Our Heroes prepare to save a Child from herself

The heroes, of course, knew none of this. All they knew was that they were alive, they were together, and Splock was currently experiencing levels of psychological damage that no Fortinbrasian had ever been designed to handle.

Bill crouched in front of him. Waved a hand in front of his face.

"Hello? Splock? You in there?"

No response.

Duo crouched beside him. "I think she broke him. Actually broke him. I didn't know that was possible."

Chewgumma produced another little green hat from somewhere and began chewing thoughtfully. "Kookie thinks bunny needs rest. Lots of rest. Maybe therapy."

Bill looked at his friend—his annoying, logical, pointy-eared, endlessly lecturing friend—and felt something he hadn't expected.

Worry.

"Splock," he said softly. "Come on. Say something. Explain something. Tell me why babies are cute again. Tell me I'm wrong about something. Anything."

Splock's eyes moved. Slowly. Painfully. They found Bill's face and stopped.

His lips parted.

A sound emerged.

It might have been a word. It might have been a prayer. It might have been the first syllable of a forty-minute lecture on Fortinbrasian mating rituals.

It was none of those things.

It was: "Ears..."

Then his eyes closed and he slumped sideways into Bill's arms.

Bill caught him. Held him. Looked up at Duo with an expression that was half terror, half disbelief.

"He said 'ears.' That's all. Just 'ears.'"

Duo nodded slowly. "She got to him. Really got to him. The ears were always her thing. And now—" He gestured at Splock's limp form. "Now they're all he has left."

Chewgumma crunched another hat. "Kookie thinks bunny will be okay. Eventually. Maybe. Probably not."

The fires burned on. The smoke swirled.

Ham Duo kicked a chunk of rubble and watched it skitter across the broken asphalt. "Well. That went well. Splock's catatonic, we're stuck in the apocalypse, somewhere back there an eighteen-year-old with the face of a reptile and the hips of a continent is crying into her inflatable chest, and we have zero idea where the Historian's gone or what he's planning next. This is a disaster."

Splock's lips moved. A sound emerged. It might have been words. It might have been static. It was impossible to tell.

Bill crouched beside him. "What? What is it?"

"Ears," Splock whispered. "She... touched my ears."

"Yeah, we know. She touched your ears. A lot. For like an hour."

"Longer." Splock's eyes focused on something distant. Something terrible. "Time perception was... distorted. It may have been days. Weeks. Eternity. I cannot be certain."

Duo stared at him. "Days? She had you for days?"

"I have experienced things, Ham Duo. Things that have no place in logical discourse. Things that have fundamentally altered my understanding of—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Of everything."

Bill stood up. His face had taken on an expression that neither Duo nor Chewgumma had seen before. Determination. Real, focused, military-grade determination.

"I have a plan," he said.

Duo raised an eyebrow. "You? A plan? This should be good."

"We need to go back."

"Back where? To the club? You heard her—she's crying, not dead. She'll rip our heads off."

"No. Back to 1990. The RIGHT 1990. The one where she's still a kid. Where Alexander's embryo is still inside her. Before any of this happened."

Duo stared at him. "You want to go back in time to stop a baby from being born? That's—that's—"

"That's our only chance." Bill's voice was fierce. "If we don't stop it there, this happens again. She finds us. She finds HIM." He pointed at Splock. "And next time, maybe we're not here to pull her off. Maybe she keeps him. Forever. Tied to that couch. Listening to Depeche Mode and—"

Splock made a sound. A small, pained sound, like a dying computer. "Please. Do not. Describe it further. My memory is... photographic. I will never unsee. Never unfeel. Never—"

"But that's just it!" Bill crouched beside him. "You don't have to remember it forever if we make it so it never happened. We go back. We stop the transfer. We change the timeline. And you—" He gripped Splock's shoulder. "You never meet her. Never. She's just a weird kid with a crush, and then she's nothing."

Splock's eyes focused. Just slightly. Just enough.

"Paradox," he whispered. "Temporal mechanics. Changing the past could—"

"Shut up," Duo said. Not unkindly. "Bill, that's insane. We don't even know if we can—"

"Chewgumma has a Disruptor."

"He's had it for eighteen years. It's probably bonded to him. Attached. Emotionally invested in his furry—"

"So we ask him."

Duo stared. "Ask him. Ask the Kookie. Who's been eating hats for two decades. Who thinks the height of humor is watching tiny creatures be sad. That's your plan?"

Chewgumma looked up from his latest snack. "Kookie heard name. Kookie likes Bill. Bill is smart. Bill helped Kookie once." He rummaged in his fur, past layers of grime and forgotten food, and produced the Disruptor. It gleamed dully in the firelight, somehow still pristine after eighteen years of running and hiding and hat-eating.

Duo's jaw dropped. "You just... you just had it. This whole time. In your fur."

"Kookie keeps things safe." Chewgumma patted the device fondly. "Kookie and Disruptor are friends. Good friends. Disruptor talks to Kookie at night. Tells stories. About time. About space. About Hungary."

"Of course it does," Duo muttered.

"Kookie has Disruptor. Kookie kept it safe. Eighteen years. Very safe. Mostly."

Duo sputtered. "That—that doesn't matter! We can't just—the temporal paradoxes—the risk of—"

Splock's voice cut through. Weak, but clearer now. "The probability of success... is low. The risks... are incalculable. The potential for paradox... is significant." He paused. His eyes met Bill's. "But the alternative... is worse. Much worse. I have... empirical data."