The fluorescent buzz of Lincoln High's locker hall was a drone Alex Reed knew too well— a monotonous hum underscoring the shuffle of sneakers and the occasional slam of metal doors, like the world grinding its teeth. At seventeen, Alex was invisible here: lanky frame hunched over his battered backpack, dark hair flopping into eyes that hid behind wire-rimmed glasses, the kind that screamed target to the school's apex predators. Today's lesson? Pay up or pay in blood. Twenty bucks for "protection," courtesy of Brock Harlan and his meathead entourage, the reigning kings of cafeteria tyranny.
"Hand it over, specs," Brock growled, his bulk blocking the exit like a poorly coded boss mob, two goons flanking him with grins that promised bruises. Brock's fist—knuckled scarred from "sports"—crunched into Alex's shoulder, slamming him against the lockers with a clang that echoed his ribs. The backpack tumbled, books spilling like digital guts: quantum physics texts, scribbled equations on temporal loops, dreams of a dad who'd vanished when Alex was six, leaving only rumors and a watch.
Alex tasted copper, the world tilting, but his hand fumbled to his wrist— the heirloom, a slim silver timepiece etched with gears that didn't tick, its face a swirl of fractal hands pointing nowhere. Dad's last gift, whispered to "twist when the world's too heavy." Superstition? Placebo? Alex had mocked it in therapy circles, but desperation clawed now, fingers twisting the bezel hard—click.
Reality fractured.
It wasn't a snap, but a shear—the hall warping like bad CGI, colors bleeding into overlays, Brock's fist blurring into multiplicity. Alex's vision split: one him crumpling; another standing, frame not lanky but forged, muscles corded under scarred skin, eyes blazing not fear but fire. The alternate Alex—older, harder, from a timeline of trench wars and timeline cops—moved with predatory economy, hand snapping up to catch Brock's wrist mid-swing.
"You hit like a glitch," battle-Alex snarled, voice gravel from smoke-choked skies, twisting the arm with a crack that echoed wet bone. Brock howled, but alternate Alex was already moving: free hand palm-striking the goon's jaw, a burst of borrowed flame erupting from his fingertips—quantum graft, fire from a pyre-lit future—incinerating the bully's jacket in a whoosh that singed hair and sent him sprawling, rolling to smother the blaze.
The second goon lunged, pipe raised, but battle-Alex sidestepped, elbow driving into solar plexus with force that lifted the kid off his feet, slamming him into lockers that buckled like foil. Brock staggered up, eyes wide with primal terror, fist cocked for a haymaker— but the fire in alternate Alex's veins surged, a backhand igniting the air, flames licking Brock's knuckles before the punch connected. The bully screamed, meat charring, collapsing in a fetal curl as the hall filled with acrid smoke.
Alex—real Alex—watched from the overlay, heart jackhammering, the watch burning on his wrist, bezel spinning wild. This isn't me. But the power hummed, a fractal rush grafting to his nerves: heat coiling in his palms, vision sharpening to thermal ghosts, the bullies' heat-signs flaring like warnings.
Snap back.
The world recoiled, timelines shearing shut with a thunderclap that rattled lockers. Battle-Alex vanished, leaving this Alex sprawled on the floor, charred jacket smoking, palms blistered with residual heat that licked his skin like lover's breath. Brock and his crew groaned amid the wreckage—bruised, burned, but alive—eyes locking on him not with rage, but fear. "What the fuck was that, freak?" Brock whimpered, scuttling back, goons hauling him up as they bolted, hallway emptying in a stampede of whispers: Reed? On fire?
Alex pushed up, knees jelly, the watch cooling on his wrist—face reset to neutral, but hands ticking faint, like aftershocks. His palms throbbed, blisters bubbling, but under the pain... power. He flexed fingers, a spark dancing between them—tiny, controlled, his. The graft held: fire from the other him, a sliver of pyromancy etched into his nerves.
But the hall's doors burst open—not students, but them: suits crisp as fresh code, badges glinting holographic—Temporal Enforcement Agency, or TEA, the timeline cops Dad had ranted about in bedtime stories. "Alexander Reed," the lead agent barked, voice modulated flat, stun-baton humming blue. "Quantum anomaly detected. Hands up—non-compliance means erasure."
Alex's blood iced. Dad's warnings flooded back: The watch twists doors, kid. But they guard the locks. Run when it ticks. The agents fanned out—three, visors scanning, batons priming arc-discharges that warped air like bad reception. How? The twist had been private, a hallway glitch—unless the watch pinged, a beacon in the multiverse web.
He bolted, backpack forgotten, fire coiling instinctive in his gut as he vaulted a bench, palm slamming a locker—whoosh, flames blooming to block the hall, superheating metal to slag. The agents cursed, batons firing wild arcs that scorched paint, but the blaze bought seconds: Alex shouldered a side door, tumbling into the gym—empty, echoing with his gasps.
Twist again? The watch warmed, bezel inviting, but Dad's voice cautioned: Jumps cost, Alex. Borrow too much, and the debt collects. The graft-fire flickered, draining—his skin prickling with feedback, like static in veins. No time. He dashed for the bleachers, ducking low as agents breached, visors sweeping thermal ghosts through the smoke.
A baton-arc grazed his calf, nerves screaming electric, but he rolled, mind racing: power from the other me—fire, but what else? Instinct twisted his palm up—flames not bursting, but shaping, a whip-lash of heat that cracked the agent's visor, staggering him. Graft evolution? The borrowed skill flexed, adapting to his will.
The lead agent advanced, baton whirring to overload. "Surrender the heirloom, heir. Your father's debts are due."
Heir? The word hit like a glitch—Dad's watch, not just relic, but key. Alex's fingers brushed the bezel, world fracturing faint: overlays flickering— a steampunk self with gear-augments, a cyberpunk shadow with neon blades. But the cost tugged, a hollow in his chest, like timeline-echoes hollowing him.
Agents closed, batons priming a containment field—blue web sparking to life, warping space to trap. Alex twisted—click—diving into the shear.
Reality shattered.
He landed not in gym, but ruins: a war-torn London, Big Ben a skeletal finger accusing smog-choked skies, airships droning overhead like vengeful gods. His body shifted—graft layering: fire from the fighter, now laced with shadow from this self, a resistance fighter cloaked in umbral veils. The watch burned, bezel spinning wild, but the hollow deepened—debt collecting, a whisper in his skull: Father's sins. Pay or fade.
TEA agents followed—their field bridging the jump, visors recalibrating to this timeline's grit. "Anomaly locked. Containment protocol: quantum cull."
Alex ran, shadows coiling from his palms like loyal hounds, the heir's game just begun. But in the watch's face, a new hand ticked: Collapse in 72 hours. Find the team. Or all threads unravel.
The quantum heir had awakened. And the multiverse hungered.
To be continued...
End of Chapter 1