(This wasn’t requested by anyone, and is a quasi-vent piece. My husband was entered into the hospital yesterday, and I’ve got a lot of worry and whatnot in my head that needs to be sorted out. And so, I write.
Though I haven’t actually seen the new Chase video and have only partaken the spoilers and theories, I feel it nonetheless fits with what I have planned for my Darkness ‘verse, and for Anti and the Septic Boys in it.)
Time is essentially meaningless when you’re the adopted son of a legit god.
He knew he could be something of a brat sometimes, quick to anger and with a love for tricks. Pops was often a study in patience in dealing with his quicksilver moods, and Meg looked upon him as an annoying but loveable little brother (even though he’d been born into this new life first).
The strange electrical “glitches” that happened tended to hurt, but they were occurring less and less frequently now. He was beginning to feel stronger and more confident in this new body and, as his sense of control grew, the memories of the life from before were slowly starting to come back into his mind.
They were often bits and pieces without real context, but he did what he could to piece the incomplete information together. To learn.
Time and space were made of threads, his Pops said. The threads connected the fabric of the universe together in a delicate and intricate web, complex but beautiful in its construction. Its appearance of a linear passage was simply an illusion. Time is a circle, a wheel, not a straight line.
This had been his — what? fourth, fifth, tenth? – attempt at stopping the wheel. Going back to the time that was most important. The time where he could change things for good and break the bindings that stuck all of them in this reality. To change things in a way that mattered, that would make it all perfect, make him finally happy.
And every time he went back, he learned more. But nothing changed, no matter what he did. Too far back? Too early to make a difference. A more recent time? Not early enough to really matter.
Every time he failed, and he seethed with frustration.
The last time – or maybe it was the time before, he wasn’t sure because it was all beginning to blur together now – had been the worst of all.
Those kids – it wasn’t his fucking fault! It was an accident! He’d never do that to a couple of little kids! T̵̠̩͒̕ĥ̸̝̠̄e̷̮̤̓͝y̶͍͓̋͠ ̸̧̾ẘ̷͕̻͊ḛ̷̒̉r̶̫̭̾͝e̷̼̥̚ ̵̝̾̕a̶̧͔͒ḷ̵͗̔r̴̦̒͝e̸̥̤͂a̸͈̽̃d̸̞̉̀y̵̞̫̆͘ ̶̘̆d̶̹̦̂͝é̴͉͆a̷̳̽̏d̸̛̲̱!̵̟̚͝
This time, he sat in the backseat of the car of that pathetic drunken failure of a father, the father too young, too immature, too weak to protect those who needed him most, and found himself seething with intense, fiery hatred. Doing this again, and again, and again… and he found his heart twisting at the sight, as the man let out a primal – yet not quite cathartic – scream of pain.
The sound shook him like nothing else had, crept into the depths of his corrupted soul. It didn’t have to be this way, g̸̹͑o̵̡̅̽͜d̵̥͑̓d̶͚̈́à̶̘̅ḿ̶̳̲n̷̹͗i̸̥̇̏ṱ̴̆!̷̰̍
Closing his eyes, he fought to calm himself and focus his energies. He began to pull gently at some of the strands. Trying to clip and resew them together as Pops had told him he could. Not all of them. Maybe just a few, maybe that would help.
He opened his eyes, and Chase was gone, the bottle left behind.
Anti smiled. Maybe the circle could be changed, after all.
Maybe he couldn’t just stop the wheel. Maybe, just maybe, he could finally break it.