(This is only the second draft of the book Worthless. Expect typos, plot holes, odd subplots and the occassionally wrongly named character, especially minor characters. It is made public only to give people a rough idea of how the final story will look)

Chapter 14

Waking to the bright lights was like staring straight into the sun. Colors themselves seemed to be different variations on pain, the red being dull and the blues almost grinding. The place seemed familiar, but the palette of pain was hard to focus on to fully identify it.
"What the hell were you thinking, Marie?"
The voice seemed as concerned as it was angry. The gruff blend was a specialty of Kris', a way for him to put others on the defensive without scaring anyone away.
"It... worked."
A few ribs felt badly bruised, one leg seemed to react slowly and weakly. The Embassy' emergency clinic. Leaving Yuna's time behind in the way it had all happened might not have worked as well as expected.
"By well, I assume you mean that you're still alive, you #*@!ing lunatic." He breathed a deep sigh. "I call that luck."
Both hands, and the arms, seemed to work without problems. They, too, felt oddly weak, though.
"How long have I been in here, Kris? Everything feels..."
"Three weeks, give or take a day," he quickly snarled, clearly wanting to carry the gravity of the situation. Or something like that. "You were put into a chemical coma the second you came back. You were a #*@!ing mess, Marie, what the hell were you doing? What were you thinking?"
There was a small remote control on the bed. Everything was based on a mashup of the best, but still possible, medical technologies of every time accessed by The Embassy. Apart from a sleeker design, the classic hospital bed was still a cherished favorite of many future societies.
"They were active. They were active right when I was there, Kris. I could have caught them in the act, seen what they're actually doing with those damned machines." The bed made a faint, hissing sound as a push of a button on the small remote made the back support lift up, turning it into more of a recliner than a bed. As it did, it became easier to look at Kris. The old guy looked like shit, his skin too pale and his eyes almost hiding behind the bags under them at this point. His grey hair, a few specks of brown still visible here and there, seemed unkempt, and the matching beard had clearly grown with limited grooming for a few days, hairs sticking out like what you might see on old dishwashing brushes. He had been there for a bit, leaving only as needed.
"I need to get back. I need to get more..."
Talking made a slow but sure wave of pain gather in the stomach, like eating too much spicy food too fast.
"You're not going anywhere, Marie. You're lucky they woke you up this soon. Had we not had all this weird future stuff," he said, waving his hand sloppily at the gear around the room, "you'd be buried in a very small, waterproof coffin."
"Waterproof?"
He looked up from the hands he was using to rub his face with, clearly not appreciating having his heartfelt words dissected and studied.
"Yeah. Did you ever see what a person hitting the ground at high speed does to the body?"
Flashes of people splatting like bloodfilled water balloons came to mind, but they were all just the products of an active imagination.
"No, why? I clocked out before I hit the ground."
The sound of Kris laughing his coarse, gritty laugh was even more disturbing with the acustics of the room and the powerful tiredness in his voice.
"Well, you were close," he almost chuckled, in that spooky, insincere way. "It seems your body just touched the impact before it returned. Like falling from the same height, but hitting a thin sheet of plywood. Not fatal, but not healthy, either."
There was something wrong with the right leg. It wasn't moving as it should during the little test run of every limb.
"You're not going through the machine again for a bit, girl. Might as well make yourself comfortable."
"Can I walk?"
The question apparently took him a bit by surprise. He was getting up, looking like a man who needed to go sleep for a few days, but he stopped midway, only to finish the move to stand after a second or two of thinking.
"Yeah, you can walk. Daniel is fitting you with a leg support on the right one, and you're going to look like you shat your pants if you try to move too quickly. But yeah, you should be walking in a little bit."
He didn't move, just standing there, his ruffled old shirt hanging on him like a wet rag. Personal hygeine had been very much on low priority for him.
"But what the hell are you going to walk to? Are there any weird giant machines lurking around this place? Or around Nakskov, maybe?"
It seemed best not to start debating the issue with him.

The Embassy looked exactly the same as last time there. Buildings lit by lamps set up to let little to no light escape through the veil around them, an entire micro-city hidden under a technological invisibility cloak. The darkness left when light was redirected around everything to shield it from prying eyes still made it seem like perpetual, starless night, but it had a beauty to it, nonetheless. The buildings themselves looked like complicated military bunkers, blocky architecture with too many sections to count on a tired mind. But near the limit of the veil, things got a bit weirder.
There was a flicker to it, a visible version of a hum, light and dark vibrating in a strange synchronicity as the diverted light of the area beyond the opposite end of the complex snapped back in. It was like water flowing around a rock in a stream, light from behind The Embassy flowing around it and merging once it passed. To anyone outside, it looked like the place just wasn't there. Some said that from the right angle, the mechanisms that simulated the empty ground freaked out a bit, making it seem like the invisible buildings cast a blurry shadow on the ground, but none of it was a deal breaker. For all intents and purposes, The Embassy was invisble. And leaving that invisibility, stepping through the veil, felt a bit like emergin from water, the surface of it wrapping around your head as it broke through. This surface just happened to vibrate like the seats of a city car going unexpectedly off-road.
The field outside was warm, and brightly lit. It was some time around afternoon, judging by the sun in the sky. It was perfectly possible to get the exact time, but there was something soothing in finding the sun and judging the old fashioned way. And it only took a few steps before The Embassy faded into invisibility. It took someone who knew where it was to actually find it, out in the many Lollic fields. Four of them, to be exact. For huge fields that pretended to grow crops every year, but actually just mixed their pitiful yield with other fields to hide it. The only one to really take notice of how little the field actually produced was an accountant, and he had worked for The Embassy for years. It was the same deal with the farmer, and neither of them was complaining about the deal. Nobody else went into the fields. The Embassy was hidden in plain sight, and it was hidden well.
On the nearby road, a beaten old car waited, a dark blue one, the midsize kind that looked like every other car in the city. It was a different way to stay invisible, being seen but ignored. Iike the veil around The Embassy, it had worked for years, nobody suspecting some random city car to be connected to anything more nefarious than a late beer run or picking up the kids from school.
"You look like shit," Thomas said, holding back a laugh as he leaned against the dark blue car.
"Thanks, I missed you, too"
"No, really," he insisted, "you look like someone used you to stomp out a fire. What the hell did you get into this time around?"
Thomas, another local with some history with The Embassy, seemed to worry roughly the same way as Kris did, but the grumpy attitude was swapped for a seemingly carefree one, making no big deal out of anything. Like many others in the area, he dressed as casual as one could be, worn-out jeans a size or two too big held up by an equally old belt, all of it partially covered by a summer jacket that had seen better days in years long ago.
"Well, since last I was out here, I've been thrown around like a beach ball nobody liked, shot through just about every limb, slammed into more walls than I care to remember, and eaten really unpleasant food. But this is from being thrown down the inside of a building, and then down the outside of it."
Not surprisingly, Thomas had to blink a few times before he got enoug of his senses back to open the car door. Almost as if to regain some of his cool composure, he flicked his sunglasses open a he held the door, then put them on with one hand.
"Jesus #*@!ing christ, I picked you up two days ago," he muttered, sounding like just hearing the summary of events was enough to make him exhausted.
"Yeah, time travel is a bitch like that. Been a rough few months from my point of view."

The center of town was bathed in warmth and light. The summer sun shone down like it was trying to impress someone, soaking everything in a bright, slightly yellow light. On just about every corner, people were walking with water or soda bottles, unless they had gone all the way and were going to town on an ice cream. The local ice palor had been open for a sparse few weeks, and people still hadn't satiated their lust for cold milky sugar. That tended to take a few months, if it even happened within the season!
Of course, the ample sunlight made shadow a scarce and therefore cherished resource. Getting a spot on one of the old iron and wood benches that were strategically placed along the promenade had taken more than a bit of luck, and some patience. An elderly couple had been sitting on this particular bench, pointing at things in the street and talking about them. What they said had been entirely theirs, but it was clearly something they had been pationate about. Now, sitting on the cool wood in the cool shade, it felt like a small victory.
The leg support had acted up more than once. It was a feeble attempt at copying the idea of the suit in Yuna's time. The technology was clunky and inefficient by comparison, and needless to say, did not afford the user anywhere near the same strengths or odd abilities. It was essentially a brace with some magnetic controls inside, allowing it to stabilize and amplify basic movements. Support, and nothing more.
The old clock on the small square had sounded not long ago, giving its little musical show at noon. Everything pointed to it being saturday, but Kris had been adamant that it was a weekday. There seemed to be too many people in the streets for a weekday at noon, and they looked like the ones that should be at work. Summer made people take a few days off, enjoying the company of friends or their kids without the weekend rush, but it was a bit surprising to see this many do it at the same time. Or maybe it was just a habit. Seeing strange patterns, becoming worried. Dark futures and murky pasts left their mark on a mind, and right now, everything just seemed to float about, everything being connected to everything else. Not because it actually was connected, but because some of it was. And to the human mind, if some things were connected, it was apparently sensible to assume that everything was. The human mind was, like the leg support, a clunky and inefficient machine a lot of the time.
"You never notice me anymore."
The young man heard the teasing complaint. So did a middle-aged couple, but they quickly realized it had nothing to do with them and went on with whatever their business was. The young man, however, scowled slightly, clearly not entirely enthused by the remark.
"Hello, Marie," he mumbled under his breath, low enough that the hushed bustle of a few people passing by made it hard to hear clearly. He put a slightly irritated emphasis on the name, as if it, more than anything else, bothered him.
"Hello, Mischa. How are you doing?"
The question was followed by a pat on the bench, an invitation for him to sit. More than an invitation, one might say. But one would not. That would be impolite.
The young man walked slowly to the bench, showing quite a bit of reluctance, but sat nonetheless.
"Why are you here?"
"Is that any way to..."
"Why are you here, Marie?"
Trying to be cheerful and friendly teasing didn't seem to be too welcome. The reluctance wasn't just about sitting, about being interrupted in daily doings. He didn't want to be there.
"Sorry, didnt know you felt like that, Mischa."
He didn't react, at least not much, just keeping his eyes focused on the people passing by. The scar on his left cheek had become thin, but still had a fresh, reddish hue to it. It had been worse, but it still needed to be better. On the other hand, he seemed less sensitive about people looking at it.
"I don't," he said, not really. "I'm still not angry, I just think that... You know, every time you show up, something bad seems to happen. That's what I mind, to be honest."
He was exaggerating, but that wasn't the problem. The problem was that he wasn't exaggerating all that much. It was a trick of statistics that came into play with time travel, just like Thomas feeling odd about two days meaning something else for a time traveler. For Mischa, it meant that every meeting came on the heels of something important, and often hazardous. Eons of time could pass in the future and past, but when the next meeting and next dire situation came, from his point of view, it was just a few days. He had the concentrated experience of a conflict spanning millenia.
"How is our little Ida doing?"
As hoped, he seemed to lighten up just slightly, the subject always a welcome distraction.
"She's... okay, I guess. The whole thing bothers her, and I think she feels left out of the loop."
"She is left out of the loop, that's sorta the point, isn't it?"
Mischa waited, then nodded, his short but floppy black hair bobbing about a little.
"Yeah. I don't want her to try following in your footsteps, right?"
"No. If she takes even a single trip, that's it. She can't handle it. She's not designed for it."
"But Marie is," he responded, sighing as he spoke. There was a poorly veiled spite in his use of third person. He was still bitter, much more than he allowed to shine through.
"Yes, Mischa. Marie is designed for it. I'm sorry you don't like the arrangement, but it's for everybody's own sake, including yours."
His head sank between his shoulders.
"I know. I just hate lying to her. Even though, you know, she technically doesn't mind, I guess."
He sighed again, deeper, longer, twiddling his fingers as he watched them intensely, perhaps hoping to find some grand solution in the pattern they made.
"I don't want you hurt. I don't want her hurt. I don't... For #*@!'s sake, I don't want people to get hurt, does that somehow make me a villain in this?!"
"No, it doesn't. Makes you human, Mischa, just human."
Anyone theoretically listening in could be excused for thinking the brief words of comfort were actually an insult to the idea of being human. It wasn't. Mischa was very human, and thus, very fallable. To some, that made him a liability. But in reality, it was what made him valuable. He still cared.
"What do you want, Marie. I'm sure I can...." His voice trailed out. "What do you want?"
Reflections in storefront windows sent mixed intensities of light pouring into the street, creating a mosaic of different shades of white. Nobody seemed to even notice two people on a bench talking what anyone else might chalk up to complete nonsense. Small town, little fuzz. None of them knew how valuable that fact was to certain people.
"Sidney has been on the move, like, a lot."
Mischa's interest piqued. He even turned his head to look, before he perhaps became aware of it and focused mindlessly on the street again.
"What's she up to now?"
"I don't think it's so much what she's up to know, more like what she has been up to for a long time."
Mischa made a grunt to denote that he understood, when it was blatantly clear that he didn't.
"I think the reason she came to Nakskov was as part of something big, something real big. I need to figure out what."
"How big?" he asked, trying to conceal his increasing interest in the matter.
"Big. Like, huge machines scattered around the timeline kind of big. And I'm pretty sure there is one here, as well."
In an almost comical manner, Mischa looked around, as if he expected to see a towering device from another time just standing casually in the street, or sticking out some store window.
"I need you to get people to look for it. People who aren't time travelers."
"Why?" he asked, quite quickly, as if he expected that to be a requirement before it was even said.
"Because I think that whatever she's building, it's meant to hurt time travelers."
For whatever reason, he took it pretty nicely. At most, he seemed a bit surprised, and not even much of that.
"We're back to the shithole theory, I guess?" he added, clearly already knowing the answer.
"Yup. Nothing like a good shithole to hide your shit in."
Mischa let out an unintentionally loud "ewww", then chuckled and just smiled at a few elderly people briefly looking at him in utter confusion.
"I'm thinking somewhere out in the countryside. Maybe she stealths it, but she's been sticking to just hiding it inside something in every other time that I've found it. So get people together, take a bunch of nature walks. It's summer, you used to like that crap, right?"
It was meant to be cheerful, a poke at his occassional compulsion about treks on foot. He didn't quite take it that way, though. In fact, he didn't seem to take it in any way, more or less ignoring the remark.
"What about you?" he asked, having apparently taken in all that had been said with little to complain about.
"Me?"
"Yeah, where are you going now? Or when are you going?"
This time, Mischa wasn't the one to sigh.
"I have some unfinished business a few centuries from now."
The sun stayed warm in the sky, spreading its warmth onto everything not in the shade. Stepping away from the bench and into the sunlight was like opening the door to a greenhouse, moist heat hitting like a damp wall. Seconds later, an old man and his two grandchildren had seized the bench.