#myscribbles

It is easy to forget himself when humanity, although he loved them, resembled writhing worms. Their timelines—stretched out impossibly forward and behind them—made them appear as continuous threads of string to his immortal eyes. Paradox loved the way their rich histories trailed after them like long, lustrous tails. The way they intersected with one another. Simply lovely. Beautiful.

How he adored the mortals and the tangled web of their lives.

But he forgot how fleeting their lives were—that he could talk with them for an hour or two and, in the next century, find them again as nothing but ash and bone.

Paradox was only the timekeeper. He counted the hours. Each movement of the hands on a clock melted away flesh and turned bone to dust while he remained ever still. He forgot what it was like to feel human and to experience the permanent effects of time moving him along with the tides. Changing him.

Paradox missed it—that thing that mortals so feared.

But oh, how human he felt when the violet eyes of his enemy were all over him.

As a mortal, he had been an easily jealous man because of how deeply and passionately he cared. He wanted to be at the forefront of research in his field. He wanted the recognition of discovering new species. He burned with the resentment of being someone’s kept secret. It hadn’t stopped the United States Military from doing away with his work, erasing him, making it so it was as if he had never existed. He had been reduced to less than a secret. In all of recorded human history, he was never there.

When he had become unstuck from his own timeline, those desires became so small. As an immortal, he never struggled with jealousy or envy or a desire for recognition. How could he when he was no longer part of the world? If anything, he had to fight off apathy and detachment. It was difficult to find reasons to care without earthly ties. He had to force himself to care. To love.

But Eon awoke his baser instincts.

It was almost sweet: the way Eon had resorted to forming a silly alliance with the Chimera Sui Generi called Vilgax—as if the new ally posed any threat to Paradox. Acquiring Vilgax’s assistance would make no difference. Not only would it not help, but it would have been sweet that he thought making friends would change the outcome of their fights, had it not been offensive.

The Professor sat himself aboard the Chimeran Hammer, legs crossed politely on Vilgax’s throne, waiting for the ship’s pilot and his guest.

They didn’t notice him at first.

Eon was too preoccupied to see him there, strategizing with Vilgax, lost in his own plots. Like Paradox, the other immortal often forgot himself, too. The plans he drafted in his own head could span any length of time from several days to centuries. To Vilgax—who had a long lifespan of his own but was not immortal—the wait was infuriating. Patience was not his strong suit. Already, several months had passed since Eon had recruited him to help, and the Chimera Sui Generis was beginning to feel that agreeing to his offer was a fool’s decision. Although the man was incredibly powerful (that much was evident in the energy that radiated from his body), he was slow to act.

They’d had every opportunity to launch attacks on their shared nemesis, Ben Tennyson. What was the reason for the delay? Vilgax could not be sure, but he did not want Eon to get the impression that he was the one leading their mission. When they entered the throne room of the Chimeran Hammer, Vilgax made his authority known.

Slamming Eon up against the metal wall, he bared his teeth as he demanded to know, “How much longer!?”

Eon was losing patience. “We aren’t ready to strike against Tennyson yet. He undoubtedly has the aid of the Timewalker. We need to recruit more members for our army or we will never be successful.”

Vilgax was at a loss. “Who?”

Eon shoved Vilgax off of him with a blast of purple energy because tonight he was a very beautiful Chronian with pewter skin and dark, rich raven hair. His lips were faintly blue, begging to be kissed. That lovely mouth twisted into an ugly snarl, revealing pearl, vampiric canines.

“Come now, don’t be naive.” Eon broke the news to him. “How long have you spent fighting this child? Nearly a decade. Do you think it is possible that a warlord, a conqueror, such as yourself, could be defeated by a mere boy? What a fantasy. Ben Tennyson has obviously been protected and aided by The Timewalker from the very beginning—before you even knew him.”

Vilgax narrowed his red eyes. He was unsure of Eon’s trustworthiness. For all he knew, the Chronian was mad, suffering from some sort of time sickness. Or, he was delusional from all the realities he saw. It was a common side effect of interdimensional travel.

“You couldn’t see him, but Paradox was always there.” Eon continued darkly, fingers tightening into fists. “In the background. Why do you think you struggle? You will never win. It’s because he will never allow it.”

“If this Timewalker is as omnipresent as you claim, then how is it that you still stand?” Vilgax drawled.

Eon straightened up, making himself appear taller than he was. “I am his one, true-equal.”