He slammed his shoulder into the door, wincing as it crunched... but the door flew open. He cradled his scorched hand, and squinted into the smoke and floating embers.

There aren't supposed to be stairs here.

He still ran up them. How far... he had no idea. Racing the flames... racing for air.

Don't touch anything.

Flight after flight. A door. The shoulder, again. Staggering out onto... a rooftop?

Sweet, sweet air.

Soot covered everything. He could feel the warmth of flames at his back, and a crackling roar filled his ears. Smoke, everywhere. Above the smoke.... a steeple? A silver, glowing steeple. He staggered over to the edge. Looking down... nothing but smoke.

And... more.

Figures in the smoke. Close. Too close, for how high he had run.

Himself, standing over two other teenagers from school, lifeless eyes staring accusingly.

Himself, arguing with Uncle Seven, in an airport. But... older. Both older.

Himself, in a karate outfit, trading punches with a bald asian man. Still older.

Himself, shooting a gun at two men and a woman. Older again.

Is this... the future? Is this... Is it now? Is it time?

Himself, cradling a young boy, and woman, bloodied, torn... dead. Again, older.

Himself, staring intently at a short haired dyke in a leather jacket. Older.

Other images caught his eye. Images that wouldn't form, wouldn't focus. Some with a woman. He knew who she was. As rapidly as they formed, they dissipated, except the one of himself... now... not older, over the two dead boys.

And he understood.

He understood what he was seeing... and what he could not see.

A step backwards. Another. Until something stopped him. The silver steeple, base blackened with soot. Not everywhere. In places, silver light pierced the soot. Letters. Names.

The two dead boys. Soon.

When?

"East is east," he mumbled. "And west is west," he continued, voice becoming clearer. He finished Kipling's lines in defiance of the visions, "And never the twain shall meet..."

Because if I can change one... I can change all. And I can take back what you took from me, Uncle Seven.

Silver purity bathed his finger in light as he wrote in the soot.