"Mark, get out of bed, school starts in ten minutes" yelled his grandfather from down the stairs. Waking bleary eyed, Mark Taylor swung a limp arm into his broken alarm clock, which he broke by falling on it the night before.
"Shit!" he yelled as he grabbed some trousers from the filthy bedroom floor and pulled on his shirt, skipping breakfast he swung down the stairs and landed awkwardly on his wounded ankle, he and the cars never got along well, and pulled on his boots and took his heavy shoulder bag from the banister and put it in the bag on his bikes panniers, he had his granddads old bike. Leaving his jacket behind he rode out to the school, the snow and ice heavy on the ground.
He barely made it into the school gates before the computers closed them up for the day, he hated the system, and if something happened they would be trapped. Just as he swung the bike round towards the lockers he hit a patch of strong ice and the bike collapsed underneath him.
"Nice one nark, next time, try not to grind your face for me" drawled Ben, he had been on Marks case since he started at the school. He carried on laughing and threw a snowball at him, hitting mark in the nose and he felt hot blood trickle down his face. There was a lump of brick inside.
Mark just ignored it, he was used to it, and he didn't tell anybody either, he was too afraid too. So he just put his headphones in and listened to and ancient looking CD walkman in his bag. First lesson was business studies.
Mark Taylor is a teenage boy, plain and simple. He had bog standard brown hair, deep blue eyes and pale skin which always had a few spots, other than the spots and pale complexion he wasn't that bad looking, however he was the butt of every girls spiteful jokes. He went to Harland academy, which didn't have a uniform, so he wore black cargo trousers and a thin white t-shirt, plain and simple. He was a rocker and wore heavy duty boots and loved his rock music, although he was hopeless at writing or playing any. He was the school reject, no real reason, he was just different, so he ran and he hid from everyone in the school, ever since his first day. He knew he was a coward.
When he walked into business he saw the title on the smart-board, more computerisation, he hated it. He got on with the lesson ignoring the people poking fun at him, the teacher ignoring them as well, and got the work done. As soon as the lesson started it was finished.
The bell sounded and he walked off across campus to the school library, exchanging meaningless greetings with the librarians and sat in his usual corner and pulled out his journal. An old looking leather book with torn and burnt pages filled with scraps of paper and drawings and photos, a full directory of his life since he started his second day in Harland academy. He went to the day marked with that days date and began to write and draw, he always wrote in runes so nobody but him could read his deepest thoughts, he invented a code as well in case anybody hacked it, short of a tin-foil hat he was very paranoid. Mark put his headphones on and changed the CD in his walk-man; he wired it up to a huge retro looking battery pack he found so the battery lasted weeks on end. Then something strange happened.
There was a flash of blue light. The air was colder and mark could smell burning "Burning must come from fire, yet cold air and blue light" he muttered to himself, he got up and put his things into his bag. Looking around he saw that a shelf nearby seemed out of place, the wood was older than the rest of the book case, it was darker. The books were the same, a few new ones, and the others were older as well, and the pages were flaking and a sickly yellow. It puzzled him for a moment and he decided it was nothing; he was more concerned with his next lesson than the age of library books. He wrote it down and made a foot-note 'note to self, check library shelf 734816'
His lesson was physical education, with the athletes of the school, mark wasn't strong or skilled, he couldn't even throw a javelin properly, let alone play football, but he was fast so they lined him up with the best. As usual the best-players were also the worst-people.
When he arrived he discovered his locker was untouched, a good sign. He got into his swimming shorts and sat aside until the teacher decided he was going to tell everyone to swim laps, as he did every lesson. And so they did. As he stood at the end of the line to get into the pool, Ben yelled out and Marks heart sank faster than he was about too.
"Oi! Nark!" the bully bellowed as he shoved Mark into the wall hard, setting his nose bleeding again. "What you gonna do if I decided to throw you in the deep end all tied up then huh?" he taunted. At this everyone gathered around, the teacher did nothing and the others sensed something more entertaining than swimming laps in freezing water.
"Just go away; what did I ever do to you?" Mark groaned desperately, he was tired and fed up and bleeding, not in any mood to put up with the current situation. Mark moved towards the edge of the pool just as Ben made his move, missing his target Ben fell into the deep end of the pool in attempt to barge Mark, told you he was fast, everyone was laughing at him.
Then the teacher blew his whistle and yelled to get swimming or suffer the consequences. So everybody got in and began there laps, Mark was last in as usual. Predictably Ben decided to get revenge after his first lap, grabbing Marks ankle and twisting it round painfully he dragged him under the deep end just as Mark gasped in pain. The teacher had to react to that and he did by running to the pool-side and blowing his whistle furiously, uselessly. Finally, just before Mark gave out, he was released and the teacher began yelling at Ben about safety and ordered him out of the pool. No real consequences.
The lesson continued and Marks cuts and bruises were soothed by the cold chlorinated water. As he swam he concentrated on every breath and every stroke, fuelling himself with his anger, and while he could he began to cry, nobody noticed so he didn't bother stopping. The school day ended without further incident and he crossed campus from his last lesson back to the library.
As the sun began to set in the mid winter evening, only being half past three, he arrived to find the usual empty library where he sat and studied in peace. Then he read the note he left himself, he went over to the shelf and inspected it. "hello there" he muttered curiously as he picked up a book he had recently read, it was brand new when he read it, which was only a week ago. The pages were a crippled parchment yellow. "Impossible" he said in amazement. Then he lent onto the shelf itself, it snapped underneath his weight, and from a hidden compartment fell an old leather book with swollen, crimson edged pages, as he picked it up he noticed the leather was stiff and cracked from age, and there was a scar on the cover. The title was written in the runic cipher he himself had created. It was his journal.
Mark dropped the journal as soon as he realised what it was. The library was deserted and suddenly, Mark knew it.
"Mark Taylor! I've been looking for you." Echoed a deep voice, bouncing around the walls yet no mouth to utter them. Mark looked around in sheer terror, this wasn't normal. He turned around to the shelf and looked at it again, completely unintentionally, and he noticed something new.
By this time it was dark outside, and there was a crack of light, almost like a three dimensional scar, hanging there ever so faintly, and radiating light from what seemed to be the same place that the voice came from.
"Sorry mate!, I'm not sticking around for long" Came another voice, now mark was truly scared, the voice was his own. Then there was a slight cracking sound and the flash disappeared, simply vanished from existence. Mark decided that he was loosing his mind, but then he remembered the journal, if it was real so was what he just saw, so he grabbed it from the ground and shoved it into his bag and ran out of the library to the bike lockers and he cycled straight home and ran up to his room, his granddad was out so he was alone.
The room was a mess, but Mark knew where everything was, flicking a switch he turned on his laptop and did some research on two things, light-scars and time travel. The journal was definitely his but it was finished, future dates already filled. It scared him even more. He read the days entry, the date was exactly the same as the one he has seen that morning before the flash, it spoke of the light-scar and of an old journal that turned out to be his own, the whole day was there to the point where Mark read through the rest of the week and the next in the diary and he realised something incredibly important, he no longer needed to write out his days, it was already there. After contemplating this he thought, what if that's what the previous Mark had thought? The Mark who had it before him, the book could have lived longer than the earth itself and been through billions of time loops, from Mark to Mark.
It also said in the journal that Mark had a power, he could teleport. Or at least step from one point of space to another, apparently other people could do other stuff as well. And there were also the suits, an organisation bent on tracking down people with powers, and killing them, then freezing their corpses and filing them away like spreadsheets in a cabinet.
The entry mentioning his first teleport was dated on the last day of the winter term, two weeks from the day of change, that's what he called it, the day of change. And he would prepare for the trip because he knew exactly where he was going to go, after all, he had already written it.
Mark put the journal in his bed side table-drawer and went onto MSN, and spoke to his MSN-friends, basically a girl he had met in a chat room a couple years ago. He told her everything.
"I haven't read beyond the first teleport, I'm too scared too" he spoke into the web-cam microphone.
Gwen said nothing; she was sceptical about it all. "Hang on then, have you read the next weeks worth?" she asked trivially, knowing the answer.
"Yes, apparently I'm going to sell nearly everything I own. And my first teleport will take me to someone I know but I haven't met before." He said puzzled.
"What, you wrote in riddles to stop making life so boring after reading?" she smirked, she loved to have the upper hand in there battle of wit.
"Well, am I the sort of person who would do that? Besides, there's also a receipt here for a few things from three shops, an old charity shop, a Goth-superstore type place, and an army surplus shop" he explained rather sarcastically as he showed the camera the receipt. "So you're buying an old leather trench-coat to replace your biker jacket, which makes sense. And you bought a gothic sword? You Saddo! And you're going to get some supplies and camping equipment from the army, But what did you buy a slab of slate for?" she went through with an arrogant air. "I guessed that, but look closer, look at the dates and times, its all from five days from now. This proves it right, some how my future self jumped the journal back in time" he explained with energy hanging from every syllable.
Four days later, Mark had spent all of his time selling his possessions, and he had told his granddad not to go to work on the thirteenth of November. He was planning his trip, his plan was to go into a forest he once camped in, there was a cave complex underground there, it had been blocked off in the 1800s because it was on private grounds, since then the caves had been forgotten, Mark kept reading the same section of the journal over and over again, it was all there, every last detail.
He got all of the camping equipment together, a lightweight storm tent, a bottle of methane camping fuel and a camping stove, which is basically pots pans and plates that all fit into each other and a metal fire that uses methane, and finally a hiking GPS. Mark had to wait for precisely 6:32 when a very drunk old man began his shift at the army camping shop, just before he got fired for being drunk he managed to sell the GPS to Mark, the logic behind that being that if anyone ever wanted to find him, the old man wouldn't be able to remember a thing, and he was too drunk to fill out the paper work on the sale.
Finally, mark packed up his biggest buy, a £200 gothic style sword, nearly too heavy for him to wield, Mark took one look at it and thought it was extremely over priced. The blade was straight and blunt until you reached the tip, where it tapered to a point, the hilt had a large round pommel (weight at the bottom) and the hand guard was just a straight piece of metal with sharp points like fangs pointing up from the end, a nasty surprise for anyone who tried to snatch it.
He was dubious of the buy, but then as he checked the journal to be sure it wasn't a smaller one, he saw a sticky note attached to the receipt, that wasn't there before, mark was certain of it, but it read "buy the heavy sword, it has a rubber grip under the leather one, the suits use modified cattle prods to reduce damage to potential test corpses, and stop you from concentrating, you have to concentrate on the destination to teleport, the rubber will let you fight against them." As he read the note, the shop keeper tried to edge his head over Marks shoulder.
"You know, if you want to make a sale, I suggest you don't look over my shoulder." Mark said with an irritable tone that the shop keeper soon listened to.
Mark had done everything that was written in the journal, to the letter, and so he woke up on the final day, the last day of school for the winter term.
He packed everything up into a large rucksack he bought from the army shop, it held spare cargo trousers, first aid supplies, a large tank of water, and sewing supplies, the journal assured him it would help him when he bought them. He then pulled on his very heavy, very thick leather trench coat and briefly thought what he would look like so he put a hoodie on underneath the coat and adjusted the leather fittings to fit better, even though it was a charity shop buy it was in perfect condition and fitted him well.
The only colour he wore was the swords brown leather scabbard and his deep blue eyes; the trench coat was nearly the same brown as the swords scabbard.
As he left the house for his final day of school, his grandfather stopped him at the door. "That's a nice coat, where do you think your going with all that equipment?" Mark very swiftly hid the sword between his back and bag under the coat to hide it from the old man. "Don't worry; it's the last day of the winter term and a friend of mine is going camping, so I'm lending him some of my stuff, as for the coat, its really cold out there." Luckily Mark's point was well proven when he opened the door to the first blizzard to hit his home since the day he was born. "See you when I make it home granddad" he waved as he strolled through the snow, with a marginally straighter back.
"That was close" he said to himself. And he walked down the road, following his cycle route to the school, the snow wasn't safe for him to cycle on, but it would hold up to boot treads.
As he got closer to the school he had a sudden brainwave, what the hell was he doing taking a sword to school when he was about to disappear from existence? So he strapped the scabbard to the back of the trench coat and put his bag back on and buckled everything together solidly, nothing rattling or getting in the way he headed for the assembly, nice big sports hall, "Time to get my own back on Ben" he mused
As he walked into the big assembly he got a fair few looks from people, but he stood at the back, he was late and would deal with standing, and he stood through the next hour of people doing demonstrations and bands singing, all of that crap, and then he made his move.
"BEN HARVY" he yelled out, and he kicked away from the wall and stood straight, everyone in the room now looking at him, even the staff were slightly curious.
"Make your way to the stage Ben Harvey, we have a small demonstration of our own to make" he said, strolling down the rows of people toward the stage, he walked up the steps to be marched upon by the headmistress.
"Take your seat immediately Mark!" she squawked. Instead he decided to dump his bag in the corner of the stage, he had his back to everyone, but now they could see the sword people were deafly quiet.
"I shall not, and I want Ben Harvey up on this stage with me right now!" he yelled as he slowly drew the sword from its scabbard, over the previous night he had used the slab of slate to sharpen the blade to near razor sharpness, he also used the corner of the slate to etch his name on the blade in his runic-cipher. That's when Ben revealed himself, when he stood and tried to from the room. The thing that happened next gave Mark such a boost of confidence he would never forget it. He stepped forward, but his step landed him in the doorway Ben was headed for. A scar of light sealed behind him, but the cracks in the stage and the ground beneath him remained, temporal displacement was always damaging to stationary objects his journal said.
"going somewhere?" he asked with a smile, then he ran at Ben, drew the sword and just before he ran the blade through the boys face he stepped through another crack and stopped behind him, the tip just barely touching the boys neck.
"If I ever see you again, I wont bend time and space to miss you, I will just keep running, and your blood will follow." Mark menaced into the boys quivering ear.
He then stepped back and found himself on the stage, where he picked up his bag and sheathed his sword. Then he walked up to the microphone and his bellow boomed through the speakers loud enough to shake the windows.
"I will never be seen by any of you again, and this has made me want to do one thing" he said, then he stepped back, and jumped into the air, he then landed himself in the very center of the room and slashed a single solitary rune into the wooden ground of the room. His insignia he decided.
He then jumped up into the air, saluted, and just before he landed he opened another light scar and fell through the ground.
Mark Taylor never returned to his normal life.
Please don't copy, its not fair, plus it will get you a bullet wound