I don’t want to put that decision on him, but I won’t, for a second, let him think I’d ever choose anything but him.
But that’s how it goes, isn’t it? I’m Bad August. I’m the one who ends worlds on a whim.
Or I was.
Maybe I’m not anymore, considering I’m thinking this through. Considering I’m not trying to steer him away from ending this trail of death. No longer lying to keep a grip on him.
And it turns out, honesty has a better grip on him than any lie ever could. That’s what hurts the most. He’s seen me, my darkest parts, and he loves me anyway.
He has a romantic heart. A loving heart. All his music, his unerring forgiveness of everyone who hurts him, his belief that we could overcome this…
But love can’t overcome fact. The inevitable yes or no, the good or bad, the live or die. It’s coming for us. And it’s just a matter of time.
We come down from the overpass into a throng of people, milling back and forth along the street. The street signs are in English, which is an enormous relief. They’re in several other languages too, but that suggests maybe we can find someone to give us directions.
Things aren’t so different here. The fashion’s changed but not unrecognisable. We walk past what looks like a posh hotel, and when the doors slide open, a familiar hotel-scent of calm, cool air reaches us. There are cafes and food stalls lining the road, hawkers yelling about their goods.
We try to stick close, the crowd weaving between our pairs. August’s within reach, but he let go of my hand when we stepped down, maybe to be on the safe side in case these people are less modern than we’d hoped, or maybe it’s just easier to navigate the crowd like this.
I miss him. And he’s right here.
He looks handsome under the flashing coloured lights. He always looks handsome, but he’s got that excitement about him that made me fall for him that very first night. Chin up, scanning the tall buildings, he draws my eye to a line of brick several stories above us, spanning the length of the block.
Buildings I recognise.
They’ve dug down.
The street level we once knew, in our world, has been demolished, the very buildings that lined it bolstered from beneath, maybe five or six storeys down, then the remnants of the past left on display above, like paintings hanging on a gallery wall. Above them, skyscrapers soar into the heavens. God knows what they used to fortify them, to keep their form. God knows what they used to do any of this. This sort of growth, of a city like this… It must have taken a very long time.
I turn to the first local at hand, a man who’s occupied trying to get people to eat in his restaurant. “What year is it?”
“How many people?” he asks, dead-eyed.
“No, I don’t want to come in. I just can’t remember what year it is. Can you tell me?”
He frowns beneath heavy-lidded eyes. “Twenty-five, twenty-five.”
“What?” I stare at him blankly, trying to process the leap. Five hundred years? And four hundred years into the past yesterday. More or less. Which means we’ve traversed nine hundred years in the space of a day.
“I’ll throw in a bottle of wine for the table?” he shouts, but his voice fades with the crowd, lost in the throng of people.
I look for August to tell him what’s happened. But he’s gone.
“August!” I call out.
I can’t see him anywhere. Or anyone else from our group.
I shove forward through the crowd, looking into shop entrances in case they’ve wandered into one. Cafes, in case they’ve stopped. Trying to see over the people who seem en masse taller than in our time. “August!”
Alarm sets in. I know they can’t have gone far. I know he wouldn’t have, not without me. But I’m stuck in this futuretime, in this foreign world, and the one reason I’m here has disappeared.
A loud bang cracks down the street. People scream, the crowd surges. I’m thrown to the ground in the panic. Legs, bodies, a jumble, the rough concrete ripping into my skin, then a flash, everywhere and all at once.
Silence. People falling, the sound of their bodies dropping, but not a peep from them. Asleep. Like on the train. Like at the concert.
Asshole August.
Why would he?—
