Am I Seeing Things?

[attr="Style","background-color:#313131;padding:15px;"]
What’s on the docket for today?

Lark examines a whiteboard hanging on the wall of their apartment. It’s covered in their handwriting, although some of it is more precise and some of it is barely legible, even for them. Their chicken-scratch got a little more readable over the years, though not by much.

Ah, the board of loose ends. So much to do, so little time. If they tried to do it all in the present, that is. They’ve got about a year and change, but they aren’t thinking about that. A calloused finger runs down the side of the board, tracking the listed dates and landing on one near the bottom.

9:55am. Visit Smith Inc. Smooth things over.

Their finger runs over the writing, crossing it out, before they throw on a leather jacket and head out the door. They’re feeling diplomatic today.

The walk is swift, taken both in real-time and in paused moments between seconds. They dodge pedestrians and walk across streets, and the world is still around them, silent and frozen and easy to understand. It lasts until they have to release their pause, time resuming with a feeling like taking a breath after being underwater.

They arrive at the address after a few minutes in real-time, which is much longer for them. Standing on the sidewalk across the street, they rewind to the correct date and time. Though they haven’t physically moved, the people on the street are in a completely new arrangement, the weather is different, and they can feel a familiar stillness settle over them.

The light around them settles, and they pause time to walk across the street, winding around the cars frozen in mid-motion. The familiar sounds of traffic fill the air once more as they stand on the steps of the building. Smith Inc. is a business, unsurprisingly, with a professional sign out front. Lark pauses in their tracks, reading the sign again. Monster hunters? Ah, alright. So it’s gonna be that kind of day, then.

The open sign is lit, so whoever works here must be in. The silver-haired teenager pushes open the door, a long mint-green skirt swishing around their ankles as they step inside. Their eyes land on the woman seated at the front desk, scanning her in a motion that’s more instinct than intentional before they smile.

“Hello.”

[attr="Style","background-color:#313131;padding:15px;"]
Lark waves off the formal greeting, shaking their head in the negative. Although they do enjoy the occasional moment of polite confusion - it means they’re doing a pretty good job in their androgynous presentation - it’s best to cut these things off before they can get out of hand. “Lark. Just Lark.”

They stride up to the front desk in no particular hurry, the clunk of their boots against the floor a muted sound. Her questions earn a smile - for once, their expression just looks tired, rather than exhausted. They actually slept quite well last night, a fact which they attribute their mellow mood to. It isn’t enough to balance out years upon years of sleeplessness, but it does put a little pep in their step. “I’m just fine, but I’ll take the coffee if you’re offering. Thanks.”

The office itself is surprisingly normal. The time-traveler looks around with curiosity, but it just looks like a normal office space. It hardly screams ‘Monster Hunters Anonymous,’ but they aren’t sure what else they expected. Demon heads mounted on the walls? Might be a bit tacky. “This may be a bit different from your usual clients, but I’m here on a more… proactive matter.”

Another nudge at their mental clock. 9:57. Three minutes. To the monster hunter, it must seem as though they just zoned out for a moment, staring off into space before refocusing on her. “It’ll become quite relevant soon.”

[attr="Style","background-color:#313131;padding:15px;"]
A cryptic smile is the only answer to the monster hunter’s questioning glance, and Lark continues to stand before her desk, tucking their hands into their jacket pockets casually.

“With cream and sugar, two scoops.” Is their answer when she pauses for their coffee order. They look past her at the doors to the office, but don’t seem inclined to move from their current position.

Overall, Lark doesn’t look like much; they’re tall, sure, and they hold themself with a certain self-confidence, but there’s nothing particularly off about them. Save, perhaps, the sense of depth in their gaze, as though they’ve already seen far too much despite their apparent youth. Still, they aren’t trying to be threatening, and they don’t seem scared. Just amused.

“Quite the opposite!” The time-traveler seems cheerful, and there’s a twinkle of humor in their eyes, like they’re privy to a one-person inside joke. “I imagine you’ll be getting a notification quite soon.”

This part is a guess, but, almost on queue, a chime rings out from the hunter’s computer. An email or message or whatever alert system she has for tips. No doubt a concerned civilian of some kind, someone who saw a bunch of similar-looking children causing a ruckus and decided the best course of action was to phone in the Ghostbusters.

Their smile drops for a moment, meeting her gaze levelly with the utmost seriousness. “I don’t know what your policy is with these things, but I’m here to assure you that there’s no threat for you to go after.”

[attr="Style","background-color:#313131;padding:15px;"]
Her veiled threat is met with watchful green eyes, though the time-traveler relaxes again when she clarifies her usual modus operandi further. Ah, good, so Lark just has to convince her that this isn’t her area of expertise, and they should be in the clear. “Misconceptions. Truly, the worst of monsters.”

Lark gives her a minute to read the email, wandering a few steps away from the desk to further examine the room. They don’t go too far, and they don’t turn their back to her entirely - wouldn’t want her deciding they’re actually a threat, after all.

When she speaks up again, they gravitate back to the desk, settling in one of the client’s chairs. Another woman enters the room, and Lark’s eyes dart to her instinctively before recognizing that she must be Chelsea. The secretary, perhaps? They stay very still in their chair as she sets the coffee down, thanking her quietly.

The time-traveler begins the process of emptying five sugar packets and two containers of creamer into their coffee. Between one moment and the next, the packets are sitting beside the coaster, and then discarded in a neat pile on the opposite side. They don’t comment on the discrepancy, leaning forward slightly to glance at the picture.

“Observant. Yes, that’s me.” Lark sits back again, the mug of coffee held in their hands although she wouldn’t have seen them pick it up. They take a sip, then reach for another sugar packet. It joins its brethren in the pile without them breaking eye contact, though surely they must have moved at some point to add it to their coffee.

Oh, they’re enjoying this a little too much. Alright, time to actually answer her questions before they get knifed. “Just a bit of fun on an otherwise quite slow afternoon, I would say, but it’s difficult to explain the complexities of time-traveling children to every passerby in a city as big as this one.”

“I figured someone would report a bunch of identical children to someone like you, no offense.” They pause for another sip of coffee, smiling benignly. “So here I am. Figured I would save you the trouble of trying to track me down, and answer any questions that might convince you not to worry about it if this happens again.”

[attr="Style","background-color:#313131;padding:15px;"]
The time-traveler looks at the demon-hunter for a long moment, trying to gauge her sincerity. Eh, it’s probably fine. Everything is probably fine until proven otherwise.

Lark sits back in their chair, crossing one leg over the other and resting their elbows on the armrests. They balance the mug of coffee on their fingertips, looking at it quietly for a moment. They got what they wanted, didn’t they? They don’t have to stick around to explain, but then again it’s not like they’ve got anything better to be doing.

“It’s… complicated, I suppose, is the best descriptor,” they finally say, letting the mug drop from their fingers only for it to then be held properly in their hands the next moment. “Without going into the specifics, for your sanity and what remains of mine, it’s an ability I’ve had all my life. I can just kind of… pick a different point, and whoosh, there I am. It’s easier going into the past, because I can pick an anchor point from where I’ve been.”

They twirl their hand in a vague twisting motion, ending with a sharp stop like they’re tugging on an invisible rope. The coffee in their opposite hand sloshes, and they drop the dramatics to take another long sip. Sugar and caffeine, yum. Even if they don’t necessarily need the nutrients when they aren’t in the present, it’s still nice to pretend sometimes.

“Future’s less certain, if that’s helpful to you.” They’re mumbling a little, face half-hidden behind their mug. “But once something’s seen, it can’t be changed. At least for me. Might work differently for some other unlucky bastard saddled with the same powers. Haven’t met many of those sorts, though.”

There, that was informative, right? Lark has been told that they’re kind of awful at being transparent, but the effort is there at least. None of what they said is a lie, even if there are certain things they didn’t exactly mention.

[attr="Style","background-color:#313131;padding:15px;"]
Lark begins to smirk as she starts her question, but the expression drops into one of vague disappointment when she doesn’t go through with it.

They do love being intentionally cryptic and mysterious when they get the chance. Doubly so when someone asks about something they don’t have any right knowing and no reason to spend time investigating.

Her next question is trickier. Lark shifts in their seat, considerate. They drain the last of their coffee and set the mug on her desk, wiping their mouth with the back of a scarred hand.

Best to play it safe. The time-traveler grins, but it’s more mask than true happiness. “I’m sure there are lots of things you might want to know about, but there are… complications, when you know too much.”

For a moment, something dark flickers in their expression, something like frustration or perhaps grief, there and gone in a moment. “Think about every myth you’ve heard of involving a prophecy. How well do those usually turn out?”

They spread their hands in an uncertain gesture, and in a flicker-flash they’re running a hand through their already disheveled hair, contemplative. “I can’t change anything. I’ve…” A glance to the side. “Tried.”

Green eyes dart back to look at her again. They can feel each second passing, a ticking clock they can’t tune out. “You seem like a capable hunter, but I wouldn’t want to trap you in that kind of loop. Time loves a good prophecy, especially the self-fulfilling kind.”

[attr="Style","background-color:#313131;padding:15px;"]
Lark’s smile is endlessly exhausted but considerably patient. Theirs isn’t the kind of tired that sleep or coffee can fix. “Free will. That’s something that’s reserved for other people, I think.”

It’s an old joke to them. They shake their head with a humorless chuckle. “I can do whatever I like, but whatever I do will always have happened that way. No paradoxes, no do-overs, no splitting timelines. If I was around the first go around, then I can remember how it went, and it’s sort of like…”

They hum, fingers drumming on the arms of their chair thoughtfully. “Memory serves as a script, for me. I say and do what I remember, and everything keeps moving as it should. Sure, it’s annoying sometimes to listen to the same conversation and go through the same motions, but I don’t think… I really have the choice.”

“Fate, free will, call it as you will. Whatever happens will have happened, and whatever leads to it is inconsequential as long as that moment exists. Maybe you take a right turn instead of a left, but you still end up where you are when the timer hits zero.” Maybe that’s not the answer she wants to hear, but the words are waiting just within their mind. It’s not as though they could just avoid thinking about this forever, with how heavy it sits in their thoughts.

“The future isn’t one solid concept. It’s a collection of moments. Just like the past, only most people haven’t lived it yet. Choices shape those moments, and moments shape those choices, and everyone keeps going until they don’t.”