The Belle of the Ball

How the species has made it far enough to come up with time-travel tech, much less commercialize it, is the biggest mystery of all to Gray. Gray reaches across with the pad of his index finger, presses down on the twine until the machete’s ready for the next unwitting client. “Hey, fools!” a person with an ant head says, suddenly beside the table. “Timoth,” the guy says, unimpressed with the holo-mask. Well, either that or this him from the future of this past successfully avoided getting seen. He rolls over, faces the wall, the window, remembers lying here so many nights, growing up, impatient for his life to finally start, ready to escape this prison, and when his index finger, up by his face, starts keeping time with the drum, he smiles to be part of this with them.