Chapter Text
Movies and books about time travel were total bullshit.
They never described how painful the change was. The shift from future to present, body to body, consciousness shoved somewhere it didn’t belong.
Or maybe it just hurted because Robert had woken up from a coma a few days ago and didn’t own a bed.
Right now he was lying on the floor of his apartment. The plastic chair had been fucking with his back for hours, and the floor had won by default. Cold, flat, and depressing.
The peak of comfort.
Rich people could eat their hearts out.
…He hated Shroud so fucking much.
It was his fault. It was always his fault.
The final showdown had been a mess. Robert had really thought he’d outplayed the bastard, dumping both Astral Pulses into his hands like a mic drop. Shroud had been on his knees, retching, barely conscious.
So of course the fucker shot him.
Just one shot. Sloppy, desperate. Straight through the heart.
Robert had died on the floor because of that. Killed by a half-dead man actively vomiting. It was humiliating, honestly. On brand for his luck, but still.
He tried to keep his eyes from closing as everything faded. Invisigal’s hands were shaking where they pressed against his chest, warm and useless against the blood. She was saying something. Crying, maybe. Words slid right past him.
He needed to tell them something before they fell apart again. Before they turned inward and burned themselves out like they always did, just when they’d finally started to look like heroes.
“Visi…” He murmured, barely sure if his mouth was working. “I always knew you could do good. Tell the others… I thought they could too.”
He wasn’t even sure she had heard him.
That was fine. He knew they could figure it out.
He closed his eyes because staying awake hurt too much, and he’d always been weak like that. He believed they’d survive without him. They were stronger. They always had been.
He thought that was the end.
It wasn’t.
He woke up in the middle of the woods.
Except they weren’t woods. His brain knew that immediately, screaming wrong wrong wrong even as his eyes tried to make sense of trees that felt more like entities than plants.
He wasn’t breathing. That should have mattered. It didn’t.
His heart wasn’t beating either, and that also didn’t matter.
He stood there, perfectly functional and completely empty, like someone had forgotten to put the important parts back in. Focusing on it too hard felt like it might crack him open, so he didn’t.
He walked until he saw a cottage in the distance.
Small. Ordinary. Wrong.
The light around it bent in a way that made his instincts curl inward, sharp and terrified. Prey instincts. Rabbit instincts. The kind that told you to run before you understood why.
Robert knew better than to enter glowing cottages in suspicious not-woods. Every horror story, fairy tale, and survival instinct agreed on that.
But he was already dead.
So might as well.
He knocked on the door.
It opened immediately.
Inside were two individuals. Robert couldn’t tell if they were male or female, but that felt like a secondary concern. They were seated at a small table, apparently in the middle of a tea party.
They were… dressed. Maybe. Furs and soft fabrics clung to them, though Robert couldn’t tell where the clothes ended and their bodies began. The one on the right was clear and bright, tinted red like warm light. The one on the left was blurred and dark, washed in deep blue.
They were very clearly not human.
The realization hit a split second before the pain did. A sharp spike lanced through Robert’s head, sudden and vicious enough that he staggered and caught himself on the doorframe with a hiss. The room swam, colors smearing like wet paint.
“Mhm… I don’t think these forms will work, dear.” The red one said mildly, as if commenting on an outfit choice.
The blue one pouted, chin resting in their hand. “Aww. But I like this form.”
Before Robert could process what that meant, they snapped their fingers in unison.
Their shapes shifted. Edges softened. The wrongness didn’t disappear, but it blurred, smoothing into something closer to human proportions. Close enough that the pressure behind Robert’s eyes eased into a dull, manageable throb.
“Robert Robertson the Third.” The red one said, smiling pleasantly. “Do come join us for tea.”
Robert stared at them.
He knew better than to accept invitations from ominous entities having tea parties in forest cottages. Every instinct he had was loudly objecting, listing reasons, practically begging him to turn around and leave.
But his pulse was still nonexistent.
So why not.
He crossed the room and sat at the table, forcing himself to move normally while every nerve in his body screamed at him to run. He kept his expression carefully neutral, sheer stubbornness doing most of the work.
“Let’s cut to the chase.” The blue one said, grinning like this was their favorite part. “We aren’t human, and you just died.”
Robert opened his mouth.
“No.” The red one added smoothly, not even glancing their way. “This is not the afterlife.”
Robert closed his mouth again and frowned, confusion settling in where panic probably should have been.
The blue one hummed, clearly pleased with themself.
“Let us exposition a little, dear guest. Afterwards, you can ask your questions.”
Robert stayed silent, staring at them like if he blinked something important might slip past him.
The red one tilted their head, clearly taking his quiet as permission to continue. “You see.” They said gently, as if explaining something obvious to a child. “The timelines aren’t exactly what you creatures think they are. They aren’t neat lines or fixed paths. They’re far more… flexible. Non-restrictive, if you will. Most never realize that.”
The blue one leaned back in their chair, grinning wider. “We won’t bore you with the details, of course. If we tried to explain it the way The Beings do, your head would probably explode like a grape.” They made a small popping gesture with their fingers for emphasis.
A chill crawled down Robert’s spine, the kind that had nothing to do with temperature.
The red one turned slowly, their pleasant expression hardening as they fixed the blue one with a sharp glare. “That was unnecessary.”
The blue one only shrugged, utterly unrepentant, and stuck their tongue out like a child who knew they were pushing their luck.
“There are Beings known by many names.” The red one continued calmly. “Though none of them are particularly creature-friendly. So let’s call them ‘The Writers’.” As they spoke, they set a cup filled with a star-like liquid in front of Robert. It shimmered softly, like it contained a piece of the night sky.
“These Beings create what you would call ‘main timelines’ or ‘The Stories’.” The red one went on. “Think of them as trees, planted like seeds. As they grow, their branches become what you creatures refer to as ‘alternative timelines’.”
The blue one hummed thoughtfully as they took a bite of… something. Robert chose not to investigate.
He preferred his head un-pop.
“That’s where you creatures come in.” The blue one said, swallowing. “You’re known by other names too, but for the sake of the allegory, let’s call you ‘The Readers’.” They grinned. “You’re the ones who make the tree grow. Every choice you make, passive or otherwise, sprouts a new branch.”
“This behavior is actually encouraged by The Writers.” The red one added, lifting their cup and taking a measured sip of the star-lit liquid. “It makes the structured main timelines breathe. Makes them interesting. You creatures see possibilities they never could have considered.”
Robert nodded slowly.
Something in his shoulders loosened, tension bleeding away as the idea of a destiny that had to be fulfilled quietly died.
The blue one scoffed. “Although, thanks to this rather leisurely way of dealing with these trees, sometimes rotting branches appear.”
The red one shot him a warning look.
The blue one sighed, rolling their shoulders. “Apologies. I forgot to mention something important.” They leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “While it’s true that all choices create branches, there are exceptions. Irregularities.” Their grin thinned. “We call them ‘Plot Holes’.”
Robert felt his stomach twist.
“They’re nearly impossible.” The blue one continued lightly. “Statistically speaking. But on rare occasions, they do occur.”
The red one hummed, expression grim. “For example.” They said evenly. “Your death.”
Robert stilled.
“These Plot Holes introduce rot into the branch.” The blue one said, smiling again like this was all terribly fascinating. “And that’s where we come in.” They gestured between them with a flourish. “Apologies again for the delayed introductions, but you may call us ‘The Editors’.”
The red one sighed, the tension easing just slightly. “Thedes even went to the trouble of creating creature-friendly names for us.” They said fondly. “As you heard, he is Thedes. And I am Azdohr.” They lifted their cup. “We are considered secondary Beings, beneath ‘The Writers’.”
Robert nodded slowly.
He finally lifted the cup in front of him and took a careful sip of the star-like liquid.
His heart wasn’t beating anyways.
The taste was strange, distant, and he made no effort to analyze it. Pushing his mind too hard right now felt like a good way to make his head do something unpleasant, like popping.
Thedes smiled, wide and excited, clearly in love with their job.
“Usually, when branches begin to rot, we perform a small rewind.” They explained cheerfully. “We fill in the gap and cure the damage. In more severe cases, we cut the branch entirely and place it somewhere we will call ‘The Composed’, where it can be repurposed for future trees without affecting The Stories.” They tilted their head. “Most rotting branches stop growing on their own anyway. They wither. Sometimes they infect the tree.”
Robert couldn’t help himself. “Most?”
“Most.” Azdohr repeated.
They leaned forward, interest finally creeping into their voice. “Because somehow your branch continued to grow after it began rotting. As if the timeline itself was resisting its own ending.”
Thedes’s voice softened. “We initially planned to rewind your timeline slightly. Redirect the bullet. Shoulder instead of heart. Simple correction.” Their smile dimmed. “That was before we saw this.”
They produced a single leaf and brushed their fingers across its surface.
The image bloomed to life.
The Z-Team stood at Robert’s funeral, quiet and shattered. Invisigal cried openly, clutching herself like she might come apart.
The scene shifted.
Invisigal again, older, steadier, throwing herself into hero work with everything she had.
Coupe leaving flowers at Robert’s grave in silence, apology etched into every movement.
Flambae stepping up, taking command, guiding the team through the grief.
Sonar fighting to stay clean, stumbling but refusing to stop.
Waterboy learning to control his powers. Improving with every single bit of potential Robert had seen.
The images kept coming.
Robert felt his chest tighten, each scene stacking on the last until he was seconds away from breaking.
“They kept fighting.” Thedes said quietly. “And because they did, the timeline kept growing with them. It was as if The Readers themselves filled the Plot Holes.”
“So…” Azdohr cut in, coughing awkwardly as Robert turned to them in alarm “We cut the branch.”
Robert froze.
“I mean.” Azdohr corrected quickly, waving a hand. “We replanted it. As its own main timeline. That’s what we do with branches that show exceptional growth. We let them reach their full potential.”
Relief rushed through Robert so hard it almost knocked him dizzy.
Thedes snickered. “Now who’s the unempathetic one?”
“Shush.” Azdohr huffed. “Anyway. The branch eventually reached its limit. It kept fighting, but the rot was still there. Too strong. Like it was missing something.”
Robert swallowed. “Missing what?”
Thedes grinned and tapped Robert lightly on the forehead.
“You.” They said. “We’re going to revive you in the past. Before any major Plot Point occurs. Or at least we’ll try. With your consciousness intact.” Their eyes gleamed. “The rot will still exist, but given what your dear ones have already accomplished, we believe full recovery is well within reach.”
Robert didn’t get a chance to respond.
His eyes closed.
He woke up staring at the ceiling of his apartment, body aching like hell, only a few days after coming out of his coma.
Azdohr and Thedes were fucking liars.
After that exposition dump, they hadn’t let him ask a single question.
Those fuckers.