Story #39 - Compact Time

Compact Time

Time could be a real asshole.

Glancing at it, sitting smug in the deep armchair stuffed in the corner of the apartment, Jenson Greys wished he’d never heard of the Compact.

Strange to think that Time would take a form, walk among those whose lives he pushed and pulled. Why would it need to? Why would it want to? What possible benefit could he gain?

As it turned out, it got its kicks from making people miserable.

The form it had taken wasn’t much to look at, even up close, and up until twelve weeks ago Jenson would have personified the concept as a bearded gentleman with a long, flowing robe or a nebulous, shifting form. But sitting in his armchair was a man of medium height, medium build, with a touch of grey around the temples and a shock of longish brown hair.

Really, nothing remarkable.

Jenson was reminded of descriptions in novels he’d read of the “friend”, the “buddy”, the “other guy” that didn’t get much page time but played a role in the development of the protagonist’s character. That was Time, in spades.

The only thing that set its body apart from any other nondescript, semi-ethnic average male that Jenson had run across was a strange inability to place its age. From a distance it seemed old, but at anything less than ten feet the form fit firmly into the “under 30” set.

Glancing up from his book, Time regarded him with deepening eyes. “What?”

That was a question with too many answers for a quiet Tuesday night and Jenson quickly turned his attention back to the stew he was making. Time wasn’t exactly a terrible roommate, but Jenson would gladly take dirty dishes or unwashed laundry piles over the problems he had now.

He sighed.

“Don’t do that,” Time said. The voice was smooth, like rancid butter. The surface was right, but going down it was all wrong. “I don’t enjoy your depressive episodes.”

Jenson bit back a reply. He’d hauled off a few times near the beginning, before he knew exactly what he was getting himself into, and he’d been quickly educated on the use of Time’s power. Being aged in an instant to feebility and incontinence and just as quickly turned back, bones weak and pants soiled, was not an experience he’d care to repeat.

He should have known better, but Old Gods were all the rage these days. A friend had found a reference to the Compact in an obscure old central European history book, and it looked like the perfect opportunity to get Laura back. He knew exactly where he’d screwed up, and if he could just do it again, just have a single moment once more, he’d be sure she never left.

A few pints of goat’s blood, one pinch of saffron and two holy metals later, he had a direct line to Time himself.

The book had been clear enough on the procedure but not so much the nitty-gritty of the deal. As it turned out, the blood did more than simply open a nether portal, as the book had claimed, but acted as a binding, slipping Jenson’s soul from his body and putting him entirely at the mercy of Time. Though the thing couldn’t kill him, it could have kept him in limbo forever if he hadn’t agreed to the Compact.

Time had agreed to his request – a re-do of a singular second with Laura, but at a price.

“They’re burning,” Time said, not bothering to look up. They weren’t – but the biscuits he was making were about to. Time had an irritating habit of using his vast power for the most mundane of things, often just to annoy Jenson.

“Thank you.” He made himself say it, though he didn’t feel it at all. The thing had turned his life upside down and now it wanted him to be polite, wanted him to pretend that they were best friends – buddies, just sharing a place to live.

The Compact was the only reason Time was here, and it would be gone as soon as the thing was fulfilled. Of course, that was the heart of the problem.

“Consider it, Jenson,” the voice was soft. Time couldn’t read his mind, but it was a fair guess what he was thinking about most of the time. “I just want her out of the way. One little murder, Jenson, and you’ll have what you want. She’s not even human!”

Jenson slammed his hand down hard on the counter.

“Shut up!” He was no murderer – even if it was an entity, a concept he was after more than a person. Time had it in for Fate, calling her a “sanctimonious bitch” whenever he thought Jenson wasn’t listening, though what he said when he Jenson was in earshot wasn’t much better. Apparently Time couldn’t do what it wanted with out human intervention, and Jenson had agreed to the job.

That was the nature of the Compact; something for something. If Jenson wanted his single moment with Laura, he’d have to kill Fate, giving Time what he apparently wanted – chaos.

Time had assured him that free will, humanity, and the general state of affairs would be largely unchanged, but that certain inevitable events would suddenly become malleable, “adjustable”. It made Jenson shudder.

Jenson had been curious at first, asking Time just what it could have against another such nebulous concept and was told that Fate had a nasty habit of “interfering” when Time was just having fun. From what Jenson could glean, fun meant making couples miss dates, traffic jams consume hours and kettles boil when they shouldn’t. It was amateur, petty stuff. Aggressive for no reason, adolescent in humor at best.

He wasn’t going to do it. Concept or no, this Fate must have the same kind of physical manifestation as Time, but in female rather than male form. He wouldn’t want Laura back if that was the way he had to get her, and he doubted she’d want him back either.

Still…

“I’ll stay forever, Jenson. You invoked the ritual; you signed the Compact. Do what I ask and you’ll have your Laura. Don’t and, well…” Time smiled at him, and oily thing, a foul thing he wished he could scour his memory of, “your biscuits are burning.”

They were, goddamit.

Time could be a real asshole.

- D