Prologue
“But that’s not all…” pitched the nasally voiceover, “call in the next three minutes and we’ll double the amount of time you get with our certified past-life regression experts! That’s 20 minutes for only 19.95!”
Leto scoffed as he glanced at the screen. The wavy purple background and gently-strobing green phone number were probably intended to subtlely convey the mysticism and wonder that the ad was obviously shooting for. In reality, all they did was pose a danger to the seizure-prone.
“If for a second you find yourself questioning whether or not your call is worth it,” the voiceover continued, “just ask yourself, isn’t knowing the deepest secrets of your past outter selves worth the price?”
“Late-night infomercials are nothing if not interesting glimpses into the psyche of the sad, unemployed thirty-somethings of the early 21st century,” Leto thought to himself as he chucked a handy racquetball at the push-pull power switch of his ancient TV, turning it off. With any luck, he’d widely miss one of these days and crack the screen. Then he’d have an excuse to upgrade.
Leto actually tried a place like the one being advertised, once. Not really because he believed in reincarnation (at least not in the traditional sense), but because he wanted to test them. After over 15 minutes on the line, they weren’t able to get a “clear image of his true self” and suggested he pay for an additional half-hour so they could continue trying. That meant either they were full of shit or were legitimate but somehow attuned to a different type of…situation…than his. The prize behind door number one seemed a much likelier explanation.
He walked over to the window, and pried apart two slats on the blinds to get a better view of the street below. It was raining hard, and the red neon from the vacancy sign across the street appeared as a diffuse reflection on the asphalt, steadily pockmarked by the falling drops. A yellow taxi rolled up to the entrance of his complex, and a man in a beige trenchcoat and black fedora got out. The downpour didn’t seem to affect him, and he casually moved towards the doors until he was out of Leto’s view. “I’m living in a goddamned film noir,” Leto muttered to himself as he continued to survey the dreary world outside his window, “I’ve got to get the hell out of Seattle.”
Letting the blinds snap back to their normal position, he redirected his attention to the mattress in the far corner of the room. He was feeling tired, finally, and hurried over to the mattress to welcome the prospect of sleep. With it, he would hopefully find himself in 2103 Vancouver, B.C. Just as likely, however, he could end up back on the farm. Even that would be better than his present locale, though; it’s much easier to stay off the grid in 1872.
Leto’s situation was a unique one, to say the least. As far as he knew, he was the only one to ever face it. He often wondered if Kurt Vonnegut had been a shifter too, as the life and times of Billy Pilgrim often struck him as eerily familiar. Yes, Leto often described himself as “unstuck in time” – back when he used to surf the fringe BBSes, that is. Before he instituted his minimal interference policy on all but his 22nd century self, Leto would often tell his story to anyone that would listen in hopes of encountering someone that shared his predicament. The story of Billy Pilgrim provided a decent analogy when trying to explain the basics to others. To those who had read it, he didn’t need to bother explaining the basics of time-shifting. He could skip straight to what made his own situation unique: shifting not within his own lifetime, but between three different lives. Leto never did find anyone that was like him, though. His ramblings usually just resulted in a boot from the SysOp, driving him to find a new BBS to prowl.
“All alone in the world, all alone in time,” Leto thought as he lay on the mattress, waiting for the arrival of sleep and the shift that would accompany it. “Just me, myself, and I. And Kurt, maybe…”
