Disclaimer: Don't look at me, they belong to Marvel and the BBC. Hence the
Fan part of the term Fanfiction. Duh.
Authors Note: Attack of the Persistent Plot Bunny. If people like this there may be more – but not for a long time. I've got two stories ongoing and two more planned. I just had to write this one out of my system. Consider it a long-term teaser. Or ignore it. Whatever makes you happy.
Wallace loves Feedback. Especially nice stuff, for any of his stuff.
The Beanie Muses made me do it.
1 A green bay
This is the vortex.
It has many names; The Void, The Continuum, Hyperspace, Subspace, Wormhole Space, The Sixth Dimension, Infinity. All suitably impressive.
It actually doesn't look like much.
Just blankness, as far as the human eye can see. In fact, that is all any monochronal being should be able to perceive. Nothing to see here, folks – just darkness and silence.
It doesn't get boring, though, because there's no time here.
Actually, that's incorrect. There is time here. To say there is no time here is to say that there is no matter in a black hole. It's there – it's just there's too much of it for any human being to comprehend.
This is academic, of course, because venturing into the vortex without either serious chrono-manipulation abilities or literal immortality would be instantly fatal to almost any life form imaginable. You would need serious protective gear to last what would seem to you to be a second in here.
And you'd need still more to survive the attacks of the beings that live here.
It's not empty, you see – there's just nothing here that you can actually perceive or comprehend.
The vortex is full.
There are the life forms – Chronovores and Time Ghosts, creatures which never existed and rogue time/dimension travellers. And then there are the objects, the locations, the landmarks – rifts in time caused by experiments gone wrong, palaces of ancient Gods, tumbling wrecks of abandoned timecraft, and the rarer places, such as the ever distant, ever present rock upon which sits Vanishing Point, every when and no when.
The blonde man cannot see any of this. It is not just that he is human, and therefore lacks the necessary sensory capabilities, or that he is technically dead, and therefore should be unable to perceive anything (but then, in the vortex Life and Death are rather less – binding than elsewhere). In order to survive this noplace, powers unimaginable have frozen him in his own personal bubble of time. What passes for the present in the vortex (and when travelling through the vortex if you turn your head and look in the right direction you will see what you will do next, what you did before, and even what you are doing right now, and what you have never done and never will do) cannot touch him, and a good thing too.
Were it not for his being sealed, all his time removed, he would probably die instantaneously (or, equally probably, a billion years later), and whether or not he did, the result would be the partial or total destruction of a hefty chunk of the multiverse.
The blonde man, whose name is Alex Summers, is a threat to all realities as we know it.
Luckily, reality has people on call to deal with this sort of thing. A rift opens around Alex, and he falls through it. A perceived moment later it defies most of the laws of time and space and closes behind him.
When a man has died doing battle with a cosmic force outside of reality at the end of the twentieth century, the last place he expects to find himself next is in a comfortable bed in a well-appointed bedroom in what will turn out to be Paris in the year 1876. Realisation of the date was postponed in this case by the fact that he was wired up to several pieces of extremely high-tech medical equipment which, when he awoke, set off an alarm – the steady chiming of a bell.
After a brief pause the bells were shut off by the arrival of his host, a short, tough-looking young woman who studiously ignored him as she checked the readings on the various instruments, shutting them off one by one as she did so.
'Paris.' She said after a moment. 'The guest bedroom of my house. And I brought you here. What's the last thing you remember?'
'. . . Dying.' He told her after a moment.
'Sounds reasonable.' She switched off the last piece of equipment. 'But you'll be pleased to know that it was strictly temporary. You're fine. What's your name?'
'Havok – Alex Summers.' He told her. 'Who are you?'
'My names Dorotheé, or sometimes Ace. I'm a kind of troubleshooter.' He realised that the black body suit she was wearing was actually some kind of battle armour, and that she was carrying a small, high-tech, and very obviously lethal handgun on her hip. 'And it seems you brought with you a ton and a half of trouble.'
Authors Note: Attack of the Persistent Plot Bunny. If people like this there may be more – but not for a long time. I've got two stories ongoing and two more planned. I just had to write this one out of my system. Consider it a long-term teaser. Or ignore it. Whatever makes you happy.
Wallace loves Feedback. Especially nice stuff, for any of his stuff.
The Beanie Muses made me do it.
1 A green bay
This is the vortex.
It has many names; The Void, The Continuum, Hyperspace, Subspace, Wormhole Space, The Sixth Dimension, Infinity. All suitably impressive.
It actually doesn't look like much.
Just blankness, as far as the human eye can see. In fact, that is all any monochronal being should be able to perceive. Nothing to see here, folks – just darkness and silence.
It doesn't get boring, though, because there's no time here.
Actually, that's incorrect. There is time here. To say there is no time here is to say that there is no matter in a black hole. It's there – it's just there's too much of it for any human being to comprehend.
This is academic, of course, because venturing into the vortex without either serious chrono-manipulation abilities or literal immortality would be instantly fatal to almost any life form imaginable. You would need serious protective gear to last what would seem to you to be a second in here.
And you'd need still more to survive the attacks of the beings that live here.
It's not empty, you see – there's just nothing here that you can actually perceive or comprehend.
The vortex is full.
There are the life forms – Chronovores and Time Ghosts, creatures which never existed and rogue time/dimension travellers. And then there are the objects, the locations, the landmarks – rifts in time caused by experiments gone wrong, palaces of ancient Gods, tumbling wrecks of abandoned timecraft, and the rarer places, such as the ever distant, ever present rock upon which sits Vanishing Point, every when and no when.
The blonde man cannot see any of this. It is not just that he is human, and therefore lacks the necessary sensory capabilities, or that he is technically dead, and therefore should be unable to perceive anything (but then, in the vortex Life and Death are rather less – binding than elsewhere). In order to survive this noplace, powers unimaginable have frozen him in his own personal bubble of time. What passes for the present in the vortex (and when travelling through the vortex if you turn your head and look in the right direction you will see what you will do next, what you did before, and even what you are doing right now, and what you have never done and never will do) cannot touch him, and a good thing too.
Were it not for his being sealed, all his time removed, he would probably die instantaneously (or, equally probably, a billion years later), and whether or not he did, the result would be the partial or total destruction of a hefty chunk of the multiverse.
The blonde man, whose name is Alex Summers, is a threat to all realities as we know it.
Luckily, reality has people on call to deal with this sort of thing. A rift opens around Alex, and he falls through it. A perceived moment later it defies most of the laws of time and space and closes behind him.
When a man has died doing battle with a cosmic force outside of reality at the end of the twentieth century, the last place he expects to find himself next is in a comfortable bed in a well-appointed bedroom in what will turn out to be Paris in the year 1876. Realisation of the date was postponed in this case by the fact that he was wired up to several pieces of extremely high-tech medical equipment which, when he awoke, set off an alarm – the steady chiming of a bell.
After a brief pause the bells were shut off by the arrival of his host, a short, tough-looking young woman who studiously ignored him as she checked the readings on the various instruments, shutting them off one by one as she did so.
'Paris.' She said after a moment. 'The guest bedroom of my house. And I brought you here. What's the last thing you remember?'
'. . . Dying.' He told her after a moment.
'Sounds reasonable.' She switched off the last piece of equipment. 'But you'll be pleased to know that it was strictly temporary. You're fine. What's your name?'
'Havok – Alex Summers.' He told her. 'Who are you?'
'My names Dorotheé, or sometimes Ace. I'm a kind of troubleshooter.' He realised that the black body suit she was wearing was actually some kind of battle armour, and that she was carrying a small, high-tech, and very obviously lethal handgun on her hip. 'And it seems you brought with you a ton and a half of trouble.'