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Vincent raced out of the Marine Center, ignoring the questioning looks that followed him, with one thing on his mind. Save the world.

He scoffed at himself and what he was trying to do. Him. Vincent Hartman trying to save the world. How did this happen? Especially after everything he'd done. How did he get to this point? How did the world get to this point that the likes of him were required to save it?

Because of people like Devon and his cruelty. Because of people like the History group and their greed. There was no doubt in Vincent's mind that their research of the Atlantians had been sold making them a buttload of money.

Reaching his car, he fumbled with the key fob before unlocking the driver's door and dropping in the seat.

No, be honest with yourself for once. It wasn't just people like them. It was also people like me. People who's crime was merely curiousity, until it took us to a dark place.

Vincent lowered his head to his hands, letting his forehead lay against the steering wheel, as guilt ran through his soul. What am I? What have I done?

He felt a few beads of sweat roll off his face onto his fingers. It woke him to the fact that his face felt like an oven. Vincent raised his head and pulled the rearview mirror around to look at himself.

His eyes were glassy with fever, his face red. He had little time. It was time to move.

Vincent raced through the streets as quickly as he dared. He didn't want to risk being pulled over by the ever-diligent Seaside Police Squad.

Arriving at Nick's condo, Vincent blew a sigh of relief at the sight of his brother's car in its spot. He parked and ran to Nick's front door, pounding on it. When he heard nothing, he thumped on it again. Finally, he heard his brother's faint voice. 

"I'm coming," Nick said, "I'm coming. Geez, hang on a minute."

Vincent almost gasped when his brother opened the door. Tears welled in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He put one hand on the siding of the house and leaned there. His breath had suddenly left him.

"Vincent?" Nick's face was all concern as his eye roved Vincent's mask-covered face. "What is wrong? Are you sick? You look sick."

When Nick opened the door wider and stepped out of the house, Vincent took a couple of skips backward. "No! Don't get too close to me. I'm infected with—with something. I—I've done something horrible, and I need your help. Brother, please help me."

Nick walked back into the house and held open the door. Vincent pulled another mask out of his pocket and wrapped it over the one he already wore. He grabbed the door and shooed Nick across the hall and into the living room.

Vincent sank into the first chair he saw. A lounger. He chuckled sadly, this was the chair he always sat in. He remembered all the good times, good conversations he'd had with Nick from this chair. It was fitting that he sit in it one last time as he confesed his sins to his brother—as he died.

Nick stared at him from across the room. His dark eyes boring holes into Vincent's. "What is happening, Vincent?"

"Brother, I need your help. The world needs your help."

"What are you talking about?"

"Time travel. Is it possible yet?"

Nick shook his head. "You know I can't talk about my work."

Vincent started the game they often played about their classified jobs as he stared out the window at the ocean. "If you could talk about it, and if we were talking about—oh, I don't know—blowing up a beach ball, would you say it is already full of air?"

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