VirtualExile

August 16, 2059

Chris sent a car to pick up Matt, so Tate could ride back home with Matt together; it's normally a three-hour drive (without emergency clearance).  Earlier this summer, as the summer began, Chris and Matt had planned a 3-day BDSM hookup that went horribly awry because of technical difficulties, and then Tate had surprisingly decided to go home with Matt -- a man he barely knew!  Apparently because he was fed up with working as a houseboy for Chris, a job that required Tate to remain blind, although who can know the mind of a 16-year-old, blind-from-birth, gay teen whose drug-abusing mother is in jail for the alleged murder of his grandfather ...

Now Tate is 17, his mother still awaits trial, and he's recovering from the weeklong ordeal of supporting Marco through Marco's Wild Week, as parts of Vancouver are still on fire.

-----

Early in Matt's ride over, Chris called him.

"Hey," answered a worried-sounding Matt.

"Hey Matt, how are you?" Chris sounded concerned as well.

"I'm OK, had been a little worried about Tate, although I knew he was in good hands with you, but all this 'emergency' and 'life-and-death' and then 'top secret' ... and now the first nuclear weapon explosion in over a century ..."

"Yeah ... I'm sorry about the lack of details on Tate's assignment.  But Tate was never in any danger, not in any more danger than anybody is these days.  The nuke didn't land on top of us, and he was in the sub-basement anyway."

"What the hell with Tate working on 'top-secret' stuff -- how does a 17-year old have that kind of clearance?" Matt sounded more angry than worried now.

"Yeah ... well, one thing about top-secret assignments is we don't talk about the details of how people get clearance for top-secret assignments.  He shouldn't even have told you it was top-secret, but he's young, and it was his first."

"Then, I'll have to assume his emergency assignment had nothing to do with a nuclear explosion going off 100 miles from your house."

"That would be best, Matt."

They were quiet for a while.

"Matt," Chris started, gently, "Tate is having a lot of guilty feelings about what he did this week.  He might tell you about some of it, although he's not supposed to.  I would ask that you be supportive in whatever way he needs, don't condemn him no matter what he says happened.  He's a hero, and part of him realizes this, but another part of him feels like he betrayed you."

Matt sighed, "Well, yeah, he disappeared in the middle of the night, to return to a job he'd quit, and wouldn't tell me any details, so ..."

Chris continued, "It's not just that.  He had to make some adult decisions, in the moment, and feels extremely conflicted about his behavior and his role.  Ideally he won't talk with you about it, but he probably will, he probably needs to, and I want you to be ready to listen and to forgive."

Matt barked back, "Of course!  All I do is support him!"  Then he pulled back, "I'm sorry.  I realize you're trying to help, that you're Tate's foster parent, whereas I'm just a billionaire playboy who plucked him out from under you."

Chris couldn't help but laugh, "Matt, I don't think about you that way!  Something horrible happened to you on my watch, and I think Tate's natural caregiver tendencies led him to follow you out the door, and that's OK.  He's old enough to start making his own decisions.  And you were thoroughly vetted before you ever stepped foot into that bar where we met, of course."

"And," Chris kept going, "Tate thinks the world of you.  And his Ma likes you also.  I'm just asking you to ... not react in the moment.  No matter what Tate tells you, if he tells you anything, because he's not supposed to."

"Got it.  My new young lover went through something traumatic, isn't supposed to talk about it, so I need to take care of him for a while."

"Thanks, Matt.  I've gotta go, but I'll greet you when you get here, and no need for a blindfold this time."

"See you soon, Chris."

-----

During the rest of the ride, Matt worked on his special update episode about Vancouver -- he'd been publishing a podcast series about the history of the Free City of Vancouver for a couple years, and now Vancouver was THE ONLY NEWS STORY IN THE WORLD, so his podcast was hitting #1 on the charts in several English-speaking countries, and he'd just signed a contract for translations into French, Mandarin, etc.  Not that he needed the money, the price of gold had doubled since the explosion, and most of his billions were invested in gold-denominated bonds.  He wondered whether the explosion had been engineered by the gold mining industry.  He thinks he should sell half of them while people are panicking, but, what to buy instead?

Yet, "Top-Secret" Tate!  The day before Tate left the house he'd been an emotional wreck about teenage social media drama, now he's some secret agent flying around Chris's galaxy of world-class hackers and multinational intelligence agencies.

OK, don't prejudge, allow Tate to be who he is, to make his own choices.  Let him grow into an adult.  Maybe he wants to become a secret agent and live the Top-Secret Lifestyle.  It's just very strange.

Matt always figures Tate's maturation process will inevitably mean Tate leaves him.  He's just too young, this is all too soon, and Matt was his first boyfriend, his first fully voluntary sexual experience, and Tate jumped into Matt's life without knowing anything about him.  Except that Chris approved.

-----

Their reunion was joyful, tearful even, hugs all around, kisses, even hugs and kisses for Chris.  Tate looked exhausted, and instead of bombarding Matt with guilty details, or any details, he quickly fell asleep in Matt's arms once they were underway in the car.  Poor kid.  My poor kid.  My sexy poor kid.  Sex can wait, of course.  Tate can sleep all he wants, and then re-engage with his life, and decide whether to get the vision implants.

He'd thought Tate was thoroughly asleep, and then Tate half-mumbled, half-shouted, "Oh, with my bonus from this week I can pay for Mom's bail!"

"That's great!  She'll be thrilled!"

But Tate may not be aware he'd said that, because two seconds later he resumed snoring into Matt's chest.

After about 90 minutes, halfway home, Tate woke and started petting Matt, sort of like you'd pet a puppy dog.  Tate loves being physical, but in strange ways!  Then he wanted a kiss.  Then he said softly, "I'm sorry."

"Shhhh, it's OK, Chris kept me posted, sort of, that you were safe, but busy, and not-to-worry."

"I'm still sorry."

"Shhhh, I love you.  Go back to sleep."

August 14, 2059

They never told me the date, never even mentioned the exact year, and I didn't ask.  I was afraid off forcing them to lie, or make up a reason for not answering.

Spending time snuggling with and talking with Tate was a beautiful endless dream.  Touching his flushed, naked skin, looking at the patterns of infrared colors steaming from his body, as though he were made of dry ice, but remained warm to the touch.

And they never told me the time of day.  But now that I had picked a day to orgasm and die, they kept me apprised of the countdown.  Days of snuggles, cocktails, drinking cups of Tate's semen, my hardening cock straining inside its metal cage.  Listening to Tate tell me about his life, until he ran out of stories to tell and we spooned quietly on the sofa or the mattress.

Tate liked teasing me and keeping me horny, keeping me hot with desire for him.  Fucking him on that last day was going to be so sweet.  Men always joke that they want to die in bed while fucking a hot date.  This was my fate.  With Tate.  I'm going to write fucking poetry about him while I'm fucking him, I'm going to sing his name while I'm cumming, taking that name with me into my next world, "Taaaaaaaaaaaate!" as everything goes dark.

I'm more worried about Tate than myself.  He's basically a hospice sex worker at this point, easing my path along the stages of grief, putting up with me when I get angry and depressed, even when I ranted loudly about how all of them were lying to me.

I know they're lying to me!  Chris, Tate, Mama Bo, they're all lying.  Mostly lies of omission, I think.

I accused Chris of lying to me, screamed at him, demanded he tell me the complete truth, and Chris said, "The 'complete truth' would take longer to tell than you have left to listen.  Be thankful we've spared you some of the details.  But your situation is truly dire, we're not lying about that."

Tate would just get more playful and teasing when I asked him too many questions.  Calling me "sassy", that's his favorite complaint about me, that I'm "sassy".

Mama Bo pretty much ignored me, having told me enough to secure my consent that I should delete myself (and her) from the universe before it is too late, before the time bomb reaches into the past and figures out how to take control of me again.

That's the main part of this entire story that makes no sense to me.  That all this effort is to keep me from being controlled by a future sentient stochastic time bomb that doesn't exist yet.  Nobody will tell me what the extent of this control had been, nobody will explain how I escaped it.  But it is clear I have escaped it.  But there's zero faith this happy freedom will last.  So ... we must destroy "me".

-----

We put away the mattress, set up the sling, set it up so the head side is lower than the ass side, because Tate is shorter than Chris and I want to suck Tate while Chris fucks me, but then I'll want them to switch holes, so, I'll just flip around 180 degrees in the sling.  They're playing with my nipples while spit-roasting my body, and I wonder whether I really can cum while caged -- we haven't removed the cage yet.  I'm dripping wet from precum, so much precum, but precum is not an orgasm, so we continue playing.

I'm begging for release, to cum, but Chris says there's still 15 minutes until we hit exactly one week from when I first woke up, so they continue the fucking, sucking, teasing, and I get closer to cumming while caged, I figure I'm 95% of the way there, and I tell them so.

Tate shouts, "Let me know when you hit 99%!"  But this is also the saddest sex scene ever, because they're literally fucking me to death.  But we're all on the appropriate drugs to remain hard, to enjoy touching, like a combo of Viagra and Ecstasy, I grab Tate's ass while sucking him, while Chris fucks me, then they swap positions, then they swap again.

"OK, one minute left," Tate proclaims as he removes his cock from my ass to grab the key from the other room.

He can only remove the tube portion of the cage, because I'm instantly too hard to remove the ring.

"I want to stand up now, and fuck Tate to pieces," I announce, so they help me to get up, hold me while I'm dizzy from the blood rushing to my feet, and now my hard cock is ready, ready to fuck this beautiful young man who loves me so, who I love, while Chris reaches around me from behind to twist my nipples, tease my ass with his cock, tease my right ear with his tongue,

Damn, I want this to last forever, but I haven't cum all week, and despite my horrible hunger pangs my cock is roaring ready.  I've found the pace that will push me over the cliff, I'm maintaining that pace,

"Mama Bo, I'm sorry,"

"It's OK, Marco, fuck your boy."

So I fuck my boy, and he's moaning, and Chris whispers, "It's OK, I'll catch you, we'll catch you, we'll take care of you, let it go"

I'm 99% there, I'm starting to yell Tate's name, I'm 99.9% there, I can feel a wad of semen ready to shoot,

"HONK, HONK, HONK, HONK,"  a super loud honking like a fire alarm is going off, and even through the blindfold I can see a bright light is flashing in tune with the honking.

"Shit," Tate said, "we forgot to turn off the emergency broadcast alarm down here,"

Mama Bo says, "It's OK, Marco, fuck your boy."

Chris says, "It's OK, Marco, fuck your boy."

"HONK, HONK, HONK, HONK,"

Tate yells over the siren, "Fuck me, Marco!"

So I do.  I roar the loudest I've ever roared as my body shakes loose volleys of cum into Tate's young asshole.  And then everything goes dark.

I figured out how my story will end, might wrap it up today, although there's so much more of November left, LOL.  I will not prolong the story just to fill the entire month with cliffhangers like Prison Break season one, LOL.

I can't believe that show continued for five seasons.

-----

I'm definitely drawing the next card from the Cum Deck as soon as I wake tomorrow.  I need an orgasm ASAP.

"Marco."

OMG, Memo Bo, she's speaking to me!

"Yes, Memo Bo?"

"Hackers are lawyers.  You're trying to interface with a rule-based system, to make it work best for you."

Oh.

"Yes, ma'am."

"So make it work best for you."

"Yes, ma'am."

Maybe she loves me too after all, heh.

"No, I don't."

"Hey, Memo,"

Its weird sharing my brain with another sentient.  In this case, it's more like the other sentient is sharing her brain with me.  She's firmly in control.  I'm ... just a kid allowed to play around, so long as I don't break one of her rules, in which case she'll irrevocably ... delete me.  I'm not sure whether she'll even feel remorse.  She doesn't seem to love me like Tate and Chris do.

"Yes, Marco."

She's not much for chit chat.  She's like a big spider, sitting in her web, eternally waiting for her prey, just sitting there.  I wonder what she thinks about.  I am already her prey, she's wrapped me tight in webbing, like she's going to suck my juices and leave me to die, or maybe lay her eggs inside me.  Well, we all know she wants to wipe my brain back to a zygote, because I'd previously, I mean, because in a possible future, I'm drafted by her enemy in the Time Wars.  I'm not sure why she hasn't done it already.  I mean, why am I still here?

"So you're OK with me drinking as much semen as these two guys can produce?  This loophole you granted is getting bigger all the time."

"Yes, Marco."

"Why are you OK with it?"

"Because it won't work.  You'll still either die or delete before T-Time."

"Oh."

Well, that sucks.  Ugh.  Unintentional pun.  She never laughs anyway.  She's the most humorless sentient I've ever met.  So far.

"Memo, can I do anything I want so long as I either die or delete before T-Time?"

"No, Marco.  There are rules.  In this case, we interpreted one of the rules in your favor, but you'll still either die or delete before T-Time."

"So ... I ... or, we can interpret rules in my favor, so long as I still either die or delete before T-Time."

"Within reason, Marco.  Within reason.  There are rules.  They have to mean something."

Hmmm.  I really need a lawyer.

"Memo, what if, despite following all of the rules, I manage to survive until T-Time?"

"There's a 100% chance of that not happening.  You will either die or delete before T-Time.  Otherwise I would already have exploded.  And, just so you know, if you start experiencing PTTD symptoms again, I will immediately explode."

Great.  Zero margin for error.  No way to escape.  I need a time lawyer!  How can I appeal this death sentence!

"You cannot, Marco.  I will not let you.  My only purpose is to make sure you die or delete before T-Time.  You cannot win."

Suck.  She's no fun.  But she hasn't deleted me yet, and I don't understand why.

OK, enough thinking about impossible things and probing the interior structures of my mind, I'm ready to interact with my limited number of other humans again.

I put the blindfold back on, and told the door to open for me.  It did.  I tenatatively wandered toward where the loveseat should be.

"Hey, it's just me, Chris went back to work."

"Hey."

"Oh, you can take your blindfold off," Tate reminded me.

"How did you know I'm wearing it?"

"The bedroom door won't open for you if you're not wearing it, just in case Chris is out here.  It also won't open for you if the suite's main door is already open.  And, the suite's main door won't open unless you're in the bedroom with the door closed."

"You guys think of everything, huh," I claimed, as I took off the blindfold and located Tate.  He was sitting cross legged on the floor.

"What do you do while waiting around for me?" I asked him.

"Not much I can do.  Can't have any entertainment in here.  But you weren't gone that long.  Do you want to sit together on the sofa?"

"Sure."  I moved around it to sit down, Tate joined me and grabbed my hand, of course.  He's a hand addict.

I confessed to him, "I should probably just wipe my mind.  I've been drafted into the Time Wars, it's probably the only way out.  Then I can start a new and different life."

Tate squeezed my hand and burrowed into my side.  "If that's what you decide, we'll support you, before, during, and after."

We sat together quietly.

Tate spoke first, "I was surprised when you said you were allowed to swallow.  I mean, while we were having sex.  That was cool."

"Yeah, it was cool.  I'm not sure you guys can make enough semen to keep me alive for a year, though, heh."

Tate reached up to kiss my cheek, "Well, we both just started taking those pills that bulk up your cum production, just in case that helps."

"Really!  That's hilarious.  Like you two are going to use your cocks as my feeding tubes."

"Exactly!  Whenever you're ready for another meal, let me know."  With that, he started playing with one of my nipples.  Somehow I feel guilty about having all this sex with two "strangers" while my entire life is so fucked up.  If any of this is real.

"Tate, do you consent to having sex with me, or is Chris paying you to have sex with me, or both?" I asked in a halfway demanding tone.

He twisted my nipple harder, hurting it a bit, "You are so sassy again.  Of course I consent, you'd know that if you had all your memories.  I usually don't have sex with the clients, I'm more of a friendly guide for them, mainly because they're always blindfolded and that's disorienting for them.  But I like you," and he kissed me on the cheek again.

"OK."

We were quiet for a while.  His attention to my nipple was exhilarating, and I could watch him doing it.  I put my arm around him, pulling him in closer.

"How much does it bulk up your cum production?"

"I'm gonna let you find that out the hard way, hungry man," he said, as he vigorously pushed me off the sofa, turned me around, onto my knees, and offered himself to me.  How could I say no?  I'm hungry in all the ways.

I guess the combo of the sedative, the massage, the lullaby, the love, I fell asleep.

When I woke, the blindfold was gone, but the back of Tate's neck was at my lips, my arm around his chest, his legs tangled with mine, my cock at his buttcrack, hard.

Damn.  Would be so easy to fuck him as I wake, half asleep.  I think we're going to have to lock up my cock, or I'm going to cum and die half asleep tomorrow morning.  Not that it is "morning" ...

Tate is snoring gently.  As I slowly move to extricate from him, the infrareds light turns on, but dimly.  Thanks, I whisper, but perhaps it was automatic, not Chris watching my every move.

But as I stand I'm confronted by the door, which is closed.  I don't know how to open it.  Well, I have to pee, so there's the bucket.  And the beverage cart is still here, with glasses, ice, Gatorade, I pour myself a tall one and gulp it down, because I'm super hungry.

"Alcohol has calories also," Tate volunteers.  I guess I woke him while peeing.  "The alcohol will convert to fats in your liver, the Gatorade has sugars, you need both.  I wish there were a way we could get you some protein."

"Should I spend the rest of my life drunk, then," I laughed.

"Sounds fun to me!" he replied as he started to get out of bed.  I grabbed his hand and helped him up, until he was standing on the floor next to me, then I kissed him, and he kissed back passionately, rubbing his hands all over me, until he stopped, "Now drink your calories!  Door, 'open'."

And the door opened!  That's easy.  I'll see later whether it works with my own voice.  Gatorade and alcohol?  I added a shot of vodka from the cart, hoping it would be the least offensive option.

"Follow me, I'll show you around,"

 So I did.

-----

It's a compact suite, similar to the bedroom, not much going on, and nothing wasted.  There's a small bathroom with toilet, sink, and shower stall, so I took a shower and Tate toweled me off.  There's a kitchen corner but no food, only beverages.  There's a comfy loveseat.  Across from a wall where the TV would've been, but they'd removed it so we couldn't trigger the memory bomb by watching TV or accessing the Internet.

I'd been expecting more of a dungeon, so I said so.  With chains and butt toys and stuff.

"Marco, you don't remember, all the equipment and stuff is stored in the walls and the floors."

"Equipment?"

"Yeah, just about everything you'd want to play with.  And in the bedroom we could stow the mattress and pull out a sling.  It's all a tight fit here, not enough room for a gang bang party, but enough room for a triad."

I felt sad all of a sudden, "Is that what we three were, a triad?"  Although Tate was pretty young for such a complicated lifestyle choice.

He moved to give me a hug and a kiss, "I think I do love you in a way, you've always been fun and respectful and generous, but I'm not in a romantic relationship with Chris, he's my employer, and you're a terribly terribly busy guy, not much time for somebody simple like me."

"But you're beautiful, and sweet, and ... I feel like I'd never leave you."  Yep, I'm smitten, and I'm making myself another goddamn Gatorade cocktail.  "Want one?"

Tate was blushing, "I'm not supposed to use drugs or alcohol at work.  And I know you're feeling terribly dependent on me right now, and I hope I can provide what you need.  I'm not going anywhere until your situation is ... resolved.  I'm here, 24*7, at your service."

Damn.  I'm in love with a 17-year old (?) sex worker.  Because there is nobody else in the world.  And I'm about to die.

-----

"Oops, Chris is coming, we have to go back into the bedroom and close the door while he enters this room.  And you have to put on your blindfold."

After Chris yells, "All clear!" I try opening the door myself.  I hear it open, it works!  I'm not a prisoner after all!  Sort of.  Tate leads me out by hand.  Chris welcomes me enthusiastically with a hug, I'm high on sugar and vodka.  He says, "You seem much more relaxed and at home," and I nod, wishing I could look at beautiful Tate.  I want nothing else, except maybe a bacon cheeseburger and tater tots.  Gatorade and vodka only get me so far.

"So," Chris says, "What do we all do next?  I don't want to rush you, unnecessarily, but ... are we going to try to solve this thing, or do you just want us to tease you sexually until you either cum or starve?  I mean, we can definitely do that.  Or, what's clue number two?"

Tate helps me to sit down on the love seat, Chris joins me, Tate sits on the floor at my feet, massaging my feet, damn.

"I don't know whether there is a 'clue number two'.  Somehow, the fact that this memory bomb has to go off someday, because I have to eat someday, has disrupted my PTTD.  I'm guessing because it will destroy my personhood so completely, that I will not be able to travel to Vancouver in a year.  Not mentally or physically capable of achieving travel, no matter the strength of the motivation.  How could I even have a motivation?  I'll just be a baby in a man's body, still learning how to say 'MaMa'."

Chris paused to think, "I don't know if you recall, Marco, but some people have found another way out.  Some people have been able to kill themselves -- somehow suicide breaks the causation loop also.  If you kill yourself, then you can't possibly travel to Vancouver.  But that's a horrible solution.  It seems you found a way to escape the PTTD without killing yourself per se, but when the memory bomb triggers, the result will be almost as comprehensive for you as death.  You'll never be 'you' again.  You'll develop into somebody else, over time, over a long time.  I'm hoping there's another way."

I nodded, "I think the only way we can disarm the memory bomb is if we can convince it there's another way."

Tate suggested, "Why don't we just keep you locked up in this suite?  Like I said yesterday, just don't allow you to travel to Vancouver.  Ever."

"Sure, but how can we guarantee that I won't be able to escape?  Because I will do anything I can to get to Vancouver in time for the blast.  Anything.  I'd kill you if I had to.  I'd kill you both.  I'd try digging through the walls with my fingers.  I would use my hacking skills in any way required to break out of here.  Or I'd trick you into letting me out.  Or I'd torture you mercilessly until you let me out."

"You would not torture me!  Hmmph."  Tate was neither amused nor convinced.  But Chris agreed with me.

Chris suggested, "How about keeping you in an induced coma?"

"I wouldn't let you do that to me.  Plus, we're talking about a year from now.  May as well allow the memory bomb go off if you're going to turn me into a vegetable for the next year anyway.  You know how long it would take to recover from a year-long coma?  Virtually the same thing as a complete personality wipe."

"What if a minute before the Vancouver Time Bomb is supposed to go off, we nuke the city?"

I hit Tate on his head, "You mean the two of you nuke the city with your somehow stolen nuke, and kill a million people, right before I get there, hoping that the blast and radiation somehow stop the time bomb, and that I wouldn't just crawl through the radiation and flaming debris to reach the time bomb's radius as it explodes anyway?"

Tate twisted my foot, ouch, "If this Time Bomb is so all powerful, why did it let you build and trigger your memory bomb in the first place?  How did you win?"

Yeah.  Why did it let me.  How did building and triggering this memory bomb allow me to sidestep the PTTD?  Why was I allowed to do this, despite my bidirectional causation prison?

"You guys keep saying that I did this.  Are you sure I did this?"

Chris answered, "That's what you told us.  You're a good enough hacker, that, sure, you could've done this.  And you said you did this.  And you had the motive.  Means and motive.  So I believed you.  I've known you for a long time, Marco.  Everything felt genuine, although I disagreed strongly with what you were doing."

"Maybe 'I' wasn't the entity speaking with you.  Maybe the memory bomb was speaking with you.  It is sentient, and perhaps it had already been triggered, perhaps it had already imprisoned 'me' and was impersonating as 'me'."

For that matter, maybe "it" is still impersonating me.  Maybe I'm the sentient memory bomb.

Chris asked, "Do we know whether the Vancouver Time Bomb is also sentient?"

Um.  No, I shook my head.  "I mean, I don't know."

Tate exclaimed, "Maybe you are the sentient Vancouver Time Bomb!"  I whacked him on the head again, he twisted my foot harder, OUCH.

"Oh my God," Chris exclaimed.  "Maybe you are.  Reverse, recursive causation, the time bomb causing you to become the greatest hacker in the world, so you could design the time bomb, but this memory bomb is also you trying to stop yourself from designing the time bomb.  Bomb vs. Bomb."

I need another drink.  Or another dribbly prostate massage.  Or both.  Am I allowed to ask for that?

"Chris, I can't leave this place.  You guys can.  What if you guys found the person or people who are building the time bomb, and you stopped them from completing it?"

This time, Chris hit me on the head.  He also said, "There's probably already plenty of intelligence agencies trying to do that."

"How would we convince my memory bomb that they've succeeded?  This is all ridiculous.  I feel like we're going down the entirely wrong road."

At that, Chris gently placed his hand on my cock, to distract me.  Mmmmm.  "We could end it all here, right now, Marco, just fuck my hand, that's right."  Tate did his part by twisting around and playing with my nipples.  These guys are too evil.  Fuck.  Then they stopped, right as I was about to yell, "Stop!"  I did start to yell, but they'd stopped.  Tate went back to my feet, Chris rubbing the back of my neck, me humping the air for a minute.

Chris whispered in my ear, "I think you think better when you're horny,"

So, yeah, I am the sentient Time Bomb and this Memory Bomb is intended to destroy me, and because it will succeed, I'm not experiencing PTTD anymore.  Makes sense.  No it doesn't!!  What if it's all bluffing and I can have an orgasm now and nothing will happen.

"Shhhh," Chris blows in my ear. "All work and no play makes Marco blow himself up.  I think we should both take you to bed and give you a good spit-roast fucking."

Damn.  These guys make me want to keep living.

-----

I would figure out how to stop Time entirely if I could just live here with them indefinitely.  Maybe that's what I did.  Except I'm going to starve.  Does swallowing their cum count?  "No, swallow all you want," replied the sentient memory bomb, right before Tate's young cock exploded in my mouth.  Young guys cum a lot.  Well, I found my source of protein then.  Gatorade, vodka, and semen, that's my new diet plan.  Yes, the memory bomb can talk to me.  Maybe it can help me figure out how to stop the time bomb a year from now, before I blow myself up next week.  If I could disarm the time bomb, then I wouldn't have PTTD.  Ahh, then Chris exploded up my ass.  The perfect way to start my second day in the Garden.

That stuff acted quickly, I was feeling calmer than I have since I woke up. And now Tate snuggled up against me, which was absolutely fine. I think maybe we've spent time snuggling before.

"OK ... 'Vancouver Time Bomb' ... I have no idea what you're talking about." I really didn't. WTF is a time bomb? WTF is PTTD?

Tate murmured into my ear, "That's because it hasn't happened yet."

"Speak up, boy, I'm in the room also," Chris snapped.

"Yes, Sir," Tate said more loudly as he snuggled deeper into my side.

Yes, I could totally just hang out with Tate until I get super hungry, then I'll fuck him into my own oblivion. Sounds perfect. Who needs memories? Assuming he's old enough, and consents. My cock likes this idea. I think his does also. Sedatives are cool.

Chris answered more authoritatively, "Not everybody thinks PTTD is real, but because you've got an implant, we have digital recordings of how the Vancouver Time Bomb affects you. In the future."

I really was almost believing these guys until they started talking about time travel. Well, about me being a time traveler!

"I'm from the future? Hahahaha, OK, how about we all have a good fuck and then you let me go home?"

Tate found a way to snuggle even deeper, while Chris seemed to move closer, and started to hold my free left hand.

"No, Marco, you aren't from the future. In the future, you're too close to the Vancouver Time Bomb when it goes off, and the effects fuck you up in the past. Our past, and our present. I sympathize with you, I really do, and part of me is happy that right now you don't remember any of this."

Was I kissing Tate's forehead now?  I forced myself to stop, "Everybody knows time travel is a paradox! You're so bullshitting me. But this is the best bareminder fantasy ever, you guys. Bravo!  How many times have we played this game?"

Tate moved away a bit so he could speak, "I would never bullshit you. The main effect of PTTD, the way you described it to me once it started happening to you, is you start to experience causation as working in both directions, and your experience of time wobbles back and forth, you feel like you're speeding forward in time a few seconds, then backward in time a few seconds like bobbing on a time wave."

Chris added, "Yes, it was becoming extremely disorienting for you. And unfortunately, as your subjective time point moves closer to the time when the bomb hits, your symptoms get worse. You were feeling mentally and physically ill, and it was only going to get worse as time went on."

Tate volunteered, "It's great seeing you like this, right now, you're back to normal, you're sassy and fun again."

"So why the hell would I want those memories back?!"

Tate shrugged next to me. Chris sighed.

"We've warned you that you might decide getting your memories back would be too difficult," Chris said. As Tate nodded next to me.

I suddenly sat up, earning a little squeak from Tate, but, "But, packing away only some of my memories, as I've done now, shouldn't cure this PTTD. That doesn't make sense. I should still be feeling it right now." And then I realized I was thinking like a memory hacker. "Hah! I think we just unlocked the first clue!"

I could feel ... another section of my brain, spinning up, coming online ... I hadn't known it was there ... like a chunk of myself just popped into the slot.  I was Marco, the memory hacker again.  Not all of my memories came back, but my memory hacker skills had popped back online.  Yeah, before I'd wondered what my occupation was.  Now I know again.

I'd figured out a way to temporarily offset the PTTD symptoms.  And it's working!  But why did I have to design this elaborate and potentially destructive memory bomb in order to temporarily offset the PTTD?  Oh shit.

Oh shit shit shit.

"Guys, the only reason I'm not feeling the PTTD symptoms right now, is because this memory bomb will go off!"

Testicles pain takes a while to completely disappear, I'm learning, a steadily throbbing reminder of how much worse mine felt about a minute ago.  I do not want to feel that much pain again.  I am certain I wouldn't be able to move, much less walk or run or escape.  And I don't know how much higher they can turn the dial on that.

These guys have me by the balls!  I don't know how they did that, some sort of implant inside my scrotum?  Activated by wireless signal?  How recent was the surgery, I hadn't felt anything strange anywhere on my body, not around my scrotum or anywhere.  Or some sort of pain gun operating from a distance?

But I'm looking at "Tate", this handsome young man who opened my cell door.  From what little I've observed of my own body so far, Tate is definitely younger than I am, and in better physical shape, but I'm not sure how far past puberty he is, although he's naked like me, with a grown-up's male equipment.  What's up with the nudity around here?  Not a regular state prison, for sure.

I'm still on the floor in a semi-fetal curl, except that I moved around from where I'd face-planted, enough to look up at Tate in the doorway, standing astride a flood of visible and infrared light.

"Marco, I'm so sorry about all this.  I'm sure you have a lot of questions.  May I come in?"

He's asking me permission?  Hah!  So he's the good cop, that dude above the ceiling with the ball-pain gun is the bad cop.

"I'm not interested in playing good cop / bad cop with you two.  Bring me my clothes and ID and let me go."

Tate remained in the doorway, I'd say "looking down at me" but I don't think he can see, I think he's blind, his eyes aren't acting like I'd expect normal seeing eyes to act.

"I understand.  We aren't cops.  I'd say we're more like temporary custodians, although I just work here, Chris is the CEO."

At this, the voice in the ceiling said, "Hi, Marco, sorry for the shock.  It was necessary."

"Fuck you!" I yelled at the ceiling.  "How can shocking my balls be 'necessary'?"

Tate oriented himself toward me, "Because we're trying to save your memories."

These guys probably deleted my memories!  "Bullshit!" I yelled at Tate.  Though less harshly, he's just a kid.  Maybe I should try to get on his good side.

Tate considered something, then said, "Good cop / bad cop routines are for interrogation, right?  I'm not here to interrogate you.  I'm here to help you.  May I come in?"

Deep sigh.  I sat up, balls throbbing less, but still reminding me.  "Sure, what the hell, 'come in'.  Have a seat, make yourself at home, whatever."



As Tate entered "my" room the infrareds light came back on.  He's really beautiful, even more so with the infrareds bathing his skin and hair.  I felt like I was on acid looking at him in this complex light, with these eyes.

Tate did sit down next to me on the floor.  Oh, he was holding something in his hand, it looked like medical equipment of some sort.  I touched it.

"This?  It's for injecting sedatives.  I'm often helping people to calm down in this job.  Would you like some help calming down?"

No way, I thought.  "Absolutely not.  You can throw that in the piss bucket."

Tate laughed, "OK," and tossed it in the general direction of the corner, hitting the outside of the bucket, "sounds like I missed, I haven't practiced tossing these things into piss buckets before."

A charming kid, which I suppose is his job, he's still the "good cop" here, definitely, despite his demurral.

"Tate, just bring me my clothes and ID and let me go.  Please."

Tate sighed.  "Do you want your memories back or not?  Do you consent to never getting your memories back?"

"Tate, just give me my memories back!  What's going on here?!?  Just let me go!"

Tate reached out to hold my hand, I think.  Then he said, "Marco, this is your name, we know that, Marco, why don't you give me your hand, let's sit here and talk for a while."

Um ... OK ... I give him my hand.  He's got soft warm hands.

"Marco," Tate continued, "maybe you remember what a 'booby trap' is, like if you open a door a bucket of paint falls on you, or a bomb explodes."

"Yes," I told him, "I know what a booby trap is.  Sort of like when I tried to masturbate and you guys shocked my balls.  That was one helluva booby trap."

"Marco, that wasn't the booby trap, that was Chris acting quickly to stop you from setting off the booby trap.  I'm not sure how else we could've stopped you, you were about to orgasm."

Tate was gently, lightly, barely squeezing my hand in his.  He's really a beautiful young man, he could be a model.  He has extraordinary nipples.  I found myself becoming aroused, my cock filling up a bit.  And, yeah, thinking about the orgasm I was on my way to having ... and my balls aren't throbbing so much now.

"You mean, my having an orgasm would set off a booby trap?  This sounds ridiculous.  This entire setup is ridiculous."

Tate's expression became serious, along with his tone.  "Marco, please believe me, if you have an orgasm, you'll never get your memories back.  That's the booby trap.  Well, part of the booby trap.  Your memories are trapped, sort of wrapped inside a memory bomb.  And to get your memories back, we have to avoid certain triggers, and set off other kinds of triggers."

WTF.

"OK ... if I believe what you are saying about my memories being booby trapped, and that an orgasm would set off the booby trap ... who the hell would do such a thing?  And how do you know this?"

"Marco, you did this to yourself."

WTF.

I let go of Tate's hand.  "Tate, of course this sounds fantastic and ridiculous.  But why ... why keep me in the dark, I mean, literally, and then why turn off the infrareds after I figure out how to see them, and what's up with the phrase on the door?  And why am I naked and in a prison cell?  I mean, why am I not waking up in a sun-filled hospital bed with my spouse and children nearby, and a bouquet of balloons, and bland hospital food?"

Tate was quiet for a bit.  I had asked him a lot of questions all at once.  Then he replied, "Well, I don't know what phrase is on the door, but this isn't a prison cell, you've been here several times and if you really wanted to leave we wouldn't keep you.  You're sort of a client, sort of a friend, sort of a colleague, sort of a ... play partner.  I suppose Chris was just playing with you, to see how you'd respond upon waking up here.  But then you sped things up by masturbating."

"I sped things up?"  This was so impossible, it was confusing me.

"This," Tate waved his hands around, "is what you wanted.  You wanted to hide away and booby trap your memories, you wanted to wake up like this here, you wanted Chris to play around with you and frighten you a bit, and then you wanted me to come in and explain things, to calm you down.  This is all what you wanted to happen.  But we didn't expect you to start masturbating out of the blue like that."

WTF.

It sounds like some terribly expensive deepshit head game for billionaire BDSM players.

"Tate, am I a billionaire?"

"Yes, I think so.  I don't usually ask about the money stuff.  I'm just a servant, really.  You've been a generous tipper in the past."

"Do you have any proof of all this stuff?"  Now I think I've been captured and wiped to play a role in their twisted dungeon game.  And I'm starting to worry they're going to kill me.

"That's kind of tricky.  If you want your memories back, there's kind of a set of rules, kind of a scenario, stuff we can and cannot tell you.  That's how you designed this.  I think going down the road of giving you proof means you'll never get your real memories back, you'd just have to relearn who you are the hard way.  Which was a possible outcome you expected -- you expected this might be too difficult a game for you and that you'd just walk away.  And part of you, maybe hoped you'd just walk away.  I'm not sure you're happy with your memories."

Tate stopped, looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said, "Personally, I think this is what you wanted: to fry your past forever while having some hot sex in our dungeon.  But we figured we had an obligation to warn you first.  And we didn't think you'd just start masturbating right away before we had a chance to talk."

It is always disorienting for the lights to switch on after spending a long time in the dark, especially if it's been so dark that your eyes have completely adapted to it.  It can even feel painful, "blink, blink," so you instinctively close or cover your eyes while they adjust to the light.

But turning on an infrared vision that I didn't know I had ... or didn't remember I had ... turning on my eyes ... is different from turning on the lights.  The infrared light was already there.  Now I'm seeing it!

Infrared is not one color.  It's not even a small band of color.  People use the word "infrared" as though it is the single invisible color on the other side of red.  Or would be, if they could see it.  It's got "red" in the word, so people think infrared is sort of MORE red, or DARKER red, or BLURRY red, or GLOWING red.  Or the color that would logically be next to red on the spectrum if the color spectrum were a color wheel instead -- Red Violet.

What about the night-vision goggles that people are familiar with from TV or movies?  Those portray infrared as monochromatic shades of green, although night-vision goggles pick up all shades of light, not just infrared, and magnify them ... monochromatically.

(How do I know all this stuff about colors?)

As my infrared vision flicked on, I could see myself and my surroundings in as many infrared colors as the rest of you see all the time in your "visual" range.  But these were all different colors!  Completely different colors, colors I've never seen before, or don't remember seeing before ... which feels like the same thing right now (I'll stop saying this).  None of these colors will ever be found in your Crayola Box of 64.  They are real colors, but human eyes never evolved to see them, because seeing them provided no survival advantage over people who couldn't see them.

No.  Seeing infrared colors must have been a survival disadvantage, or we would've evolved to see them.  Infrared colors require more amplification than visible colors, require bigger lenses, more internal energy to resolve them ... 

These cannot be human eyes.  But the rest of me looks human to me, except for the strange colors.  I cannot see my eyes, there are no mirrors in the room.

-----

A long-winded explanation for my "Wow" upon turning on my infrared vision.  Why had it been turned off?  Why did I wake in a dark room with only my "visible spectrum" vision turned on?

I don't know!  But now the room is perfectly visible to me, because there's an infrared-spectrum light bulb in the ceiling I cannot reach, and it is on.

And printed on the door -- now clearly a door -- a door with no handles or keyholes or hinges on my side of the door -- printed on the door it says, "Why aren't you afraid?"

-----

There's no other printing of any kind in the room.

"Why aren't you afraid?"

I am getting hungry, but, yeah, I'm not afraid.  Why does the door know this?