Story Title: Present
Character: John's POV, references to Sarah, Cameron, and Derek.
Warnings: Some angst, references to psychological struggles.
John is used to living in that space between myth and science. The space where bodies live out the theories and stories that made them.
Maybe it's because he knows that science will produce creatures far more enigmatic than monsters.
Maybe it's because he himself will be a legend some day, a hero like Achilles, who laid waste to his enemies. But also Daedalus, the tinkerer, who was the only one who could live with the monster and not be devoured.
Both, he knows, had more success than happiness.
Whatever the reason, John has never had the luxury to kick myth into one box and science in another. So he is not surprised when he learns about Pandora's box and Schrodinger's box on the same day.
He learns about them at school, of all places.
His English teacher says that the story of Pandora is a warning not to be too curious. The quest for knowledge condemns all of humanity because Pandora just had to know what was in that box.
A student raises his hand and asks why the Greeks would tell a depressing story about how the world is full of suffering and wretchedness.
John wonders then what this boy will do after the bombs fall, if he's led the kind of life that makes him ask such a question. John feels a pang of guilt for doing nothing to make the boy a survivor – he can't attract attention, after all. But as his classmate argues with the teacher, as he insists that life is fun and exciting as long as you try hard and have a good attitude, John starts to envy him. For having the kind of home where people think stupid things.
But then the teacher thankfully changes the subject to the creature left in the box. The flailing beast, trapped there still.
Hope.
Hope, according to this story, is what keeps you moving forward when all the other creatures have had their way with you.
And you have to keep moving forward, after all: time won't stand still no matter how much you wish it would.
John tunes out then as the class talks about hope; it's practically the same thing as talking about the future. And he doesn't want to hear what they think.
He sometimes wonders what Sarah thinks about hope, and whether she really believes it can win battles that strength and strategy can't. He doubts it.
He also wants to know what she hopes for, if anything. But that's on the long list of questions he's not sure he wants the answers to. And besides, she probably wouldn't answer anyway.
Hope is complicated.
For example, John doesn't hope that Sarah will live to a hundred.
He's already figured out that she won't.
He doesn't hope to live a peaceful life. That would be beyond childish fantasy; it would be downright delusional.
He doesn't hope that he will be able to save Kyle; John's existence proves he won't.
That's the real problem with time travel. It's not the paradoxes or the multiple timelines of different travelers. It's the hope problem. There are some stories that have already been written, and no amount of hope or theories or brilliant plans can compete with that….
He tries to pay attention to class again. The teacher writes a quote on the board, something about hope being different from optimism. Hope being what remains when you aren't likely to succeed but keep fighting anyway. John makes a mental note in case he needs this for a radio address some day. Then he silently berates himself; he's a bit resentful of future-John lately, and doesn't want to give him the extra help.
And if that's not crazy, then John doesn't know what is.
-
Later, in physics class, the teacher tells them about Schrodinger's box. At first, John thinks the story is morbid. Live cats or dead cats, and no one really caring which is which; it's a mere intellectual exercise, and it reminds him of Cameron more than he'd like to admit.
But eventually John realizes the point: If you haven't opened the box, you don't really know what's in it.
Multiple possibilities, fluctuating in the same space.
And John doesn't understand exactly why, but he hears it's because everything is entangled with everything else. And this makes sense to John, it sticks in his mind. He imagines Sarah and himself holding a box, not knowing what's inside – if it's life or death - and they stand there, tense but determined, knowing that if they open the box, they could change its contents entirely. John imagines them staring at each other, neither sure if they are trying to keep the lid on or figuring out the least awful way to open it.
And then all of a sudden, John realizes: he understands the story of Pandora. The two boxes aren't so different after all.
Multiple futures. In their hands.
The story of hope, still in the box. Humanity won't let it fly away.
John understands then why Sarah won't answer when he asks whether stopping the war or preparing for war is the higher priority. He understands why Derek and Cameron have never really talked about whether they are from the same future.
He understands why he can't figure out whether he hopes to live to become future-John or if he hopes he doesn't.
Multiple possibilities. Each refusing to disappear before their time.
John, for the first time in a long while, feels like he understands.
He knows he can't tell anyone.
But still, it's a relief. Like the box just got lighter, even if it also got more dangerous.
It's a tradeoff John can live with.