Ending Two, Part 16 (or Part 92)
Michael stared at the walls of his hotel room as he tried to come up with a plausible plan to bring Max and Isabel into contact with his younger self. It didn't take much to recall what he had been like at 15 years old and he knew how he would've reacted if some guy with the perfect life had approached him and wanted to talk. No, he knew that wouldn't work. He would've shut the guy down cold without ever waiting to hear what he had to say.
How was he going to get him to listen? His younger self was 15, he was angry, he had no control over anything, and he was used to getting kicked around. He wasn't going to respond well if Philip Evans walked up to him and started a conversation. His teenage self needed to be primed if there was any chance of him being receptive to what they had to tell him. In addition to Philip and his perfect life irritating the shit out of him for no other reason than existing, there were two nine-year-olds who already knew more about the situation than he did, and that would piss him off.
Max and Isabel would push his buttons right off the bat, just like their parents would, but outside of them belonging to a world that had never been his to reach for, he wouldn't know why they bugged the hell out of him. And they would. All he would see at 15 was everything they had that he didn't, whether it was parents who loved and cared about them, a nice home that was warm in the winter and cool in the summer, or clothes that had never belonged to anyone else.
But it would be more than that. Facing Max earlier that day he'd been given a glimpse of what it was that had caused confrontations between the Max and Michael Maria had told him about from her universe. Max was the King and it was ingrained so deeply in his genes, was such a part of him that he didn't think twice about beckoning others to do his bidding. There had been nothing imperious in that simple gesture, but it had spoken volumes all the same.
He had felt it as they watched each other. There was a connection there, it existed with both of the children, but with Max there was an even stronger pull. On Antar Max had been the King and he had been his trusted second; he had no doubt that his younger self would resist that if he wasn't properly prepared. But how? He couldn't risk making contact with him. He didn't know what could happen if they actually met in person. For all he knew it could destroy both of them.
He sat up when a thought occurred to him. How had he met Maria in a dream, carried on a conversation with her, and at the same time Isabel and Max had appeared in the dream? How had Maria known they were there? There were so many questions and he knew he'd never have the time to learn the answers to all of them. What if there was a way to connect with his younger self in the same manner? He sighed and shook his head as he fell back against the pillows. No, that wouldn't work. His younger self was too volatile and while he couldn't physically hurt Isabel in a dream, he could scare the living hell out of her with his behavior.
He sighed. Even if there was a way to make that work he knew how easily he'd lose his patience with his younger self. He had been a little asshole, eager to prove he didn't need anyone or anything, and ready to take on anyone who challenged him. Unfortunately at 15 he'd gotten his ass kicked more often than not, but it hadn't stopped him from taking on anyone who was up for a fight. At almost 26 his temper was just as easily roused, and his reactions were tempered, but given the right circumstances he would still strike first and ask questions later. He couldn't risk that. He could ruin their chances before they'd even had the opportunity to take off.
Who was capable of reaching him? Who would he trust? Who would he have listened to? And just like that he had his answer. There was only one person who had managed to reach him, only one person he had given a damn about. Tom Gifford was largely responsible for the man he had become. Without his influence in his life he had no doubt he would've ended up in a situation he might not have walked away from. He'd often wondered how things might have been different if Tom hadn't died that night on the yard.
He reached up to rub his jaw, his calloused palm rasping against the stubble there. One of his first actions upon his arrival in this timeline had been to prevent Tom's death. The man who worked as the director at the orphanage had no family. He was a quiet man; strong as an ox and capable of handling the kids who were housed at the facility. Tom had provided a guiding hand and while he'd raised his voice to him on occasion when he got out of line, never once had he raised a hand to him.
There was no time to waste. He had to have a plan in place when he went back to see the Evans family again. He rolled off of the bed and got to his feet, running a hand through his hair as he crossed the room and headed for the door. He ran through a mental checklist and he ran his hand over the gun tucked into the back of his jeans before exiting the room.
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Tom Gifford readjusted his reading glasses as he settled down in the worn recliner, kicking the footrest out, and sighing contentedly as he reached for his notebook with one hand and the popcorn with the other. Normally he would be settled in with a good book right about now, but he had to run the numbers on the budget for the upcoming year. He despised the administrative part of his job, but it was a necessary evil. The money had to come from somewhere and since he wasn't a magician and couldn't pull it out of thin air, he had to figure out where to cut corners when possible.
He could've been finished with the time he normally allotted for the budget nightmare, but he'd been up to his eyeballs in paperwork for the two boys that had gone missing. They'd most likely run off, but regardless, even though he'd already taken care of the police reports, there was the mountain of forms to fill out for the state. Devon Lansing and Mason Reynolds were trouble and he'd already filed petitions to have them removed to a facility better situated to handle their type, but unfortunately the red tape was endless and the transfer had yet to be approved.
He glanced up when someone knocked on the door and he got to his feet again, brushing the front of his shirt off and dropping the notebook in his chair. He lived at the orphanage because it allowed him to keep an eye on things and it also cut down operating costs by not requiring a second full-time person to manage things overnight. He had agreed to a salary that was considerably less than what the board of directors would have paid two full-time employees, but he felt it was more than adequate since he lived there rent free and didn't have the hassle of utility bills to deal with.
He stretched his back as he reached the door of his personal quarters and pulled it open, not surprised to find his favorite handful of trouble standing there. "Michael, you're up well past lights out," he said even as he stood back to grant the teenager entrance.
"Brought your book back," the boy muttered and shoved it in his hands.
He left the door wide open as he moved deeper into his quarters. "And I appreciate that but it could've easily waited until tomorrow."
He rolled his eyes. "Like I'm gonna let anyone see me walkin' around with a fuckin' book."
Tom chuckled and moved to place the book in its proper place on one of the shelves he'd built himself. "That's still not a good reason to be out of your room after lights out."
"I know what you did and I don't need anybody to protect me," he finally said after pacing around the room for a few minutes. "You didn't have to ship Lansing and Reynolds off. I could've taken them."
"There's no need to go looking for a fight, Michael," he said, not bothering to confirm or deny the boy's theory about what had happened to his two antagonists. He knew there were a number of rumors circulating through the orphanage in regard to the boys' disappearance in spite of his announcement that they had run off and they were actively looking for them.
"I don't need you to fight my battles for me."
"No, you don't." He turned to look at the teenager, seeing the defiance that rarely left his intelligent eyes. "What you need is to get back to your room."
The boy stood his ground, immovable. "Where'd you send 'em?"
"I didn't send them anywhere, Michael. As I told the police, and as I told all of you during my announcement this morning, they took off on their own."
He crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing as he studied the director he had come to trust. "You bein' straight with me?"
Tom didn't look away from the boy's piercing gaze. "You tell me."
"Yeah," he said after a moment, "you are. But you were gonna ship 'em off."
"I had petitioned for a transfer." He held a hand up before Michael could interrupt him. "Not solely because of you. Did I consider you when I put in the paperwork? Yeah, you were one of my considerations. But you weren't my only consideration, Michael. I have nearly 75 children of various ages being housed here and it's my job to keep them safe." He had determined long ago that the only way to deal with this boy was to be straight with him. It was really the only thing he wanted, for people to be honest with him. He had given up on expecting anything else from people and most of the time he didn't even expect that. Honesty was one of the few things he respected.
"Yeah, well…" he shrugged one shoulder, "just so long as you know." He nodded at the door. "I'm gonna get some sleep."
Tom called him back before he could make it past the open doorway and he held a finger up, silently telling the boy to wait while he went back to the shelf and pulled another book down. He ran his palm over the cover before holding it out to him. "I think you'll enjoy this one."
He looked at the cover, his thumb tracing over the title. Ulysses. "Guess there're no more in the Countdown to Extinction series?"
"Not yet, but I think you'll find this one interesting."
The teenager shrugged. "What's interesting about some dead guy?" he asked, frowning at the title.
"Just read it. It's not a novel I'd normally recommend for someone your age, but I have a feeling you can handle the content." He bit back a smile when he recognized the look of interest in the boy's eyes. "Now get to bed."
"That's where I was goin' when you called me back."
Tom gestured to the door and followed him, leaning in the frame and watching until he turned the corner at the end of the hall that led to the boys' rooms and disappeared from sight. He shook his head and laughed under his breath as he shut the door and went back inside. Michael was so much smarter than he let people think he was, but he knew it was something he used to his advantage.
He was reaching for his notebook when he felt the subtle shift in the air and he slowly lifted his head to look around the room. He straightened when he located the intruder and his mind bounced around at least half a dozen options in the space of seconds before discarding them one after the other.
"We don't have anything worth stealing," he said as he shifted slightly to block the door that led out into the hallway and the rooms where his charges were sleeping.
"I'm not here to rob you and I have no interest in the kids." Michael moved but didn't step out of the shadows. "He won't tell you but you've been the most influential person in his life up until now."
"I don't see how you're in a position to know that."
"Tom, you're the only one who ever treated him with respect, the only one who didn't take one look at him and assume he was a career criminal. No one paid you to take an interest in him, to teach him things that'll keep his hands and mind occupied when he's ready to do some major damage to someone else, and sure as hell no one paid you to put up with his shit day in and day out."
He hid his surprise when the man called him by name. "You talk like you know him."
"Better than he knows himself."
"You're related to him?" he asked cautiously.
A sharp bark of laughter answered him. "Fuck, no!"
"Then what's your interest in him?"
"You're an avid reader of science fiction and you have an open mind." Michael leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest while he waited for the man to start piecing it together.
Tom shook his head. "I'm not sure what that has to do with anything."
"You've never noticed anything off the wall about him?" It was a gamble, but one he knew he had to take. He had trusted the man when he'd trusted no one else.
Of course he'd noticed little things here and there, things that he'd wondered about, but always filed away for later. They were things that set Michael apart from his peers, but weren't so obvious as to call direct attention to him. "I don't really see how that's any of your business. I'd suggest you leave before I call the sheriff."
"No need to involve that useless asshole."
"Maybe not, but one way or the other it's time for you to leave. I don't know how you know him or if you do know him, but – "
"I am him," Michael interrupted and stepped out of the shadows. He nodded when he heard the man's sharply indrawn breath at the apparent resemblance between him and his younger self. He watched the man's features as ideas and theories sped through his mind at lightning speed. He straightened up, his posture rigid when the man approached him, pausing to turn a light on before he met his gaze directly.
"You're him," he murmured as he studied his taut expression. The markers were all there. He could clearly see the rebellious teenager in the man's features. He had always believed in the possibility of time travel, other dimensions, alien races, and numerous other possibilities that people passed off as science fiction. But this man's very existence, the implication that Michael was somehow different from everyone else, the suggestions only cemented his beliefs. "You must be what, 25 or 26 years old?" He nodded when the man silently endured his scrutiny. "You're from the future?"
"Yes."
He had never discussed his beliefs openly because people tended to think such ideas meant an individual was unstable or possibly insane and considering the field he worked in, it could have cost him a job he cared about dearly. "But why?"
"I need you to listen to what I have to say, Tom."
The orphanage director motioned to the chairs and he scooped up the notebook and set it aside, taking a seat at the same time as his 'guest'. "I'm all ears, boy."
Michael smiled slightly at the familiar phrase and launched into his story, explaining why it was so important for his younger self to listen when Philip Evans came to see him. For nearly two hours they discussed the past, present and future, and by the time he was finished he felt drained. He didn't know if it was all of the talking or if it was a sign that his time here was nearly over.
"It would appear you've been fairly successful in your timeline," Tom said finally. It was all true. Everything he'd believed possible, everything he knew to be considered out of the realm of possibility by mainstream society. And the proof was standing right in front of him asking for his help.
"I was, and I can be again. He can be," he corrected himself. "He won't react well to the Evans family and he won't want anything to do with them unless he's somehow prepared for what's getting ready to hit him." He rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. "I don't regret my life. Once I was old enough to call it my life that is. But there're things he can have, things he'll achieve if he alters the course of his life and lets them in." He met Tom's gaze. "He'll listen to you."
Tom leaned back in his chair and watched him for a moment. "What happens to you once the timeline's been altered?" If he was right, the man before him would no longer exist. Events would be changed, they would happen differently, and as such, the very things that made this man into the person he was would never happen.
He shook his head. "The way I understand it, I'll just fade away." He shrugged. "The important thing here is to get him to listen. If he won't listen this'll all have been for nothin' and the war will be lost before it ever begins." He stood, hiding the weariness he felt. "You can make the difference."
The director stood and held his hand out to him, still amazed by all he'd been told. "I'd say you turned out fine, Michael."
He shook the man's hand. "He can do even better though."
"I'll do my best," he promised.
"You always did, Tom." He nodded at the window. "I'll just let myself out the way I came in if you don't mind. I can't run the risk of bein' seen by him."
Tom sat back in his chair after his unexpected guest disappeared into the night and he shook his head. As he'd expected Michael would turn into a good man. The adult version he'd just met was even rougher than his younger self; he was dangerous, and he had lived a life filled with violence, but he was alive and he wasn't a criminal. And he had made a difference in some small way because the man he had grown into had traveled back in time and entrusted him with a mission just as important as the one he was fighting to carry out.