Scott leaves the apartment. His chest is on fire, and he can barely feel his hands. In an instant, his legs can no longer support his body, and before he realizes it, his knees hit the old marbled floor. Finally alone, he covers his eyes with his hands and looks like he might cry.
He then realizes that he isn’t alone.
Standing by the foot of the uneven staircase leading up to the rooftop, is his own reflection, only older. Much older. The old man wears something akin to what a futuristic priest might make use of. A dark robe made out of leather, and decorated with metal symbols along the waist and white collar.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” says the old man, in a voice sharpened, then dulled by time again and again many times over.
Still on his knees, Scott attempts to scramble to his feet and fails.
“What, no…” he begins, to which the old man responds with less patience than one might expect from a man of the cloth.
“Listen to me,” he says. “You can still go back in there.”
Scott swallows hard. The taste is foul.
“No,” he says.
The old man watches the younger man in silence for a moment. Then, almost grudgingly, he pulls aside a portion of his clothing to reveal a small scar on his side. The skin is wrinkled and pale, and the scar tissue has almost faded into a silver memory that will never be erased.
Scott allows some tears to come, as he moves his hand to his own side. Blood pools through his t-shirt.
“You can feel it now, can’t you?” says the old man. “Go back inside, and get some help.”
“You know I can’t,” says Scott.
The old man allows his robes to fall back into place, then paces towards the stairs leading to the higher floors.
“Then, you’re going to lose consciousness in a few minutes, and bleed your life away all over this… very nice floor,” he says.
“I’m staying out here.”
The world has begun to lose focus for Scott. Every sound is shrouded by echoes.
The old man in turn, lets out a long sigh.
“Then, I’m sorry I won’t meet you sooner.”
Scott drags himself back against the dingy mustard colored wall behind him. The world is spinning. Blood spills from him, dripping slowly through his white shirt, and down onto his white sneakers.
“You’re here,” he says. “ That’s what matters, isn’t it?”
The old man’s grizzled countenance softens. He sighs once more, as his hands shake.
“How much do you want to know?” he says. “We only have a few minutes, at most.”
Scott allows a few precious seconds to pass in silence, then listens as his own breaths become louder and heavier.
“Are you a good man?” he says plainly.
The old man nods in acknowledgment. The question is an expected one. He steadies himself, then inserts one hand into a pocket in his robes. When it emerges, it is wrapped around a badge made out of a light metal material. It is not new, but it is well cleaned and oiled. In clear embossed letters, it reads: “Senior Temporal Clergy Officer.”
“About four decades from now, we’ll find a way to travel across time, and ease as much pain as we can,” says the old man.
Scott’s eyes well up, as the pool of blood around him grows. The old man puts the badge away, fighting his own tears.
“I can’t save you,” he says. “But I took up the cloth, just so that some day, I could come here, and say thank you.”
His hand shakes as he places it over his side.
“They say that my kidney will save you,” says Scott.
“It did.”
“They have to save you.”
Scott’s eyes close, and the world becomes darker, and quieter.
Inside the apartment, rings the wail of a newborn child.
The old man once again reaches into his robes, and produces a clear bottle filled with shimmery water. He dips his fingers in the water, then blesses Scott’s forehead.
After a moment, Scott’s body glows, then falls limp.
The hallway is filled with a peaceful kind of silence, only for a moment, undisturbed by the sounds inside.
The Old man wipes his tears away, then limps up the stairs and disappears in a flash of light.