Alright, Survivors. Five months have come down to this.

As you might expect, concepts are high. Let’s see what you did with them.

Matt Novak

Alastaire Hemsworth, of 22 Somerton Road, always caught the 6:05 train. Like lumpy oatmeal for breakfast and his father-in-law’s halitosis, it was an inalterable part of his routine. But that day was quite unlike any other Alastaire had ever had.

“Alastaire!”
Alastaire popped his head over the top of his grey cubicle wall. Gerry looked like a red-faced rhinoceros, charging towards his desk.
“Look at this!” he demanded.
“Y-yes sir.” He took the light green folio from his father-in-law and began to study it timidly.
“The interest isn’t compounded!”
“I’ll send it to accounting sir.”
“I want you to see to this personally. Today.” Gerry started towards his office.
“But it’s Judy’s birthday. I thought I’d leave early to buy her a present.”
“Then you should have planned ahead.”
This was how most of his days went, and precisely the reason why Alastaire had not yet had a chance to buy a present.

As the day wore on, Gerry kept piling on the usual urgent tasks. Soon, the end of the day arrived, and Alastaire hurried to the station. Knowing time was short, and that Margaret would scream in that shrill voice of hers if he was late, he hesitated. Yes. He would stop in the flower shop for Judy.

The platform clock said 6:06, but there was still a train on the tracks. Rushing, Alastaire climbed aboard, thinking the situation quite odd. His train had never left so much as a minute behind schedule.
—————————————————-
The train started with a kick and, holding a white rose for his daughter, Alastaire eased into his seat with a sigh that matched the locomotive’s release of steam. As they pulled from the station, drops of rain began to leave tracks angling across the window. For a while, Alastaire watched the row houses and factories roll by in the rain.

He leaned away from the window and glanced around the train car. It was paneled in a warm dark wood and the seats were upholstered in inviting red velvet. The car was nearly empty. A nice contrast, Alastaire thought, from the usually cold and boorish affair that was his evening commute.

“Dash it,” he said quietly to himself, suddenly realizing that he didn’t have an umbrella. I must have left it in the office, he thought. He tried to think back to whether he’d even brought the umbrella from home, but could not picture whether he’d grabbed it from the stand by the door. In fact, he was unable to recall any of the day’s events.

He tried to play things over in his head, but no matter how hard he tried, he drew a blank. He pushed his memory further back, finding that he could remember the day before with clarity; it was only today that escaped him. Relaxing, chalking it up to stress, he closed his eyes and sunk deeper into his seat.
—————————————————-
Alastaire opened his eyes. He wondered how long he’d been sleeping. He was convinced it hadn’t been long, but he found himself struggling to remember how he’d gotten onto the train, or where he was going. A small card stuck awkwardly from his breast pocket. Fishing it out, he read the words printed in his own handwriting, “To Judy. Happy Birthday.”
Could today be Judy’s birthday? He wondered if that was right. Seemed that should be weeks away. The last thing he could remember was that he’d been discussing it with Margaret.

“She’s ten you know,” he had said.
“Not yet she’s not!”
“Well she will be. And if she wants to have friends to spend the night, I think she ought to be allowed.”
“Out of the question. Will you be doing the cooking and the cleaning, Alastaire?” Margaret asked with a huff, her hair, in short, tight curls vibrating as she fumed, “Of course not. Daddy’s right. You just don’t understand responsibility.”
“Well then what shall we do for her?”
“Can’t you just take her to the zoo again?”

There was a time when Judy had loved the zoo. He’d taken her, many years before. They’d bought roasted nuts and sat outside the monkey cage, Judy laughing and pointing, and begging Alastaire to do his chimp impression over and over again. He’d happily obliged.

Now it seemed he’d forgotten her birthday all together. How had the time gotten away from him?
—————————————————-
“Tickets please,” boomed the voice from behind him.
Alastaire fumbled through his pockets for the little slip of paper as an oversized palm extended towards him. Finally finding his ticket, he placed it in the conductor’s hand. The giant hand was connected to a giant arm, which was in turn connected to a giant. As Alastaire’s eyes caught sight of the giant he jumped. It seemed odd that such a large man should be able to fit on the train, and odder still that he should fit into a full conductor’s uniform.
“Wrong ticket,” said the giant.
“Excuse me?”
“This ticket is for the 6:05.”
“What train is this?” Alastaire puzzled aloud.
“This is the 6:06.”
“I-I-I’m sorry. I must have boarded the wrong train,” stuttered a very confused Alastaire. He had no explanation for how he had come to be there.
“Having a bad time of it at work or home?” asked the giant.
Alastaire thought of Gerry at work, and then of Margaret and her nitpicking.
“Quite,” answered Alastaire. He felt a strange comfort with the giant, who, despite his astonishing figure, seemed to possess a certain relatability.
“Then you’re on the right train. Let me get you the correct ticket.”
The giant pulled out a pencil and pad, which were regular sized, but seemed comical in his gigantic hands.
“Here you go,” he said, handing Alastaire a new slip of paper. “Welcome aboard. Mind your memory.”
“Pardon?”
“The further we go, the more you’ll forget.”
—————————————————-
Alastaire looked out the window through the golden shards of twilight. There was no rain. Somehow that struck him as odd. He felt as if it was supposed to be raining.

The train was racing, much faster than it should be. There were no houses or railway stations, just fields of unknown plants, their stalks heavy with grain, stretching to the horizon, where Alastaire could make out the foothills of a mountain range he’d never seen before. All of it seemed out of place.

A lone companion sat at the opposite end of the car. He could make out her bright green eyes from where he was sitting. He smiled at her, a half twitch of his lips and an arch of his eyebrows, as if to say that whatever this was, they were in it together.
She smiled back.
“Where are we going?” she asked
“I don’t know,” he said, “Where did we come from?”
“I don’t know.”
She stood up from her seat and moved towards him.
“It seems like I can remember some things,” she said, “from long ago.”
Alastaire picked up the thread, “But the recent things – maybe the last year – seem to be missing.”
“Exactly.” She flashed another worried smile. “Who’s the flower for?
“My daughter,” he answered, tapping the card that sat next to the flower, “It’s an important birthday.”
“How old is she?”
He paused, and a sadness grew across his face.
“I don’t know.”
—————————————————-
Alastaire felt the train grind to a halt at a strange looking platform. Stepping off the train, he saw a giant sign announcing the name of the station as “In Between.”
“Well that’s not particularly helpful,” he said aloud, “In between what?”
“Between Towards and Away, of course.” A high-pitched voice, belonging to a man he hadn’t noticed, answered his question. The man had a very narrow face, and was dressed as a station master.
“But which is which?” wondered Alastaire.
The man quickly spun 180 degrees, but, where Alastaire expected to find the man’s back, he instead found another man, a man who looked very similar to the first, but with a fatter face.
“The better question is ‘Away or Towards what?’” He had a deep voice. “I like to think that the answer is ‘the future.’ So Towards, leads you towards your future, and Away leads you away.”
He spun again, and the narrow-faced man was back.
“But perhaps the answer is ‘the past,’ and so Away takes you away from your past and towards your future, and vice versa the other way ‘round.”
“Indeed,” muttered Alastaire.
“So which will it be? Away from your past life?” asked the fatter side of the man.
“Or towards your future?” finished the narrow side, “That’s the choice you must make.”

“I think,” laughed Alastaire, climbing back onto the train, “That any choice is good, so long as it is away from here.”
—————————————————–
Alastaire sat back down on the seat, as the train pulled away from a strange looking platform that he couldn’t recall ever seeing before. He didn’t know what he was doing there, or where he was headed. The ticket in his hand said this train was the 6:06, with a final destination of Ismar. He’d never heard of Ismar, and thought it a funny name for a town.

There was a flower, with a card that read, “To Judy. Happy Birthday.”
The card triggered an emotion inside of him, a drive, a need to be get somewhere on time. Between the feeling and the card, he reasoned out that he had to get home for his daughter’s birthday. He found it slightly strange that he’d bought his daughter a rose for her first birthday, but as he thought back, that had to be it. In fact, he couldn’t remember anything from beyond her first few months.

Still, those had been his happiest days. Margaret was usually tired and took frequent holidays for her nerves. That would leave just the two of them: Alastaire and Judy, Judy and Alastaire. They had spent hours together, just rocking and talking and playing. Judy seemed to light up whenever her father spoke, and Alastaire had been glad for a listening ear.

He smiled, setting the rose and the card on the seat next to him. Alastaire and Judy.
—————————————————
Alastaire noticed the flower on the seat next to him. He read the card, and wondered to himself who Judy was. It was a nice name, he thought. Maybe, if he ever had a daughter, that’d be the name he’d use. Not that Margaret would ever oblige him.
“Is this yours?” he asked the only other passenger that he could see, a woman with green eyes, holding out the flower to show her.
“No,” she said, “I don’t recall ever seeing it before.”
“Strange.”
“Perhaps someone else was sitting there?”
“Perhaps.”
Alastaire couldn’t remember whether there had ever been anyone next to him.

Scratching his head at his strange lack of memory, Alastaire peered out the window of the train. They were moving at a tremendous speed, and Alastaire was unable to make out any of the passing landscape. All he could see was the blur of colors as they roared by. They were strange colors, vivid blues, stark crimsons and radiant golds whose light seemed to make everything inside the car glisten.

Staring out the window, Alastaire saw a giant tunnel rushing towards the train. As its ominous darkness swallowed them up, he felt a sudden regret. He didn’t know what it was, but he felt in the very core of his being that there was something he was supposed to do.
—————————————————
He had no idea who he was, or where he had come from, but as Alastaire stepped from the train, he felt a certain sadness lifted from him. He could tell that this was a magical place.

“Welcome to Ismar!”
Alastaire craned his neck upward. The sun was bright, yet he had no need to shield his eyes. What he saw amazed him. A man, nine feet tall, strong and handsome, conjoined at the hip with a horse: a centaur.
“My name is Perspicacious,” said the centaur.
“Hello Perspicacious, my name is Alastaire” he said instinctively, holding out his hand.
The centaur let out a booming laugh, and knelt down to shake the confused man’s hand. “It is a pleasure to welcome you to Ismar.”

“May I ask a question?” It was a woman with beautiful green eyes.
“Your memory,” said Perspicacious.
“Yes. I don’t remember anything.”
“The crossing has that effect. When you pass through the tunnel, you forget everything of the world where you were before. ”
“Why?”
“Ismar is a land where you can choose for your life to be as you wish it. Before, you were filled with sadness. In order to make your life what you will, you need to leave that behind.”
“Anything we wish for we can have?”
“Anything you wish for,” he confirmed, “When I came here, I did not look like this.”
“You mean you chose to be a centaur?” asked Alastaire in amazement at the possibility.
“Indeed, my friend. Indeed.”
Instinctively, he knew the centaur was telling the truth. He could feel he was happier here, and that whatever he might chose in this world would come to be. And yet, something of that other world stuck with him, an emotional resonance tugging him back.
“Perspicacious,” he began, not quite knowing what he was saying, “Can I leave here?”
“Why would you want to leave?”
Alastaire thought about the question before answering. “I don’t know exactly, but there is something I need to do. I can’t think of it. But I can feel it.”
“If you wish to leave, you may. But I caution you, you won’t be able to come back.”
The two appraised each other, as Alastaire weighed his choice.
“Is this what you choose?” asked the centaur.
“It is.”

Alastaire stood outside his front door, a single rose in his hands, completely unaware of how he’d come to be there, or even how long he’d been standing in that spot. A train ticket for the 6:06 rested deep in his pocket. The night had grown dark and it began to drizzle. Inside, he could hear Margaret fuming about, clanging around their small kitchen as she prepared some perfectly wretched dish.

“Alastaire!” she shrieked at him as he entered the home, “You’re late!”
Alastaire listened politely, hanging his coat on the rack as Margaret raged on.
Hearing that her father had come home, Judy snuck quietly to the front hall to see him.
“Is this for me?” she whispered, as her mother continued her diatribe.
“Yes dear. Happy birthday.”
“Thanks daddy.” She popped a quick kiss on his cheek as she took the flower from his hands, and Alastaire felt a strange sense of completion.

The next morning for breakfast, Alastaire Hemsworth thought long and hard about making himself an egg. In the end, he decided against it, choosing instead to have a bowl of oatmeal. And though he’d eaten oatmeal almost every morning for most of his life, for some reason, on this morning, it simply seemed to taste better.

K: This one plays out expertly, with our hero heading toward an inevitable loss of his family and all he holds dear, and I truly cheered for him not to lose sight of it. As a father of daughters maybe this was meant to curry my favor, but whatever. Alastaire could use some fleshing out, but I guess in the confines of this story, that’s not really possible. Also, I was quite moved by such a sweetly-told story at the end of such a dark season.
Character: 4
Creativity of Reason for Forgettings: 4
Overall Story Effectiveness: 5

DK: I think this is a good example of the whole being greater than the sum of the parts, as I liked both the idea for forgetting and Alastaire here, while finding him a little too familiar to stand out entirely and not being superlatively wowwed by the concept initially. But by the time I got to the end, I found the whole thing really sweet and touching, and I think the way the memory aspect played out was a big part of that.
Character: 4
Creativity of Reason for Forgettings: 4
Overall Story Effectiveness: 5

26/30

Beau

“Hit me,” he said, simultaneous tapping his fingers on the table. The dealer was showing an eight, and he a six and a four. His attention was taken away by a dashing redhead wearing a low-cut dress. Instinctually, he used his enhanced vision to undress her. She was just as gorgeous underneath, providing a pleasant distraction from his current losing streak. These days, thankfully, he no longer felt a pang of regret if he couldn’t have every beauty that passed him by.

The dealer laid the two of spades in front of him. “Of course,” he sighed. Another hit yielded a king and busted him. He watched as the suit to the left of him split his aces and landed two faces. Normally, this would have irritated him, but if things went well, tonight was going to be a good night.

“Excuse me, sir,” interjected a cocktail waitress, setting a silver jewelry case in front of him. She was a little pretty, a lot of fake. “From the woman over there,” she pointed with her eyes.

He looked across the room. He caught a woman sitting at the bar, quickly turning away from him. From this distance, he couldn’t make her out.

Opening the case revealed a chakra bracelet, inlaid with jade. Removing it from the case, he slipped it on his left hand. It fit perfectly. He looked up, searching out his new friend. She was gone. Perplexed, he absentmindedly fiddled with the bracelet.

“Sir?” the dealer beckoned.

“Hit me,” he said, simultaneously tapping his fingers on the table. His attention was on a voluptuous brunette that was hanging on the arm of a high-roller. Out of habit he undressed her with his supernatural vision. While she was a sight to see, he was okay just looking. At the age of thirty-one, he’d sown his oats long ago.

“Four makes twenty-two,” said the dealer as he gathered up the cards.

“What?” he cried. “I had a hard ten!”

The dealer showed him the queen of spades and the eight of clubs. “I thought you did, too. Sorry, man.”

He looked at them, confused. “I could have sworn…” he thought out loud.

The suit to the left of him patted his shoulder. “Gutsy play, hero. You almost had ‘em.”

“Uh huh,” he said, picking up his chips. “Good luck everyone. I’ve got a date with destiny.”

“So that’s her name?” the suit quipped. “But seriously, dude, what’s with the get-up?”

He ignored the suit and headed for the cashier. Winding through endless slot machines, he covered his mouth. The smoke was oppressive. He was tempted to use super speed, but he didn’t want to risk getting noticed. Mostly, though, he was growing tired of coasting through life. It left him wanting.

Turning the corner, he was stopped dead in his tracks. A gun jammed into his abdomen.

“Lex…”

“Bingo,” his adversary replied.

He swung for Lex’s head with his left arm. Lex caught it.

“Hit me,” he said nonchalantly.

“Wha?” replied Lex, confused.

“Well,” he said. “It appears you have a gun, and I’m at a disadvantage.”

“Oh, right,” said Lex. “And it has kryptonite bullets. Nice knowin’ ya.”

Click!

Lex looked down to a completely mangled gun.

“Too late,” he said, pushing Lex to the casino floor.

A little shaken–more from the apparent memory loss than his encounter with Lex–he stumbled towards the elevator. He pushed 17, wanting to get to their hotel room and lie down. Lex said his gun had kryptonite bullets. Did that cause his amnesia? Maybe it was stress. Perry White had sent them here for a convention, but he had other plans. Tonight was going to be a big night.

Reaching into his pocket, he was grateful to discover he hadn’t lost his key in all the hoopla. Entering the room, he was surprised to find her back so soon. “Uh, hi Lois!”

“Hey there. Wasn’t expecting you!”

He looked at her, puzzled, until he realized. He looked down at the big S on his chest.

Lois strutted towards him. “How did you know what room I was in, Superman?” She raised her eyebrows, awaiting an answer.

“Look,” he said.. “You might as well know the truth.” He held her hands. She held back.

“Hit me,” he said.

“Sometimes I’d love to.”

He looked around, then looked at her. “When did I get here?”

“Honestly?” she replied. “I don’t know. I can’t remember, either.”

He took a sharp breath.

“But I do know why. Remove the bracelet, but don’t touch the jewel.” He did as she asked. “This,” she said, walking the bracelet over to the fireplace, “is what wiped out our memories.” She dropped it into the fire.

“How do you know?”

“Silly Superman. I’m the one who gave it to you.”

“You…”

“Lex was after you. I knew even with kryptonite bullets he’d have to be on top of you to hit you. I figure if he got too close, this would wipe out his memory as well, giving you a chance to escape. You’re here, so I assume you did.”

“Superman needs Lois, eh?”

“It appears so.”

He sat down on the bed. She joined him.

“Thank you. But I have to let you know something.”

She raised her eyebrows again.

He slowly took off his cape. “Lois, my life’s been pretty amazing so far. My natural abilities have given me many advantages.” He took off his belt. “I really thought at times that it couldn’t get better. Then I met you.”

She tried not to blush. He took off his tights. She blushed.

“You really have changed my life. Being Superman is fun sometimes, but that man can’t do the thing he most wants to do. And that’s be with you.”

Finally, he put on his glasses. “Recognize this guy?”

“Oh Beau, of course I do!” she said, giving him a hug. “I’ve known for a long time.”

“You have?”

“I’ve just been waiting for you to take off the costume.”

He gulped. “So…in that case, I just have one question.”

“Anything.”

“Will you marry me?”

K: Huh. Well…okay. I don’t know why someone would go so meta so strongly at the end here when by now they know me, but here we are. What kills me is that the character is well-defined early on (yes, he’s an existing character, but I loved the explanation of his boredom with his abilities). I get the feeling that this Survivor based this piece around the ending, and upon writing the other stuff just to get there, stumbled upon a better idea that really should have changed the concept.
Characters: 3
Creativity of reason for Forgettings: 3
Overall Story Effectiveness: 3

DK: This is tough. The first section is excellent – the tone and atmosphere, the characterization of this superhero who is bored with the abilities he has (and I get the sense that this initial boredom is meant to resonate more because of the way the relationship aspect comes together at the end) but the pace and effectiveness of both the plot and the characters started falling off around Lex’s entrance, and couldn’t really come back for me by the time we get to the (presumably) author’s self-insertion (although it wouldn’t be any different if this is someone else writing about Beau as if he’s Superman).
Character: 4
Creativity of Reason for Forgettings: 4
Overall Story Effectiveness: 3

20/30

Peter Bruzek

The intel was good, Malaracher is definitely here.

I slip away from the party to the basement beneath. It won’t be easy to find him or the bomb down here. It will be far more likely that he finds me. I begin to wish that I hadn’t told Hewitt to stay up with the party guests – I could really use a second pair of eyes watching my back.

The gunshot I hear and the blinding pain I feel in my side let me know that my fears have been well rooted in truth.

Dammit, I’ve been sloppy. He knew someone was trailing him, so he doubled back, and he knows the layout of the tunnels much better than I do. Despite the vest, his bullet manages to find at least one or two vital organs. I rise to my feet and try to give chase, but I slip on my own blood and fall hard to the marble floor. My gun clatters away from me, I scramble in vain to retrieve it, but my limbs suddenly feel so heavy. Malarcher disappears into the darkness and I begin to feel woozy from the blood loss.

I retrieve the cylinder from my jacket pocket and press the button.

Five minutes – not a second more or less.

The synchronization alarm goes off to let me know that the forced loop was activated. That means that the first try must not have gone well. In this situation, I suppose it’s natural to over-analyze what mistakes could have lead to the need to start the loop, but that only leads to situational paralysis, and if I’m going to prevent whatever Malarcher’s got in the basement from going off, I’m going to need to have my wits about me. Of course, that doesn’t mean that I don’t make a mental note to exercise caution.

Reminding myself to stay aware, I make my way to the basement. I need to move with some haste. The clock’s ticking.

The basement turns out to have a labyrinth of tunnels. I knew this to be the case because of the mission briefings, but there are a great number of tunnels that simply do not show up on the map I was provided. I know the building is large, but this is ridiculous. I try to think of where the premium location for a bomb of this type would be. The briefings said that it would probably be under the conference rooms, but when I go there, all I see are some scuffs in the floor, implying the device may have been here before, but was removed for some reason. A tip off, perhaps?

I’m still mulling this over when the Janus activates – indicating a wasted loop.

The synchronization alarm sounds. I quickly glance down to check the number, and sigh with relief when the display reads only fifteen. You get one hundred and eighty three five minute loops before you and your surroundings get so out of sync with the prime timeline that re-merging is impossible.

I set about sweeping the maze of corridors and rooms in the basement as fast as I dare allow myself to. I practically stumble across Malarcher and the bomb in a secluded area of the basement, in a room situated right beneath the first floor’s main banquet hall. I’ve caught him by surprise, he looks up from the bomb to see me, and he reaches for his weapon. Without hesitation, I put two bullets in his chest.

He slumps to the floor, and I go to investigate the bomb. As I make my way past him, he mumbles something I can’t quite make out. I look at him inquisitively.

He points at his chest twice, then at the bomb – a deadman switch?

That worry is confirmed seconds later when Malarcher’s heart stops. The bomb gives a loud screech and immediately detonates.

My first fifty one trips back have apparently been fruitless. There’s something ominously difficult about this mission. It was supposed to be a fairly standard “prevent the terrorist from blowing up the building with the VIPs” scenario, but I would think that I would’ve lucked into a solution at this point. It’s time to think outside the box. Cell phones won’t work, since we’re currently cut off the prime timeline, and with it the rest of the world, but the walkie talkies that Hewitt and I carry will still function. I radio him and ask him to meet me in the basement.

He has to know that I’ve started the Janus, even if he isn’t any more aware of each passing loopback than I am. He certainly does seem to take his time getting to the basement, though. By the time he does, two and a half precious minutes have elapsed, and we’re left with a worryingly small window to work with.

Having two people sweeping the basement is much faster, and much safer and we get to Malarcher’s lair fairly quickly. He hasn’t seen us yet, but something doesn’t seem right.

Hewitt’s shot is already fired by the time I’m able to voice my concern. Malaracher drops to the floor, his head a gaping mess. I don’t even get to finish my sentence before the blast annihilates us.

The synchro-alarm blares an ugly threatening tone and the little red light indicates I’m nearing to synchronization breaking point. I check the indicator – one hundred eighty.

I only get three more tries at this.

No one really knows what happens when re-merging is unable to occur. The optimists insist that the timeline fractures and all of the events play themselves out in a new timeline. Most theories figure that those who can’t reconnect with the prime timeline get lost in some sort of timeless void. All I know is that the few times it’s happened, the unfortunate people who were unable to re-synch simply disappeared. My uninformed opinions always sided with the latter.

The one time I got even close to the resynch threshold, I was tasked with preventing a member of an eastern extremist group from assassinating a group of middle eastern diplomats. There were more of them then we had expected, and our contact had been found out and killed before we could determine who the assassin was.

It turns out there were two of them. If Hewitt hadn’t been along and helped me piece it together on try one seventy seven, I would’ve had to abort the mission. Aborting was an option that time, this one’s been given red status – I am to prevent this bombing, even if I have to pass the threshold to do it.

On try number one eighty one, I don’t even find Malarcher. One down, two to go.

I don’t recall what I’ve done on any of the previous loops. Only the device itself persists through the loop back, no actions or memories make the trip, so each time I start out, it’s like I’m flying blind. It’s frustrating, the knowledge that any action you take is one that you’ve probably already taken – perhaps dozens of times – to no effect.

This time, I get lucky, catching Malarcher unaware. He never sees me coming, so I’m able to take my time and execute a leg shot. I get to the bomb, and it doesn’t seem as though he had a chance to activate the countdown. I’m about to enter the code to cancel the next loopback, when I feel the bullet penetrate my back.

A second terrorist?

I crumple to the floor. I can’t turn to see my assailant, but he steps into my sight soon enough, anyway.

Hewitt.

“Why?” I weakly gurgle as he rips the Janus out of my jacket. He fiddles with the device for a couple of seconds.

“You changed the synclock…” he waves his gun in my face.

I did. He can’t cancel the return jump. He doesn’t have anything to threaten me with in these last twenty seconds. He seems pissed off about both of those facts.

I need to find a way to warn myself. Shit. I don’t even have access to the Janus. Even if I did, there’s no way to send yourself a message back in time. Maybe if I…

Last try.

Everything has to work this time, or I have to be willing to condemn myself and everyone in the building to timeless oblivion.

I manage to find Malarcher in a room that doesn’t appear on the provided blueprint. I’m about to make a kill shot, but caution stays my hand, and I opt for a non-lethal shot. I detain the terrorist, and have a look at the bomb. It doesn’t appear as though the countdown had been initiated.

Something’s not right. I don’t think I would have failed a hundred and eighty two times if this situation could be taken at face value.

I hear footsteps coming down the hall. Already feeling jumpy, I raise my weapon and sneak a quick peek at the Janus – one minute remaining. I need to figure this situation out immediately.

Suddenly, Hewitt bursts into the room. He sees that I’ve got my gun trained on him and gives me a questioning look. Then he sees Malarcher restrained in the corner. He gives me an approving nod, and I return it. Time to stop the countdown.

Hewitt catches a glimpse of the Janus device as I pull it from my pocket – the blinking ‘183’ prominently featuring. “Looks like we almost got desynched. Lucky break, I’d say. Cancel the loopback and let’s clean up” he says.

That catches my attention. I was the only agent notified of this mission’s Red status. To minimize leaks, everyone else, including Agent Hewitt, thought this to be a standard Blue status terrorist hunt. If this were indeed a Blue, there would be nothing to cancel, only critical orders would trigger a loopback past the threshold. Even a standard ordinance bomb wouldn’t be enough to justify a red, so what reason would he have had to think otherwise? A quick look at his face show a man who just admitted to knowing more than he should know. With the clock ticking, I think back.

Hewitt saved me in Paris, but the leaps in logic he made to determine the locations of the assassins never made sense to me, even back then. The mission itself was viewed as an unqualified success, but we later learned that the biological materials that ended up being put to use in this very bomb were stolen that evening, while the agency was out tracking a conspicuously high number of high-risk cases – many of which turned out to be false leads. How did Hewitt track Malarcher – or me, for that matter – to this point? A point which, according to the basement map provided by our contact doesn’t even exist.

I look at my watch – only fifteen seconds left.

Hewitt knows that he’s overstepped his ability to backtrack. “Cancel the countdown and let’s talk this over,” he says “you know what allowing this to reset will mean.”

I do. In ten seconds, an embassy full of dozens of diplomats and dignitaries will blink out of existence, along with two terrorists and one thoroughly defeated agent. It will be a disaster, the public will call for the heads of my entire agency for allowing it – no, causing it – to happen.

“Still better than a biological weapon going off in downtown London.” I reply.

Hewitt gives an angry scowl and draws on me and fires.

Hopefully, the optimists are right. Hopefully, there’s time enough still for me to fix this, no matter where or when that might be.

The last seconds tick off the clock. For better or worse, I guess we’ll find out what’s beyond this timeline soon enough.

K: This one has some grammatical missteps and the spelling of Malaracher/Malarcher changes an annoying number of times, but this concept was extremely engaging. I feared that we were going to be paid off with “It’s a video game,” but in the end, I supposed that even if that was going to be the case, the story had drawn me in enough that I could’ve dealt with it. The characters don’t show much of themselves here, but otherwise, this is tons of fun, and a nice ending to the season.

Character: 4
Creativity of Reason for Forgettings: 5
Overall Story Effectiveness: 4

DK: I love this one. I’ll start by saying the characters aren’t outstanding here, either – I feel for this guy because of his situation but other than a few hints here and there, he doesn’t feel especially complex or anything on his own. The good news is that it doesn’t matter for the way this story is set up – the concept is the star here. There’s great care taken in this idea for the memory aspect that shows in how its mechanics operate, and the buildup of tension is pitched superbly to a payoff that feels surprising and yet inevitable at the same time. And satisfying, above all else.
Character: 4
Creativity of Reason for Forgettings: 5
Overall Story Effectiveness: 5

27/30

——————————————-

This season may have been predictable most of the way, but it looks like we had one more surprise in store.

Peter Bruzek is Immune and will be the sole decider of the elimination. After he makes his decision – I’ll give him until Tuesday at noon Central but not expect it to take this long – it’s up to him and the other finalist to tell us why they should win this thing, and we’ll make the decision that’ll change their lives.

Cheers, Survivors. You have been enjoyed.