Timewalkers Odyssey

Chapter 5: A Beautiful Lie

A Memory in Time

The Scrapyard was the only home Ryke had ever known. The familiar scent of metal and smoke filled his nostrils. The ground beneath his feet vibrated with the pulse of forgotten machinery buried deep below, the last breath of a civilization that had long since abandoned it. Towering heaps of discarded technology cast jagged shadows across narrow passageways he had memorized like the back of his hand. Flickering Hollow Ads hovered in the dimness, their projections still selling products to a world that no longer existed.

Why does this seem so familiar?

He walked the same path he had taken countless times before, headed back to the only place that had ever offered him some semblance of refuge. He hesitated to call it home. The streets had been his home all his life. But the workshop? It was something different. Yet, something was wrong.

Why does this all feel like I have done this before?

The question repeated in his mind like a looping echo, his unease growing with every step.

Ryke stood before the old man's workshop, staring at it as if seeing it for the first time. The building loomed taller, sturdier than he remembered. The crumbling walls that had once threatened collapse now stood firm. The perpetually leaking roof bore no signs of wear. Inside, the workbench gleamed, its tools polished and arranged in perfect order. The oil lamp cast a golden glow, illuminating every corner that had once been shrouded in shadow.

And the old man, no. This isn't right.

The face that greeted him was familiar but subtly wrong. Fewer lines marked the weathered skin. The once-hunched posture stood tall. The hands that had always trembled from age and hardship now moved with steady precision.

"You're just in time," the old man said, his voice stronger than Ryke remembered. "I was about to start on the Helix Engine. Come, you can help me calibrate the dimensional resonator."

Ryke's body moved forward without hesitation, his hands reaching for tools he had no memory of using, yet somehow he knew exactly what to do.

Why would I question this?

The nagging feeling of wrongness began to fade. The sharp edges of his memories, the hunger, the beatings, the struggle to survive, all softened, blurred like ink running in the rain. Here, his stomach was full. Here, his body bore no scars. Here, the world made sense.

A strange notion, dreaming within what increasingly felt like a dream.

In this dream within a dream, he was younger, perhaps eight or nine. He sat at a wooden table that felt both foreign and achingly familiar. Sunlight streamed through real windows, not the cobbled-together panes of salvaged glass from the workshop. The room smelled of something sweet and warm, bread baking? Had he ever actually smelled fresh bread before? And yet, he recognized the scent as if it had been with him his entire life.

A woman hummed softly as she moved about the kitchen. Her face remained just out of focus, like trying to see through rippling water, but her presence felt right. Comfortable. Safe. Her fingers briefly touched his hair as she passed, and the simple gesture sent waves of belonging through him so profound that tears sprang to his eyes.

"Almost ready," she said, her voice somehow both new and remembered. "Your father will be home soon."

Father? The word echoed in his mind, unfamiliar yet deeply longed for. He had never had a father. Had he?

The door opened, and a tall figure entered, face similarly blurred but posture unmistakable, the old man from the workshop, but different. Younger. Stronger. No trace of the bitterness that had always clung to the old man like a second skin.

"There's my boy!" the figure exclaimed, and Ryke's heart soared at the words. The man lifted him effortlessly, spinning him around as laughter, his own laughter, unfettered and pure, filled the room.

They sat together at the table, these people who looked at him with such love that it physically hurt. They ate together. They talked. About what? He couldn't quite grasp the words, but the feelings remained, contentment, security, belonging. Everything he had never known but somehow recognized bone-deep.

As the dream began to fade, the woman leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead. "Sleep well, my sweet boy," she whispered. "Remember, you are loved."

The words followed him as he drifted back to wakefulness, echoing in his mind like a half-remembered lullaby.

Ryke blinked, finding himself back at the workshop bench, a half-assembled circuit board beneath his hands. The old man worked silently beside him as if no time had passed.

The dream clung to him like morning mist, too substantial to brush away yet too ethereal to grasp firmly. It left him hollow, aching for something he had never possessed. Or had he? The certainty with which he had always known himself as an orphan, a street child, suddenly seemed less absolute. What if he had been wrong? What if there had been a before, before the Scrapyard, before the hunger and fear?

Why would he question perfection?

Days passed, or maybe years. Time was meaningless in the workshop, stretched thin over the weight of comfort and familiarity. The hum of machinery, the rhythmic click of tools against metal, the scent of oil and solder, it all wove into a lullaby, a song of repetition that lulled him deeper. Ryke's hands moved with ease, restoring broken machines under the careful instruction of the old man, his mentor.

The dream within a dream returned, expanding, building, becoming more real than his waking hours. The woman gained a face, kind eyes, laugh lines, and a small scar above her eyebrow that he somehow knew came from falling from a tree as a child. The house acquired details: a faded blue rug in the living area, a creaking third step on the stairs, wildflowers in a chipped vase on the windowsill.

Each morning, waking became harder, the transition more painful. The workshop felt simultaneously more real and less true with each passing day. The contradiction twisted in his mind like a knife.

"You have a gift," the old man would say, voice brimming with warmth and certainty. "I've never seen anyone take to restoration like you."

It felt good to be seen. To be valued. To be wanted. Here, he was not a street rat, he was not a survivor clawing at scraps. Here, he was whole.

And so, Ryke worked. Day after day. Year after year. Or maybe only moments. The edges of reality blurred, softened, grew too perfect. He didn't question it. Not at first.

Sometimes, when he looked at the old man just right, from the corner of his eye, he could see the face from his dreams superimposed over the familiar features, younger, happier, unburdened by whatever had turned him bitter. In those moments, recognition would flare so strongly that Ryke's hands would shake.

Had these dreams always been memories?

"Son, pass me that micro-calibrator."

The words slid through the air effortlessly, naturally, as if they had always belonged. His hands moved, finding the tool before his mind could catch up.

And then, the word echoed. Son.

A weightless thing, spoken so casually. But it settled on his chest, heavy, ill-fitting. His fingers hovered over the tool, his mind catching up to the sensation curling in his gut.

"Son?"

The old man sat hunched over the workbench, eyes fixed on the delicate mechanics of the device in his hands. His movements were precise, steady in a way they never should have been. That wasn't right. The old man had always trembled. The weight of time had pressed into his bones, left cracks in his voice, lines on his face. But not here. Here, his hands were sure. His body strong. His voice untouched by age. And he had never called Ryke 'son' before. Not once.

When did he stop calling me 'boy'?

The question drifted through his mind like an intruder. A sharp edge in a soft, rounded world.

"I, " Ryke hesitated. "Yeah. Sure. Here."

He handed over the tool, but something had shifted. Something was wrong.

And yet... wasn't this what he had always wanted? The dreams felt more like memories with each passing day, memories of a life he could have had. A life with parents who loved him, a home with real walls and a door that locked from the inside rather than the outside. If this was an illusion, wasn't it a kinder reality than the one he had known?

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if it mattered if none of this was real. If the choice was between a beautiful lie and a painful truth, why not choose comfort? Why not choose belonging?

The old man looked up, his eyes meeting Ryke's, and for an instant, they flashed with something ancient and knowing, something that didn't belong in a human gaze. Then it was gone, replaced by familiar warmth.

"You seem troubled today," he said, his voice carrying the exact cadence of the father from Ryke's dreams. "Perhaps we should take a break. Your mother always said you thought too much for your own good."

Your mother. The words sent a jolt through Ryke's system, both wrong and right, impossible yet desperately wanted.

The moment settled, then passed, buried under the weight of habit and routine. He continued working. The world continued spinning.

But as doubt flickered stronger in his mind, the reality around him began to fight back. The workshop walls glowed warmer, the light from the oil lamp becoming more golden, more perfect. The scent of his mother's cooking wafted through the air, though he had never consciously remembered having a mother at all. The sound of children playing drifted in from outside, laughter like wind chimes.

The old man set down his tools and reached for a small wooden box on a shelf. "I almost forgot," he said, his voice infused with nostalgia. "Today is special."

He opened the box, revealing a small, intricately crafted timepiece. It gleamed in the lamplight, its gears visible through transparent crystal. Ryke had never seen anything so beautiful.

"This was mine when I was your age," the old man said, sliding it across the workbench. "My father gave it to me, and his father before him. A family tradition."

Ryke's fingers trembled as he touched it. The metal was warm as if it had been nestled against someone's skin. As if it had always been waiting for him.

"I don't understand," he whispered, even as forgotten memories cascaded through his mind, memories of watching his father work on this very timepiece, of falling asleep to its gentle ticking beside his bed, of proudly showing it to friends at school. Memories that couldn't possibly be his, yet felt more real than anything he had ever known.

"You don't need to understand," the old man said gently, placing a hand on Ryke's shoulder. "You just need to remember."

The watch ticked louder in his palm, each click sending waves of warmth up his arm. With each tick, the workshop grew more solid, more real. The doubts in his mind began to quiet, replaced by a deep, comforting certainty.

This is real. This has always been real.

The thought washed over him like a warm tide, erasing the jagged edges of his previous life. What had he been questioning? What had felt wrong? Everything here was perfect, was right.

As if sensing his surrender, the reality around him seemed to sigh with relief. The colors grew richer, the sounds clearer, the textures more defined. The watch in his hand pulsed with life, each tick rewriting his history, each moment strengthening the illusion.

No, not an illusion. Home.

Until she arrived.

The First Fracture

Ryke looked up from his workbench, expecting to see another familiar face, another piece of the puzzle that made up his perfect life. Instead, Zephora stepped through the doorway. Her presence was like a crack in the glass, sharp, undeniable. The princess, the rightful heir to a shattered throne, whose face he'd only glimpsed in discarded news from New Vel-Hadek above. Those deep amber eyes held too much, recognition, understanding, a quiet knowing. Had she really come to the shop? It felt so familiar and yet so wrong.

"Zephora," the old man greeted her with casual familiarity, his voice full of that same unshakable certainty. "Right on time as always."

Right on time? As always? The words unraveled something in Ryke's chest. Zeph turned to him, and something passed between them. Something he couldn't name. A history he should have remembered but didn't. A past that shouldn't exist but somehow felt like it did. Her eyes softened, and suddenly, Ryke was certain they had known each other for years. Hadn't they? The thought clawed at the edges of his mind.

"Zeph." The name left his lips before he even realized he had spoken it. Like breathing. Like instinct.

And she smiled. Why did that smile feel so familiar? The warmth of it, the effortless way she looked at him like she had always been there. As if she belonged. As if this was all real. But something pressed against his mind, refusing to be ignored. Had they known each other for years? He couldn't remember when they had first met. He should have been able to. If they had shared so much, why was there nothing before this moment? Why was her presence familiar but empty?

"This isn't right," she said softly, the words barely audible. "You know it, Ryke. This reality it's constructed. A beautiful cage."

The old man continued working, as if he hadn't heard. But Ryke felt his world tremble.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, his voice unsteady.

Zephora stepped closer, her eyes never leaving his. "The Temporal Elemental Cannon, do you remember? The weapon that could erase entire timelines from existence. You, me, Juno-7. We were on that battlefield together."

Juno-7. The name stirred something. A flash of silver metal, eyes that glowed blue with artificial intelligence, yet held something more. A mind of precision housed in a frame built for warfare, but evolving beyond its programming. A companion. An ally.

The old man's voice interrupted the moment.

“Zephora, your order is ready, you are one of our best customers,” the words felt right, she was one of our best customers and pleasant even.

“Ryke, go and get Zephora’s order. I’m sure she has places to be,” the old man’s voice steady and firm.

Her order? What order? He began to move as if remembering. He could not recall the details or where her order was, but he knew he had completed it, and it was ready for delivery.

He turned towards the Old Man as if to ask where the order was.

"I don't..." Ryke began, but the words died in his throat as a memory rose from the depths of his soul.

A Place Remembered

The warmth of the workshop flickered. The illusion fought to hold on. But something deeper, something real, was rising from the depths. The dim oil lamp flickered. Shadows stretched across a small, cluttered space, machines humming softly in the background.

His father, his real father, sat in his chair staring into a cold forge, the weight of years pressing into him, his breathing faint and labored. Ryke knelt beside him, his hands holding on, hoping to stop the inevitable, quietly watching the man who had given him a home, a name, a purpose slowly slip away.

His father's voice was weak, but when he spoke, it still carried the weight of certainty.

"You've been…" A ragged cough. "More than an apprentice. More than a boy."

Ryke swallowed hard. He didn't want to hear this. He wasn't prepared to say goodbye.

"You are my son."

The words hit like a hammer to his ribs. Not an expectation. Not an obligation. A simple truth. Something Ryke had always longed for but never dared to believe. A part of him wanted to argue, to tell his father that blood made family, not sentiment. But another part, the part that had always wanted to belong, clung to those words.

"I love you, son." His father softly said, his eyes starting to fade.

The words cracked something inside him. For so long, he had believed himself to be alone. A stray, a survivor, nothing more. But he had been wrong. He was always his father's son, not a street rat, not a lost soul in the chaos of life.

Looking to his fathers in his final moments Ryke saw the possibilities that he had so selflessly given him. His father looked back with knowing eyes. A quiet moment between father and son.

His father's hand went slack in his grip. His chest rose one last time.

And then, he was gone.

The grief hit all at once. It was a flood, a storm, a force too strong to contain. Ryke let out a strangled sound, his breath catching in his throat as the weight of loss crushed him. He had spent his life running from pain. From weakness. From showing anything that made him vulnerable. But here, there was no one to judge him. No one to take advantage. No one to tell him to keep moving, keep surviving, bury it all beneath another layer of steel.

He let it all go. He sobbed. Not just for his father, but for everything. For the years spent surviving instead of living. For the moments he never got to have. For the childhood that had ended before it began. For the love he had never recognized until it was gone.

A hand touched his face. Not his father's. Zephora. She knelt beside him, arms wrapping around his shaking shoulders, her presence solid, warm, familiar. She held him as he cried, as if she had always been the one to do so. She comforted him, her fingers running gently through his hair, her voice, a quiet whisper in the dim light.

"It's okay, Ryke," she murmured, pressing her forehead against his. "I'm here."

And he believed her. Because, at that moment, she felt real. He clung to her, letting the emotions spill out, letting himself feel everything. But deep down, he knew. This moment had never happened. Zephora had never been there, had never comforted him, and had never held him through his grief.

This was a lie. A beautiful, aching, perfect lie. And still, he wanted to believe.

She tilted his chin up. Their eyes met in a tender embrace, a kiss that was both a promise and a farewell. When she pulled away, she whispered the words that shattered everything.

"This isn't real. Wake up, Ryke, Wake up."

Breaking the Illusion

Zephora's breath was still warm against his lips when the truth shattered his reality. The words lingered between them, as delicate as a whisper, as brutal as a blade. The world shuddered, the oil lamp flickered, the workbench trembled, everything began to crack.

Deep in the far corners of his existence, an unfamiliar thought began to form. An emotion so profound and so consuming that it transcended everything he had ever felt, everything he had ever been. Not grief, not anger, not fear or sadness but a simple idea.

An idea that did not belong to the past, the present, or the future. An idea that simply was. It was not a lesson learned, not a regret carried, not something whispered to him by another. It came from within. From a place deeper than memory, deeper than existence itself.

"I will not be a prisoner."

The words emerged not as a whisper but as a declaration that resonated through the very fabric of this false reality. The workshop walls trembled, hairline fractures appearing along their surface. The tools on the workbench rattled, some falling to the floor with metallic clangs that echoed unnaturally.

Zeph's fingertips lingered against his skin, but she was already fading. The warmth of her breath, the curve of her lips, the steady rhythm of her heart, and the workshop, all of it began to unravel.

"I will not be shaped by what was. I will not be bound by what could have been."

His father, his real father, still sitting peacefully in front of the forge, came into focus. Resting peacefully from a life fully lived. In that moment, he felt the warm embrace of his father's love and the love he had never realized he felt for his father. As if his father was still there, still shaping him into what he was meant to be, Ryke softly spoke as if answering his father's silent question.

"I will become what I choose to be."

The illusion screamed. The world shattered. Reality unraveled, fading into the darkness. Ryke's entire timeline came rushing back to him all at once, no past, no present, no future, only this moment where all his life existed.

And for the first time in his life, he was free.