Untimely was originally planned out as a multi-chapter story. It was begun, forgotten, rediscovered and finished as a one shot (as of, in moment of writing, yesterday), which in hindsight was probably for the best. As for the idea, I believe that it has occurred and reoccurred to me quite frequently in the past; the "Wait… Miranda Lotto can temporarily rewind time, but what if she could also wind it forward?" thought that crossed paths with the concept of time travel (for which I am an admitted sucker). As for the result… well, you may judge that one for yourselves (if you dare). Cheers!
-o0o-
She ought to have known better, really. She ought to have known better than to step out of line; than to mess things up; than to ruin everything even though she had known that it would all lead to ruin. That everything would come to ruin was after all inevitable, and she realises this as she averts her eyes from the cool amber gaze that has landed upon her and remained there, narrowing disdainfully at her failure to provide a proper response.
"Answer me."
To think that such a ragged-looking young man secured to the cell wall in shackles could command such authority, even in such a state. Then again, though the face of the other is vaguely familiar to her, it is a face mirroring the emotions of a stranger, a twisted reflection of the once familiar but no longer available.
If she could turn back time – permanently – at any cost, then she would do so.
If she could undo all the harm that she had done through her mere insufferable existence, then she would have done so, and done so merrily.
But to her despair, she no longer holds any authority over time and can no longer rewind it, not even temporarily, and the result of her actions – the result of her meddling – sits chained to the cell wall opposite to the one with the corner in which she has crawled up, wishing that she could become one with the shadows or with the wall itself and that she would just melt away into nothingness and that everything would be undone and-…
She has cried enough already, but that doesn't prevent her from sniffling involuntarily, nor does it stop her from physically shuddering. Her words are hoarse when she finally utters them – once out loud and a thousand times inwardly, echoing off the walls of her already broken mind. "I'm so sorry."
I'm so sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm so-…
"Oh for the love of-…"
She can practically hear the exasperation in the other's voice – similar; so similar, but not – and then the clinking of the chains as the other – the Fourteenth – shifts as much as the reinforced restraints allow him. Despite it all, she knows next to nothing about him – next to nothing about the Fourteenth – even though he's-…
"Come."
Despite her fear, she obeys without thinking, scrambling over to the other end of the cell until she is right in front of him on her knees, suddenly uncertain. For whichever reason, the steely glint in those amber-coloured eyes softens a bit, and the Fourteenth tilts his head slightly to one side, still watching her eerily, almost curiously.
"Who are you?"
She screws her eyes shut, because the answer to that one question is certain to get her killed. But still, she thinks and then turns her head to the side before she reopens them. "A worthless existence."
"Hoh?"
She doesn't need to look in order to see the speculative glint in the other's eyes that had only just ceased to long for her death in the most painful of ways.
"And why is that?"
Her hands tighten into fists in the fabric of her dirty dress; now, it is all that she owns. Once, she had a pair of shoes, but she has lost them one after the other. Once, she had Innocence, and she lost that too, along with all hope. Then again, perhaps she had been a fool to begin with, thinking that she could be of any actual use to anyone besides in causing their untimely demise?
Finally, she lifts her gaze, forcing herself to be brave in the face of it all, not for her own sake necessarily but rather not to soil the names of all those who had been good to her any further; of all those whose lives she had placed in the balance with her acts of utter foolishness. "I tried," she said. "I tried my hardest not to screw everything up, but-…"
Those eyes are still watching her. "This is about Allen, I presume?"
She stiffens involuntarily and instantly lowers her gaze. "It is."
"You knew him?"
She lowers her head and keeps her gaze where it is even as she speaks up, her voice cracking. "I did."
For a while, the other does not speak and simply continues to eye her thoughtfully rather than predatorily, and then-… "Miranda Lotto."
She looks up involuntarily, used to being called but unused to being called in such a manner; the voice is right – familiar – but the intonation and the way in which the syllables roll off of the tongue of the other are both foreign to her ear.
"Tell me about Allen."
Though reluctant, she does, struggling with the words at first before they begin to escape her more eagerly, coming tumbling off of her tongue and out her mouth before she even has a chance to retrieve them.
On a fateful day in October, she had awoken to days which she had thought long lost. In response to this obvious fracturing of the last remnants of her already strained sanity, she had grabbed hold of a kitchen knife.
On the very same fateful day in October, she had awoken to a world long lost, in the same bed as previously – her own bed from years past – with no marks to indicate that she had previously injured herself with the intention of taking her own life.
On an equally familiar fateful day in October bearing the exact same date as the others, she had finally given up on her attempts, knowing well that she would only be waking up the next day – the very same day as the prior one – with no scars but those that had already been inflicted upon her mind in the future.
Instead, she had sat herself down to think, wondering whether or not it could all be just a dream; whether it could all be just a trick from Road Camelot with the intent of trapping her forever in a nightmare of her own making.
For a while, she had thought that it must indeed be so. Then, she had gradually begun doubting it.
After all, if Road was indeed the one responsible and if Road Camelot was indeed intent on making her suffer for an eternity, then there were plenty of other settings available; other painful memories to draw inspiration from. Then again, perhaps this one was still the worst of them simply because she knew of the days – of the countless hardships – still to come and could do little to nothing to prevent them from coming about when their time was due.
Still uncertain, she did little as the day repeated, and gradually, as the promised day grew nearer, she began hoping, and when it arrived and delivered in the shape of those painfully familiar to her, she wanted little more than to approach them; to tell them everything. She held back however, knowing well that they would think of her as crazy. Besides, if this was all just a cruel trick when it all came down to it, then she would rather not…
Despite it all, her newfound resolve swiftly faltered when she – having made her way down an alleyway and having found herself facing down a Level Two as a result – was once again saved in the nick of time by a painfully familiar face belonging to the one who then – after defeating the akuma – crouched down before her where she had slid down the wall, eyeing her concernedly where she sat, the human wreck that she was.
He was on time; he was always on time.
It was she who had been wrong; it was she who had been untimely and whose existence had screwed everything up. Because she had known things that she shouldn't have, and because she knew that she had power and ‒ coming face to face with the very person symbolising the hopes that she had so desperately been clinging to ‒ the determination to make herself useful and of not allowing the others to get needlessly hurt on her behalf was awoken prematurely.
Even so, she fails Lenalee; like the last time around, Miranda is largely powerless in preventing her from becoming the temporary plaything of Road Camelot.
However, when the injured Allen moves in to shield Miranda even so, she is involuntarily reminded by a similar occurrence that has yet to come to pass and that she hopes to dear life will not. She hates it all, being reminded of her own powerlessness to change anything; to do more than just watch as other fight and bleed on her behalf.
Ironically, it is the latter and the building frustration associated with it that finally destroys her inhibitions about changing things; she is instead determined to do so, unbeknownst to the repercussions that this would eventually incur.
Her Innocence ‒ previously deaf to her pleas ‒ responds eagerly to her avid summons and delivers even more than she had even dared hope. Her hand ‒ run through by one of Road's candles ‒ is nailed to the old clock and bleeding all over it; ironically, it makes it all too easy for her Innocence to release its full potential, using her blood as its medium and ultimately her life force as its fuel.
In its earlier shape ‒ the way it had been before, in the other past ‒ it had merely been able to temporarily halt and rewind the flow of time without being able to undo its effects.
However, as her Innocence comes to inhabit her very veins, she is rapidly made aware of the fact that she can do more now; that merely halting and rewinding the flow of time are no longer the extent of her abilities.
Time. The future.
She sees Allen ‒ so young, pure and bright and still untainted by his connection to the Earl ‒ and she knows his future; what and who he will eventually become: an invaluable embodiment of hope. Though the risk is slim, she knows that she cannot risk him dying before his time; as a matter of fact, she would rather not have him die at all, and her Innocence ‒ seeing what she sees ‒ shares her sentiments, at least enough to lend her its power.
Instead of rewinding, she grabs hold of his time and winds it forward, wishing only to grant him the power that he needs in order to stand tall in the face of adversity.
He is understandably shocked when his Innocence takes the shape that she imagines, the Crowned Clown but not in its Critical form. Even without being faced with the sword that is the mirror image of the Earl's, Road Camelot is still shocked and thankfully sensible enough to retreat, bringing what little remains of her entourage along, and leaving Miranda and Allen with the still catatonic Lenalee to pick up the pieces.
Though the fight is cut short and the invocation is overall brief, Allen still crumbles when she finally cancels her invocation, restoring time to its normal flow. Though initially panicked at this, she takes the slightest amount of comfort in the fact that they are all still alive, and she thanks her own sensibility in not winding Allen's time even further forward; never mind that the shadow of the Fourteenth lurks somewhere in there, but if she had forced his Innocence into a Critical state, then she is not late to realise the fact that she could very well have killed him.
In the aftermath, Allen is sensible enough to confront her discreetly instead of revealing to Lenalee or the rest of the Order exactly what had taken place; like his future counterpart ‒ albeit far less weary ‒ Allen picks up on her uneasiness, and when she confesses ‒ praying that he will not dismiss her as a raging lunatic ‒ he actually grants her the benefit of the doubt and instructs Timcanpy to erase his recordings of her ability, telling Komui and the others that he must have blacked out and that Miranda's Innocence ‒ reacting to her emotions ‒ had ultimately saved them all, which overall isn't all that far from the truth.
Unlike last time however, she is not sent off directly to the Black Order Headquarters but rather ordered to accompany Allen, Lenalee, Lavi and Bookman on their quest for Cross. Along the way, they pick up Crowley.
Surrounded by familiar people to whom she is initially a virtual stranger wears on her, and she constantly worries about what she has done and about the possible repercussions of her interference, remaining fidgety and gloomy to the eyes of most.
As usual though, Allen is different. Knowing her story ‒ or rather, the essential parts of it ‒ he knows well what ails her and accommodates it all whilst attempting to cheer her up.
Seeing that none of those included in their party are blind and that some are less inclined than others to keep from speaking their mind, Lavi soon cracks the joke about Allen having a thing for slightly older women.
Unable to help it, Miranda herself flushes red. Allen on the other hand takes the thing in stride and announces simply that the Bookman apprentice is merely green-eyed with envy due to Allen being the one who's more popular with the ladies, to which Lenalee is the one who looks shocked and even mildly affronted by the insinuation.
Those days; she wishes that she could return to them, and though they are indeed precious to her, she at the same time wishes that they would come undone for the sake of sparing them all what the future had in store for them.
Though rarely used, her ability to temporarily wind time forward and to allow people to utilise skills that they had yet to attain ends up causing one of the many things that she had sought to prevent; in using it on Allen, she had accidentally set off the beginning of the Fourteenth's awakening, and her display back in Germany had ultimately piqued the interest of the Earl, who made her a target.
In hindsight, she cannot recall the exact circumstances of when and how it all went down, but in the end, it is not the Earl but the Order that ultimately proves their undoing, although not before agents of the former have managed to break her hold over time, depriving her of her Innocence along with it.
Thus rendered powerless, she can do little but wait; wait for the inevitable, and by God, she dreads it.
Even so, even whilst chained up and sealed away and awaiting his own death sentence after they have both been branded as heretics, Allen does not blame her.
When she apologises ‒ and she does so frequently, like a broken record caught in a loop; a time loop ‒ he tiredly lifts his head but looks straight at her, his eyes still alit with an inherent light as he hoarsely reminds her that it is not her fault even though it is and that "It would have happened sooner or later anyway, right?", to which she vehemently and despairingly tells him "Not this quickly! Not for another year at the very least".
The latter actually causes him to pause, and his head drops slightly, his messy fringe stained in dirt and dried blood obscuring his eyes even further. "A year? Huh… imagine that?"
He sounds tired, but by no means accusing. From him, there will be no forgiveness, because to him, she has done nothing wrong.
"You did what you thought was right and you fought for what you believed in," he tells her, strangely radiant despite the fact that he is already fading and has been fading for quite some time. "Nothing more can be asked of anyone…"
"Even if this will eventually swallow me up, I'm very happy…"
He actually smiles, and she feels dirtier than ever.
"I was able to meet you guys, and even though times were harsh and all, I really couldn't have asked for better travelling companions," he tells her, awfully radiant yet blatantly fading. "Thank you… for staying with me, through all of this, but…"
She has destroyed him; she has destroyed the future, yet he thanks her? Rage and resentment she can bear, because she by all means deserves them. Gratefulness on the other hand…
Tears threaten to spill over once more, as they have plenty of times before. She can only cry; she can only watch and cry and screw everything up and is powerless to save the ones that she loves.
"Allen?"
He looks pained; he suffers, and she can do nothing but watch and despair.
Through gritted teeth, he draws his breath; gathering what little remains of his strength to continue speaking. "If he comes out again, he might kill you, so… please?"
"I started it." For once, she will not run. "So I have to pay a price for that." For once, she will-…
"Says who?" Allen tiredly snaps, glaring now as his increasing sense of indignation apparently grants him strength. "What of him? What about the me of the future that you knew? What would he have thought?"
She says nothing, remaining stubbornly where she is even though she is by all means ready to crumble beneath the sheer force of his gaze.
"I'm not him… but I'm sure that he wouldn't have blamed you," Allen tells her, voice and countenance softening. Ironically, he is the very image of his other self then; of the one whose fate she had so desperately sought to alter. "Not your fault, remember?"
"I mean, it's a sad thing that I'll have to disappear, but…" He continues to fix her with his silver-grey gaze and yet another smile ‒ bleak but very much genuine ‒ ghosts across his face, fleetingly at first. "Without this, I am sure… that we would never have-…"
He trails off briefly, seemingly lost in thought.
"Before Mana, my world was a very dark place," he finally tells her, not only his image but also his words bearing an eerie resemblance to ones once uttered by his counterpart. "Even if I wish that he hadn't died and that I hadn't tried to bring him back and all, he brought me light and brought meaning to my existence… meeting him, I already knew how to survive, but he was the one who taught me how to live…"
"Back then… No…" Her fingers clutch the fabric of her dress. "In my future…"
She looks back up again, and once again meets his gaze. He is unsmiling, but understanding; understanding and patient, despite everything, waiting for her to go on even though time is running out for the both of them, and him in particular.
"You were the light; you were the one guiding us, walking ahead in the darkness, illuminating our path… you-…" She lowers her gaze once more. "You weren't afraid of the dark…"
She hears him shift as much as his restraints allow him, but she does not bear looking at him.
"Of course I'm afraid…" he finally tells her. "But more for your and everyone else's sake than for my own."
She snaps her head up, her eyes once again burning, along with her constricted throat along with the sickening feeling in her stomach. "Why won't you think only about yourself for once?! Be selfish! Think nothing of the rest of us! Just-…" She is unused to anger, but this once, she feels that it is justified. After all-…
"I can't."
Her anger dies as quickly as it is awoken; she grows numb in the face of utter despair. Even so, she is physically shaking. "Why?"
For a while, there is silence. Then, there is the answer that she cannot bear to hear, even after hearing it time and again.
Again, a bleak smile plays on his cracked lips, even though she can clearly see that he is strained; that he is struggling to remain in control.
"A world without you guys… wouldn't be a world for me, honestly."
His words are the highest of praise, praise of which she herself is highly unworthy. "But-…"
"That is why you must live; all of you," he tells her, and her heart ‒ already smashed into pieces ‒ disintegrates a bit further. "That's why-…"
He is prevented from finishing and lets out a pained gasp instead, which would probably equal to a pain that would have most others screaming their lungs out. If she hadn't already known what would be coming, then this would have been her first warning. However, instead of retreating as her survival instincts instruct her, she creeps forward in concern instead, only to have Allen snap at her.
"Stay away!"
"Don't come near me!"
His laboured breathing ‒ a testament to his struggles ‒ echoes in the cell where he is now with his back against one wall and she with hers against the one at its opposite, her body having moved away of its own accord, betraying her once again.
"Please… just… stay over there…"
If possible, then she would disobey. However, her limbs refuse to accommodate to her earnest desire to do so. After all, she knows well why she is there; she knows well why they have been placed in a single cell rather than in separate ones, and why she is still alive even though she is now useless; useless in all ways but one…
Then, briefly, everything goes quiet. Dreading yet still holding onto one last shred of despicable hope, she finally dares to turn back from the corner in which she had come to cower, her existence an utterly pathetic one up until the very bitter end.
Allen is breathing more easily now, though he still looks strained, and for a brief moment, she dares to hope. "Allen?"
Eyes slowly crack back open, but this time around, they are amber as opposed to silver-grey, and the pupils are mildly slit. Momentarily, they map out their surroundings before finally zeroing in on Miranda where she remains in the corner, shuddering visibly beneath their scrutiny.
Momentarily, the owner of those eyes looks confused by her presence, and this impression is only made stronger as the other's facial expression shifts slightly and his head tilts to one side, those eerie eyes still not leaving her. "Who are you?"
The voice is puzzled and even moderately curious rather than threatening. Even so, she finds herself unable to respond. This response ‒ or rather lack thereof ‒ brings about a look of irritation and impatience upon the countenance that was once so familiar to her.
"Answer me."
Her eyes remain averted.
If only…
If only she could turn back time…
If only she could undo it all…
If only…
"I'm so sorry."
It is futile to apologise. After all, Allen is… He isn't…
"Miranda Lotto."
Those eerie eyes are still watching her.
"Tell me about Allen."
And so, she does.
-o0o-
The End.