I've made a few more further attempts to go back in time to change things.
None of them were of notable success.
So far I've died horribly 457 times.
I'm beginning to suspect that this whole time travel business is just delusional day-dreams that Biomatrix is making up for entertainment purposes.
I Am not mAking stuff up! The TimE TrAvel Is Real! wE ShOuLd tRy hArDeR.
No we shouldn't!
Either time travel isn't real or the past is impossible to change for some stupid reason. What the hell is that black thing that keeps killing me?
I dO Not KnOw. We sHoUlD TrY SmArTeR!
The more I go back in time, the less I remember of myself here in the present.
Is this even the present? What is the present anymore?
Maybe this life is just another stupid attempt of my future self to fix the past?
tHiS IsN'T ThE TiMe tO Go cRaZy cHaRlEs.
Says the voices in my head!
I hear the voices of the Biomatrix more and more in my mind.
I fear that their whispers are drowning out my own thoughts.
nO We aRe nOt.
Gah! You're doing it right now! Get out of my head!
a lItTlE ToO LaTe fOr tHaT, cHaRlEs.
Well, go back in time and get out of my head then and stay there!
Stupid 4-dimensional lawyer!
wE'Ve mAdE An aGrEeMeNt cHaRlEs. We mUsT CoNsUmE ThIs wOrLd tO MaKe iT BeTtEr.
All you ever talk about is consuming things!
I'm done with being your carrier. I'm sooo done with serving you the planet for breakfast!
Every G-damn time I meticulously set the table, put up silverware, organize the dishes and them BAM! Something flips the table over.
Every time we try to change things, everything just gets worse.
I feel a constant presence watching me.
Right... Watching us. Following us.
Making sure we don't change things.
Is it making sure I don't fuck up the universe?
fUcK Up oR MaKe iT 29% BeTtEr?
I rubbed my face-mask.
Why am I even wearing this stupid thing?
It's not like I need to breathe.
I should totally throw it overboard and watch is sail through the wispy layers of clouds.
tHaT'S PrObAbLy nOt a gOoD IdEa cHaRlEs.
Why the hell not?
iT'S KiNd oF... mElTeD OnTo tO YoUr fAcE NoW.
yOu'vE BeEn dEaD FoR A LiTtLe wHiLe, ChArLeS. wE'Ve mAdE ThE DeCiSiOn tO InTeGrAtE ThE PlAsTiCs oF ThE MaSk wItH ThE KeRaTiN Of yOuR FaCe tO InCrEaSe fAcIaL-PrOtEcTiOn bY 4%. We hOpE YoU DoN'T MiNd.
YOU DID WHAT?
tHe mAsK Is pArT Of yOuR FaCe nOw. FoRcIbLy tAkInG It oFf wIlL PrObAbLy rEsUlT In mOsT Of yOuR SkIn cOmInG OfF WiTh iT.
MY FACE! MY BEAUTIFUL HUMAN FACE!
dOn't fLaIl yOuR ApPeNdAgEs cHaRlEs. AcCePt tHe iNnEr yOu.
WhY, i bEt wE CoUlD EaSiLy wIn tHe rEaL "mIsS-UnIvErSe" CoNtEsT.
wE ShOuLd tOtAlLy sEnD ThE UnIvErSe cOmPeNdIuM YoUr pRoFiLe sHoT AnD ReGiStEr fOr sUcH. wInK, wInK, nUdGe, NuDgE.
I started to rub what was now my new, plastic face with my hands. I could feel its plastics with my fire-proof gloves. I could feel the atoms of my gloves with my face. ...Wait what?!
tHeSe gLoVeS ArE NoW PaRt oF YoU, cHaRlEs.
Oh G-damn you!!!
I touched my fire-proof jacket. It felt like a part of me, like a layer of rough, carbon skin. The jacket was my new skin! AHHHHH!
tOoK YoU LoNg eNoUgH To nOtIcE.
G-damn! Damn! When did this happen?
I looked at Doctor Gromov. He was lounging quietly in the shopping cart.
Bet you still have your skin, doctor. I bet it feels nice to have skin.
hE CaN'T HeAr yOu, ChArLeS. hE'S In a cOmA.
At least he's still got SKIN!
wHy sUcH InFiNiTe pOuTiNg? YoU HaVe fIrEpRoOf sKiN NoW, cHaRlEs.
I looked at Pilot, who was dangling happily beneath us, tied to a rope attached to our hot air balloon.
He was unsuccessfully trying to high-five the ground.
Does he have his skin? How would he feel if I take my face off in front of him? Would it make him sad or happy? Would he take it seriously or make fun of me? Would he still be friends with a red Skeletor monstrocity?
Probably. His pet is a hideous, giant worm after all.
Poor Pilot. He's probably going to get really upset when he realizes that she was left behind.
I looked far behind us, through the clouds, wondering what Photoshop was doing right now.
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- Archbishop of Captania and sovereign territories
I was born in the year 1984, in the 4th most polluted city of Soviet Union.
On April 11/1997 fate has given me an unexpected twist and by means of aerial transportation I was dislocated 5555 miles across the Atlantic Ocean to Ontario, Canada, wherein I currently preside in an 1890 cathedral and partake in writing and drawing things.