Chapter 1

~o~

Within a forest that had never known night, a trace of lightning appeared, searing the dirt and fallen leaves before disappearing just as quickly. However, that was only the beginning; thunder manifested, multiplying fiercely as the two closest trees—their large trunks displaying their centuries of life—became the recipient of that onslaught. Nearby animals and local fauna scrambled madly away, even as reality in that space became distorted, like looking through warped glass. A tiny speck, imperceptible and unnoticed in its arrival, grew swiftly into a large, silvery sphere. Everything that it touched—leaves, branches, and the trunk of the trees—disappeared with no resistance, their foundation shredded in a funnel of time. Seeming as if it would grow endless, the sphere stopped—a moment's delay—and vanished completely, without a trace, as if it had never been there in the first place. The only evidence it left before was the scorched and devoured nature as well as a naked man who fell the last few feet down to the earth below.

"Agh!"

The man's front crashed into the burnt but moistened earth, the impact sending a sharp pain through his spine. Despite that, it was actually very little compared to the searing agony that traveling through time had subjected him to. Writhing on the floor, his mouth agape as drool and saliva spilled out with his gasps, it felt like all of his nerves were on fire. Gritting his teeth, he couldn't help but feel that the titanic pain was like using a blow-dryer on a flayed body, each burning sensation drinking deep from his pool of sanity. Saying that he had experienced worse wouldn't be a lie, but it would be belittling the torment that he felt at this moment.

Still, in spite of that, John Connor brought his aching hands under him and pushed himself up. Each effort ravaged his pain receptors, bringing a gasp that was both a scream of pain and a desperate call for air. His fingers curled underneath him, digging into the wet dirt. Long strings of saliva dripped down from his lips and chin as coughs racked his throat and lungs.

Thoughts came easier as he forced the pain down, using techniques that had been taught to him long ago. Memories—faces—appeared at the forefront of his reawakening thoughts, strengthening his resolve through pure will. Though, even as he did this, time seemed to gradually wither the agony down to a dull burn.

Was this what his father had to go through? Somehow, he had thought that this would be easier. Still, the pain was temporary. In fact, at this point, the humid air and the slightly cool breeze felt more pleasant than painful as the wind ran along his glistening skin. With the coughs subsiding, each lungful of air came easier than the last, but it wouldn't be wrong to say that a nap seemed like a pleasant idea to him. That didn't mean that it was a good idea.

"Just like a bad hangover…"

With a grunt of effort, John pushed himself up fully, grasping the trunk of the tree next to him to support his weight. He blinked the unshed tears out of his eyes, shaking his head roughly to clear the last vestiges clouding his thoughts. That was when he finally took stock of his surroundings.

"A forest? Maybe a jungle."

Everywhere around him, he could see numerous trees in every direction, each large and tall enough to stretch their limbs towards the sky. Sunlight was sparse, but enough shone through the space in between the branches and leaves. Small forest animals were traveling along the trees, blocking off the light at times and creating moving shadows on the shrubbery, flowers, and mushrooms down below.

John's breath slowly steadied while his mind raced. Time travel wasn't a precise science; most of it relied on hope and guts. Cameron could, in no way, compare to the full extent of Skynet so these kinds of divergent results could, unfortunately, be said to be half-expected. That made it all the more important to figure out exactly where he was. However, that was a task made harder by the fact there were too many places to consider which ranged from nature reserves of North America to the Amazon forests in Brazil. Hopefully, this wasn't some deserted island out in the Pacific, but if worst came to worst, he was willing to make a boat or even just a raft to get out if he had to. Sure, it would be like throwing his survival to wolves, but that was still a far better prospect than waiting for a rescue that might never happen.

He had only one chance at changing history, but without knowing the year, it was impossible for him to accurately judge the situation and act accordingly. Unfortunately, the only way to find that out was by asking someone. That made it imperative that he reach civilization as soon as possible. However, rushing would only get him killed, especially in an unknown situation like this. Therefore, he needed to prioritize his most immediate concerns first: survival and exploration.

Looking up, he glanced at the sun, barely visible through the leaves and branches. He would have to check on it periodically to see in which direction it moves so he could figure out which way the east and west were. Knowing the compass direction was important to prevent himself from getting lost since he could use that in combination with the sun and the stars. This would allow him, if he ended up at a dead end, to go back and choose a different direction.

The branches of the trees looked sturdy enough that they would be able to provide a place to sleep off the ground by using strips of bark as harnesses to hold him up, and he could probably improvise a spear to hunt the critters if necessary. That would suffice as shelter and a food source for now. Looking around him, there were far too many trees to see that far ahead, and that denseness only made it just a little less dangerous than walking through a fog. He paused in place and listened closely to the ambiance of the forest, but he didn't hear anything that sounded like running water, at least as far as he could tell. It was hard to make out much through the nature rustling and animal noises he could hear.

It would be ideal to find a river or a stream and follow it to civilization or downstream to the coast. Any kind of human civilization would always rely on a source of fresh water and fish. If he could make a raft, that would cut down on travel time, but it had its own inherent dangers. If he was attacked by an aquatic creature, there would be nowhere to run, not to mention that there was a significant risk of being caught if the river changes into a waterfall. Still, walking alongside a river should be doable enough.

The main issue, besides finding a river, was actually clothing, and the fact that he didn't know how to make them which was immensely worrisome given the situation. Mosquitoes, leeches, parasites, flesh-eating cockroaches, and ticks were particularly dangerous, not in the fact that they could feast on him, but more for the wound that they left behind. Pests like mosquitoes and leeches have an anticoagulant poison that would prevent blood clotting for a day, allowing whatever wound they make to bleed freely and run the risk of infection. And that wasn't even talking about the plants with irritants or spikes on their stems and leaves like poison ivy that made covering just his valuable areas a useless endeavor, not unless he could cover everything else. Worse was the fact that he didn't recognize any of the plants and flowers that littered the forest's floor.

His mother had made sure that he was trained in wilderness survival, but the plants and herbs he knew of were mainly of the North American variety, particularly concerning the West Coast. Even in the other parts of North America, there would have been some similarities that he would be able to recognize, variants of plant species that he already knew of. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he stared at these plants, he couldn't name a single one of them. That meant that he wasn't in North America or Central America.

All of that meant that he didn't know a single thing about this forest, and he needed to get out of here as soon as possible. Taking a harmless-looking herb and eating it, only to discover that it worked similarly to ingesting poison ivy would probably put him out of action and leave him to slowly starve to death. That certainly was not a pleasant thought.

Still, even if it was somewhat risky, John had to use some of these plants. The one thing that he could not allow was letting his feet be unprotected. They were just too valuable for his survival at the moment that he would gladly take irritant rashes over getting a cut on the sole of his feet since he had to walk no matter what; it wasn't like there were walking canes or wheelchairs readily available.

He grabbed a few of the larger leaves off of a few nearby branches and procured a few vines. Putting the leaves on the ground, he stepped on them and tied them all together to make some shoddy shoes. They weren't much, practically paper thin, but they would provide a thin barrier against sharp rocks and parasitic worms. Of course, they wouldn't last long, but he could replace them with relative ease if they got too broken up.

Taking note of his current location, he turned to a random direction. The idea of marking trees had crossed his mind, but he didn't have anything like chalk and carving out an indentation with a rock would take up too much of his time and attention span since it would probably fade if he didn't make it deep enough. It would just be his luck to spend his time doing that only to have a snake bite his ankle while he wasn't paying attention. No, it would just be better to head off and hope for the best.

So that was what he did, putting one foot in front of the other. That said, it was unsettling walking over moistened dirt that felt alive, especially with things that kept crawling and wriggling beneath his makeshift shoes. Paying attention to the floor where he was walking was just as important as looking out above him where animals like snakes could reach out and bite him. That made it slow going since he had to make sure that he didn't do something stupid like step too close to a plant that was spotted and brightly colored, but he still kept up a good pace through the forest.

Birds chirped overhead at intervals, and he passed by a lone boar that was eating a flower and its roots. Thankfully, that enlarged boar merely looked at him and snorted, making no moves to accost him, as if used to the presence of humans. After a while of traveling, he started to get agitated. Had it been one hour? Two hours? Five? Looking up at the sun through the leaves, he saw that it had barely moved positions so it couldn't have been more than forty minutes at most even though it seemed like much longer. That was when he heard it: the sound of running water.

Like an oasis in a desert, John was tempted to run straight toward the sound, but to be careless at this stage would put everything to naught, and he had been taught better. Even now, he could remember his mother's stern face as she lectured him on keeping himself safe, that his life was paramount to the survival of the human race. She still thought of him as some kind of savior even when the enemies of the future changed from Terminators to the Legion. As if he would eventually lead some kind of resistance against a plague.

Of course, it was not so imperative now since he did leave backup plans, but he would rather not force Daniel or his mother to pick up the slack. He couldn't imagine Daniel being able to deal with wilderness survival or his mother with the technological know-how in an urban setting. After all, his goal was not just to get to Los Angeles but to start up his company early—preferably with Miles Dyson—to build up wealth and influence so that he would be able to do something about Shinjuku.

Fact of the matter was that he was the best man for the job. Anyone else would probably have a much more difficult time.

John Connor stepped out from in between a couple of trees and feasted his eyes on the large clearing before him. There was a stream of shallow, clear water running through the center while the source originated from a small waterfall on the right. Large clumpings of rocks were scattered here and there, overgrown with moss that cast a layer of green over their gray wet exterior, courtesy of the misting water that dampened the air. A small herd of elks was standing idly by the stream, taking sips of water periodically while their herdmates looked around with vigilant eyes. Those eyes focused on him momentarily, but they did nothing when he approached the water.

Dipping his hands and feet, he washed off the layers of filth that had accumulated. Despite the risk of bacteria like salmonella, he took a sip by cupping his hands to catch the water and bringing it up to his mouth. It would have been better to heat up the water to kill the bacteria, but even if he could start a campfire, he had nothing to hold the water in. Or at least, nothing that wouldn't catch on fire. It was unfortunate, but that was a risk that he would have to take since dehydration would be a worse problem.

After taking a few more sips and quenching his thirst, he finally stood up and took full stock of the situation. The stream provided a source of fresh water, and he could see fishes underneath the surface that he could probably catch with some effort. There were plenty of branches and stones to build a fire, though whether the wood would burn well was a question that he wouldn't know the answer to until he actually tried. The trees provided a safe shelter for the night up in their branches, and the cries of the elks would serve as an early warning sign for dangerous predators. Overall, this was a good place to settle down for the night. There was just one issue.

It hadn't been that long. Looking up at the sun in the clear skies, John Connor frowned a little when he found its position virtually unchanged. Maybe he wasn't remembering it correctly. It was certainly possible that this forest was making him lose his grip on time. He was starting to get tired and—

His eyes widened as his heart started to beat faster. He blinked his eyes once, twice, just to make sure that he wasn't seeing things, but it was still there. He had been looking in the direction of the sun, and that had been towards the waterfall. That was why he spotted the distant white speck, above and beyond the waterfall. The pale white color stuck out firmly and unnaturally from the surrounding brown, green, and blue, such that it was unmistakable. It wasn't like a whole lot of white, but looking closer, he could see that it was some kind of structure with a white spot on it that stuck out from whatever greenery was attached to it.

Was it an outpost? An observatory? A research facility? Maybe it was just a building for park rangers. Whatever it was, he needed to make his way over.

He spotted a path on the other side of the stream, and with a little trepidation, he braved the chilly waters that reached up to his ankle. It was cold enough to sap away at his body heat, but he was quick enough that it wasn't too detrimental to him, though the vines on his make-shift shoes snapped from the pressure, causing them to float away. However, the thought of reaching some kind of civilization made him abandon any immediate notion to replace his shoes. The path upward was moderately steep, but he was so concentrated on his goal that he barely paid attention to it, hiking his way up. Fortunately, there weren't any dead-ends where he had to climb a rocky surface so it wasn't long before he made his way up the trail and through a small canyon. At the end of his path was the structure in question.

Built right next to the large rocks, the building was four stories tall. On each floor, there were metal bars that lined up where the glass windows should have been, but the glass was long gone, creating open gaps where animals could easily get into. The concrete walls of the structure were overgrown with moss in varying shades of green, and at a few portions, there were creeping vines that ran along the wall and bars. The place looked like it hadn't been cleaned for at least a decade, if not more.

Moving ahead, he found the entrance to the building within an exterior entry alcove. However, there was a security grille—a shutter of metal bars—that sealed the doorway closed. There was a panel to the right of the alcove which was—fortunately—turned on since the red light was glowing. That meant there was electricity running through it or at least a backup generator. He could do something with that, given time, even without his tools. A stone knife and a heavy branch weren't nearly as good as a screwdriver, but they would do in a pinch.

However, that was all secondary to the fact that there was a corpse sitting against the wall on the left. It was a man dressed in desert camouflage pants and a tan shirt with a bulletproof vest that included a number of pouches. There was a brown hooded cloak clipped to his collar—frayed and torn at the edges—and draped around his shoulders. A strip of white cloth was tied loosely to his left wrist, just above a gloved hand that had seen frequent use, judging by its wear and tears. More importantly, there was a large sword—seemingly makeshift out of scrap metal—stabbed into the middle of his chest, pinning him to the wall. Where there should have been a pool of blood, there were instead dried, black stains that showed how long he had been here for. Worse still was the agonized grimace on the man's tan face, twisted in his last moments. Whoever had killed him had left him to die in fear and agony.

On the ground, next to his hand, was an assault rifle—an AK-47. It was a cheap enough rifle that it was widespread all across the world, but the implication meant that this outpost had been attacked. Though what was odd was the opposing side carried, for some reason, melee weapons. A knife, he could understand since that could be used for stealth or as a backup weapon, but this heavy-looking sword? Against an assault rifle? That implied a not insignificant amount of psychosis, and that only tended to happen in the worst kinds of war zones.

"Sorry, but I'm going to need your clothes."

John pulled off the boots first. Then came the socks and pants. It was actually a little hard to do so since the man seemed to weigh at least 250 pounds, but he made do well enough. However, it was when he was working on the shirt that he saw something. The wound had been splattered with blackened, dried blood so it had been hard to tell, but now that he looked closer, he could see that it was flesh and muscle that had been severed. It was matte black musculature and wires.

"A Terminator?!"

He fell back, grabbing the assault rifle off the floor and aiming it at the man's head. When it made no move after a few dozen long seconds, he slowly and reluctantly lowered the gun as he tried to bring his breathing under control. Still, he eyed it warily and he got up. Cautiously, he approached, one step at a time. He slapped the head a few times with the barrel of his gun, but it made no move. Satisfied that it wasn't active or a trap, he crouched down in front of it and examined the wound closer.

The musculature and wires weren't part of the usual endoskeletons that came with a T-800 or higher model, but there was no reason for a robot to be in the past except to eliminate a specific target, most likely him. If this Terminator had been waiting at this entrance, he would have been ambushed and put into a very sticky situation. However, this shouldn't have been possible. Skynet was gone, and he sincerely doubted that Cameron would betray him. Even the thought of it tasted bitter in his mouth, the kind that would come if someone told him his mother was a Terminator all along.

But that expression on the machine's face wasn't something that could be faked easily. Was the sensory system that advanced or was it possibly a cyborg instead? It wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility, especially since there had been funded projects to that effect even if they hadn't progressed much by the time he left. Who was to say that technology hadn't advanced that far since he left? Putting aside these speculations, there was still that little, tiny, infinitely small concern of what the hell was strong enough to jam a metal sword through a machine?

Obviously, another machine.

John Connor spun around with his gun raised, but there was nothing behind him. There was nothing surrounding him either. Licking his dry lips, he quickly spun around and aimed his rifle down at the machine...which hadn't moved either. Groaning a little, he brushed a hand through his hair, wiping away the sweat on his forehead.

"Keep it together, John." The words were only a faint comfort, but it was more than enough to keep him going for now. Taking a moment, he placed the assault rifle down on the ground and began pulling on the pants. After slipping on the socks and boots as well as tying the shoelaces, he brought up the rifle once more. He was feeling a lot better now that he was halfway clothed, even if he still didn't have a shirt. If he thought about it like going to the beach, it made his state of dress a bit more palatable.

He grabbed the magazine of the assault rifle to pull it out and check how much ammunition he had, but it didn't move. Putting more effort into it, he gritted his teeth and pulled, but all that it did was show him how jammed in it was. Instead, he tried to slide the rack to see if there was a bullet in the chamber, but that didn't budge either.

"Seriously?"

Was it broken? If it was, that would be the worst situation, but he knew that he shouldn't assume. Grimacing, he still brought up the rifle's stock to his shoulder and aimed down the sights at the ground just a dozen feet away. He had half a mind that the gun would backfire and blow up in his face, but considering the situation, he had to risk it a bit to make sure that he could use it. Flicking off the levered safety on the right side of the gun, he gave the trigger a quick and measured pull.

The rifle heated up as a purple tracer flashed out of the barrel. The shot exploded against the ground, melting the dirt and creating a small crater on contact as wisps of smoke wafted from the impact area.

For one John Connor, he simply stared incredulously, his glances alternating between the gun and the melted spot on the ground.

"Who in the world disguises a plasma weapon as an old assault rifle?!" He froze for a moment. "Better question is: why does this even exist here?"

Even back in 2018, plasma weaponry was still in the first generation and far too expensive for mass production, but it was a necessary enough expense, considering that it was one of the few weapons that could consistently melt through a Red Eye's armored carapace. However, that firepower was red in color and nowhere close to getting to the damage he was seeing right in front of him. Was this rifle also from the future? But that shouldn't be possible since inorganic material cannot survive the rigors of time travel. Just the thought of it was giving him a headache.

Flicking on the safety and hanging the assault rifle from its sling which was wrapped around his neck, he walked up to the corpse once again. With the weapon in easy reach, he was reassured a little by the fact that he could grab the grip in one hand and pull the trigger, even if it would be a bit messy doing it one-handed. With that comforting thought in mind, he crouched down in front of the corpse and pressed his hands against the wound, to the left of the sword itself.

"Synthetic skin…?" It wasn't flesh and blood like a Terminator, but some kind of material that felt real enough. Even its appearance was realistic, though when he dug his finger into and underneath it, it was like an elastic flesh mask that had been attached to the musculature. The musculature itself was black matte in color and felt more like an exoskeleton under his touch, much like a power armor rather than a skeletal frame. Well, a power armor molded into the shape of a human muscle structure. Through the wound, he was able to feel, with his fingers, how thick the exoskeleton was yet it seemed far more malleable than it should be. The wires that stuck out from the exoskeleton were damaged and messy, like a bundle of severed cores, which actually made it too crowded to dig his finger in further.

"Hm, guess it can't be helped." He stood up and grabbed the hilt of the sword, grasping it with both hands. Pulling on it, he strained himself with effort, but after a few seconds of that, all he had to show for it was wasted stamina. Frowning, he placed the sole of his boot onto the chest and readied himself again with both hands on the hilt. "Excuse me."

Stomping his foot, he pulled as hard as he could, but no matter how much he gritted his teeth and strained his arms, the scrap metal sword refused to move. Actually, it seemed like it moved a tiny bit, but that could have easily been his imagination instead. For a moment, he thought of shooting the sword, but plasma and preservation were two contradictory things. More likely than not, he would ruin the corpse, even if it would be just a molten slag of a sword dripping into it. Sighing a bit, he figured he would just have to leave it for later. There was a risk with leaving it out here, but quite frankly, if nobody had taken it before, it was unlikely they would take it now.

He needed tools. A laptop would be preferable, but at least a screwdriver could get him started. However, for those, he would need to enter the building. Taking the assault rifle into his hands, he flicked off the safety and aimed down its sights at the bars of the security grille. He pulled the trigger multiple times, sending out a series of purple shots that melted the metal bars at certain spots in a large half-oval shape. With a quick kick, the weakened bars fell in with a loud clatter, creating a hole big enough for him to walk through. Well, after waiting half a minute for it to stop dripping molten metal.

John Connor raised the gun as he cautiously walked through, hoping that there was enough fuel left in the weapon. He wished that there was some kind of external ammunition display, but he supposed that Terminators wouldn't need them. Still, once he got some tools, he would be able to open it up and figure it out himself.

"This isn't an outpost," John muttered with a confused furrow of his brow. "This looks more like a shopping mall."

Despite a miniature waterfall that poured down from the second floor into the basement through a hole in the ground, the thick and luscious trees that sprouted through the cement, and the vines that crawled around everywhere, there was no mistaking the escalator or the layout of the shuttered storefronts. It was actually a smaller mall than the ones he had been to before, even with the second floor. Still, this was nostalgic in a way, reminding him of better times. Looking up, he could even see the reminiscent style of the skylight high above.

…as well as the glowing red eyes that stared back down at him.

"For the Forest King!" The electronic voices shouted out as the robots that looked more like mobile tin cans leaped, dropping down through the shattered windows of the skylight. Their feet smashed into the center of the floor, shaking the ground and sending up a plume of dust.

However, John Connor had already let loose a series of purple shots even before they touched down. Three purple blasts slammed into the chassis of one of the robots, melting its front entirely. The second robot was shot in the shoulder, severing the arm holding a scrap metal sword and sending it flying off to the side.

"Kill the intruder!" The third robot raised its metal spear and charged at him.

John dived off to the side, firing the gun even as he flew. The shots impacted the torso and head of the robot, melting through the metal and wires. Sparks flared out wildly from its wounds as it slouched forward and exploded, sending shrapnel flying outward. As for John, his back hit the ground roughly, skidding across the rubble and leaving specks of blood, inadvertently dodging most of the shrapnel. His vision whitened momentarily from the pain, but he powered through it, forcing himself to sit up just as the second robot reached him with its last grasping hand.

"Die, die, die!"

A burst of purple plasma melted through the chest of the second robot, stealing the red glow of life from its eyes. Unceremoniously, it collapsed into a heap in front of him, its hand still outstretched to strangle him. Kicking the hand out of the way, he scooted back and took a moment to breathe. The adrenaline was still pumping in his ears; the fast-paced beating of his heart resounding like a drumbeat.

"Well, that was…something. I think that's enough excitement for one day." Despite saying that, he still climbed up to his feet. As much as he wanted to call it a day, it would be reckless to leave it at this. Brushing off the dust and remnants from his pants and back, he looked down at the rifle hanging from his neck. In the heat of the moment, he hadn't really thought about how much ammunition was left, but thankfully, it had been enough to last the entire fight. However, even if it wasn't completely out of fuel, it was probably very low at this point. Maybe a few shots at most if he wanted to be optimistic. One or none if he wanted to be the opposite.

Admittingly, the strange part was that he could understand what those robots were saying. They weren't speaking English, but he understood the words easily enough. Did this have something to do with Masa?

It was even bandied about that Maso particles could possibly help them achieve inter-solar space travel. A huge leap forward. Some had even dared to hope that it would allow them to reach close to light speed, and the really crazy theories even proposed that it could allow faster than light to be possible. The particle frankly broke all the known laws of physics with how versatile and resilient it was. Even his time machine was built using it, a shortcut and cheat for him as he really didn't have an entire world's worth of research to do it the correct way like Skynet did. Though, to be fair, he did make the time machine eleven years before Skynet ever did.

If he could not contain the Shinjuku Incident, there was no guarantee he would be able to create another time machine before he gets infected with White Chlorination Syndrome. That was if he could even gain access to the Dragon which was both heavily guarded and sought after in the aftermath of the Shinjuku Incident. At that point, all he would be able to do was pass on the blueprint stored in his memories and hope someone would survive long enough to make it.

He looked around at the various storefronts. Many of them were shuttered close, but there were a few of them that were still open. Looting and scavenging were, in fact, some of the skills that his mother had taught him in preparation for the post-apocalyptic world after Judgment Day, though they did have some use during his military days. As he made his way to the first store, a smirk came to his face. If they had anything left, he would find it.

However, it didn't take long for that smirk to fall right off his face. All of the stores, even the ones he could see through the security grilles, were empty. Not empty in the sense that they had been completely looted for all that they were worth or abandoned in a style worthy of a miser, but empty in the sense that they never had anything in the first place. All of the stores were obscenely spartan, not even sparing the trash and debris that would result from frantic scavenging. The display cases had broken glass, but there were no markings or scratches that showed that anything had ever been on display. There wasn't even a trace of a store sign either, just empty and rusted boards.

"Just where is this place?"

John Connor leaned against the railing on the second floor, staring across the empty expanse of the mall. Now that he had time to think about it, the existence of this place didn't quite make sense. Why would a mall be built next to a forest? All around the structure should have been a flatland for parking lots and to receive store supplies from big rig trucks, but there wasn't any of that from what he could see so far. It was like this place had been constructed and then subsequently abandoned, leading to the trees breaking through the concrete and plant life sprouting out everywhere. However, that didn't explain why the path of a stream had been diverted into the mall itself, breaking through the wall, pouring off the edge of the second floor, and decaying the concrete of the first floors that allowed it to fall directly into the basement below. Well, basement or tunnel; it was actually too dark to see much down there, and he wasn't ever willing to jump down there to explore.

He had first thought that maybe the time travel didn't work or that he had gone into the near future, but that wouldn't explain why there were plants growing here. Instead of this, there should have been piles and layers of salt, remnants of people who had contracted the White Chlorination Syndrome, such that the ground would have been uninhabitable for plant life at all. Since shopping malls were typically erected in populated urban areas—even if maybe the construction of this place wasn't complete—the surrounding areas should have been devoid of plant life. Actually, shouldn't he explore around more outside to see if that was the chance?

Walking across the balconies and down the escalator, he made his way to the other main entrance that he had found to the shopping mall. Going through the open panels of what had apparently been sliding doors if they still had glass, he could not help but drop his mouth at the sight before him.

There was a creaking and swaying bridge, constructed out of rope, wooden boards, and a few metal panels, that was extended across what could only be considered a half-mile stretch across a massive canyon. Though, it did answer why all the stores were empty.

"…why would anyone want to walk on a flimsy, wooden bridge across a gaping canyon to go to a shopping mall?"

Just looking down at what could only be considered a skydiving drop made him feel as if his sanity was leaving him.

"Why? Just…why…?"

~o~

A/N: Thanks for reading. I have to admit, a bit different from the style I am used to, but not bad nonetheless.

Again, thanks once again to my editor Vahn for keeping me from doing stupid ideas.