Disclaimer: Ratchet and Clank and all related characters, locations, and concepts belong to Insomniac Games. All other ideas and characters are my own. I am not a lawyer.
Author's note:
I've upped the rating on this fic because this chapter deals with some heavy topics. Expect discussion of death, causality, and possibly a bit of morality.
Originally, the fic was going to have some relevance to the prompt, but now, the it's only relevant if you think of it in an ironic sense. (I think it's ironic, at any rate. Correct me if I'm wrong, since nobody seems to know what irony is anymore. Myself included.)
I wrote this with the intention of being religiously neutral, so hopefully it comes across as such. Nevertheless, I apologize if I offend anyone with religious sensibilities with some of the metaphors here; I try to be sensitive about these sorts of things. I respect that people have differing views, and they all have the right to them. (If you really want to know, I'm an agnostic atheist, but I try not to let that influence my writing.)
Note that this includes copious amounts of headcanon that probably doesn't fit with any of my other work, but I've tried to make it self-consistent. I like Orvus and think he's a nice guy, though that may not be as apparent here. Then again, his way of thinking is very alien to us, so I tried to convey that.
Anyway, reviews are appreciated! I hope that this is readable and that I haven't scared everyone off by now.
Chapter Summary: The Fongoids fouled time travel up, but how did they get so far as to put the Universe in jeopardy? Spoilers for A Crack in Time.
7. Heaven
The day that Orvus gives the Fongoids the gift of time travel is the day that he becomes God.
Not literally, of course. He stands by the decision he made long ago to neither confirm nor deny the existence of any supernatural beings. There are some things better left as mysteries.
Still, to the Fongoids, he may as well be a deity. Orvus can play the role well enough, at any rate. The innate Zoni powers he possesses are impressive from the perspective of a non-quantum being, he supposes. He sometimes forgets how he is perceived by beings other than the Zoni.
The Fongoids fear him. They are grateful, yes, but the chief will only accept the gift under one condition.
He asks Orvus not to interfere unless he is explicitly asked to do so.
Orvus agrees. He can see how the Fongoids, as a less advanced species, want the chance to figure things out on their own. The journey is as important as the destination.
He shows up from time to time, but finds that he takes no small amount of pleasure in being a mystery, himself. The Fongoids take his lack of frequent appearances as a sign of his "mysterious ways," and praise him on the rare occasion that he does make an appearance.
Orvus likes the Fongoids. They are a kind and hardworking people, which was why he selected them for the gift of time travel in the first place. He is certain that they will use it well.
A millennium later, and Orvus is fairly confident that he has made the right decision.
Of course, there is some disorganization, at first. He expected as much. Fongoid society is a little behind relative to the Universal norm, and it is only natural for it to have some growing pains as it adapts to new technology. The economy collapses a few times, as economies are wont to do. Several conferences are held by Fongoid leaders to negotiate new laws in light of the sudden changes.
The net effect is positive, though. He finds that by forcing the leaders of the different Fongoid tribes to cooperate, the result is immediate world peace. Centuries-old blood feuds are resolved in an instant.
People are happier, too, since they can easily fix their everyday mistakes. Yes, they have a vague recollection of someone telling them not to do that. Still, travelling back in time to remind oneself of one's wedding anniversary never killed anyone, did it? Nobody talks about it but everyone does it. Having a few paradoxes in one's personal spacetime trajectory becomes the norm.
Around 1500 years after T-day, as the Fongoids had come to call it, Orvus notes that things are starting to go amiss.
Society has progressed rapidly as a result of the extra time that the Fongoids now have. Fongoid researchers spend days working on a project, only to travel back in time and spend those same days working alongside their past selves in order to achieve measurable results at a faster pace.
More is being demanded of Fongoid workers now that they have unlimited time on their hands. The average amount of working-hours on Torren IV is now equivalent to the span of a day. It is assumed that Fongoids can use time-travel to catch up on sleep, but the process leaves them weary.
Something of a population problem is starting to emerge as Fongoids are forced to co-inhabit with their present/past/future selves. At the same time, the average lifespan is shortening because the Fongoids spend their whole lives living the same few hours over and over in order to get things done. The birthrate has plunged as well, since people are becoming too absorbed in their own, convoluted timelines to interact properly with other people.
Orvus waits. Nobody asks him to intervene.
2000 years after the day everything changed, regulations are being put into place.
The Fongoids realize, wisely enough, that they are being irresponsible. A licensing system is created, putting restrictions on which people are granted access to quantum energy. Minors are not given the privilege of time travel until they are fully aware of the dangers of doing so. Those who are not of sound mind are kept in a linear timeline to prevent the possibility of doing harm to themselves or others. Daily time travel limits are imposed in order to alleviate the problem of sudden ageing experienced relative to the linear timeline in which the rest of the Universe lives.
The majority of the Fongoids follow the regulations with little fuss.
It is all good and sensible, Orvus thinks. Perhaps the Fongoids no longer need his help. They are doing reasonably well on their own.
Now, they seem largely unaware of his existence. The few statues of him that remain are hidden in abandoned caves, tucked away from the eyes of most. Those who witness his brief forays onto the planet say nothing. Most people don't remember the old legends anymore. Few Fongoids are interested in history. How ironic that a society, granted the ability to travel in time, has become so fixated with the present.
It makes some sense. Given the ubiquity of time travel, despite the new regulations, the present is becoming a precious commodity.
2500 years have passed, and things are starting to heat up.
The technological developments are staggering, but civilization is unable to catch up. Inter-tribe relations have never been perfect, and old conflicts are coming to the surface again. With the present level of technology, the conflict escalates faster than it would have in the past.
As a society, the Fongoids have regressed to the state in which they were almost three millennia ago, except that this time instead of spears and bows, they have guns and missiles. Diplomats struggle to negotiate as governments make demands without realizing how unrealistic the demands are, given the present circumstances. Society is having growing pains.
Most of all, the Fongoids fail to see that although they can travel through time, they are not immortal.
Orvus knows this, but does nothing, as promised.
2900 years after the most significant day, the Fongoids are at a nuclear stalemate.
Panic sets in as Fongoids emerge from brief jaunts into the future, driven away by the barren landscape they've seen. Nobody has any idea about the event's whenabouts, since nobody would be able to witness it and emerge alive. People no longer travel to the future; they are afraid of doing so. Yet they cannot avoid their natural forward motion through time of one second per second forever.
Negotiations are held, tentative treaties are signed, but in the growing panic, rational thought is hard to come by and there isn't enough to go around. The impending apocalypse seems inevitable.
Philosophers and scientists argue about causality, unable to come to an agreement since neither side can agree about which side should think about the idea in the first place. The most valid hypotheses have the least support, since nobody wants to bet on a hopeless future. Instead of claiming the validity of their conclusions, each side attempts to shirk the responsibility of announcing the final answer to the public.
The truth is, no matter what they do to stop it, armageddon will find a way to happen.
Nobody cries out to Orvus for help.
About 3000 years after T-day, the planet is barren.
The few survivors who are left subsist from day to day on what little food they can find. Most hide in understocked shelters, sardonically placing bets on who will be next to succumb to radiation sickness. They cling to life, woefully unprepared for the aftermath of a disaster that, until recently, they had denied.
It turns out that you can't change the future if you've already seen it.
Still, Orvus does not interfere. It pains him to do nothing—prevents from sleeping, if one can call what he does sleeping—but he cannot allow himself to do anything. All he can do is weep for the loss of the civilization he cared for.
The Fongoids have destroyed themselves, reversed the effects of three millennia of time-travel-aided development in a fraction of a second.
What he does not notice is that one of the surviving Fongoids has harnessed enough quantum energy to commit a final act. An act that, though noble in intention, has consequences that would shake the foundations of spacetime. The Fongoid is intelligent, and has a well-thought out plan that, if carried out, would fix everything.
So, of course, the Fongoid decides to go for it.
It is then that Orvus learns that the actions of one individual, though rarely significant on a greater scale, can occasionally have an impact that can tear the fabric of the Universe.
In the past, Orvus discouraged paradoxes, but allowed them to slip through since their net impact was rarely more significant than a wrinkle in the fabric of spacetime. He did not expect anything as terrible as this to happen. The Fongoids' nuclear self-destruction was tragic, but in eliminating that event, they trigger an even greater tragedy.
Eighty-three celestial entities are destroyed.
Loath as he is to go back on his word, Orvus concludes that he has no choice. He appears in front of the highest Fongoid authorities, who are now alive again, at a cost far too great to contemplate. They are shocked, since they have completely forgotten about Orvus' existence.
Orvus explains himself, calmly, uncaring of whether or not the Fongoids believe him. He tells them that he will eliminate their ability to travel through time; an ability which they have abused to the point that it put the spacetime continuum in jeopardy. Something remains of the Fongoids' racial memory, since they listen to him, dumbstruck by awe.
He advises them to abandon technology. A Fongoid speaks up, questioning the necessity of doing so. Orvus decides to show him.
In a flash, they are suspended in a spacetime bubble, teleporting from exploding planet to exploding planet. He does not need to explain; the horrified understanding on their faces is plain enough.
Orvus drops off the Fongoids, leaving them to pick up the pieces of their shattered utopia. Then, he departs forever. His remorse is such that the other Zoni can detect it, even though he tries to shield it from them. They struggle to console him-them-themselves, but ultimately withdraw from him when the pain becomes too much for them to handle. He does not blame them.
Orvus is not a god. He is not perfect. He makes mistakes, because even he can never be fully aware of all possible ramifications of his actions. That is not a role for him to fill. He does not know if there is any entity that could possibly fill it. That, he supposes, is something that will remain as mysterious to him as it would to anyone else.
He does what he can, to tend to his ripped Universe, and mend the tears in its fabric before it falls to pieces. He must repair the damage that he has done.
Orvus leaves the Universe one final gift, before vowing never to interfere again.