We finished the hike with the last few stone-flagged steps, half hidden under layers of dirt that nobody had thought to touch in months-seconds-eons, and to the heavy wooden front door, which the Army boy carefully opened, dust showering down. He flipped down his night vision and entered the dark interior, us close behind.

You know those kinds of houses, those ones that you never live in but always end up staying or working in for a short time, that have this weird timeless feeling? Sorry about the jump. I'm not the best narrator.

Actually, why am I apologizing? I don't care. If some idiot finds whatever the hell this is and decides that I'm oh-so awful to listen to, their loss. Get lost. You. Get lost.

Anyway,

Houses.

Houses, yes?

Yes, houses.

We were talking about those. We as in us, you and I, I and you, and I have absolutely no goddamn idea about how I'm reaching you, of if I am at all. I certainly shouldn't be able to. Old houses, yes, they give you this, this feeling, like there's something, many somethings about this place, just out of view, out of the corner of your eye, except instead of spatially it's temporal. Temporal, time, haha, the clock's ticking, ticking ticking ticking, better finish up fast! Not really. If there's anything I have left, it's time.

Time. These houses, they aren't so much defined as space as by time. Ancient, before any town was built, just recent as ten years ago, yesterday, the millisecond before we walked up and opened the door. Blank, timeless walls, decor that gave the impression that nothing had actually been built, just the amalgam of owner after owner moving in, building on what they found there, dying, repeat, repeat, repeat, RESET

I'm sure you've been in a house like that before, haven't you, even if just for a little while, what even is a little while? And you will get an idea of what I'm saying. It's the type of house that you see in your dreams, the house that has been there long before you, and it will be there long after.

The Professor, oh yes, the Professor, a forty-year-old genius, poised to change science forever, forever thwarted by everything other than his own incompetence, to be sure, to be sure. The Professor, eyes shining by the light of the dancing torch, that he frantically waved about the house, disturbing the shadows that had rested for centuries-millennia-instants. Odd furniture in odd places, strange things hung on the walls.

He was only interested in one thing, and was growing more agitated as we searched for it. Beads of sweat took ten months to trickle down his face, and we moved through the house slowly, Jodorowsky clearing every room and the Professor inspecting it, with his bobbing assistant, I've already forgotten her name, hovering eagerly over his shoulder.

Oh, how I wanted to take the gun in my belt for "self-defense" and put a bullet in them both. Maybe shoot that damn army boy too, and why not myself while I'm at it? Clean up the world for a nanosecond-instant. Haha. More souls for the house, and the more the merrier! We can have a party, a grand ball, waltzing through the gaping hallways!

And we were at the last corridor running along the back of the house, and the Professor still hadn't found what he was looking for. He stopped, suddenly, in the middle of the hallway, he stopped and drew his pistol.

My hand had already been wrapped around the grip of mine for four days, but as I drew he had turned away and faced the wall that marked the rear of the house, and opened fire.

He pumped shot after shot into the wall, which was surprisingly weak and disintegrated under the onslaught, maiming, brutalizing, mutilating the house, tearing a hole through its insides and out into the open, sweat trickling down his face, I watched a droplet slowly make its way to his chin and fall to the ground for six hundred years, as flash after flash after flash and bang after bang after bang after bang. No, not enough, not enough for the Professor, who stood eerily still, as he dropped his finally empty pistol and grabbed the useless Army boy's rifle, which used incendiary bullets.

Through the perforated wall I could see a garden of statues illuminated by the softly glowing moon. The Professor, the imbecile, the fool, I should have shot him should have shot him, in the eternity I had in that moment with my gun pointed at him. The damage was done, had been done, is being done, will be done, oh yes. The garden, that garden that had gone untouched for minutes, milliseconds, was in blazes, and we burst through behind the Professor, who had suddenly began to run. Fire burned, burns, will burn, orange, black smoke obscuring everything, the third eyes opened, open, will open on the statues, and they began to move.

The grass sloped upwards towards a drop, and the Professor was lying prone on the edge, just ahead of the fire. We reached him a few epochs before the statues, and he was moaning to himself, whining about how close he'd come. I kicked him in the side and scoffed. Pathetic. I grabbed his coat and brought him to the edge, the edge, the edge, stupid bastard, missed what was right in front of him. I was about to throw him off, give him what he deserved, when a statue shattered into me, turning into dust, after all the ages-seconds it had spent standing in the garden, and I was thrown off the cliff with Army boy and the Assistant, thrown off, pushed off, falling, falling, falling, oh yes

?falling?

falling down, falling up, sideways, falling around, look down, the golden rays of the sun streaking across our faces, I could feel the other two falling with me, not alone, look down three million years later, the empty black void, look down a week ago, the Earth, beautiful blue Earth, clad in soft clouds, in two seconds the other two were long gone. I stretched, stretch, will stretch my hand out, yearning, yearning, yearning, and FALL

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

Army man is now my age, and the Assistant stands slightly behind him. They shake me, and I am in the middle of the now empty garden of statues. The grass is green, the sky is clear, I can see the ocean in the distance, the House is downhill and the Assistant is holding a baby. How nice, how nice. The wind tousles their hair as I am helped up. They bring me inside and fix me a meal, and I eat staring at the bright interior of the once-dark home. I came in through a ragged hole facing the garden.

The House is older.

I make my way through the rooms until I find one with an old wooden crib. There I stand, for a century. I walk in, and pick up the child. He doesn't make a peep.

I walk into the garden, carrying him in the crook of my arm, take the sledgehammer leaning against the wall, and walk all the way up to the edge. I look around - the town below is long since gone. The only sign that humans had ever lived was the House behind me.

The Professor stands there, flesh etched with burns, stretching his arm into space, turned to stone, dead as a doornail. I smile inwardly. The hammer was for them to smash him to pieces, smash him to pieces, but it seems they never had the guts, never had the guts.

I swing the hammer to his back, joyfully listening to the shatter of stone far below, far forward, far ago.

I will walk down to the house, where in the middle of the garden a stone platform has risen, an anvil, an anvil. I lean the hammer against it.

The couple will come out of the house, and are staring at me. Army boy will approach me, slowly.

I put the infant on the pedestal. He will stop and look at me, silently.

I point to the sledgehammer, point the gun at his head, and smile. "Pick up the hammer."

He will ask, "Why?"

I will stand there, still smiling, and say:

"Why? Why? Why? Did you ever, ever, in all the six seconds you've lived, the ages you've seen since birth, truly ever look? How long, how short of a time you've lived in that house. Look at it, truly, truly look at it, see how it presents a facade, oh yes, a facade, for ALL their posturing, humans, us humans are just animals trying so hard to pretend otherwise.

"We overstepped, have overstepped, will continue to overstep our limits, try so hard, but that belies our nature, which we run from and are so desperate, so desperate to cover up, because it embarrases us, our sheer childishness and stupidity, would it not be better to simply reset it? Hit the switch."

He will look at me, horrified, bastard hiding from the truth.

"Hit the switch. With the hammer. You stupid ape, are you slow? You, you're just like the rest of them, remember the Professor, that, that posturing madman drooling and jumping like a monkey at the first sniff of this discovery? Like your mate, that oh-so-eager shrew behind you, too sharp for her own good, clever little rat? Procreating like animals, like us, like people.

"But what even is a person? Pretending to live in such a civilized manner, clean, wearing clothing, living in houses, but no matter what we do we always betray our true Darwinian desires, as we were designed, humans pulling other humans down for their own gain, more often than not, to satisfy their urges, their carnal desires more than anything. Hit the switch."

That stupid woman will open her mouth: "How can you do this? Are humans really that terrible to you? They're all gone, and you want us to die as well? What about you? Why don't you do it yourself? End it all?"

Damn slut. I point the gun at her instead. "Hit the switch. Reset it."

"That switch is our son," will say the Ape.

"You have a chance, a chance, a chance here, to STOP this damn cycle, of beasts pretending to be gods, to be better, superior, however long we live, over thousands of years, handfuls of minutes, we are doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over and over again. You must make the choice, and HIT THE FUCKING SWITCH."

That bitch will exchange a glance with the Ape, who will still be holding the hammer. In the following nanosecond, I will know they know I am powerless to interfere. I am only there to bear witness to the proceedings. My gun will not fire, and it has to be them that choose to kill the child, reset, reset reset. Eight years will pass, and then he will swing the hammer.

I will be there, am there, was there, in that final instant as the cold steel shatters the side of my head. For infinity, a bead of sweat trickles down the right side of my face, and I pay close, close attention to it because the left side of my face is

PAIN

The child will live and humanity will continue.

There will be no more statues in the garden, other than my ruin, and I have stood for

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999 years-seconds-eons

And counting.