[Time is composed of infinitely small particles layered into threads—each thread a timeline, each branch a divergence.]
[The foundation of all time threads is what we call the Cantor's Line. Orbiting this are worldlines—each a sequence of inevitable events.]
[A worldline exists only if its core events occur. If they don't, it ends.]
[Branches splitting further from worldlines form timelines—slight variations on the main course.]
[Only within this fragile web can existence thrive in the void beyond the universe.]
[But when something deviates... when it rejects the design—it becomes a variant. An anomaly. Or under one term: ANTItime.]
[They corrupt or destabilize the Cantor's Line, threatening the structure of causality itself.]
[Thes—]
"Oh my God, Bethy. Do you really have to monologue every time we boot up?" I mutter, watching the flickering script scroll across the chrome display inside my fission device.
[It is within protocol to recite the Continuum Primer during transfers to a new anchoring system. I.e., the Pendulum Clock. I am just following tradition. Unlike your grooming habits.]
"I will throw you in a lake," I reply flatly.
Gerald grunts from across the room. He's crouched down in the dark, pawing through broken glass and melted circuitry like a bear with a PhD.
Despite the hunch, he's massive—easily twice my weight and height, even without the thick white coat that never quite fits him right. That coat's more singed now than stitched. His face looks like it hasn't smiled since the Big Bang.
"Do you have everything?" I ask, stepping carefully over cables.
"Almost. Pulling the last of the memory clusters," he says, his tone always half-tired, half-annoyed. "Not that it'll help. Most of it's corrupted."
"I'm surrounded by optimists."
[Would you prefer a lie? Your odds of survival have dropped 3.4% since entry.]
"I swear to God, Bethy—"
He finally stands, adjusting his coat and tapping his fission device. "Done. We've got what we can."
"Great. Remind me to uninstall Bethy's sarcasm chip when we make it out of here."
I glance at a cracked chrome panel, catching my own reflection. Pale. Scrawny. Bloodshot eyes from the last jump. Hair like I fought a hurricane and lost. And somehow this is the face meant to save the Cantor's Line?
God help us.
[Vitals stable. Mild adrenal spike. You're anxious again.]
"No shit, Bethy."
The lights flicker as the system completes.
[Transfer complete. Registered Timekeepers: Tien Tashkov. Gerald Hoffmann.]
Gerald and I step toward the door at the edge of the chamber—the pygrate seal still untouched, glowing faintly.
It looms.
Cold. Heavy.
Something on the other side is waiting. Watching.
I can feel it breathing beneath the metal.
"Tien," Gerald says without looking. "Ready?"
I nod. Or at least I think I do.
The world feels just a little off again. The air tighter. Like something's shifted.
My hand hovers over the lock.
And then—we open the door.
…
…
Nothing.
There was nothing.
No smoke. No fire. No anomaly bursting through the seams of time.
Just the hush of wind through leaves, and the quiet hum of a world untouched.
We stood in the middle of a forest. Wild, damp, and alive. Trees towered over us like ancient sentinels. Moonlight spilled down between branches, cold and silver.
[Scanning area…]
Bethy's voice echoed through the fissure device, faint against the rustling leaves.
Gerald stepped forward without a word, his heavy boots crunching the underbrush. He pushed past a wall of tangled shrubbery.
[Local time: March 5, 2001. North Woods… NYC perimeter.]
A break in the tree line revealed it: the city—hazy and golden in the distance. Lights shimmered beneath the night sky like a sleeping colossus.
Gerald exhaled slowly.
"Outcome Three," he muttered. "Like we always thought."