The lock clicked behind him, and Noah stepped into the familiar quiet of his apartment — exposed brick, succulents on windowsills, shelves lined with queer theory, zines, and Polaroids from protest marches and pride parades. He tossed his denim jacket on the back of a chair, kicked off his boots, and sank into the couch.
The glow of the city outside cast slow-moving shadows on the wall. He rubbed his eyes. His head was buzzing — not with regret, not quite — but with restlessness.
James.
Noah closed his eyes and let his mind drift back.
Two Years Ago – Binder Bros, Hiring Day
Noah had just finished reorganizing the packing table when James walked in, résumé crisp, posture straight, eyes filled with that brand of friendly ignorance that too many cis people brought to queer spaces.
Noah almost dismissed him outright. The name "James Sullivan" on a résumé didn’t exactly scream “deep cultural understanding.” His experience was corporate — Abercrombie, REI, and six months at a protein supplement start-up.
But he spoke well. Was respectful. Enthusiastic. He even said, “I know I’m not from the community, but I want to learn, and I want to help.”
Noah had offered him a trial shift, mostly because the other applicant that week had openly asked if “they/them” was a typo.
At first, James had fumbled pronouns, over-suggested, and once asked a young customer if she was shopping for a boyfriend. But he also listened when corrected. Took notes. Read the books Noah left near the register.
He cared. That much had been clear.
But caring wasn’t the same as knowing. As feeling.
Present – Noah’s Apartment
Now, that memory was blurry, like it belonged to a slightly different version of reality. Maybe because it did. The Chronivac didn’t just alter James — it bent the context, left subtle ripples in Noah’s memory, like water disturbed under moonlight.
He remembered hiring James. Still earnest. Still wide-eyed. But now... he also recalled James mentioning his first binder. How he’d cried after his first “sir.” How he took the job because he “wanted to help younger guys avoid the pain he’d carried.”
The two memories overlapped. One was real. The other was... implanted? Constructed?
Or maybe, Noah thought, curling deeper into the couch, both were real now. Both coexisted. One was the past. The other was what should have been — or what had to be, if Binder Bros was going to grow without losing its soul.
He looked over at the emitter resting in his bag, its small power light blinking, waiting.
Power like that — to revise the texture of a person’s past — wasn’t just technological.
It was divine.
Noah bit his lip, uneasy. “Did I do that for James… or for the store?”
He didn't have an answer yet. Only this growing sense that the Chronivac wasn’t done with him.
Not by a long shot.