The Big Rewind

TW: Strong language, addiction

Time travel is a bitch. Strike that. Time travel itself is really quite fun. It’s the entitled pricks that hire me to jump them decades into the future that grinds my gears. Trust me, I would know. I’ve been a pilot for the past 5 years. Or the past 500. It’s a matter of perspective, I suppose.

But Lilly, you ask, how can you say that it’s been 500 years if you’re only in your thirties?

First of all, fuck you. I’m a ripe 29 and will remain that way until…until always. That’s how my contract works. In exchange for a monthly stipend of 1000 credits,

(1000 credits = 4 vials of Hypnogen = 4 nights of uninterrupted, uncorrupted happiness)

I get to hop through time and play tour guide to the elite. Which doesn’t sound all that bad, but they left a few crucial elements off the recruitment poster. For example, for 1000 credits a month, you get to travel to the ends of space and time without consequence or restriction. No grandfather paradoxes, thanks to the geniuses over at Timeless Tours who figured out how to separate consciousness from the body.

But Lilly, you rudely interrupt, isn’t it dangerous to rip people’s minds apart?

Yes, it is, but not for the clients. For the low, low price of 8000 credits, you too can enjoy a day trip to the past without any risk of traumatic brain injury! You can, of course, still choose to time travel without the added protection, but only those with a death wish would do that.

Wait a second, you rudely interrupt AGAIN, didn’t you say you only get 1000 credits a month?

(Shut up and learn to read. If I have to hear any more stupid questions, I’m going to reach through this portal and stab you in the eye.)

What the brainiacs at Timeless Tours didn’t deign to tell me is that signing on to be a pilot is essentially indentured servitude. If indentured servitude meant being forced to be a traveler for 15 (1500?) years, all while collecting brain injuries like trading cards.

Which is why I need the Hypnogen.

Because I’m slowly (not that slowly, to be perfectly honest) losing my goddamn mind.

I’ve attempted to hide my eccentricities from my co-pilot, Hugh, with varying success. It’s challenging to act like a normal person when you start to hallucinate that a T-rex is right fucking there, Hugh!! Can’t you see it?. We need to GO!

Hugh, unlike yours truly, is not only sane but volunteered to be a pilot after he graduated from school. Wanted to become the best pilot to walk the Earth since Matteo Vanra kicked the bucket a few years ago. Or is he going to kick it this year? Honestly, time travel is utter bullshit. I can’t keep anything straight anymore, and you aren’t supposed to just spout off facts about the future. The grandfather paradox may have been solved, but that doesn’t mean giving spoilers on everything is a good idea. That’s how you lose music legends. (RIP Biggie)

Anyway. I try not to think about Hugh outside of the workplace because it’s depressing to think of him alone in his huge house. Last year, his life partner (gag, his words, not mine) broke up with him or was comatose or died or something. I can’t remember exactly what happened because I have a Swiss cheese brain, but he’s been pretty out of it since. Like, I totally would’ve been all over him in the past. The man has gorgeous forearms. But these days, vaguely despondent and a little scruffy, I just think he needs a hug or maybe a drink.

Which is why when he shows up today, cleanly shaven, shoulders lifted, and red hair gelled, I’m pretty taken aback because he looks…good. Too good. Distractingly good. And that’s pretty rude of him because, in my last audit, my scores were all over the place, and I can’t make any more mistakes. Drooling over your co-pilot is the best way to crash into a dune. Again.

Lucky for Hugh, I’m a grown adult. “You’re late, and you have lettuce in your teeth.”

Unlucky for me, he seems to have found his funny bone since last week. “I’m here five minutes before takeoff, and you’re looking crazier than usual. Still remember how to fly?”

I flip him off. “Screw you, Hugh.”

“Did you just say Yoo-Hoo?”

“Fine. How about this? Fu–”

The door to the hangar flies open and smacks the wall hard enough that it vibrates on its hinges. Director Johnson strides across the space, suit pressed and hair greased within an inch of its life.

“Morning, Director,” Hugh calmly says, and I want to smack him for sounding so demure. Johnson is such a prick to the pilots. Definitely a holier-than-thou brat who couldn’t get through flight school, so he decides to overcompensate by berating us all like children on the daily. (Yes, he almost flunked me on my last audit. No, I’m not biased.)

Johnson doesn’t even look at Hugh as he hands me the customary bag full of equipment and instructions for the trip.

“Change of plans, Pilot.”

“Sir?” Timeless Tours may be problematic in about a million ways, but they don’t usually spring last-minute changes on us.

“There are no passengers. All the necessary information is in the folder. You’ll travel 300 years from now, where a courier awaits you. You take the package and return immediately. Should you encounter any delays, your pay will be docked. Severely. However, if you successfully retrieve the package on time, you will receive a bonus of 250 credits.”

(250 credits = 1 vial of Hypnogen = Holy shit)

“Aye, aye, captain,” I say, crushing the bag to my chest until it hurts because I might start jumping up and down otherwise.

“Very well.” Johnson nods and begins retreating to his cave or swamp or whatever place rude people come from, but he stops at the door and faces us. “This is an important trip. It must succeed.” He pauses and almost looks sad for a moment. “You are a very good pilot, Lilly.” Then he’s gone.

“That was…weird,” Hugh says, and I can practically hear how furrowed his brow is.

“Yeah,” I agree. I’m still reeling a bit because he didn’t think I was a good pilot last week. Also kind of pissed because his stupid audit made me miss the last bonus. “But we need to get going. You ready?”

Hugh begins powering up our pod while I input the coordinates. We’ve flown together a handful of times now, and it doesn’t take us long to be ready for takeoff. We may not always be the best of friends, but we fly beautifully.

We strap in. Hugh takes his knock-off brain protection pills, and I cross my fingers and toes as we begin to ascend. Hugh may have some level of shielding, but I have no way of knowing how messed up I’ll be after this trip. Just how many times can you have a brain injury before you die from it? Or worse. I could lose control of my limbs and start kicking people by accident. The first few times would be hilarious, but I have a feeling that the novelty wears off quickly. Besides, then I couldn’t fly.

(No flying = no money for Hypnogen = a really bad time)

I watch the years pass by out the front window. Seasons blend and disappear. Asteroids burn through the ozone layer, and the light goes out. It’s almost reassuring to see the destruction of mankind, to know how little an impact my stupid decisions make.

We’re 150 years out when Hugh leans back in his chair, flipping through the dossier with agitation.

“Quit that!” I snap because his leg is jackrabitting up and down, and I want to bolt his ankles to the floor. It makes the pod feel a little too shaky for my liking.

He sighs, and I know what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth. “So 250 credits? How much Hypnogen does that get you these days? A couple vials?”

“Don’t, Hugh.”

He has the audacity to look shocked at the acid in my tone. “Don’t what?”

100 years out. “Don’t start with me about the Hypnogen. I don’t want to hear any more of your stupid speeches. Yes, I’m addicted. No, I don’t care.”

“So then explain it to me. I can’t see why you’d spend every credit on the junk. You know that they target people like you specifically, right?” He’s so earnest. If he’d been this nice to me a few years ago, maybe I wouldn’t be in this situation, but even I won’t say that.

“Oh, you mean people who need it? People who can’t afford shielding.” Speaking of, my eyes are starting to fuzz, and I can practically feel neurons being burned away as we propel forward in time. It’s like a bee is zooming around my brain, stinging any bits that look remotely untouched, and it hurts like a m–

He tries a different approach. “You know I could get you protective pills. They aren’t the legit kind, but it would help.”

I glare at him, my eyes crunching into a thin, squiggly line, partly because he’s acting like my father and partly because it’s bright as hell in here. “I need more than what you have, Hugh, and I don’t use it for that.”

He glares back. Prick. “Then what do you use it for? It’s not for your memory; that’s obvious. I know that’s how they market it, but you seem worse than ever.”

“It does help with my memory. Just not all the time.” Man, I wished it was a cure. It’s painful to grieve a life you can’t even remember and impossible to move on if you don’t know what you lost. “The memories that Hypnogen gives me access to are… beautiful. They help me get through my contract; if I make it to the end, I’ll have it all restored forever. Total brain repair and a lump sum of 20,000 credits for 15 years well served.”

Softly, he asks, “Can you tell me one? A beautiful memory?” He’s sad again. Maybe he’s thinking about his life partner and the things he’s lost. I’d ask him to share one with me if I didn’t think he’d start bawling. Something sweet, like how they met or if the person is dead or missing because I feel awkward for never remembering. As it is, I can’t give him what he wants.

“I don’t remember, never can after it wears off,” I whisper as though if I speak quietly enough, then I won’t have to deal with the awful, empty feeling all over again. “I just know that my Hypnogen days, when I bask in the sun, remembering…whatever, is my personal Heaven. I spend all my days wishing I could keep any of it. Hell, I’d take a bad memory at this point. It’d be better than this.” I smack my forehead and regret it immediately. Pain clamors around in my head, and my ears ring as we touch down. We make it just in time for me to throw up in the handy dandy puke bucket.

As I relive my breakfast, and it definitely tasted better this morning, Hugh catalogs our flight path and examines the radar because he’s a more responsible pilot than I am.

BANG BANG BANG

Hugh and I look at each other. “Is someone knocking on the door?” I ask.

Hugh, ever the brave soul, opens the door, and a man stands right outside, weariness and irritation all over his face. I get that. But what I don’t get is why he has a woman handcuffed and with a bag over her head.

“Took you long enough,” the man says waspishly, as though our arrival is the ultimate inconvenience. He stops gripping the woman as though she may run away at any moment and gives her shoulder an aggressive shove. Her body hits the metal floor with a grunt and a metallic clang, but she doesn’t say a word.

“What the hell is this? Who are you?” I ask as Hugh picks the woman up, looks at her nondescript clothing, reaches into her pockets to look for identification, and comes up with nothing.

“I’m the courier.”

Oh yeah. Forgot about that.

“Keep her covered up,” the courier continues. “You’re not paid enough to ask questions about this, and it’s not worth the hassle.” He stares at me, but I can’t get my thoughts in order to reply. Nevertheless, he grunts as though I had and slams the pod door right in Hugh’s face.

“Ok then,” I say and walk to the console. “Strap her in.”

“Are you serious?!” Hugh demands, and I turn to face him. “This is abduction. You remember what that is, correct?” He says it with a sneer, and man, oh man, what I wouldn’t give to punch it off his face.

I bite the inside of my cheeks hard enough that I’m sure I’m making a fishy face, but it’s better than assaulting my co-pilot. That’s another surefire way to get a write-up. “Fine,” I bite at him. “I’ll do it,” and I stomp 3 steps to the woman and jerk her to the seat.

“Stop!” Hugh yells, somehow managing to blend desperation and anger into one word.

“We aren’t paid to ask questions. Buckle up or get out.” I go to the console and begin writing my log. Cargo secured at 1700hrs with some damage noted, likely from courier transport. Minimal repairs required.

“We can’t do this. I can’t do this! Not again, Lilly, please,” Hugh pleads, but I don’t reply. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.” Now, he sounds sad again. I thought we were done with that.

“Join the fucking club,” I say with more venom than necessary, and he draws back at my tone.

Then, he asks, his voice hoarse and choked, “Is it really so bad? That you’ll kidnap someone for a couple of days of daydreaming?”

“It’s all I have,” I say, and it’s my turn to be choked up as I wish for my unknown past.

“You’re ruining her life. Can you live with that?” He asks, but I turn away and power the pod back on. It’s his choice now, and it must dawn on him, finally. I’m not risking a pay cut, not when my few days of Hypnogen are the only reason I’m still breathing.

Ultimately, the pod ascends with a single pilot and a single piece of cargo. My nose bleeds heavily, and my left eye begins to close on its own, so I hold it up with my finger as we touch down because landing is easier with both eyes. I finish my write-up as the Director enters the pod.

“Great work, Pilot. Anything to report?” He asks, all business.

“Nothing to report.”

“Right,” he says and looks pointedly at my bloodied shirt. “Any issues flying solo? I’ve heard the landing is difficult on your own.”

“No, sir.”

“Wonderful,” he claps his hands together and smiles, and I’m reminded of how appreciative I am to have such a nice boss. He’s always been very kind to the pilots. “Your bonus pay will be deposited tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say, smiling with one side of my mouth. The left side isn’t moving too well. “I look forward to my next tour.”

Later, when I take a double dose of Hypnogen, my face feels normal. Responsive and unbloodied. I watch my childhood in snapshots of giggles and family dinners. I see my sister’s wedding and my brother’s graduation in glorious detail. My mother sews my church dresses, and my father shows me the best way to bluff at cards.

I remember the beach. Harsh, scraping sand and a cool breeze. The sun lays on every inch of my skin, and I tap my foot to the radio. Salt coats my lips from my last surfing tumble, and it feels like home.

My eyes are closed when a hand reaches over and hangs on to mine. Sand and dirt crush together in our palms, and I squeeze hard, reluctant to ever let go. We stay in place until the air begins to cool, and as the wind blows in off the water, I shiver.

He moves closer, and I rest my head on his chest. No responsibilities or heartaches or anxiety here. Not with him, not ever.

“I could stay here forever,” I say, and my lips brush against his chest.

“Me too.”

I open my eyes, finally, and look up at him. Sticky sand is matted into his red hair, and it almost makes him look prematurely grey in the dying sunlight.

“I love you, or should it be, I love Hugh,” I say with a gummy, too-wide smile. I’ve been using that a lot lately, and he rolls his eyes for the thousandth time.

“I love you, too,” Hugh whispers, kissing my forehead. I settle back down on his chest, and we watch the sunset.

Tomorrow, we’ll do it all over again.