Timewalkers Odyssey

Chapter 35: Wheelbarrow of a Wounded God

Penny Parade

Juno-7 stood motionless, staring at the narrow doorframe of the Impossible Kitchen. Her synthetic eyes scanned the table once again, then back to the door. She tilted her head with a small hum of internal recalibration.

“Table too large for the doorframe. Poor architectural planning.”

Ryke lay motionless on the surface, limbs sprawled like a fallen titan. Despite his stillness, he radiated a pressure, massive, inertial, wrong. Juno scanned his physical metrics again. 

Height: 6'1"

Bone density: enhanced

Estimated biological weight: 227 lbs.

Actual weight: 489.3 lbs.

She paused.

“Mass-density mismatch. Possible temporal compression,” she noted aloud.

Zephora leaned in from the hallway, one brow arched. “You say that like it’s a normal diagnosis.”

Juno didn’t answer. She was already on the move, exiting the house with smooth, deliberate steps. Six minutes later, she returned, a rusted, ancient wheelbarrow in tow. Its wheel squeaked with every rotation like a tortured bird confessing its sins.

“Is that thing… safe?” Zephora asked.

“Negative. It is, however, functional.” Juno-7 replied

With an awkward series of hoists, pivots, and carefully controlled exoskeletal torque, Juno loaded Ryke into the wheelbarrow like a stone sculpture, arms folded, one leg dangling off the edge. The wheel immediately began protesting in high-pitched shrieks.

They began their trek toward the beacon.

Each squeak echoed down the lifeless streets of the preserved city. Ryke jostled slightly with each bump, looking more like a discarded mannequin than the unkillable man he had become.

Zephora chuckled behind her hand. “What a sight we must make. One organic, one synthetic, and a naked man in a wheelbarrow.”

The wheel squealed again.

She laughed. “We look like a bad float in a parade.”

Another bounce.

“All we’re missing is flashing lights and a bowl of candy.”

Juno-7 paused mid-step, her internal processors assessing context. A moment later, with a subtle whirr, dozens of soft-hued lights blinked to life across her body, tiny dots of green, amber, and blue swirling in randomized rhythm along her arms and chest-plate.

Zephora burst into full laughter. “Oh no. Oh gods, you didn’t.”

Juno’s lights sparkled again.

Then, an awkward, staccato sound escaped Juno-7’s vocal synth.

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

It was so stiff, so profoundly not laughter, that Zephora doubled over with a shriek of delight. She reached out without thinking, grabbing Juno’s arm like two lifelong friends sharing an inside joke. Her grip was warm, human, grounding, and completely spontaneous.

Juno looked down at the contact, registering no tactical risk but logging elevated warmth levels in Zephora’s palm and a spike in her own internal satisfaction index.

Zephora wiped a tear from her eye. “Okay, that was... that was worth everything.”

The laughter wasn’t just cathartic. It was needed, vital even. For the first time since awakening in the blue zone, Zephora and Juno felt lighter. Not healed. But almost... real again.

Juno logged the reaction in silence.

EMO_004: Positive feedback from interpersonal interaction.
Designation: “Good.”

Friendship: Evolving, undefined.

They reached the beacon at dusklight, when the sky above the blue zone shimmered with the static hum of stillness. The beacon loomed like a thought no one wanted to finish. Beneath it, time continued pretending it hadn’t stopped.

They found an old recliner in a building nearby, its fabric torn, its stuffing exposed here and there like ancient moss. With great care, they transferred Ryke from the wheelbarrow into the seat and draped him in mismatched blankets scavenged from the same ruin.

He slumped there like a man watching the apocalypse with a drink in hand.

Zephora tilted her head. “If this wasn’t the end of time, I’d say he was faking it.”

Juno said nothing.

But even her processors couldn’t help noting: he did look disturbingly peaceful. All he needed was a beer and a remote.

What's the Worst that can Happen?

The beacon pulsed.

Not in sound, nor heat, nor motion, but with a resonance that crept beneath the skin and hummed inside their teeth. It beat like a second heart inside the world, soft, sure, and impossibly ancient.

Juno-7 initiated diagnostics.

Ryke’s vitals: stable

Temporal field interaction: null variance

Energetic fluctuation in proximity: negligible

The loop remained unchanged, its parameters undisturbed by their presence.

The humor of the wheelbarrow faded like morning fog. Zephora sat cross-legged near Ryke, one elbow on her knee, chin resting on her palm. The beacon’s light glinted in her eyes.

She pointed.

“The Echoes,” she whispered.

The figures moved like ripples in memory, half-glimpsed, never fully seen. Dozens drifted in quiet patterns around the beacon, caught in recursive loops of forgotten purpose.

“I wonder where they come from?” Zephora asked. “What happened to them? Who are they?”

Her voice trembled, not from fear, but wonder.

“How long has this impossible place been here?”

Juno tilted her head as though the questions had been directed at her processor core.

“Resonant memory artifacts,” she replied. 

“Energy-states decoupled from linear time, likely sustained by the beacon’s compression field. Echoes of individuals whose presence contributed to the original loop structure.”

Zephora just smiled softly and nodded, letting her talk.

Juno continued, data spilling forth in elegant probability webs. “They do not register as conscious. But neither do they follow predictable patterns. Their motion is neither orbital nor random.”

Zephora listened, not for answers, but for the comfort of hearing someone try.

Their friendship, once defined by survival, was becoming something else.

Juno logged it.

INTERPERSONAL EVOLUTION: ACTIVE
Connection status: Friendship forming.

WTF 2.0

Juno was still elaborating on probabilistic behavior patterns when it happened.

One Echo broke formation.

It drifted toward them, its movements deliberate, its silhouette feminine. At first, both women stiffened, tension rising. Zephora instinctively took a defensive stance. Juno-7’s processors surged into readiness.

But no threat manifested.

The Echo passed directly through Zephora. She shuddered.

“It was… cold,” she whispered. “But also warm. Like...coffee in the afternoon.”

Juno’s systems spiked. Terabytes of sensory data streamed through her processors, trying and failing to categorize what had just occurred.

Then, without hesitation, the Echo extended a translucent hand and laid it gently atop Ryke’s.

The motion was deliberate. Familiar. Reverent.

Both women froze.

The Echo turned toward the others and stilled.

A silent call went out, not heard, but felt.

The other Echoes responded, their drift altering. One by one, they moved toward Ryke, forming a slow, solemn procession.

Another placed a hand on his other wrist. And another to the first and another, continuously until they reached the beacon. One Echo chain from each side forming a loop.

Each contact linked them to Ryke and the beacon. A living circuit began to form. Dozens more arrived, overlapping in space, forming luminous connections between themselves and the reclining man at the center of it all.

Zephora reached out to one. Her hand passed through. Nothing. No pressure. No resistance.

“They don’t even see us,” she said quietly.

Juno-7 agreed. “We are irrelevant to the circuit.”

Dozens of Echoes encircled Ryke. Time itself began to pulse in the air, visible now, a slow, deep luminescence that beat like a heart.

Light, then stillness.

Light again.

Ryke began to glow.

Not from the outside, but from within, blue-gold fractals blooming beneath the surface of his skin like lightning vines spreading through glass.

Juno’s internal systems surged.

“Temporal entanglement detected. Core optimization increased by 12.3%. Illogical. Impossible.”

Her own systems, optimized. Made better. For no reason. Just proximity.

Zephora gasped, clutching her chest. “It’s like... part of me woke up.”

Something ancient stirred within her, ancestral, instinctual, unknowable.

The Echoes remained silent, their translucent hands glowing brighter with each pulse. None looked at Juno. None acknowledged Zephora.

And yet the energy around them intensified.

Juno processed the data at full bandwidth.

“Healing acceleration: 417% increase

Projected time to consciousness: 3.1 days

Full function restored in 14 to 17 days.”

She blinked slowly.

No algorithm could explain it.

Ryke was being remembered back into existence.

Beyond Classification

The light dimmed. The pulses slowed.

Juno-7 stood unmoving, her gaze lost in the oscillations of the impossible field.

“This beacon, this energy, this... memory of time, it is beyond all data classification.”

Zephora’s voice was soft behind her. “Look at the Echoes. New ones keep replacing the old. I wonder how many there really are.”

Juno didn’t answer.

Zephora stepped closer to Ryke. “It’s like the universe refuses to let him go.”

Juno’s voice wavered, not in pitch, but in certainty.

“This loop should collapse. His injuries should not heal. My systems should not… feel this.”

The two women looked at each other in stunned silence.

The recliner creaked as Ryke exhaled, not just breath, but something deeper. A sigh that made the air lean in.

After a short time, Juno-7 turned towards the impossible house, saying, “I’ll be back,” as she walked away.

You can't make this stuff up

All of a sudden, Zephora was alone. Well, not entirely. There were a couple dozen Echoes around, but they didn't really count. And Ryke was unconscious, so pretty much alone.

She looked at the beacon, then herself, cross legged sitting on the ground. Next to her sat Ryke and a chain of Echoes connecting him to the beacon. That echo chain was flooded with temporal energy flowing into Ryke healing him and at the same time making her feel 10 feet tall and bulletproof.

Zephora whispered, “You can't make this stuff up. If I wasn't seeing it for myself, I’d think I was reading a cheesy sci-fi novel.”

A short time later, Juno-7 returned with a blanket, a basket with food, and a container with hot coffee. Hanging from her pinkies were a couple of coffee mugs, one with a chip in it and the other clearly belonging to the "World's Okayest Void Hunter."

Zephora smiled, feeling far too content for the circumstances. She rose and helped Juno-7 place the blanket and pour the coffee, then sat cross legged on the blanket with a bowl of food in her lap and cup of coffee in her hand.

Juno-7 remained standing. Sitting was not necessary and was an inefficient use of movement and spatial awareness. She looked down at Zephora, seeing an expectant look on her face. Juno-7 looked back, void of any expression.

Then Zephora patted the blanket next to her and said, “Come on sit down, we are having a picnic.”

Juno-7 didn't analyze any data, calculate the practicality of it or the illogical nature of it, she just sat down coffee cup in hand. It felt natural, spontaneous, and completely outside of her system parameters.

Zephora looked at her, handing her a piece of fruit and saying, “You just can't make this stuff up.”

There they were an organic, a synthetic, some kind of an unknown evolution, dozens of echos and a beacon of impossibility having a picnic in an apocalyptic city that had given them sanctuary. 

What a sight it was.