Archive of Our Own

The end.

Thirteen point seven billion years ago, the universe was born from a tiny, hypercondensed ball of matter. An incomparable explosion resulting from a single point. Dust gathered in clumps that grew and grew and, eventually, quintillions of hydrogen atoms started smashing together, scattering light and heat and power in a nuclear staccato of ever expanding energy. Stars.

But every star dies eventually.

Nuclear fusion is an exothermic reaction, meaning it produces energy. It does this up and unto the creation of iron, atomic number twenty six. After that, fusion is endothermic, meaning it requires energy. Upon the creation of iron, stars can no longer produce energy, and, therefore, cannot sustain the reaction that staves off gravity’s crushing grip. Following this, there are three basic possibilities: White dwarf, Neutron star, or Black hole.

You knew there was only so much time until you hit that point. You wondered if you’d shine, or if you’d tear the world apart atom by atom.

Idly, you note that you’ve all but won. You mentally tally: 57,563.

The Knight had ceased to be a significant obstacle a long time ago, although it still got you sweating. It was banished into the endless light, and the Roaring was stopped. It took you only a few minutes to ‘discover’ Dess’s dust in the Bunker. Kris had wanted to keep her alive. As a shadow in that Dark World. But of course, just like how the turtle was never really himself, ‘Dess’ was only using the memory of the Dark Worlds creator - the mother- to emulate her. Barely recalled as anything more than a rebellious child by her own mother. Yet Kris still fought to preserve her.

As it all came to a close, Kris, staring at the robotically spiteful Dess, knowing now as they always did that it wasn’t really her, could only crumble.

You approached them, as you always did, and, as you always did, reached a hand out to their shoulder, giving a calculated squeeze.

Their throat collapsed into a choked laugh, but you could feel the way they leaned into your touch. You smiled, and so was the beginning of the end. You wonder if they can feel it too. This moment. Crushing everything.

The observable universe expands at roughly 73 kilometers per second per megaparsec. In other words, objects which are more distant from us move away from us faster. Or, more likely, objects which move away from us faster are more distant. Eventually, these stars will be so distant that they are no longer visible. And we will be alone.

This moment is kind of like the Big Bang, in that sense. It’s what starts the universe, but paradoxically, the vast momentum it imparts is what separates the universe. What will inevitably isolate it. Though, of course, most stars will have exploded by that point. Razed the worlds, and collapsed etc etc. You admit your metaphor is imperfect, but it helps you focus. Helps you keep going. As long as you know to fear the dark - the monster you could become - you know you can keep going. Somehow, someway. You’ll come back to them again and again - The rubber band effect, you muse idly.

Back to here.

“Thank you.” They say, smiling at you. It feels as beautiful as it always does, like it’s the first time. The novelty of tasting chocolate, of making friends, or holding crinkling leaves in your hands and being elated that there are scented candles for everything. It all wears and fades. Old wallpaper rotting at the edges. But their smile is an incorruptible experience. You wonder if there’s anything like it, and yet, can’t bring yourself to go looking. “You… I still don’t like you. But I know you weren’t brought here by your own choice. Carol - dad - we dragged you here. But….” They shivered, clutching one arm with the other and avoiding your gaze. Still, their smile persists. “But… truce?” They ask, reaching out to shake your hand.

“Truce.” You say for the 57,563rd time, knowing you’ll be more.

It started, as you perfectly recall, about five days after. Originally, it was an accident. Now it was as purposeful as the mercy you’d wielded time and again. Kris had been on a date with someone - the cat teenager - and you, tired from staying up late looking up all the different ways someone could design a shirt (quite a lot), had stumbled into the diner and begged for a coffee. Kris had said it was “honestly the most pathetic thing I could’ve imagined.” And that it “Looked strange on you.” But they giggled every time they thought of it.

You matched each memorized wobble perfectly, each charming warbled syllable, as you all but bowed before the rabbit for giving you the fabled caffeine. Again it did nothing to wake you up. Again, you heard a mild giggle in the background that left you fighting a grin. The cat’s discontented huff was meaningless.

You felt in the distance. The far, far distance, as the universe collapsed just a little more. It’s fine. You knew this would happen. You. Are not. Insane. This is the only thing that matters. The only thing that’s worth it.

Next up, is a few weeks after that. As you’re wandering about, their mother sees you and invites you to eat with them at home. At the time, you hadn’t been aware that this was usually considered awkward. Now, it was a well worn truth that you heedlessly ignored. Maybe there was another way. You aren’t interested. This one works fine. You sit down with them, and pretend to feel the heat of Kris’s glare. Trying not to look them in the eyes was always a task, but you could do it. Their mother looks between you two, realizing something, and frowns pensively. She says something. You say your line. “Sorry, ma’am. I’ll leave.” And get up with a clever face of hopeless disappointment. As you turn, there’s a scraping sound as Kris rises from their seat. You pause for just a moment, and then keep going. But just as you take the next step, they grab your hand pulling slightly. You turn to face them, blinking in faux confusion.

They open their mouth –

“Stop.” You say. You gulp, and pull back, letting go of their hand - chilly! - and ignore the way you can feel Mom getting prouder by the second. The high of the Knights defeat, the camaraderie of Dess’s loss. These feelings have… mostly subsided by now. Your anger has returned like a demon, puppeting your limbs. You’ve been putting this off for weeks. You can’t let yourself be a puppet again, not even to your own emotions. It’s time for you to talk to them. You’ve been living in a fantasy since Dess died. The Angel did wrong things, yeah, but you can’t fool yourself into believing they chose to control you. Still, you can’t shake your old habits off like clothes. You can’t show weakness. Instead you search for the right words. Ones that will keep them here, will impart your intentions, and will keep the balance of power you’ve become accustomed to. One where you are equals. “Truce?” You say, giving them a weak smile.

They return it. “Truce.”

You remember how you felt when the Knight was there, looming over Dess’s dust. How it had struck its crooked deal with Carol. How she’d dragged you into it. ‘It’s inevitable.’ She’d excused. ‘It’s inevitable.’ You’d repeated. The prophecy was clear. It was exact. And the Knight was the prelude - its executioner and enforcer. It was proof that the prophecy was real. That it was inevitable. But you’ve learned; Nothing is inevitable. Every leaf, every word, every possibility. It’s all real. The prophecy was as real as its defeat. The Angel wasn’t banished. The Roaring did not bathe the world in darkness. Chaos theory. The idea that every difference was meaningful. Every atom, every bit of energy, it was in an eternal exchange, constantly moving and moving and moving. You could drop an egg in the same spot, in the same way, and have it hit the ground at the exact same angle, every day for a thousand years, and eventually, inevitably, the egg will crack differently. They taught you that much. The prophecy said they’d be gone, and they said fuck that.

You pulled them back to the table. Mom shot you a proud smile, and you fought to look sufficiently broody. You can’t help but giggle, though.

“So. I’ve seen you around town a few times. Going well?” You ask. Things follow smoothly from there. Conversation with them is surprisingly interesting. With the context of their existence, the amount that you have so far at least, it’s interesting to see someone experiencing everything for the first time. They talk in a hurried manner, trying desperately to get it all out in time, as if the moment they breathe it’ll all come crashing down. But it’s not worried, rather it's exciting and joyous. You compare it to some kid in a candy shop, trying everything. They talk about how the different trees around town are all so interesting, how each one is slightly different, how the ants and spiders and microbes all move in such interesting patterns, that they swear if they could trace in a way you’d understand would be so beautiful your heart would stop. How the ways so many ideas and inventions collide and connect is captivating, how the printing press led to education and education led to a renaissance and a renaissance led inventions and ideas, so many failures, but each one tinged with something gloriously alive. A hope. How Da-Vinci wanted to fly, how Galileo wanted to map every star in the sky, how Shakespere wanted to discard the Petrarchen ideals of old and bring the truth of romance to light.

Mom told them they were very dramatic. You agreed easily, ganging up on them for fun.

They groaned, and you laughed. Mom shot you a look.

When they finally leave, you go to your room and find yourself staring at an empty red pull trolley in the corner of the room. They already embodied everything you wanted. You wanted to believe that anything could happen. That everything mattered. They talk about things that happened a hundred years ago or more like they’re the most important thing in the world. Like they matter. Like everything matters. You wish you could do that.

You stand up to approach it, but as your foot hits the bed frame, it slips, and a butterfly flaps its wings. Your face hits the floor with a painful slam, your nose bursting blood onto the floor. You roll in pain, and as you start to recover your senses, you pause.

There, under your bed, is a bat. Dess’s bat.

You forgot you had it, somehow.

You reach out and take it. What did she call it when they played together? “Chain-smasher or something.” Definitely along those lines. She always liked to play the righteous dark knight. Free the poor captive, usually Noelle, occasionally Jockington in a tutu. She’d bop them on the head and they’d jump up and shout ‘I’m free!’

It was a silly memory. A nice one. Of the real Dess. You had too many memories of a lie to call this momentary acknowledgement of the truth insignificant.

You huddled the bat closer to yourself. It wasn’t right of you, but you’d taken it from her. Knowing Dess, she probably wanted to be dusted with it. She’d say something like ‘Fuck the snowglobe look! Just put my dust inside and start swingin!’

You giggled. Maybe not. It seemed too outlandish even for Dess.

Maybe you should play some whiffleball. Tomorrow. Could invite some of the other kids.

You swung the bat idly. That sounded like a good idea. Dess wouldn’t want the bat to waste away under your bed.

You set down the article on tea. Four thousand five hundred fifty seven brews out there. You’d only ever managed to try one thousand fifty two. You didn’t have enough time to try certain ones - most were just too far away or too expensive. But there was a surprising amount within reach. The next article your past self had read during the original timeline had been one detailing the sociocultural history of beeniebabies. You remember liking it.

There was a knock behind you, on the door to the study lab. It slid open. The blue bird was about to remind you the librarby closed in twenty minutes. He would also remind you at ten, five, three, and two remaining minutes.

“Hello fellow studyant! I applaud your dedication, but I fear the libraby will be closing early.” The blue bird huffed, their ever present lack of confidence making itself known. “I am… I am headed to the sports field to play a game of wiffle ball!” He declared.

Hm..? That’s definitely not right. What is this? You try to remember his name. Something something Bird. It should’ve been easy to recall.

No. It doesn’t matter.

“Blue bird. I too am interested in this game of wiffle ball. Take me with you.”

He balks for a moment, but then recovers. “Ah but of course my human compatriate! And by the time the game is done, you will surely remember the name: Berdly!”

You finished packing up your stuff, and blinked. He’d been talking to you. “What was that?”

He drooped, his wings going low enough they almost touched the floor. “N- nevermind. Just… come on. It’s near the school.”

Indeed, as the bird said, it was near the school. You’d never went in your first timeline, and so never went at all. It wasn’t important to the ideal timeline. You weren’t sure what mistake you’d made, but this wasn’t the ideal timeline. You could just reset. But it was best to know what mistake you’d made. That way you could prevent it in the future. It was probably a small one, hard to notice. You could swear you’d done everything right.

You stepped onto the field with the blue bird. Curiosity struck you, as it often did with new things, and you took a moment to take it all in. It was well taken care of, a classic orange sand baseball field. Around the edges were small trenches of tucked dirt between the field and the sidewalk, all containing dark water pools from a recent rainy day. There were twenty thousand forms of bacteria inside the one closest to you, you watched them eat each other for a moment. The field itself was separated from the sidewalk by a grated fence, which stretched thrice as high near the bleachers. In the dugout a few people talked idly, waiting for some unspoken time when they would all start actually playing the game they’d met up for.

Around the eastern side was the thick of the forest, which revealed years of half hidden love notes carved into the bark. Old ones faded or stretched by the trees growth. The blue bird had followed you, occasionally asking about what you were up to, a question which you readily answered. Speaking of others, you caught a monster in the corner of your eye, coming towards you. The armless one. They were weak, you could tell. Weak and trusting. You dismissed the thought. It wasn’t relevant.

“Hey! Yo!” He said strangely, correcting his unhip vocabulary mid sentence. “You guys playin’ or what?”

You thought for a moment. Either you played, or you did not. There were various benefits to both ideas and-

“We’re playing.” Blue bird said.

…

You nodded. You were used to having no choices. The inevitable. Sometimes you wondered how long the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs traveled. How miniscule the chance was that it stay the path unimpeded for, likely, millions of years. Yet more proof of how illogical ‘random chance’ became when in the presence of time travel. How could anything be random when everything was always the same?

Not that you particularly disliked that. The world was a better place for its beauty. A better place for each repeated timeline where you put yourself into the arms of your beloved. In this place where choice and chance have been revealed as lies, you can imagine nothing more important than the truth.

Speaking of, there they were now. Kris was on their way over, gorgeous even in their unbrushed hair and tired eyes. They lugged along a wifflebat. You put it to mind. It was owned by Dess. Her name was easy since Kris was always talking about her later on. If you didn’t have all the time in the universe, you might’ve gotten jealous. Ha.

“You’re here.” Kris said simply. The way they lean the bat over their shoulders, the charming scowl they suppress at the sight of you, it makes you wonder if they’re going to swing it at you. You’ve had a million battles. You twist your foot unconsciously for a better dodging position, and then force it back. If they hit you, it’s fine. Their bat and form would produce an estimated 15 pounds of force. Adorable.

You frown. You keep getting caught up in this failed timeline. You shouldn’t care about any of this. All that’s supposed to matter is finding out what went wrong and resetting. You nod to yourself, and midway remember you’re talking to Kris. You disguise the movement as a nod to their question. It might’ve sounded like a statement, mind, but it was definitely a question. You knew Kris. “Yeah. I’m here. Blue bird mentioned it. I thought it might be fun.”

“Hm.” Kris smiled. “You forgot Berdly’s name?” They teased. “Not too surprising. You forgot my name sometimes back when you were possessing me.”

Was it really that important? You shrug. You certainly didn’t consider it important, personally. Berdly was relevant for a few Darkworlds, sure. But after that? Who cares. Every star - you balked at the idea of comparing Berdly to a star - every bulb has its time to shine. But it goes out eventually. Second law of thermodynamics. Energy spreads, and it does not concentrate. “I’ll try to remember it, Kris.” You say. You’re not sure if it’s the truth, but whether or not it is isn’t important.

What’s important is finding out what happened. Why Kris arranged this game. “I wanted to ask, what made you think of this?” You gesture to the field as a whole. “Was it something I did?”

Kris blinks, frowning slightly. “No?” They tap the bat over their shoulders, and glance at Berdly behind you. You don’t bother checking what he’s doing - you’re already halfway to forgetting his name again anyways. Their gaze returns to you, as it should. “I just found this bad under my bed and thought ‘Dess would probably want it to see some use’. You know?”

You very much did not know. “Hm. Why?” You ask, your lips curving up at one end. Vaguely, you remember you used to do this when you were confused. When had you forgotten about that? When had you stopped doing it?

Kris snorts, and shakes their head. “Is it important?”

“Yes.”

“Uh… well, I just slipped, honestly. Off the edge of my bedframe” They searched your face, and likely understood their answer had not helped you - what you needed to know was what you did that changed things. Not just what happened. They must’ve found something amusing, because they giggled. “You’re so weird.”

You frown as they walk off. Blue bird follows them to the field, and they start the game.

What?

Huh?

They just slipped?

But… why?

You, obviously. It had to be because of you. It’s always you. It’s all you.

Choices. Chances. These things are just lies. You are the truth.

Your hands grip at your sides, nails digging into skin like little knives. You take a breath. You’ll figure it out. Then things can go back to normal. Back to the same days with the same people. You smile. This won’t take long.

You walk off, and leave the game behind.