| |
The office projector flicked on, revealing two faces. The first, new and bright, was that of the latest recruit to the Timewalker program. He was young, energetic, and had arrived by Ford’s own recommendation. The kid knew things he shouldn’t. He knew about the walkers, and how they bent reality. He knew about multiple timelines, sometimes in specific detail. He would do well at the agency.
The second face disproved him. All around the office, eyes rolled and agents let out derisive snorts. The projector tilted as they shifted in their seats, no longer showing pretense of a serious meeting.
On screen, the ageless face of Johnny C, legendary rocker. Ford wanted to cut the kid some slack. They’d all barked up that tree. The suggestion made him look bad, though. Timewalking was Johnny C’s whole shtick. He showed up in strange places, bleeding anachronism, and played impromptu concerts in full costume.
The costumes were peculiar, sure. Once, years ago, he showed up in a cramped airport terminal wearing a plaid business suit, carrying a briefcase full of strange documents. Sometimes it was a soldier’s retinue, complete with bloodstains and trauma-filled eyes, or a hazmat suit that actually registered on a Geiger counter. His act was elaborate, researched, perfect. He was an obvious suspect for a timewalker, and nobody knew anything about him, except for one thing: when he picked up his guitar, he was a god.
Ford witnessed one such impromptu concert. In the packed subway, passengers exploded with cheers. He was lost, confused, but when he saw Johnny standing eyes closed at the back of the shuttle, and heard that first chord, Ford knew he was a part of history.
The song he played then remained burned into Ford’s memory. A soulful single that was never to be repeated. No Johnny C song was ever repeated.
“Save me from this broken life,” Johnny sang, and Ford thought their eyes met through distance and the thick lenses of Johnny’s goggles, and that the lyrics might mean something. They would become a cultural touchstone for his generation, and the subject of much academic research.
Johnny C, fortunately, was not a timewalker. He didn’t shift between realities. Timewalkers hid themselves, afraid of the implications of their nature, and the effects they have on the standard timeline. And the agents, of course. Always afraid of the agents.
They’d all done their research and found the same thing. Communications with public entities, licenses to perform at banks and stadiums and on empty streets at two in the morning. Johnny C didn’t simply appear and disappear at will. There was a paper trail. He was a person bound to time, just like the rest of them.
“Save me from this broken life.” The words repeated through Ford’s head, as they often did, sung in perfect harmony with the flaming pink guitar at his hip, every string plucked in perfect time, a talent that seemed born of a hundred years of practice.
The new recruit sighed. He couldn’t understand. He thought he was breaking ground, but it had already been broken and trod upon. He left the room, probably embarrassed. Ford wondered if he would see him again. He hoped he didn’t quit. The kid knew things.
“Always with me, my companion through space and time.” The song had infected Ford by that point, and he knew he’d be humming it all day, remembering that perfect occasion of his life. Studies matched those lyrics with others sung by the master. They agreed that Johnny C was not alone, that his companion was the people themselves, in every timeline. Ford dismissed that. He’d seen Johnny. Experienced him. When he sang of his companion, it was a narrative of his lonesome journey. The companion was his guitar, the only part of his ensemble that never changed, worn and cared for beneath his hands.
“I can’t go on anymore.” Those words were new, and the other agents looked around. They came from the door, slow and somber. Ford stood, opened the door, peered through to see Johnny C in the costume of a new recruit, a flaming pink guitar hanging at his hips.
Resumes and applications became thin as time moved to correct for Johnny, filled out all of the paperwork to explain his existence and maintain the stability of the timeline.
The agents stood, but none moved toward him. They only watched as his hand moved over the strings, and with one powerful downstroke, they witnessed a god.
***
Originally Published in Flash in a Flash.