Lifeline - Phone A Friend

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She doesn’t understand.

Lark’s heart sinks at the confused relief in Kore’s voice, settling amid the roots and decomposed wood beneath their feet. Their shoulders slump, eyes downturned as they try to think of the correct words to put in sequence to express their disappointment. Their eyes flicker side to side as though reading some invisible line written into the fabric of the universe. They thought-

But that was silly of them, wasn’t it, to expect to be understood without having to explain. They always have to explain, but at least this time she’ll have the explanation from the last source it can come from, and they won’t have to explain it again in the past.

The time tenses in that thought make about as little sense as the thought itself, and they wonder if they’ve finally managed to shatter their own sanity. But madness would be too easy of an escape, wouldn’t it?

After a long moment, they look at her again, exhausted beyond their years with a kind of resignation hanging about them like a shroud. “That wasn’t-”

Their voice catches, and they sigh and try again. “I already knew that I could do that - go into the past and have nothing change in the future, no matter what I did. Nothing about that changed the natural course of time in that- this area.”

A short, waving gesture towards the trees around them. “That wasn’t changing fate. That was just playing into its hands, like I’ve been doing all my life. The tree that you cut down has already decomposed in this time, which means it was always going to have been cut down.”

Trying to spell out their intuitive understanding of the chain of events is more difficult than they could imagine. They can’t tell if this is making any sense or not, from an outside perspective. Because they’ve been living from their own perspective for their entire life, mainly talking to Future Larks who already knew and understood.

“Maybe that’s on me. Maybe I took us too far back to really cause any waves, or maybe everything I do has already been accounted for by the time I think to do it.” Lark brushes some hair out of their face, fingers lingering over the scar through their eyebrow. They don’t want to answer her question, but maybe it’s the only way to really put all their cards on the table.

“I’ve known about my- about the end of my timeline since I was ten.” They still can’t say death in as many words, but they forge on, trying to be as cursory as possible while still getting their point across. “You know, I always wondered why my older selves didn’t visit. I figured they were too busy but, well, now I know they don’t exist.”

A dark, humorless chuckle, before their expression darkens. “There was a time when I tried to change anything I could get my hands on, but there was also a time where I went back to stop the changes from taking effect. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I didn’t think a child has the right tools to shape any sort of alternate future, if such a thing exists, without getting hurt. I still don’t.”

The unspoken implication that they now consider themself capable of handling whatever Time or Fate or Whatever tries to throw at them, regardless of the pain it may bring, hangs in the air. They don’t deny it.

“I had to try, at least one more time. Without reversing it or stopping myself or giving up.”

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Lark’s shoulders rise and fall with their breathing, an uneven shudder that gradually settles out under the reassuring pressure of her hand. They keep their eyes on a nearby tangle of roots, but it’s clear they’re listening. They don’t laugh, precisely, only managing a small smile, a quick quirk of their lips that fades all too quickly.

Their end, huh? They take a step to the side, pressing their back against the rough bark of a nearby tree. They don’t feel like standing, but they don’t want to sit either. A familiar detachment settles over them, comforting in its simplicity; they had to learn that trick quickly, or they would’ve given up long ago.

“It was a lot less complicated back then.” The memories are distant, but still within reach. All of their memories are, but they aren’t in the right frame of mind for remembering more than they have to right now. “There was still so much to learn, and that me didn’t know yet.”

“But yes. You’re right, I’ve been there four times.” They tick off each mention on their fingers, voice flat. “Once by accident, once to stop it, once to stop myself, and the last time… well, someone had to care for the youngest.”

They flex their fingers, scars shifting with the movement, before tucking their hands into their pockets. Their shoulders go tense, accompanying an unhappy slant to their mouth. “I didn’t exactly get to stick around for long. The timeline… for whatever reason, as soon as the main version of myself was gone, every version of me got shoved right back to their proper times. And I didn’t- well, I didn’t want to hang around for long beforehand. I’ve, uh, kind of sworn off going into the future when I don’t have to, considering how quickly it went to hell in a handbasket the first time.”

Finally, their eyes find hers again, and a flicker of what could be regret passes through their gaze. “Sorry for getting you caught up in all of this, Kore. I guess I can be pretty selfish, but not quite enough to risk the whole world just for myself. If that is what it came down to, I think I’d rather just… die. Everything has to end sometime, right?”

Despite their accepting words, they can’t quite keep the tremor out of their voice and hands. What a lie.

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Lark follows Kore to the bench, taking a seat beside her. Their thoughts whirr by in a numb fog, and they could almost convince themself they aren’t feeling anything. Alas, they’ve never been that great at lying to themself, and they can say definitively that they are feeling too much, enough that it’s easier to shut it all down than experience it.

They look out through the trees at the street beyond, smiling humorlessly for a brief moment. Isn’t every choice one they have to make for themself?

Kore’s words follow the same logical paths they’ve traveled down many times before, but it’s undeniably different hearing it from someone else. A different perspective. They turn to look at her, meeting her eyes with mutual understanding. They slump into the bench, resting their arm on the back of it and propping their chin on their hand.

Right and wrong. The value of a life. There’s an old pain in their eyes, one that never really goes away. No one wants to die, after all. And as much as they can try to live a life with no regrets, they can’t do it all. A moment passes, and they look off into the trees rather than address her directly.

“If I… survived, the first thing I would do is come back here - or further, back to the start of it all - and make sure none of this heartache got stuck in my head. I’ve, well, it sounds weird to say it in as many words, but I’ve always tried to protect my younger self.” Lark closes their eyes, letting the memories play out in the private theater of their mind. “It’s a cycle, of course - I grew up with my older self watching out for me, and now I’m on the other end doing the watching out. But that… it always seemed worth it. It’s what I want to do, and what I’ve already seen done.”

They open their eyes a sliver, letting the forest around them blend into a muddy blur of greens and browns. “After that, I’d do… whatever I want, I guess. Go wherever catches my interest. Same as I’m already doing, but… not into the future. Not again. I think I’d rather be surprised.”

Lark sighs, fluttering the stray strands of silver hair that fall across their face. “I wouldn’t call it guilt, and I do my best to avoid giving myself more things to regret. I just do what feels right in the moment, and if I really regret it later I can always go back and change that. I won’t pretend I’ve never done anything wrong, but I like to think I’ve put a bit of good into the world in my time. Maybe that’s what ‘the value of a life’ really shakes out to - what you do with it.”

“What about yourself, Kore? What are you doing it all for?”

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Kore’s statement makes Lark look at her in surprise. They hadn’t considered the real scope of everything that would shift around if they were able to change things for themself. It’s a fruitless venture, and only inspires false hope, so they don’t usually try to imagine a life beyond what they know to be the end.

“I didn’t mean-” they pause, reconsider the truth in their statement, and restart. “Ok, maybe I did. Or, do- ugh.”

They pause time for a second, just long enough to bury their face in their hands and take a moment, before collecting themself and returning to their previous position. To Kore, it would seem as though their expression changed impossibly fast, and they shifted slightly, like a moment of lag in the fabric of space-time.

Lark lets her speak, something quiet settling over them. Maybe it’s the coffee kicking in, but they feel a little more alert and a little less like they want to lay face down in the dirt and stay a while. Maybe it’s just that they didn’t expect her to open up in turn, and they’d forgotten how nice it can be to feel… not quite so alone.

“You know, I may not agree with everything you think, but maybe we aren’t so different, Kore.” They tilt their head to the side, lashes low as they scan her face. She is rather pretty, almost like a porcelain doll. Lark is well aware they’re more of a ragdoll than anything, and there are many reasons that nothing would happen between them, but for just a moment they wonder. And then it’s gone.

“I know what it’s like chasing after a… deadline.” They almost smile, morbidly proud of the pun despite themself. “I can’t say I hold much stock in the ideas of being ‘good’ or ‘evil,’ cause when you really get down to it everyone’s just people. Constantly making decisions that change things for themselves and others.”

They hold up their free hand, poking out their pointer finger and turning it so that their palm is perpendicular to the ground. “Say someone saves someone else,” here, they poke out their middle finger as well, making a sideways peace sign. “Then those two paths get kind of tied together, and all the moments that follow after that link back to that one decision. Or maybe they kill someone.”

“And that haunts them, but they keep moving. But the death affects the dead person’s loved ones, and their loved ones, and on and on for as long as people keep caring about each other.” Here, they hold up the rest of their fingers, wiggling them for some kind of emphasis before shrugging and dropping their hand back to rest in their lap. “You’ve got a bit more… sway, in that sense, with all the significance hanging around you, but at the end of the day you’re still a person, too.”

Finally, they turn to meet her eyes again. “I don’t think anyone has to apologize for being a person, or thank other people for ‘allowing’ them to live in peace. You go out and do what you think is right, just like so many others. Your work - that’s a choice too, just like doing nothing would be.”

Almost as soon as they finish their explanation, their expression twists, and they look away again. “Eh, I’ll get off my soapbox. That’s… just the way I see it.”

And look where it’s gotten them. Who are they to be giving anything resembling advice?