After Time

“Folks, you’ve heard the phrase ‘time is an illusion’ a million times before, but what if I told you you could go back and shut up every last one of those ignorant morons who opened their slack jaw to say that drivel? What if you could control time yourself!? Become the illusionist!? Laugh in the face of the primordial and still have enough time to be back home for dinner!?”

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“No-good ingrates.” The late great Dr. Abrams muttered at the end of a long, exasperated sigh. 

The “great” stems from how the doctor distinguished himself by propelling modern science to the forefront of the world. The leaps he made in advancing medical technology were responsible for the eventual discovery of the cure for cancer. His numerous theses on observations of dark matter have led several private institutions to create secret programs centered entirely on analyzing these meticulous recordings. His unending pursuit for the answers to the universe has been both a font of inspiration and a source of ridicule to the scientific community.

The “late” stems from how, lately, Dr. Abrams has been making claims that he can use science to mold, shift, and tear through the very fabric of the universe. Popularly, it is believed that you can’t (or at least shouldn’t) do this.

Suffice to say, research grants have not been presenting themselves as often as they used to. At least, they aren’t being offered by organizations with noble intentions for the future, or the present either, in all honesty. Organizations that could be affiliated with the ill-perceived Gideon Blue Research Institution, boasting an impressive catalog of perversions and malicious manipulations made of the newest discoveries in modern science. In fact, some may (and do) call the research and experimentation performed here “mad science.”

Though, even mad scientists have a threshold for how much trust they’re willing to place in one another, no matter how late or great he is. Equally shocking is the ease with which these organizations can give notices of termination to their employees. Or rather, this news was shocking to one particular employee.

“So you think you’re better than me, huh? Well, I’ll tell you something, you… you prissy, money-grubbing, prehistoric, stone-smashing cave dwellers! Just you wait! You’ll rue the day you kicked Dr. Ricard Abrams to the-“

It was then the sound of a car door closing interrupted Dr. Abrams demeaning dialogue with the fluorescent sign outside the front of the Gideon Blue Research Institute building. As Dr. Abrams turned to see the intruder of his public-private ramblings, his eyes softened and his expression brightened, as much as an embittered old man’s face is allowed to.

That expression soon turned to confusion as the figure exiting the vehicle appeared to be clothed in the garb of a burglar you might see in a crime show on TV: replete with a black ski mask, a black turtleneck sweater, black pants… it was safe to say no expense was spared on the wardrobe. Unfortunately for the would-be burglar, no amount of camouflage or covering could hide their apparent anxiety at the moment.

“Hansen? Why in heaven’s name are you dressed like that?”

Their identity betrayed, the figure tried hurrying out the door of their car, their foot getting caught in the process, causing them to fall flat on their face. A sequence of events that would be humorous under normal circumstances, but only evoked a sense of pity and a deep sigh from the one standing above them.

“T-This was, um,” the figure, Hansen, began stuttering out, slowly rising in shame, their red face seemingly on the verge of tears, “this is, well, I thought we were ‘breaking in,’ so I-“ interrupted by the sight of a wrinkled outstretched hand, they grasped on and rose shakily, sniffling all the while.

After they got back up on their feet, utterly embarrassed at the whole situation, Abrams swung his arms, clapped his younger associate by their shoulders, and bellowed out, “Hey, you!”

Startled out of their melancholic self-reflection, Hansen quickly raised their head to look their hero in the eyes for the first time since they first started working together a few years ago. Since they first met Dr. Abrams, his face has gotten saggier, his wrinkles more pronounced, and his iconic mustache is the whitest it has ever been. However, what stood out the most to the young scientist was the flame that still shined bright behind those brilliant eyes. A fire that they knew would never go out until everything that should be unknowable was made known. An ideal that every scientist, Hansen thought, should aspire to.

“You know what I see when I look at you, kid?” The flustered scientist was returned to reality by the question. As they wondered whether or not they should answer, Abrams continued, “I see somebody serious about science! Someone who wants to take a pilgrimage into the vast unknown and shoot the double bird at the incomprehensible!

“Now, sure, you look more like a nervous shadow than a scientist right now-“ gesturing up and down Hansen’s form-“but that’s what makes science so great! The future, that elusive low-life goon, doesn’t care about you or me! But, if you commit yourself to showing that idiotic concept whose boss, the universe will be your sandbox! Kick the sandcastle of doubt! Be a beach bully to the laws of physics! Create a moat around…”

As Abrams continued his tirade, Hansen, as enamored as they were to be getting a pep talk from their idol, began to realize this entire display was happening right outside the front of the Gideon Blue Research Institute building. A building filled to the brim with scientific secrets that could change the world.

A building with cameras. Cameras that were now pointed at them.

“Uh, sir… I think we should-“

“What!?” A little annoyed at having his speech ended prematurely, his annoyance was soon replaced with understanding as he followed Hansen’s line of sight to the security parameters that lined the building. “Ah. I see. Sharp eyes, Hansen! This isn’t the time for words, this is the time for action! You remember to bring your personnel ID?”

“Of course, sir!” They said with a sense of confidence, holding up an awkward photo of the young scientist with the name, “Dutch Hansen, Advanced Operations Technician,” printed below. “When the world’s premier scientist tells you to prepare for a mission to change the world, you don’t just forget it and say no! I made sure to bring everything you asked me to,” they turn around a black fanny pack and unzip it, peering inside, “even a little snack for in case we get hungry, an extra pen-“

“Fantastic!” Exclaimed Abrams, “Let’s get a move on then, kid, I can practically hear progress screaming our names!”

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After trekking through countless corridors, taking two separate elevators, and a slow-going drive through the internal tunnel system running under the research building, the two finally arrived in front of a pair of metal doors with a keypad beside it. The last obstacle between them, and the object spurring two brilliant minds to risk being caught by Gideon Blue security and sent to prison. Or worse.

Incredibly, they made it to their goal entirely undeterred. Something Hansen found suspicious, as they were aware of the number of cameras and guards that were along the same route that they took to get there. Even stranger was the fact that all of the guards that should have stopped the easily recognizable formerly employed head of research and development, merely made nods of acknowledgement towards them as they let them pass.

“E-excuse me, doctor,” Hansen uttered in a hushed whisper, “but don’t you think we should have been stopped by now? Gideon Blue usually doesn’t let blacklisted former personnel back onto top-secret projects.”

“Psh, ‘blacklisted,’” the senior remarked with a scoff, “you know they put you on those lists for the littlest thing? You know when I was working down at QLabs they shut down my wormhole project? You have a single person catch a glimpse of incomprehensible horror and everyone chickens out! That’s the problem with these new, so-called, ‘scientists’ today. No backbone!” Pointing a finger at the technician, he said with a tone of genuine gratitude, “That’s why I like you, kid, even after a quintillion failures, you don’t give up.” 

Taking a glance at his watch, Abrams exclaimed, “Well, would you look at that! The time sure does seem to fly! Huh… I’ll have to change that. Hansen! See about that keypad, would you? We have a lot of work to do and can’t waste another second!”

Any previous feelings of suspicion or doubt were now replaced by an overwhelming sense of pride that almost overflowed out of Dr. Abram’s number one fan. To be praised by the role model that inspired them to be involved in the sphere of science, and whose words drove them to persevere and continue, gave Hansen back the confidence that was quickly dwindling on their way here. Not wanting to waste their precious time pointing out that the doctor had avoided their question, they moved swiftly to the keypad, entered the five-digit combination, and opened the door.

Which was strange, because, as Hansen knew, those codes change every minute. Yet, somehow, without referring to their pager that gave the research and tech teams the rotating passcodes, they had entered the correct one. The chance of entering the precise code in that minute was no more than one in a hundred thousand.

But, putting in the combination felt routine to them, a reflex, as if they knew exactly what to put in and when to do it.

”No gawking now, kiddo! We got to get started on solving the future!” The voice of Abrams boomed out from behind a metal cube of great size, with a monitor and keyboard sticking out from its anterior. Atop it was a blue glass globe that shot arcs of electricity across its surface. This was it. Dr. Abram’s time machine.

After stepping into the room and looking around, that same pervasive feeling of familiarity crept back into Hansen. The doctor typing away, making manic calculations on the sheet of paper beside him. The rising hum coming from the machine. It all seemed so nostalgic to them.

“Dr. Abrams? Why didn’t Gideon Blue’s security stop us on our way here?”

“Don’t you remember?” He replied, not looking away from his work, “I called those sniveling trust-fund brats that call themselves the board of directors and told them that I didn’t care if they took all the credit for my great invention. Those brainless stooges, ha!”

As the doctor laughed, Hansen was struck with the most intense sensation of déjà vu they had felt since they had first received that phone call from Dr. Abrams this morning. And then it hit them. They’re in a time loop.

”Finally figured it out, kid?” Abrams asked the bewildered Hansen. “You’ll have to forgive me, sometimes I forget I’m in the loop myself! Must be my old age finally catching up to me, but soon it’ll be me catching it! Mark my words!”

“How many times? How many times have we done this?”

“Ah, right. Well… you’ll have to forgive me, it wears even a genius like me down trying to keep count after the first million or so.”

A million? Rather, the first million? Then Hansen recalled him praising them for their continued willingness to push past failure, even if they experienced it a quintillion times. Just imagining the scenario caused the technician to fall to the ground in disbelief.

The sound of writing and typing stopped, and for a while, only the stirring of the time machine filled the room. The sound of an office chair swiveling, brought Hansen’s head up out of the fetal position they had placed themselves in. Above them stood him. The late great Dr. Abrams.

At first, they thought that they should hate him. After all, what kind of deranged person would keep someone prisoner in an eternal hell, doomed to keep starting over and over again? But, looking into the face of their captor, they only felt gratitude and understanding.

Abrams occupied the space on the floor next to them. 

“I get it, kid. I get it.”

“…You do?”

Abrams laughed tiredly, and, as Hansen took in the man, they looked past their image of a profound curer of diseases, pioneer of the unknown, and spokesperson of the sciences. All they saw was a normal, tired old man.

“Sometimes you want to just quit, and why wouldn’t you? It’s a hell of a lot easier than… than…”

“Doing the same thing over and over again a quintillion times?” Hansen interjected, steadily overcoming the dejection that had taken over. At the reply, Abrams chuckled and wrapped an arm around them, placing his hand on their shoulder.

“Yeah, that! It certainly is an enticing option… but, most of the time, to get something you really want, you have to do the things you don’t want to. In my case, I hate failure, loathe the thing. Wish I could just succeed at something, be done with it, and move on. Only, could you call that success? Always being able to do everything perfectly on the first try?”

Then, that same fire that was in the doctor’s eyes from earlier, the fire that had dimmed due to the full understanding of a tremendous job he sought to complete, but was always out of reach, returned to him.

Abrams stood and offered his hand to the person that most looked up to him. “Well, I say always winning makes you a loser! There’s no point in bragging over something you never had to torture yourself over! You’d be no better than those snobby, egotistical, greedy cowards that call themselves the directors of this place!

“A place built by those passionate for the pursuit of something more! The pursuit of science! The winners in this world are the scientists that try to change it! Make it a more interesting place!”

Hansen, roused by the sheer emotion of Dr. Abrams, clasped his hand and stood with him. “So, kid-… or, Dutch, what does that make those of us foolhardy enough to keep trying, even if we’re still here for another quintillion days?”

“Winners, sir!”

“Not just winners,” Abrams said, placing both hands on either shoulder, “scientists!”

With their eyes beginning to wet, Hansen looked towards the keyboard and notes that Abrams left, “Then, shall we continue working, Dr. Abrams?”

“You’re damn right we should, Dutch! And, as flattering as it is, you can only hear ‘Dr. Abrams’ so many times! You’ll make me feel old! Call me Ricard. I couldn’t care less if you were a technician or the janitor! We’re equals, you hear me?” Abrams turned back, walking to his station, with Hansen, holding back tears, following closely behind.

“So, what’s to do, um… Ricard?”

“Ha! What isn’t there? The bad news is the formula that I’ve been using for the last few thousand tries is a dead end!”

“What’s the good news?”

“There should only be about a hundred different other ones to try!”

“Alright! Then let’s-“

While the two were bonding, the time machine had been humming at increasing volumes, now reaching a point where it was difficult to hear one another, even as they stood right next to each other. The electricity also looked to be arcing more dangerously than it had before.

“What’s happening!?”

“Time, that miserable witch, she’s telling us we haven’t beaten her yet!” Looking away from the machine, towards the newly invigorated Hansen, Abrams yelled, “You ready to go again, Dutch?”

Hansen, totally unafraid, turned towards their colleague. “Now and forever, Ricard!”

The pair, smiling towards each other as the blue light shining from the top of the machine completely envelops them.

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As the sun sets, a car approaches an old man standing outside an intimidating concrete building, lined with security cameras. His string of insults directed towards a glowing sign reading, “Gideon Blue Research Institute,” interrupted by the approaching vehicle. The figure, cautiously stepping out of the vehicle, wears a white lab coat, mirroring the old man’s own.

“Dutch! Ready to fail?”

The figure, Dutch, examines their white coat before giving the man a knowing look, “We’re scientists, aren’t we, Ricard?”

The man, Ricard, beamed with pride. “You’re damn right!” Laughing, the two entered the building, as the sun vanished past the horizon.