The morning light gilded the steel cables of the Bay Bridge with a quantum gold foil, and strange speckles flickered within the rust of pier number 722. Veronica leaned against me, her pulse syncing with the tides; each heartbeat caused flakes of rust to peel from the surface of the pier, revealing freshly cast metal beneath.
"The coordinates are embedded in the molecular structure," I traced my fingertips along the cracks of the pier, nanobots seeping out of my skin, "we need quantum-level acid etching."
Veronica suddenly grabbed my wrist, her pupils splitting into double rings in the morning light: "Wait, the oxidation cycle of this metal is wrong." She scooped up some rust powder and tasted it—a gesture that awakened a dark memory from my seventh loop, where she had similarly tested for neurotoxins in coffee.
"It's reverse rusting," she spat out fluorescent blue saliva, "someone is corroding the pier by reversing time."
As if confirming her judgment, the pier suddenly exuded a nacreous glow. The metal "grew" in defiance of physical laws, the rust retracting into cracks like a reversed video. When the repair completed, a massive VK-∞ symbol emerged on the pier's surface, accompanied by riveted warnings: "Welcome home, children."
Veronica's nape suddenly heated up. She tore open the synthetic skin, revealing a quantum interface beneath—now resonating with an ear-piercing hum. I forcibly severed her neural link, only to find fluorescent blue liquid seeping from my own temples.
"It's Father's new protocol," I dragged her three meters away from the pier, a distance just enough to stop the resonance, "he's written our biological keys into the foundational layer of spacetime."
The waves suddenly froze unnaturally, suspended droplets forming a holographic projection. The six-year-old version of myself appeared again, this time wearing a miniature diving suit, holding a bleeding shell.
"Daddy says it's time to play hide-and-seek," he pried open the shell, revealing a throbbing mechanical heart inside, "this round, it's your turn to be 'it.'"
Veronica suddenly lunged, her mechanical limb piercing the projection, only to shatter the droplets. The frozen waves crashed down violently, pulling us into a quantum vortex beneath the sea. As we sank, I saw countless metallic veins extending from the base of the pier, pumping seawater into a glowing cavity.
"Hold tight!" Veronica tore open her abdominal storage compartment, retrieving a micro oxygen capsule. As we swallowed the capsules, the pressure of the seawater vanished—Father had altered fluid dynamics, turning the Pacific Ocean into a breathable gel-like spacetime.
The glowing cavity at the base of the pier was now within reach—it was a giant egg encased in time amber. Inside the amber were frozen scenes of seven hundred twenty weddings, each miniature church trapping our quantum projections. At the core of the egg, my mother's hologram was giving birth, the umbilical cord connecting to every timeline.
"The core of the recursive anchor," I touched the amber's surface, its icy sensation piercing my nerves, "Father has written himself as our origin."
Veronica suddenly thrust her mechanical limb into the amber, fluorescent blue recursive code spreading like veins: "Then let's create a new origin."
The time amber began to resonate—all trapped quantum projections turned their heads toward us simultaneously. As the first projection's hand pierced through the amber, the entire seabed began to quantumize. The gel-like seawater boiled into data foam, and the pier's metallic veins burst into nano-dandelions.
The six-year-old version of myself reassembled amidst the foam, his diving suit now transformed into a groom's tuxedo: "Now commencing the 721.5th wedding ceremony."
Veronica abruptly redirected her mechanical limb into her own chest, yanking out a quantum core pulsing with my mother's frequency: "Catch this! Catalyze it with caffeine!"
I pressed the core against the amber, and coffee bean patterns immediately surfaced on the eggshell. Seven hundred twenty virtual cups of coffee poured out simultaneously, the brown liquid etching an escape route in the quantum space. As the first trapped "me" crawled out of the amber, his wedding ring melted into a key.
"Go!" Veronica shoved me toward the passage, "Go back and modify what happened on your sixth birthday..."
The six-year-old groom tore open his tuxedo, mechanical tendrils extending from his chest: "You can't escape your own origin story!"
The time amber exploded with a roar, Mother's birthing hologram stained crimson. In the final moments of escape, I saw Veronica willingly merge with the amber, her mechanical limbs annihilating Father's recursive codes. As the passage sealed behind me, all I held in my hand was a broken segment of her mechanical finger.
The vertigo of quantum leap lasted exactly twenty-two seconds—the exact age I am now. When my vision cleared, I knelt in the kitchen of my childhood home, gripping the cake knife from my sixth birthday. My mother stood by the fridge pouring milk, her pregnant belly slightly rounded.
"Alan?" She turned, her gentle confusion evident, "Why are you holding the knife so tightly?"
I glanced at the digital clock on the wall: June 12, 2043, 9:07 AM. This was the moment Father first tampered with the cake—and the origin point of all temporal anchors.
"Mom," I raised the cake knife, its blade reflecting the quantum storm outside the window, "can you teach me to bake a new cake?"
When Mother's fingers touched my palm, twenty years' worth of memory data suddenly flooded back. She recoiled as if electrocuted, the milk cup tumbling mid-air, spilling liquid that formed Veronica's dying smile.
"You… from when did you..." Her voice trembled like a taut string.
"From the end of all possibilities," I plunged the cake knife into the countertop, quantum fractures spreading along the blade's path, "I need you to hide something special inside the cake."
The kitchen suddenly quantumized; the six-year-old version of myself built block towers in the corner, each block engraved with VK numbers. Mother's hand passed through my hologram, concealing the true quantum core within the cream frosting. As Father entered through the door, his suit hem stained with lab-grade fluorescent blue liquid.
"Dear," Mother turned with a smile, her pregnancy concealing the act, "come help Alan blow out the candles."
In the instant the temporal anchor was about to form, I pressed Veronica's broken mechanical fingertip into the cake. The six-year-old version of myself screamed suddenly, his block castle bursting with amber light. As Father leaned in to blow out the candles, the quantum core hidden in the frosting subtly shifted frequencies.
When morning light bathed the Bay Bridge once more, pier number 722 had vanished. Veronica's voice came from the waves, accompanied by the sound of a coffee grinder: "How does the cake taste this time around?"
I licked the cream from the corner of my mouth, tasting the saltiness and sweetness of time itself. On the distant horizon, a pier belonging to no timeline slowly rose, its shadow housing a white-coated Veronica and a mother carrying a new cake box.