Kurt was always looking.

At something or someone or somewhere. People talk about those kinds of looks that go 'through' people, but that wasn't Kurt. When Kurt was looking at you, you knew. It wasn't just goosebumps or the hair on the back of your neck. It was like the eye of some stellar god was staring right at you.

You remember, now, how back when you were younger, you'd all get your sleeping bags and crash in Damien's backyard, pretending you were special forces commandos deep behind enemy lines. Covering yourselves with bark and leaves, rubbing your skin and faces with wet dirt, barely breathing, tactically laying brittle branches all around to alert you to assassins in the night. You strained your ears to hear anything, anything at all. If the bad guys caught you, well, fuck 'em. You had nothing to lose but state secrets. They could torture you to death and they wouldn't get anything.

Maybe a "go fuck yourself" out of Damien, but that'd be it.

Your plots and schemes would fade into the moonlight as you dozed off. Well, Damien went first. Then you would start to struggle to keep your eyes open. But Kurt?

Kurt was looking. At you. At Damien. Watching over you, you supposed.

0-0-0-0-0-0

People talked about it, of course. Talked about Kurt's eyes. Mostly girls. It started in junior high, and never really stopped. Well, no, that's not true. When Kurt was born after an unremarkable labor, the doctor said, "What beautiful eyes!" You'll never know if that doctor was just being polite, but the point is that's where it all really started.

But, see, that was their mistake. It wasn't Kurt's eyes, it was how he used them. Mostly to make men uncomfortable and women weak-kneed. Inadvertently, of course. He wasn't Damien.

0-0-0-0-0-0

"Prove it, then."

You weren't used to feeling smug. But watching Damien's expression go from amused to baffled was one of the most satisfying things in your life.

"That... that's..." Damien stopped, frowned, crossed his arms. He cocked his head back and forth, sieving his brain for the right words. "You know I don't like saying 'impossible,' but... what you're doing..."

"It's very, very improbable," you offered.

"Yeah, I can work with 'improbable.'"

But Kurt, questioning and curious as he was, oddly enough asked few questions and wasn't all that curious. Sure, he looked confused, at first, but... then he really looked at you, and nodded. He believed you. Because he saw you had come back changed.

0-0-0-0-0-0

When Kurt fell to the floor of Damien's living room, hissing holes in his chest, he was still looking. Not just at Damien's stricken, horrified face. But at everything, somehow.

When you fell, unable to REGRESS to save his life, blood streaming from your nose, you looked, too. Looked at him looking at you looking at him.

And for a moment- a brief, tiny moment between heartbeats, between blinks, you thought you saw- really saw- for the first time-

And then it was gone, as Kurt mouthed two words to you as he died.

And he stopped looking.

0-0-0-0-0-0

It takes one hundred and fifty milliseconds for the human brain to recognize touch.

And a one-hundred-twenty-four grain nine-millimeter bullet moves at one-thousand-three-hundred feet per second.

So.

Even if he didn't feel it touch his forehead...

Did he feel it...

Inside?

0-0-0-0-0-0

And now the thing shaped like a dog is looking at you instead.

And you look back.

Looking at it looking at you looking at it, reflected forever in each other's eyes.

"This isn't going to end," you say quietly.

The dog doesn't say anything. It just looks away, looks off into the grey and empty horizon.

0-0-0-0-0-0

You try for Damien's phone number.

"Hello?"

You freeze. The voice over the receiver... is not Damien. "Oh, I, uh, I..."

A coarse, grainy laugh. "Wrong number, huh?"

You look down at your shoes. Stupid. "Uh... yeah."

"That's okay. Happens to the best of us. A lot easier to misdial with keys instead of the ol' rotary, y'know?"

You smile. You're not sure why. In a way, this man seems... familiar. "What's your name?"

"Ah, there I go, forgetting my manners. I'm Walter." He chuckles. "I'm a ninety-two year old man in a retirement home. I haven't picked up this phone in months, you know that?"

You didn't. You frown. "Oh. I'm... I'm sorry."

"No, no! Don't be. It's nice to have a chat with someone, even if they are a tenth of your age."

He wasn't trying to, but, well, that thought is quite miserable. So you turn, squint out of the window, and ask this gentleman Walter about the weather.

The two of you trade inane conversation-your pleasantries for Walter's platitudes-for a good ten minutes. He seems to pick up on your shortening list of topics, however.

"Well, it's been swell talking to you. You really made my day, you know that? Anywho-thanks again. Goodbye for now!"

You bid him goodbye and hang up.

You stand there a moment. You then remember you were going to call Damien about something.

Your thumb hovers over the number pad. You frown again.

You forgot to tell Walter your name.

0-0-0-0-0-0

Five years later, you were sitting at home, doing nothing.

You realized that Walter was probably dead by now.

You didn't know how to feel about that.

0-0-0-0-0-0

When you learned you could REGRESS, you wondered:

How far could you go back, really?

Could you go beyond the time you knew you could REGRESS?

A thousand questions. Zero answers. Empty prospects.