. . .a hundred thousand times over.

I can't remember what my mother's name is. I can't remember if my first love was blond or brunet. I can't remember the name of eight months out of twelve. No, thirteen? It must be thirteen, right?

What I can remember?

Waking up. Being the last to do so. Seeing the empty space beside me that means Liandale's already up. The rings under my eyes getting darker, and darker, and darker. Watching more and more hair come out in the bristles when I comb it. Eating the exact same breakfast every morning.

And witnessing my entire team slaughtered, right before I die too.

When my eyes open again, I stare at the ceiling for a long time before getting up.

I skip brushing my hair. I skip getting dressed. I've put on the same outfit more times than any person should, goddammit, I've earned the right to pajamas.

When I join the rest of them in the hall, they look at me. Harra's about to speak up.

"Damn, Gaudriel, you look like shit." I beat him to the punch. Then, before Alair can speak up-- "Hey, Dentur, pass the salt."

The whole table falls silent and turns their full attention to me.

"Ninety-seven thousand, eight hundred twenty-six."

I answer before any of them has the chance to ask. Then, just for the sake of covering my bases-- "It'll rain until four thirty-two and seventeen seconds past. The power's gonna go out at two eighteen and forty-seven seconds past. Dentur's finally gonna confess to Alair, right before he gets stabbed in the lungs--yes, both lungs--and dies within five minutes. Liandale dies protecting Harra. Harra dies of overdraw. Alair shoots herself. And I get thrown off a cliff."

I look at their horrified expressions and helplessly ask, "Hey guys, how many months are in a year?"

Harra gets up and walks over to me. He takes me by the shoulders and steers me to the table. "There are twelve months in a year, Gaudriel."

"Oh. Oh, okay." I stare at the breakfast I've eaten until it's the only thing I remember the taste of. "And--their names?"

Harra sits opposite. He reaches over and takes my hands. "January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, and December. Gaudriel, how many timelines end in all of our deaths?"

I look up, meet his gaze, and I see myself in the reflections. I look insane. I'm actually losing my mind.

"All of them."

More silence. And why not? In. . .in however long we've worked together, nothing like this has happened. At least, I don't think it has. Tricky situations, sure, timelines I had to unravel like tangled thread to find an outcome where we all pulled through.

There's no thread here. There's tar, and we're stuck in it, and we'll die in it.

And I'll never get to leave this hell.

I didn't think death loops were even possible.

Liandale opens his mouth. Shuts it. Settles on his words at last. "Not all of them. That's impossible. Even if there's only a single differing timeline, there has to be a route that lets at least one of us escape."

"Is that any better?" Alair's voice is hollow. "Watch all your friends die and leave as the sole survivor? Live with the trauma forever, until you die or go insane?"

"Can't we just--" Dentur starts.

"We can't ditch the mission." I break in before he can waste more time. "The loop starts too late. By the time we leave, they catch and kill us all."

"Even--"

"Even with Harra's defensive spells, yes, even if Harra became a god it wouldn't matter because we fucking die."

Silence. Again. Longer this time.

Liandale gets up, breaking it at last. "Not on my watch."