Title: Time Machine

Date: February, 2006

Author: Shades of Hades

A/N: This was originally part of chapter one, but I thought it might be best to chop it up a little since I'm sure the next few chapters will be a little shorter. I wanted to be consistent and make it a little easier to read.

Chapter Two

The throbbing in my head had ceased, but the burning in my eyes and the ache in my lungs persisted. I rubbed my chest as the memories of the day came crashing over me. It was then that I realized I was no longer on the dirty sidewalk I had woken up on, but rather in a soft bed. I looked around the room, puzzled, and rose from the pillows to see the small room.

I was amazed at the emptiness of a place that should be so personal. Something twinkling in the low light near a dirty window caught my eye from across the room, and I pushed myself off of the bed, avoiding the small pile of clothes next to it. I wondered idly whether they were dirty or not as I stared at my socked feet, realizing that my host must have taken my shoes off me before he put me in bed. I dismissed it has unimportant as I walked towards the object in the corner of the room, resting on what I guess was serving as a dresser considering the clothing that was hanging halfway out of one of the drawers. I picked the object up, realizing that it was an antique photo frame. The frame looked old even by my standards, as did the faded, ripped picture inside it depicting what I assumed to be my host’s family. They were a family of three, staring up at me with smiles on their faces, the youngest hugging his parents tightly as if he was afraid to lose them at any second. I recognized the young boy in the picture as the one I had met on the street earlier that day. He was quite a bit younger, but I was sure the blue eyes and black hair belonged to him. I sat the picture back down, but held on to it, wondering exactly where it could have been taken. The background didn’t look familiar, but it was obviously some kind of important monument. It was probably some sort of vacation the kid had gone on with his family when he was younger. It was entirely too sentimental for me.

“Don’t touch that!” a voice ordered from behind me and I turned around quickly, knocking the picture I had been admiring down in my haste. Before I could even think about what I had done, he was next to me, grabbing the photograph before it could hit the ground. I admired his speed and agility as I stuttered an apology.

Delicately, the kid sat the picture back on the dresser, blue eyes staring up at me through thick, black bangs. “Please, don’t touch it. It’s very old,” was the only thing he said before he turned and walked from the room. I followed him, closing the door to the bedroom behind me, not wanting to anger him any further. He sat down at a table in what looked like a poorly furnished kitchen that was clean, but well used. There were a few boxes of food lying on the counter, most of which looked empty, and an old pot lying next to the sink that looked as if it had seen better days. I wondered if lack of money was the reason for his poor taste in decorating as I scanned the rest of the nearly empty apartment, which spoke of hard times and minimal living, extremely evident in the worn out green arm chair standing alone in the corner of the living room. The shabby chair looked like it might have been older than the boy himself.

He breathed a deep sigh, probably frustrated at having me look around his sparse apartment. “Sit down,” he ordered, and I obeyed, pulling out a metal chair and quietly seating myself at the table. “Are you hungry?” he asked, and I shook my head, despite the fact that I felt my stomach tighten in protest as I did.

He ran a hand through his hair and looked up at the crumbling, off white ceiling, leaning back in his chair as he did. I heard it creak with strain, but he seemed to pay it no mind.

“Why did you help me?” I asked quietly, my eyes quickly going to the glass tabletop as his head tilted back towards me.

“What’s your name?” he asked me in return.

He ignored my question, so I spoke again, this time louder, still not able to pry my eyes off the tabletop, staring at the stained and damaged carpeting through the transparent glass. “Why did you help me?”

“Answer mine and I might answer yours, or do people in your time not think it’s necessary to share their names?” I felt myself blush and I fell speechless. “Well?” he asked after a few moments of uncomfortable silence.

“I’m sorry,” I told him quietly, ashamed at my own rudeness. “My name is Ivan Hyatt.” I held my hand out towards him, unsure how first meetings worked in his time but unable to let go of my own familiar, American traditions. He held his hand out after a moment of looking questioningly at mine, clearly unsure of what to do, and slowly I shook it.

“Darshan Galen,” he told me before he let my hand slip from his weak handshake. “Where are you from?” He asked, still ignoring my question, despite the fact that I had answered his.

“Here,” I told him, not really caring if my growing frustration with the young man showed, “one-hundred years in the past.”

Darshan leaned back in his chair again, looking thoughtful, as if processing the information I had just given him. “What,” he finally asks after I wait in tense silence for several minutes, “stood on this spot one-hundred years ago?” That was a question I did not expect.

“A science laboratory that was run by the government, much like NASA, only studying time travel,” I answered, thinking how strange is that I had been in a government funded lab, then woke up in front of an apartment building.

“NASA?”

I rolled my eyes, wondering what exactly they were teaching kids in school these days.

“The space program. They sent the first man to the moon.”

“I see,” was the only thing he said before he fell silent again. I tapped my fingers against the glass, probably hoping the drumming noise would fill the emptiness between us, but it didn’t. “So, you’re a government worker, then?”

“I suppose so.” I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable under his stare.

“I wouldn’t tell too many people here that.” He stood up and walked to one of the two kitchen cabinets, pulled out a glass, and filled it with water. “People around here, they aren’t exactly fond of the government. Not that anyone could blame them.” He took a sip of the water and leaned against the sink, arms crossed, eyes staring down at the glass. “Was the government always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Controlling. Watching everything you do. You can barely breath in this country without the government knowing.”

I patted down my pockets, suddenly feeling the need for nicotine, as he looked lost in thought. I found a package of cigarettes crushed in my left hip pocket and opening the pack, I saw that most of them hadn’t survived the trip, but I pulled out one of the better ones. Placing the cigarette between my lips, I lifted my lighter to the end, listened to the satisfying sound of the flint striking, and enjoyed the powerful smell of smoke.

As I exhaled the sweet first breath of nicotine, I noticed his eyes on me, wide, terrified. My eyebrows drew together in confusion.

“What?” I asked him, feeling frustrated all over again.

“What are you doing? Don’t you know those are illegal?” He slammed his glass down on the kitchen counter, the water spilling over, and I winced at the sound, expecting the glass to shatter. It doesn’t and in less than two steps he is standing over me, pulling the cigarette from between my lips and grinding it out on the glass tabletop. “Do you want them to know you’re here?” he demands, and I just stare at him, trying to process what exactly I had done wrong.

“Who?” My voice had grown shaky at his surprising anger.

“The government,” he told me in a meek tone, his previous anger dissipated, leaving behind the voice of a scared little boy. He suddenly looked much younger to me than he had before.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I slammed my fist down on the table as I stood up to face him. I really had no right to yell, but with my unfulfilled nicotine addiction still hanging above me, I couldn’t help the anger that boiled up, feeling confused and alone, despite the fact that there is another human being not two feet from me. “Why the hell did you help me? I want to know now. No more pussyfooting around. Just tell me.”

“You don’t know…” he started and failed. I could see his hands shaking, but I wasn’t sure if it was from fear at my sudden anger, or something else. He clenched his eyes, his fist repeating the action, and I thought he was going to hit me. But then with a deep breath he dropped his hands and his eyes opened, but he didn’t look at me. “You don’t know what they do to people left on the streets. You obviously needed help. I couldn’t just leave you, knowing what would happen. The government thinks it makes them look like a weak nation to have homeless sleeping in the street. The fortunate ones are sent to prison, many others end up in labor camps, working for the government until they die.”

Realization dawned on me.

“You thought I was homeless.” I fell back into my seat, suddenly noticing the throbbing sensation in my hand now that my anger had quelled. “You never even thought about what could happen to you, did you? What if I had killed you or something?”

His cool was back, and he too fell into the chair across from me.

“Didn’t matter. I wasn’t left with much choice. You passed out in my arms. I couldn’t just throw you on the ground and leave you.” I saw him examining the cigarette butt on his table.

“The two other people in that photograph…” I don’t know why I was suddenly compelled to bring it up, but it had been nagging at the back of my mind since our awkward conversation began. “Where are they? Why aren’t your parents here with you? You’re obviously too young to live on your own.”

“I’m nineteen,” he told me with a glare. “And my parents,” he continues, “are dead.” There was no remorse in his voice, just anger. “No. They were murdered.” He grit his teeth, and I could see his fists clench again through the glass tabletop. “They had interfered with government plans, and were terminated when I was twelve.” He raised his eyes to me, proud but fearful. “My parents taught me well Mr. Hyatt. They taught me how to fight for what I believe in, but the government dogs stomped out any resistance I had when they killed my parents. I don’t want to end up like them, but I can’t live like this.”

There were tears in his eyes, and I shifted uncomfortably at the show of emotion, never sure what to do in situations like these. I had not exactly been the most social person when I was younger, too caught up in my dreams of time travel. A lot of help that does now. I’m stuck here it seems. I know I didn’t see any piece of my machine lying next to me, so unless by some miracle I find it, I have to try to rebuild. If only I could remember everything. There were parts that I wasn’t familiar with, that I hadn’t worked on.

“What kind of government is this, exactly?” I finally asked, trying to distract myself from the horrible thoughts of rebuilding. The way the kid talked, I knew it couldn’t be a democracy, but still, I held my breath in hope.

“It is quite hard to give a name to this government. I suppose it could be called a spin off of communism, maybe even a dictatorship.”

I choked at his words, unable to response.

“We work, but do not profit. The government has its greedy hands in every business big or small. We have to register our children, even submit permits to have them. The school systems are told what to teach by the government, cut and paste versions of history and science. Everyday there's a new list of outlawed books printed in the papers. We can only read and learn what the government wants us to. Nothing is sacred anymore. Not even religion can save people's faith. It too has become a dead institution.”

“How?” I asked when I finally found my voice. “How did this happen?” Our government had gone from the freest on Earth to a dictatorship in just a hundred years? It was hard to imagine.

“I couldn’t tell you. I don’t remember a time when it was ever anything but this.”

There was a sharp knock on the door. We both jumped and he looked at me with panic filled eyes.

“You have to hide!”

The knock persisted.