Rewind

Heroes have flaws, and as a non-hero, I carry mine too. My life prior to the raid was a partially eaten club sandwich resting on the table, the mayonnaise nothing but a clear smudge coating the bacon. This ignored, leftover lunch would make it to the trash eventually — the next time I took a piss.

I kept consuming, making a mess. I guzzled Pepsis down like it was the only beverage. My thirst was never satiated. I was so apathetic to my surroundings that I built a decent stack of empty restaurant cups on the floor — guarded by a housefly seeking the sugary residue.

The newest addition didn’t make it to the stack. The straw was stuck under a greasy takeout bag containing the previous day’s burger wrapper and empty carton of fries. I noted the straw’s tenuous connection to the lid, forcing the Styrofoam cup to dangle from the end table — temporarily defying gravity. When the cup finally fell, drops of sticky pop speckled the beige carpet. I didn’t bother to clean it. I was the stranded, hollow cup.

The window blinds concealed my messy lifestyle. My bedroom was my sanctuary, the only place I could be who I was when I wasn’t out convincing people I was somebody else. I was an angry man with a strange obsession. I didn’t care how I lived when no one was looking.

Even amid my obsession, I knew my name: Martin Ashburn. No matter what, they can’t take that away from me. I’m in my mid-thirties in human years, with dirty dishwater blonde hair like the ‘Ash’ in my surname.

I’m good looking enough for my line of work. I’m tall with a good physique. Working out frequently was my signature activity, but I didn’t need to lift a finger. I had endless energy. I shared videos of myself lifting weights and taking long walks, but it was all performative.

I have steely eyes and a watchful gaze. My admirers considered me a champion of their rights, but only if our goals were aligned. My most empathetic feature is a slight quiver at the left corner of my lower lip. It happens whenever I think of her. It’s a symptom of the tremors inside of me. You’d understand if you’ve ever suffered a tragedy.

When I was trying to convince others of my sincerity, I let it show. I sense your judgment, and you’re right. I am a self-serving slob. I never claimed to be otherwise, and I don’t now — I am simply telling my side of the story. Every rogue has their own version of events.

As I rewind the tape of my life prior to the raid of my home, I feel numb. I don’t regret my desire for knowledge. When the truth was revealed to me, I couldn’t go back. The world is a frightening place, but like Pandora’s cursed jar, there’s a single, lingering remnant of good. Small, fragile, and surrounded by ruin, hope of redemption keeps me going.

Before my day was rudely interrupted by a team of mercenaries crashing through my door with military-grade weapons, I was a husband grieving the loss of his wife. Most people grieving their spouse would have done something productive or positive, but not me.

I was determined to punish the monster who took Elaine from me, so I ran for office. I connected with other citizens who felt cheated. Their anger was my anger, and we fed from each other. Everyone was shedding their sense of fairness and reason, so why not me? I thought it was a game, the fuel that kept me pumped.

My tactics worked. The public responded with praise and campaign donations. I think there was a moment when I stood at the podium and everyone in the front row of the audience was decked out in campaign merchandise. I swooned from the buzz of the crowd, the cheering, the…

Noise. Noise. Noise.

My ears were ringing. Everything felt wrong. There was a tanned blonde in the audience, looking at me with blue eyes filled with adoration. Her hair was ironed flat, flowing into a glamorous curl at the tip. Her full mouth flashed a fake smile, too pristine to have ever chewed. She was unnatural, nothing like Elaine. The fawning made me feel high — and dizzy.

Any industry that stood to profit from my rise flooded my campaign coffers with gold, eager to secure their place in the new order. Everything was going swimmingly until the last day of my former existence.

On that day, I was reliving the past frame by frame and scene by scene. The closest thing I had to a time machine to take me to Elaine was clicking on videos. A disturbed mind seeks happier times to haunt. Ordinary Day — the video I’d selected — was no exception.

To tap into the timeline, I grasped the silver virtual remote and pushed the correct sequence of numbers on the touchscreen — the secret pin number connected to my account. There was a zap of static as my glasses switched mode. The special lenses were activated. The real world faded, allowing the other world to take its place.

I spent a small fortune on the AI-5 Player, a system so advanced you can insert a digital version of yourself into video clips. Once you’re inside the timeline, you can change events. In Ordinary Day, Elaine and I have the option of going for a walk instead of going to the movies. A player’s activities don’t alter history, but it’s an immersive experience.