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there's something quiet about it, there always is. he takes a breath, holds the locket clock necklace he's always had in one hand, and rewinds.
and for a moment, it's only quiet.
silence in voids between time is where he was created, and he makes a point to pay no mind to the suddenly much more prominent black in his veins. time runs through him, it always has; he supposes that is the finite intricacies with being a five dimensional being.
time folds.
there is nothing peaceful about all of time compressed into a millisecond flashing before your eyes, and yet. peace and war are woven into his very being the same way time is, and in moments like these the lines can get a little blurred.
he's back in his bed, friday morning, and if he got it right--
his alarm rings.
--down to the millisecond.
when he was younger, and couldn't quite wrap his head around clocks and all their hands, he had a necklace with a button labeled reset hanging from his neck. but then again, that was a time when he tended to get himself stuck in timeloops, and trust him, those are never fun. back then, he didn't quite understand time. then again, that is probably the consequence of giving a child domain over time.
he gets himself up and out of bed, turns his alarm clock off, and debates the consequence of not eating anything again.
he gets dressed, clear intent; hides all his scars because time travel--and by association immortality--can only reverse so much. scars like gunshots to the head mostly heal over, but there's still that little pale spot he can trace. he wears turtlenecks to hide the line around his neck.
today is no different.
except, it is.
he doesn't get stuck in timeloops anymore, thank gods.
but today is an important day nonetheless. he wouldn't have marked it as such on the first iteration of today.
see, he's far from the only time traveler.
he is, however, the only natural born one.
time is a resource, and you can harness it like such. (everytime you speed up the wind of clock handles--or press the forward button--a couple coins that weren't there before make their home in your pockets.)
as he's getting his stuff together, and both penny and alice have their heads turned away, munching on breakfast, he slips a gun in his backpack, and a knife up his sleeve.
he leaves without waiting for them.
they don't question it.
nathan's already outside the door, and yes, it's one of those days. he can't bring himself to call the harbinger of the apocalypse "nugget."
he seems to understand this with the way his eyes wander.
they don't talk. they know better to. (they never mention the retainment of time that never was; something about the power of gods' in two fifteen year olds.)
time ripples in the air, in the way only he can see. he feels the tears as they press against the thin veil of stagnancy, and the even thinner veil of the perception of time being a line .
time doesn't like to be controlled , and those that try to seem to leave this effect. (it's different with him; time's always had a soft spot for her child, he is of her as she is of him. it's never been about controlling time, silly.)
timing is everything.
when he and the child of death (desolation follows in his wake, unhealthy obsession stemming from blood, cult followings worshiping a god, praying for him to be their next child. nathaniel means "god's gift." in a way, he is.) enter the school, they make a point to ignore their few friends.
any pangs of guilt he feels are quickly snuffed out by the images of them all lying dead flashing in front of his eyes. timing is one thing, and protection is another. (even before he had the clock, he had the dog tags hanging from his neck--quiet reminders of his heritage. he is as much time's child as he is of his own.
he doesn't have parents? ah, but he does. given, he doesn't remember them much. one day, they just never came home. cass makes a point to check on him twice a week. she curses his tendency to take in the children that no longer have homes--or ones that they don't want to return to. penny and alice are proof enough of that. nathan might as well be.
sibling is an important term to him.)
he sits in front of the door he knows well enough is locked, and as he feels seconds tick by, one by one and counting milliseconds, he cocks the gun. some students scream. (they won't remember this, but time leaves phantom caresses, it doesn't like being forgotten, perhaps that is why he remembers so much. )
he hugs his forearm close to his chest, feeling the knife there for contingency. he knows he will not miss, but his mind is always spitting every scenario, and he keeps track of all of them. (footnotes in the backroads of time.)
time s l o w s
he fires.
the bullet pierces the rogue time traveler's carotid. she does not know she will be the cause of every single person here's death. (the butterfly effect is one hell of a thing, and the tunnel effect is one hell of a drug.)
time fizzles just that little bit, and in the third iteration of today, she will no longer be there. (time travel's weird like that.)
he opens his locket, presses his finger against the hour hand, and rewinds.
there's something quiet about it.