When the Clock Runs Out [Closed]

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Lark has never been quick to anger. Alright, no, that’s a lie, and it’s even worse than their usual ones. They don’t usually let themself be quick to anger, but here and now, there’s really not much that they’ve got left to lose. Haven’t they earned a little wrath?

It’s better than the creeping fear that wraps around their ribcage and constricts their throat, better by a long measure. More productive. And aren’t they just so concerned with productivity, lately?

A flicker-blink, and they’re a few steps closer, standing steadier. Still in the path of her gun, but that isn’t much of a threat to them, not as long as they’re quick enough. Their eyes flicker to her scars, but their expression doesn’t change. No sympathy, no guilt, no remorse. In fact, their eyes are almost devoid of any life at all, the blank stare of a person pushed so very close to their breaking point. Or, perhaps, a particularly crummy actor going through the motions of a long-written script.

They ignore her question, because it doesn’t really matter what they’re here for. They’re here because they have to be, and because it’s where they are and where they were and where they always would be at this particular time. But those are personal thoughts, rambling thoughts. They have no place here. “Memory is a funny thing, isn’t it?”

Their right arm raises quickly, as a flash of green light heralds the arrival of another twelve-year old Lark. The both of them are repositioned a few steps to the side a moment later, and the younger one huffs in frustration when they find the path to their target blocked. The elder Lark doesn’t seem phased, pushing the child lightly behind them and speaking over any of their protests. “You seem to remember me, but I’d love to forget you.”

A shake of their head, without taking their eyes off of her, and the space behind them is suddenly empty as that same light flashes again. There are many things they’d be fine with forgetting. The sting of scrapes and heartbreak, or maybe just the unshakable knowledge of how this day shakes out.

“Let’s just get this over with, huh?” They’ve been patient for so long, and that tick-tock-tick-tocking timer is running real low on sand. Without further stalling, they flick their hand, fanning out an array of shuriken between their fingers. Their grin is empty as they toss them out with deadly aim.

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Lark remains motionless as the first shot is fired, their expression tense. Their gaze stays fixed on her, but there’s movement across the room as a sixteen-year-old Lark, just a few moments too late to corral their younger self, watches the shot split around them. That Lark also disappears before they can become the target of Fate’s attacks, chasing their wayward tween self through the timeline.

Fate’s words find their intended target as pure hatred flashes in the current Lark’s eyes, the defensive anger for their younger self always close at hand. Especially now, when they know what they’re going to have to do.

But they can make it hurt, before then.

“When have I ever taken the easy route?” They ask, the question wholly rhetorical. It doesn’t seem to be directed at Fate, exactly, just posed deadpan to the universe at large, a bit of a growl underscoring their words.

The gunsmoke smells off, sickly sweet and acrid instead of, well, smoky. The bullets don’t act like normal ones, splitting and trailing light like shooting stars. It’s all so familiar, but at the same time alien, and they have to force their perspective back, watching from a step behind as they vault over a desk, crouch down, and disappear from her sight.

Three of the bullets hit the desk, the others arching over and around. Lark waits until the last moment to stop time and scoot out of the way, pulling their leg back just as time resumes and the remaining shots collide with the tiled floor.

It could just be the nerves, but they could swear time is more rigid here, less willing to let them bend it to their whims. They don’t think it was like this for their other visits to this awful time, but it’s always a little different being the current Lark in a given time.

Well, even at a bit of a disadvantage, they’ve still got a few tricks up their sleeve. They never really fight alone, not when it counts. They try to breathe past the anger, letting it smolder without overwhelming them, and between one second and the next they hop up onto the desk that had served as their shield, kicking off it in the next moment and launching themself at her. If they can get their hands on it, they’ll try to snatch the gun from her hands, or just knock it away.

In the same instant, light flashes behind Fate as another Lark, the same Lark only a few seconds displaced, kicks towards her back. Fighting on multiple fronts is their specialty, even if they don’t have cause to practice it much.

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It’s a shock to actually collide with her, though they suppose maybe it shouldn’t be. Do they remember this? It’s all so jumbled, memories both old and new all close at hand for the time traveler who does not have the luxury of forgetting a single moment.

She touches their face, and Lark leans as far away from it as they can. It’s a cruel mockery of kindness, and they want nothing to do with the flashes of memory that it evokes. They let the hate clear their mind of sun-kissed skin and braided hair and orchards before the sense-memory can toss up more than a faded impression. God, they hate having to touch her, however briefly it’ll be. She’s too warm, or maybe they’re just chilled all the way through from standing out in the cold for too long. Either way, it burns.

“Drop the act.” The snarl that mars their face is barely an afterthought as their thoughts whirl. Kill her now, some instinct insists, and part of them is tempted to try it, just to see what happens. They won’t have to deal with the fallout, surely. Their fingers dig into her shoulders and they’re well aware of how bony their knees are as they keep one shin pressed like a bar across her thighs, their knees pressing hard into the unforgiving floor. They’re all lean muscle and not much else, but they’re taller and this is far from the first fight they’ve gotten into.

They wait too long. The card activates against their face, and fear washes across them unbidden. Their heart races and they shove away from her as the claustrophobic closeness quickly flips from grimly bearable to nauseating. The fact that they’re listening to her, even unintentionally, is just another twist in their stomach. But, hey, fear’s an old friend by now, ain’t it?

Lark likes to think they know themself pretty well. Even with everything pressing in at every angle all around them, they can register with what little rationality remains to them that they’re beginning to well and truly flip the fuck out.

Usually, this would be swiftly and easily resolved by spending a few days kicking around in the past, but oh hey, look who decided to get this over with all in one go. It was a stupid decision, but they won’t go back on it.

Back on their feet, they vanish before the branching spears of wood and metal can reach them, reversing a few seconds into the past to kick her in the back and set this whole chain off again. It’s astonishingly satisfying. Fight or flight, right? Well, they aren’t running away. Not this time.

Their heart is still racing, but underneath it they can feel the familiar jolt of catching up with the timeline, that fishhook-tug of something setting into motion after a moment of stillness. They’re just in time to discover that the spears weren’t solely aimed at their past self, as they arrow right for this Lark even as the other blinks away.

Adrenaline is a hell of a drug. They lose track of what takes place in the seconds between and what happens in real time as they dodge around the vines twining their way, flickering around the wood and metal in double time.

A starburst of pain flashes behind their eyes as they hold time too long - ridiculous, they haven’t made that mistake in months, what is wrong with the time in this place - and they make a misstep. Something sharp and cold slices across their ankle, beginning to curl around before familiar hands pull them roughly to the side. They don’t waste time thinking, just roll the clock back again and follow through regardless of the new pain of a thin braid of wood trying to twine around their waist, one that a sixteen year old Lark steps in to cut with the sharp edge of a shuriken before wheeling a young Lark out and away from the melee.

They only realize where the younger Lark was sent, exactly, when another shot rings out. Their head snaps towards Fate - stupid, don’t take your eyes off the assailant, Lark - but it wasn’t her who fired. It was the twelve-year-old Lark, standing in the darkened corner of the room. Their eyes are round and wide, surprised that it worked, but they don’t stick around for longer than to fire that one shot before a sixteen-year-old Lark drags them back and they both disappear, weapon and all.

And - they should’ve remembered that, they really should have. Everything is a little fuzzy under the haze of fear and paranoia, though, so they suppose they can blame it on that.

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The panic fades all at once, and Lark has a moment to breathe as the vines also halt their pursuit. Of course, all of this is incredibly suspicious. For the moment, they’re the only Lark in the room, and their breathing sounds very loud in the still air. They don’t dare to take their eyes off of Fate, but in that moment they tug at their sense of time, trying to determine the source of that nameless wrongness that sits heavily in the air.

Their internal metronome gives a resounding shrug, ticking to a new second just as Fate crumbles to the floor in an all too literal sense. It startles them - they can’t account for what they haven’t seen, after all.

Another second, and a quiet snap from behind them. They whirl, instinctively reaching to pause time and get their bearings. Time obliges, though not for as long as they’d like.

“Behind-” Silence, and they backpedal quickly, the backs of their legs bumping against one of the desks. Time snaps back into motion in time for her to finish, “-you.”

An actual, honest-to-god fireball shoots towards them. They don’t waste time being surprised or confused, just throw themself into a roll to the side.

The human brain wasn’t intended to hold as many memories as Lark has. Some things are meant to be forgotten, and a normal life is full of those moments. Tying shoes, eating dinner, falling asleep on the couch, watching an unmemorable movie, putting hair up in a ponytail, talking about the weather. But Lark cannot forget, and so they live with all the detritus of as full a life as they could fit into 19 years.

Ordinarily, it’s easy to push these memories aside, to starve them of attention and move on without being overwhelmed. But the fire singes their hair and they’re hit with the memory of steam from a hair straightener, a necessary evil for a trip to the 2000s. They remember sitting on the cool bathroom counter and they remember standing beside it, two perspectives from months or minutes apart.

The memory releases them as someone yanks them up from the ground and spins them out of the way of the next blast, an elegant ballroom turn that has no place on the battlefield. The trailing end of their skirt is caught mid-spin, and they stomp on the hem to put out the embers as they’re guided back a step.

Their future self is smiling, despite everything, lips pressed together and eyes distant. Their gaze sharpens quickly enough, and Lark finds themself leaning backwards at a precarious angle as they’re dipped under the trajectory of the last fireball, though it passes close enough for them to feel the heat on their face.

They follow the loop after a breath that carries the scent of melting plastic and burning wood, and they remember the vaulted ceilings and elegant gowns of a ballroom fulfilling its intended purpose. The hands they catch are both their own and someone else’s entirely, and their past self’s surprise is overlaid onto barely-familiar features, hidden behind a feathered mask.

That was a good day. They’ve had plenty of good days, and they keep all of those rainy-day stars close to their heart where nothing can tarnish them, not blood or grit or dirt. They can’t believe that almost slipped their mind entirely.

Well, no use crying over a perfectly inevitable death. They watch their past self slip away and they brush a hand over the singed ends of their hair with a smile that sharpens into something fierce as they turn it on Fate. “Copycat.”

Unfortunately, she seems to be suffering from a small but critical misinterpretation of their powers. The room is smoldering and beginning to burn around them, which they might care more about if they were sticking around long enough for it to matter.

“You’re wrong.” They smile, and their hand dips into their pocket liquid-quick, scattering caltrops over the floor around them in a quick clatter of metal on tile. “I love standing still.”

A blatant lie, though perhaps it wouldn’t be if they’d spent their life in any other way. Still, they might be awful at lying to themself, but they’re pretty good at tricking everyone else. They had to be.

"It's way better than sitting." Just another second of drawing her attention. Their gaze doesn't waver. A flicker of movement from behind her, as a young Lark blinks into existence for only a moment before being dragged back into the past again. Then they reappear, a bucket of water held in their hands that they chuck directly at Fate’s back.

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Lark laughs as the water meets its target, because the expression Fate makes is priceless. They never could resist a solid prank, even in the most dire of times. They can finally watch properly as the younger Lark is tackled by an older version, and they both disappear with the twelve-year old still choking on victorious laughter. “Ha! I knew I-”

The flames engulf the green afterimage of the two time travelers, and a wall partition meets its untimely demise. Lark bites back their amusement but can’t school the stab of vindication that turns their grin into a sickle. Tricksy little minx, indeed. They’d almost be flattered if they weren’t distracted by the seconds ticking down on their internal timer. Minutes left, now.

It’s a mistake to look away from their enemy, but the bright flames force them to shield their eyes, disoriented for a critical moment in the blank unknown between visits from their past selves.

A weight collides with their back, and they nearly buckle. Their smile drops like a bad habit as they’re caught, held. They start to struggle immediately, trying to pry her loose. It was a mistake leaving their arms free, they’ll-

“The hell-” They start, cringing away from her teeth, still pulling at her arm, wondering if they have time to pull a fruit ninja on her face before their time is up. One of their internal timers hits zero, and a ding rings through their mind as a fresh-faced young Lark appears with a genuinely pleased smile lighting up their face. The current Lark’s face goes pale. Then, abruptly, the room around them vanishes.

Lark stumbles over nothing as the weight on their back is suddenly gone, and they land in a puddle. The tail end of the ding still rings through their mind, or, actually, through the air around them, reverberating through a darkened sky. A crisp tick-tock-tick-tock plays in the background like a metronome, marking each second that passes.

But their more immediate concern - the puddle. They expect to be soaked, but when they lift their hand the liquid beads up and rolls off their skin like mercury. Maybe it is mercury - it certainly has the same silver sheen. Their reflection shudders beneath them as they get to their feet, finally able to cast their eyes out over the landscape before them.

Everything shimmers in reflective silver, a shallow pool of mercury covering the ground all around them. Jagged spires like mirror shards jut out of the ground at intervals, with multicolored stalactites that shift and jangle against each other in a localized breeze. The pool seems to cut out after the shards, dropping off into nothing. Above, green light shines like the aurora borealis lights, casting shifting illumination over the scene as it twines around and out of sight. The sky is dark beyond the light, without even a star or planet to interrupt the inky black.

It all feels familiar, though they can’t say they’ve ever seen this mirrored hell dimension before. They would remember if they had, they think. It’s pretty unmistakable.

The ground spins underneath them and a great rumble rocks them off their feet once more. They land hard, but the ground is surprisingly spongy underneath them, like the kind of padding they have in playgrounds or shoe stores. And now they see the one person they know shouldn’t be in here.

Fate. She’s near one of the shards, only upon closer inspection this one isn’t reflecting the landscape anymore. A scene plays out in full color beyond what should be a solid surface. And they know that scene, almost before they lay eyes on it. A stormy gray sky through a window framed by windchimes. A cubby-shelf overflowing with books and toys and clothes. An unmade bed shoved in the corner, with a layer of papers strewn across it almost thick enough to block out the pawprint design of the sheets.

And, in the middle of that room, two Larks stand facing one another. One is young and bright-eyed, the other older, all sharp edges and exhaustion. They’re arguing, though there’s no sound to accompany their mouths moving.

Lark stands up, again, and stomps towards Fate. “What is this? What did you do?”

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Lark is beginning to regret asking for an explanation. They aren’t sure which is worse - not knowing, or listening to her words ring true. This feels like a place that should be hazy and indistinct, but everything is rendered in crystal-sharp clarity and that’s… not right. Except that it’s nothing less than they’d expect, somehow. They don’t want to think too hard about the implications of this being a representation of what’s in their head.

They guess they took the “reflection” part a little too seriously. They can’t look anywhere without catching sight of themself in some jagged mirror or droplet of mercury. “Yeah, well, I’d bet yours is worse.”

They make the mistake of looking down, and there’s a dizzying moment where their reflection doesn’t line up quite right, like a recording with a half second delay. Quickly, they look back at Fate and keep their gaze trained there, because she’s not supposed to be here and somehow that translates to her being the only solid thing in this place. Fucked up, indeed.

But - and they cling to the thought - she is a filthy goddamn liar, and even at their weakest they’d never take her words without a wheelbarrow of salt. They look up at the sky when she mentions it, and understanding settles over them, sweet with the undercurrent of relief. That isn’t them. The silver, sure, that all feels familiar, even the darkness beyond, but they’d recognize the timestream anywhere.

Lark surprises themself with a delighted laugh, drinking in the sight of their personal highway to all of time. Better yet, even when they look away, the impression doesn’t fade from their mind as it usually does.

“How about we don’t do anything, and you get the hell out of my head?” Their voice drips with acid, and their smile dims as they see the scene playing out behind her once more. They don’t need her pity or her amateur-hour psychoanalysis - they need to stop her before she gets whatever she wants from all this.

She reaches for the memory and they move to stop her. But when they try to reach for their sense of time, they find it completely out of their reach. It’s like missing a step on a stairway - they’re too slow to reach her without the buffer of a pause to move within. Ice settles in their veins, but they spare another glance for the river shining high above and then follow after her the slow way.

When they reach the shard, the ground under their feet tilts at an angle, and they almost slide away from it again. For a terrifying moment, they are convinced with absolute certainty that they know exactly what it would feel like to drown in here. Then their hand lands solidly on the smooth surface of the mirror and they tumble in after Fate.

They land gracelessly on the memory of a rug shaped like a flower. That’s, what, the third fall in as many minutes? Has it been minutes? Seconds? Without the ticking it’s even harder to keep track of the time in here. Maybe they should just give up. It’s pointless anyways.

Resignation hangs over this memory like a shroud, pressing down, down, down. Lark doesn’t want to open their eyes, much less get up off the floor, but the voices find their ears regardless of their wishes.

“You don’t really want to see it, trust me.” They might’ve been more convincing if they didn’t sound so resigned, so tired, so unconvinced by their own logic.

“Well, I say I do! What could be so special all the way up there, anyways?” This voice almost hurts to hear, and they wish they could cover their ears. They’ll know soon.

“I- I can’t- you just, hey, listen to me.” They sound desperate, now, solemn and serious and desperate.

“Fine. You get six seconds.” Not enough time, why can’t they just avoid this moment forever? So impatient, they wanted to see everything.

“I’ll be here. When you get back. Just try to remember that, okay?” They’re smiling, trying to be reassuring, but their voice is weak.

“Time’s up! Going now!” A chime punctuates their statement, and the elder Lark doesn’t even have time to sigh before a louder, angrier crash heralds the reappearance of the youngest. If the first flash was a flashlight clicking on, this is a lighthouse, flooding the room in harsh illumination.

The voice is the same, except for in all the ways that it’s not, as the young Lark sobs and screams, “NO! Why- I- that can’t be-”

They are incoherent in their grief, freshly bleeding from a cut through their eyebrow, freshly aware of their own mortality, freshly traumatized. Their crying is muffled slightly as the older Lark draws them close.

Lark never wants to remember this again. They don’t want to remember the footsteps clattering towards their door, or the concerned calls from their parents, or any of it. Their eyes snap open and they push themself up with great effort, eyes locking onto Fate. “Not. Here.”

The scene shudders and halts just as the door starts to swing open. They don’t know what they’re doing, but they pour their intention into the air around them and it responds to the call. The mirror refuses to go dark like they want it to, so they reach for a different memory to fill it with.

Something meaningless, hopefully. Something doomed before it even began- oh, no. The bedroom fades at last as a familiar skate park resolves around them. At least the resignation releases them, even if it’s replaced by fragile, soon-to-be-dashed hope.