Randall stood before his bathroom mirror – gazing at the enormous, glistening dome that was his head. Creams, lotions, infused oils, battery-powered skull caps; he had deployed them all in his ... [+]
In the autumn of 2222, Pseudo turns one hundred—merely a fifth of his woven genetic lifespan. Time, a scarce resource for most, not for him.
Careful! A smooth sea never makes a skilled sailor.
Ziven warns him. Their gene numbers are close, and they live alongside each other for a century. Unlike Pseudo's indulgent life, Ziven, another New Human, pursues vast knowledge and research privileges with relentless drive, as if there is no next century.
I understand, but I should be the one saying that to you. I'm just idle.
I'm preparing to enter the Temporal Reverse Migration.
Why?
Research mission.
That consumes lifespan. How many years does regressing one year cost you?
About fifty years.
A strange hush falls.
Whenever Pseudo hums a song and walks home, that slight warmth of being watched reappears on his back. He turns around, and the smooth glass door he just pushes open slowly closes behind him.
After bathing, his phone rings.
Sorry for bothering you, Mr. Pseudo. Your shadow has committed suicide.
"What is suicide?"
At the tower, the neurotic scientist explains the crisis after a battery of tests confirms Pseudo's mental stability. "The suicide gene is a high-risk factor we screen out. Your shadow kills itself and erases most traces. This indicates a severe instability in the shadow world."
"Send someone back via Temporal Reverse Migration. Resolve the issue before it begins."
"Theoretically. We approach Ziven—he already undergoes regression. His suggestion is to let you go."
"Haha."
"From a risk perspective, shadows and originals shouldn't meet. But loopholes could undo New Human society. You experience its beauty. Restore your shadow to normal, and you won't face a future without income."
The naive god blinks.
"I want to go back to before Ziven's regression point."
"Ziven emphasizes the need of phone. Be careful of the past you will fabricate. Never contact your past self..."
Pseudo puts on the wristband and jumps through the door of the Temporal Reverse Migration device.
Shadow ES-Z-10901 pushes open the bathroom door, the mist clearing, an identical face smiling.
Pseudo. Hello. Your name?
The shadow reaches out, gathering Pseudo's vibrant purple hair. ES-Z-10901. No name. You name me.
Pseudo grabs his hand, tracing "Psienne" into his palm.
How much do you know about the latest technology?
Only knowledge within my work scope. I'm in the aircraft department.
No questions?
Psienne pulls his hand back abruptly. His room is monotonous black, white, and gray. He stops by the window, the moon's shadow cutting him into grids.
Do New Humans look at the moon?
Pseudo shrugs, watching him. Anger blows his towel away, another strand of purple hair drifting under the silvery light.
"What is a shadow? If not a complete person, why do I feel pain? Is my moon the same as yours?"
While Psienne speaks, Pseudo feels a strange sensation. He needs to solve the shadow's suicide.
Pseudo walks towards Psienne, staring at his face—muscles moving in ways he never sees, combining into an inhuman expression. Before Psienne can react, Pseudo seals his lips—a moist pressure stirring doubt, then sincerity. His hand drifts from the cold neck ring to the pulse beneath. In the shared breath, he senses a separate existence now linked.
A few minutes later, Pseudo releases him.
"I come from the New Human world two years in the future," Pseudo gasps, pushing open the window. Moonlight floods the room. "Nominally, I come for you. Privately—living forever is boring. "
Work isn't as hard as Pseudo imagines. Psienne is mainly responsible for aircraft transport planning. Dealing with other shadows is simple.
"Blank shadows are all alike," Pseudo says. "No wonder you don't communicate."
A neck ring, then try. They doesn't accept people without neck rings.
A meaningful look crosses Pseudo's face. He tosses the phone.
Neck ring to me, wristband to you. Deal?
Psienne raises an eyebrow.
Pseudo infiltrating the shadow world learns Psienne's job and even feels a subtle achievement clocking out. He decides to use the restroom before heading home.
Everything is normal until he washes his hands. That gaze appears again at the tailbone, rising along the spine. Pseudo raises his eyes; his reflection is normal.
He raises his hand, and points at the mirror: his fingertip touches the reflection's perfectly.
The neck ring lights up.
"Abnormal reminder. You stay for over five minutes. Schedule a health check-up?"
"Leaving immediately."
Psienne says: "The check-up is next Monday. Swap back, let me go."
I want to go. Aren't you curious?
Death never plays games.
Are you afraid of death?
I at least wouldn't actively seek death.
You've just given up. Psienne, is plotting suicide considered more clever?
Psienne bursts into laughter, clutching his throat to stop. Pseudo lies on the sofa, hands behind his head, watching.
Psienne finally stops, covering his face.
Fine, go. In exchange, I'll use your identity to see the New Human world. Deal?
Pseudo feels the urge to kiss him again. He just purses his lips and tells Psienne his address, saying to contact Ziven if needed.
"Ziven? Who's that?"
Contacts, search by name.
Psienne hands the phone. From top to bottom, no Ziven. Pseudo enters the number and presses call.
"Sorry, the number you have dialed is not in service."
The two stare at each other. After a moment, Psienne says: "Now a task more urgent than seeking death? You go for the check-up. I'll see what your past self has to say."
Be careful. Temporal Reverse Migration forbids contact with your past self.
I'm more familiar than you with how to act outside the rules.
When the aircraft disappears, Pseudo looks down at the streets from the rooftop. Humans flow chaotically yet orderly like cells. The shadow world is a giant, and Pseudo feels he is a cancer cell within it.
He imagines the impact, but seeing the scientist rush out as if he sees a ghost is still exaggerated. His steps are heavy, irregular. Pseudo just stays put, lamenting the other's fear.
A pair of feet come running from the end of the corridor. Psienne stops beside Pseudo and sees a pair of open eyes.
"They care more about whether you're controllable than your health. But now, both they and we are uncontrollable. There's no past you, nor Ziven. What are we now?"
"Pseudo and Psienne."
Pseudo pulls himself up by Psienne's hand. They rush outward; Psienne inputs something on his phone while signaling him to remove the neck ring. The aircraft is on the rooftop. When they leave, Psienne leans against the window, holding the neck ring.
As they ascend, Psienne throws the neck ring out. Three, two, one. Daytime fireworks bloom above the shadows. Psienne watches the burst of color, seared into his retina.
Once stable, Pseudo sits next to Psienne.
Is this consistent with the death you imagine?
Psienne closes his eyes and grasps Pseudo's hand. Mm.
Alright, relax. All past science no longer holds true for us. That means we might disappear the next second, or never. But now, all past pains and joys are insignificant. Only you and me. I never question my existence. No matter how we are defined, we can still speak. The essence of Temporal Reverse Migration should be: expending my lifespan to send me here. This doesn't interfere with my past self. Yet... the past disappears, but we remain.
I know. The world and us—one must be false. How do you design the truth?
This world is an experiment. They are observing our future.
Is the end of Temporal Reverse Migration the real world?
The answer lies in the regression. Can time buy out curiosity? Perhaps the real world is waiting. But no matter what, we should go and see.
Above the sky, the moon blinks.