The colony's first Monday in seven months dawned uncertain but real.
Jack watched from the town square as colonists emerged from their homes, blinking in day-that-should-be-impossible. Some cried. Some laughed. Mrs. Patterson baked Monday bread and kept touching it to make sure it existed.
"Chrono's doing great," Yuki reported, the Chronophage floating beside her like a temporal puppy. "It ate three hours of DMV waiting room and one extended warranty call. It says they taste like bureaucratic butter!"
The new system was elegant: Monday, Wednesday, Friday for the colonists. Tuesday, Thursday, and weekends, Chrono could feed freely on the accumulated redundant time. A sustainable ecosystem of temporal waste management.
"You realize you've revolutionized chronovore relations," Dr. Vega said, her temporal tattoos finally calm. "The xenobiology textbooks will need entire new chapters."
"Just solving problems," Jack demurred. His shadow preened though, clearly pleased with itself.
Mayor Chen approached with something that might have been the colony's first genuine smile in months. "Ranger Castellan, the colony of Chronos VII formally thanks you. Also, we're making you an honorary citizen. Wednesdays, Mondays, and Fridays only, of course."
"Of course."
The celebration began at noon—a "Thank God It's Monday" party that would've been incomprehensible anywhere else. Children played games that lasted longer than speed-rounds. Couples had conversations without checking chronometers. Someone started a poker game that could actually finish.
Jack found himself sitting with Yuki and Chrono at the edge of festivities. The chronovore had stabilized into something almost cute—like a temporal ferret made of folded minutes.
"Will you visit?" Yuki asked.
"When I can. Space is big, and the impossible keeps happening."
"Chrono wants to give you something." Yuki listened to the absence-words only she could hear. "Oh! That's perfect!"
The chronovore extended something like a tendril, touching Jack's shadow. For a moment, he felt time differently—could taste the redundant moments in his own timeline, feel the weight of waiting, the texture of temporal padding.
"It's teaching your shadow to eat redundant time," Yuki explained. "So you'll never have to wait in line again! Your shadow can just nom those moments!"
Jack's shadow experimented, nibbling at the edge of an awkward pause. The pause vanished, conversation flowing smoothly. His shadow burped happily, tasting temporal junk food for the first time.
"That's... actually incredibly useful." Jack stood, checking his communicator. "I should go. Pattern Eaters won't catch themselves."
The goodbyes were Wednesday-quick but Monday-meaningful. Handshakes that didn't rush, hugs that lasted their proper duration. Chrono nuzzled his hand, promising to be a good temporal garbage disposal.
As the Prometheus lifted off, ARIA chimed in: "The colony's broadcasting their first Monday news in seven months. Lead story: 'Time-Eating Alien Becomes Beloved Community Pet.' Subheading: 'DMV Waiting Times Reduced to Zero.'"
"Think it'll last?" Jack asked.
"The arrangement? Probability suggests yes. Your shadow learning to snack on redundant time? That's going to make for interesting reports."
His shadow belched, having just consumed the boring part of preflight checks. Jack could get used to this.
Below, Chronos VII settled into its new rhythm—three days a week instead of one, a pet chronovore managing temporal waste, and children who would grow up thinking time-eating aliens were perfectly normal.
"Setting course for Station Zeta-9," ARIA announced. "Estimated arrival: Tuesday. Or rather, the space between Tuesday and Tuesday, since your shadow ate the redundant travel time."
"Did it just—"
"Compress our journey by consuming the boring parts? Yes. We'll need to update your file. 'Ranger whose shadow eats waiting.'"
Jack "Danger" Castellan leaned back, watching stars streak by at speeds that shouldn't be possible but were. Behind him, the Wednesday Planet found its new rhythm. Ahead, Pattern Eaters were stealing nonexistence itself.
Just another Monday in the expanding impossible.
His shadow patted its belly, satisfied with its temporal snack, ready for whatever came next.