CHAPTER NINE

We ended up in 1970, inside the very lab Slattery had always wanted to return to. The moment we arrived, I realized Chloe was no longer with us, and a sickening fear gripped my chest. I dared not entertain the thought of what might’ve happened to her. Slattery, however, seemed unfazed as he began explaining everything to his past self. It was clear this wasn’t the first time they'd conversed. Slattery from 1970 remained calm and composed, almost like he’d been expecting this. He gladly agreed to be placed into cryo-sleep, while the Slattery from the future finished his work.

Then, Richard and another woman entered the lab. I quickly hid in the corner, watching as the three of them began arguing. Slattery, however, didn’t show any sign of concern. He was in complete control—this was exactly what he wanted. Every move, every word, every action, all carefully orchestrated. Everyone here was a pawn, playing their part just as he had planned.

I spotted the original Catch-22 resting behind him. When the woman injected Slattery with a syringe and he collapsed to the floor, I knew the time had come. I couldn’t let this future unfold. I stopped time long enough to destroy the machine. There would be no society in the future that could manipulate time like this, no world where time was nothing more than a playground for the whims of a few.

I set the time machine to return me home—back to the future with Slattery.

A week passed. Then another. A year. A decade. A century.

The machine roared.

When I finally returned to the future, I felt a sense of relief. But that relief quickly turned to confusion as I realized the Catch-22 was no longer in my hands. Did I do it? Had I really stopped everything? I rushed outside, my heart pounding, eager to see a world without time travel—one where things were normal, the way they were meant to be.

I breathed in deeply, but there was something off about the air. A chemical taint so subtle, so faint, that only a slight stir in my senses warned me. The walls, the furniture, the sky outside—they all had this strange, unnatural quality to them. The colors bled together—white, grey, blue, and orange, scattered across the space like paint spilled on a canvas. My hands twitched with unease. Somewhere, someone was using a high-pitched whistle, a sound so faint that only dogs could hear it. It gnawed at my nerves, a silent scream inside me.

Beyond the house, I could feel the movement of people in the streets. An entire world, just beyond the walls, yet it felt wrong—disjointed. I couldn’t place it, but I could sense it: something was terribly off. The world, it seemed, was shifting, like chess pieces caught in a dry wind.

"I feared this would happen," Richard’s voice broke through my thoughts. I turned to see him limping toward me, his expression grim. "Time has stretched itself too far, causing a tear in its continuum. I remember you... from 1970. You’re the reason time travel was made possible. You’re the sole cause of everything. It all started with you."

He pulled the Catch-22 from his pocket—the same one I had destroyed. My mind raced. How had it come back into his possession? I replayed the events in my head and realized—when I reached for Slattery back in 1970, the Catch-22 must have fallen from my bag as we traveled back to the future. One small action had caused this. I hadn't considered the consequences.

The world was collapsing, unraveling from within. Time itself was erasing, and Richard’s lifeless body—still holding the machine—was slowly turning to dust before my eyes. The thought gripped me: How could this be fixed? What could I do to save the future now?

I knew I had one option left, but whether it would be enough... I wasn’t sure.

First, a night and a day. A week. The machine roared.