“Welcome to the Protected Timeline Relocation Program.

Our role is to relocate eligible victims of serious crimes to stabilized timelines. Each placement follows a standard process of Relocation, Exposure, Protection, and Review, also known as REPR…”

“They call it the Reaper Program because you don’t come back.”

The young man mumbled under his breath as he rolled his eyes and spat toward the massive screen mounted against the off-white wall. 

I kept my eyes straight ahead as we walked in unison towards the transfer room. 

The transfer room was smaller than I expected. No windows, no art hanging on the wall. The white room felt clean yet void of any sense of humanity. A stern older woman wearing her hair in a tight bun sat behind a large oval desk. 

She stood as we entered the room. 

“5684-AF4?” She questioned me with no expression.

I glanced down at the identification code digitally engraved on my wrist. “5684-AF4, yes.”

We locked eyes as she warned without consent. “You will taste metal, it will hurt.” 

She reached into an open container holding a small but simple device. It was about the size of a pen. 

She pressed it briefly against my forehead without warning.

A millisecond stretched into eternity, my skull split with white-hot pain before collapsing into a brief, unnatural euphoria. 

A metallic taste flooded my mouth, it was gone almost as quickly as it came.

“Confirmed,” she said, her voice stern and empty of emotion. “Temporal identity locked.”

I reached up instinctively, fingers brushing the tender spot.

“Do not touch.”

She grabbed my wrist with sudden force. I flinched, the sharpness of her grip snapped me back into my body.

“You will embark once the frequency matches the correct timeline.” The stern official with a tight bun, nodded in approval to the guard that led us to our Lifeline Pods. 

“Relocation. Exposure. Protection. Review,” the screen behind us repeated, looping like a prayer no one believed in anymore.

The young man behind me snorted quietly.

“Review,” he muttered and scoffed. 

A large guard glanced back at him with a scowl. 

“That’s the part they don’t explain,” he leaned and whispered to me. “Reviews always get denied.”

I didn’t turn around.

“And, who told you that?” I asked in denial.

He laughed under his breath, short, humorless.

“Everyone who never came back…”

The line slowed. Somewhere ahead, a door hissed open and shut.

“Earth’s full,” he continued, his voice barely audible now. “Cities stacked on cities. Zones on zones. No government. Just territories.”

He tilted his head toward the ceiling. “Crews and Factions that hoard the clean water and food. Some of them even control the power grids. The outside is feral.”

“I wouldn’t know.” I nervously adjusted my loose clothing.

I imagined maps redrawn in blood and borders that shifted overnight.

“They don’t bring anyone back because there’s nowhere to put you,” he said with disgust. 

“AI took the infrastructure. Took the jobs. Took the food chains. What’s left fights over scraps.”

A pause.

“Review isn’t about you surviving the timeline,” he added. “It’s about whether the timeline can survive you coming back.”

A second, much smaller guard barked, “Quiet.”

The young man dressed in tech gear and neon trim fell silent.

But his words stayed with me.

“Permanent non-return, with room for negotiations.” My file had said.

We had to leave not because we were broken, but because the world we came from was.

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