A red rider (chpt. 1)

The red rider built his bridge and turned away from the approaching storm, even the hills were quickly being covered by a shallow stretch of water extending from bank to bank of the river under the bridge; a giant puddle suffocating the earth. The wind broke suddenly, the howling gusts stopped and all that could be heard was the thudding hooves of the rider's horse. Nostrils flaring, it too found the air eerily disquieting and slowed down slightly. The Rider only briefly slackened his reins before urging his beast to move on.

Time of was of the essence, a world split into thoughts became the army, an army of thoughts, emotions and violent propaganda designed to infiltrate even the most impenetrable minds, drilled constantly inside his head. The Axiom emblem was engraved on the rider's Veridium alloy helmet, which offered some protection from the theta waves. Ironically, the dreamstate was also a vacuum in that the rider had no control. No manipulation or kneading was possible in this environment, his thoughts were being compressed, and turned as the Amphibians searched for any crevice of weakness or neglect. Hence, he was forced to travel, or perhaps navigate was the better term, across the reams of memory that let landscapes continue almost indefinitely.

This was hardly an ideal situation, no briefing had been undertaken for such a circumstance as there was really only one option. But even as the dull ache behind his eyes increased in intensity like a pneumatic buzz cracking his skull open, the information obtained was far too valuable to give up so easily. He would not have been in such heated pursuit had he refrained from penetrating their borders further.

The beast, called Kohl in reality, suddenly gave way and let out a desperate piercing neigh, but the wind tore away even sound and the rider was too busy with his thoughts to feel sympathy for the creature. An hour of dark as never before engulfed the landscapes, a flame of darkness, licking, inside the rider's mind burned away the innocent threads of time and tried to replaced them with their thoughts, the basic sequence. Only one thing remained intact and unchanged, even the rider did not know, and he would be saved: his saviour would not lay eyes on him again.

The bridge must have fallen.

***

Hello, my name is Chase and I am four hundred years old backwards, and twenty-five year olds in the other direction. I think that any human of any time would ask how this is possible indeed, I would have asked myself given the right circumstance. I think I have only begun to believe that I am possibly the oldest sentient being on Earth, I always thought that there would have been others.

What I mean by others, are the people who allegedly were securing my position, people of my time who were supposed to know what they were doing. Of course, I still don't know if this is part of an elaborate plan that no one bothered to inform me of in the form of even paperwork. No one ever mentioned time travel.

Currently it is the year 2014, and there is at last sufficient technology to communicate with people from my time. I had altered some components of a 3G mobile phone to carry a faint signal composed of the Higgs-Boson frequency required using Morse code, but I was afraid of being discovered.

So afraid, from the time of witch burnings in Massachusetts to the launch of the first rocket ship. When the city lights switch on it reminds me of the auroraic emissions that I programmed to appear around the house, it gave quite a romantic atmosphere to the apartment. So squalid and bare is my current abode, I try not to think about the things that are different, because it will make me think of the past, which is only mine to see and remember but not to experience.

I feel as empty as a bottle that has sprung a miniscule leak, I woke up this morning hugely afraid that time would claim my sanity and gradually disintegrate Chase Warner to nothing but a 21st century human. I must keep writing, about myself, about my work, about people who I will have to forget and abandon, anything to keep me preoccupied.

***

One of the first things you will notice about Chase's apartment is how comfortable it is, everything is clean, modern but homey. The educated and idyllic touches of thought, such as the fresh bird of paradise planted in a slender, vase filled with glass beads, or perhaps the picturesque abstract painting of a dodo on the kitchen wall will catch your eye. If you looked closer though, beyond the wonderful colour coordination and normative mess of a male specimen piling up in the laundry, you will see a man obsessed with dates. Dates, events and mathematical equations are printed neatly beside them. A meticulous man, a reliable man, the observer denotes, except that there are no engagements on the circled dates, or holidays. Every room has a clock, or if not possible, a watch, often mismatched to the rooms. Every morning, Chase sensibly heads towards the front door, slips on his shoes and locks the door behind him at exactly 7: 37. Of course, this man is traveling to work.

Ironically, the only place Chase feels at home is on the train, the way the view blurs past the windows make him think of the movement of time- as if it were faster on a moving vehicle than sitting in a café drinking coffee. Gazing out in apparent stupor, a more discerning observer, or perhaps one that could get close enough would see a sadness locked up inside the hazel coloured irises. Looking closer, and a sense of resignation would be detected that even the Higgs-Boson signal would not be able to translate.

Sitting with arms crossed at the window seat on the lower tier, Chase lets his eye wander across the faces of the passengers. Only letting his stare flit for a second or two, he identifies the preoccupied businessman, his name is Bernie; the fertile young woman, lightly dusting her cheeks with blush in a pre-emptive attempt to cure predestined agedness; a self-conscious adolescent lazily leaning against the train doors, vaguely waiting for his objects of interest to arrive; the embarrassed spinster checking her reflection in the train door, in vain, to see if the scarf was sufficiently hiding her burn scars.

Letting his eyes come to rest outside once again, he felt a tentative tap on his shoulder.
'Sorry, may I...' A wave of brown curls brushed past him as he moved out of the way, a sweet-smelling perfume pervaded the air. She deftly maneouvred her way into the space between Chase and the window, her breathing was slightly heavy and the top button of her blouse had come undone, allowing an unsought for glimpse of her red coloured undergarments as she turned away from the window to let the light catch the page of her novel.

After a minute or two of absolute silence, except for the sea of ordinary sounds emitted by humans in a state of rest, Chase risked a small glance at the young woman with brown curls. Absorbed in 'The Time Machine', her left hand was cupped around the side of her head, leaning serenely, in captivated attention. Releasing a small sigh, she turned a page and Chase found himself letting his gaze linger just a moment too long. She caught him out of the corner of her eye and returned to favour, smarted by his indiscreetness, Chase broke off the brief interaction and paid unusually strong attention to the blur outside the windows.

On an ordinary morning, the waves of alcohol and body odour wafting from the man beside him would have been enough to punctuate his lines of thought with a mild disgust. But today, a faint blush spread across his face as he assessed whether he would have to deal with further interactions, or was expected to procure any by drawing such attention to himself.

After ending his relationship with Catherine in the early 1900s, the pain alone made him feel obliged to prevent the forming of emotional connections, to protect both himself and his chosen counterpart from enduring the whys that could not be explained, and the whens that would never come between them. As an empath, the residual feelings remaining had gradually built up into a thick band of frustration, to a level that, in his opinion, would eventually render him inoperable.

Perhaps it was not for him to decide whether mutual feelings could be prevented or voided without so much as a consideration towards the woman, he thought. Approaching the stop, he reached under the seat for his satchel. Turning towards his left as he swiveled to find it, Chase sensed her gaze upon him. Giving a quick polite smile, Chase noticed that the woman with brown curls was furtively watching him with a faint grin. With smiling pale grey eyes, she said 'Do you work at Alvin's accounting?'

Not expecting such an inquiry, Chase nodded with a yes, holding his gaze, she said almost to herself, 'I think we'll be working together.'