things with comedy.” Hannah looked at him, expression pinched.

“Chapter eight,” he said.

Lydia harrumphed, gesturing to him. “The only tragedy here is your fashion sense.”

Glancing down at himself, he curled his lip, indignation sparking within. Jeans and a t-shirt were standard attire, dammit! “Or just your sense in general.”

She smirked. “Or the death of your common sense.”

“Idiot!” He leaped to his feet, pointing at her. “I’m the protagonist, common sense is my enemy.”

“Yes, clearly.”

“I thought it was the fourth wall?” said Hannah.

He licked his teeth. “Don’t believe everything you read in a blurb—the fourth wall died before the first chapter.”

“Then what is this story even about?” Lydia favoured him with Mockery AB, a quirked eyebrow with an infuriating half-smile. “Aren’t you supposed to have some kind of goal? Don’t you think that’s why we’re so unpopular?”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Maybe the author just sucks,” said Hannah, shrugging. “He is a chimpanzee.”

“Don’t be so negative,” said Lydia. “Given long enough, I’m sure he’d write Shakespeare eventually.”

“That sounds unlikely—he can’t even finish a Yu-Gi-Oh! fanfiction.”

“Shut up!” Jack plopped back into his chair, glaring at them. “Is the idea of someone else owning your house and demanding payment too abstract for you, princess?”

She smiled, and it forced the breath from him. When her smile wasn’t sadistic or mocking or condescending, it was actually… not horrifying.

“Of course not,” she said. “I just tend to be the one demanding payment.”

“Give back the nice thoughts I had about you, right now.”

“Seriously,” said Hannah, “what’s wrong with you? You don’t have nice thoughts—I always assumed it was darker than a DC movie in there.”

He sighed. “My only problem is your terrible attempts at wit.”

Standing, she paced over and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Are you still worried about them?”

Well, that was part of it. He met her gaze, its compassion like stepping from a freezer into the baking sun. Warmth spread from her hand. Damned kid.

Somewhere deep inside of him, Razor sounded smug.

Three months, and not a peep from Unsee Incorporated. They had—of course—claimed Erich to be a rogue who disappeared from their ranks for unknown reasons. He had no idea what they were planning next; Lydia’s cousins hadn’t been able to find anything else, and moved on to other activities.

“I guess,” he said. “There’s no way it’s over. And then there’s van Hellsong.”

The vampire hunter had escaped from custody while Jack was still in hospital. A small citywide panic later—where everyone’s hearts had jumped into their mouths momentarily, before realising he’d probably run off somewhere hard to find on a map—he still hadn’t been found.

Hannah nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.” A bitter expression flashed across her features. “Especially about who I decide to like.”

He knit his brow, placing his hand atop hers. “You know what they say—’tis better to have loved and lost than have your legs torn off by a panther.”

“No-one says that.”

“Is it a black panther?” asked Lydia.

“We can’t afford that lawsuit,” said Jack. He couldn’t afford anything, at that moment. And with his rent due in the next week, he had another worry to pile on top of his lengthening insecurity.

He needed a client.

A horrendous grating sound erupted in the office, their faces all twisting as they covered their ears. It sounded like the desperate screams of a person being forced to listen to Nickelback on repeat.

From nowhere, a box—tall and narrow, made of red wood with lots of window panels—faded into existence in the corner next to him. A sign above the door read, “telephone”.

Words attempted an expedition out of his mouth, but the barrier proved impassable.

“What the fuck?” said Lydia, chin by her knees.

“Yeah, that.” Hannah stared at the phone box, hand still on Jack’s shoulder, limp.

The door opened, and a man fell out of the box, coughing and stumbling. Smoke poured from behind him. It smelled acrid, of burning and ozone, and a round of coughing broke out.

Jack’s words, not deterred by a challenge, employed a method of explosives, spit, and hope in their next break-out attempt. It failed.

The man—short, bald, and portly, wearing a Geography teacher’s suit complete with bow-tie and elbow patches—glanced back at his phone box in disbelief. Then, he noted the three of them.

“Please tell me,” he said, “that I missed twenty-twenty.”

***

Some Time in the Future… Let’s Say 300 Years?

Since childhood, all Dr. Cornelius Wen had wanted was to travel in time. As a boy, his school trip had taken him to Blackpool Museum of the Supernormal, where he’d learned that the Tower had once moved. There were videos, but it wasn’t the same.

He had to see it.

It was like dragons, or elves, or any of the other moronic things humanity had come up with to explain away the mundanity of reality—except this wasn’t just based on real life. It was real life.

Or it had been, before it became a lump of scrap in a massive display case.

From then on, his focus had been singular—obtaining as much knowledge of physics as he could in order to build his time machine. His doctorate had been an accidental occurrence, having sent his notes on temporal manipulation to the wrong email address.

Finally, his machine was completed. He stood before it, checking off items listed on a tablet. It had been hell to build. Almost ten years from first blueprints, he’d run into many unanticipated problems. How was he supposed to power it? The amount of energy required just to maintain the event horizon was insane.

The answer, in the end, had been runes. His assistant—Violet—was a competent scientist, but an excellent runesmith. Runes were essentially the automated version of magi; they could only do one thing, but had no risk of being overwhelmed by quintessence. Her layered circuits were the difference between a hunk of wood and glass, and a functioning machine.

Cooing over what appeared as an ordinary phone box with tangles of wires trailing from it, she grinned. She was taller than him, and younger, wearing a creased blouse with a pencil skirt—everything was rumpled, having not been changed for days. They’d pulled several all-nighters to finish.

“Do you think it will actually work?” she asked, reverent.

“Only one way to find out,” he said. The room, though expansive, was otherwise empty. They couldn’t risk blowing up any notes or equipment. He approached, opening the door with a creak and stepping inside. Violet followed, the two of them squeezing to fit. The phone had been removed, and instead a console sat on the wall where it had been. This was covered in buttons and screens, showing numbers and graphs and waveforms.

Pressing a few, he took a deep breath. “Ready?”

“I was born ready,” she said, bouncing on her heels.

A grating sound began, and the windows went dark.

They looked at each other.

The console exploded.