Echoes of Time

The memory clip unfolds before me, revealing T, an unexpected twist, enacting a brutal contract killing spree that stains my consciousness. Amid the horror, T emerges as an unforeseen hero, safeguarding a defenceless baby.

But amidst the shadows of memory, a different scene takes shape – T facing Mohammed Razeghi, the man who unravelled the secrets of manipulating time. In this memory, T's mechanical optics meet Razeghi's, and Razeghi's voice reverberates after much argument and threat.

"Listen, T," Razeghi begins, his voice a blend of wisdom and intrigue. "Time can be influenced, but it demands precision and energy. I possess the knowledge, and you, T, have the means."

T's voice responds, tinged with curiosity, "How can I, alter time?"

Razeghi's expression remains composed as he explains the intricate process. "It revolves around the 'Zworz,'. They harness temporal energy and can create fractures in time's fabric. To harness their power, you'll need a mat – a conduit to time's essence. Only three such mats exist."

Razeghi's description takes form, a vivid depiction in my mind.

"To use the Zworz," Razeghi continues, "You must be near a flowing body of water – a river, a stream. It's a connection to the fluidity of time. Then, gather batteries with enough energy to light up ten houses, and connect them to a power outlet."

T's mechanical attention is unwavering, absorbing every detail.

"Equip yourself with rubber gloves, an essential precaution," Razeghi adds. "It cannot work if you do not have memory of the place, the exact place, irrelevant of time or age, in mind'' 

'' Hold a clear image then, place the zworz on the mat's hatchet, while standing upon it."

T's mind seems to process the steps, locking them into its memory banks.

Razeghi's voice grows sombre. "There are side effects. A nosebleed, temporary blindness, or paralysis may occur. But they're transient, and you'll recover. But perhaps yours might differ, I cannot guarantee success."

Razeghi's words echo as his explanation concludes, leaving me stunned at the convoluted nature of the process. And yet, as the memory fades, I'm left with the looming question of the mats' whereabouts – one with a wealthy family, and two whose location remains elusive.

As I turn my gaze back to the present, T remains bound to a chair, his complex mind and experiences entangled with the possibility of rewriting history. Helen, injects urgency into the room. "Dave, to attempt the journey, we need the missing mat Razeghi crafted."

All eyes rest on T, a vessel of time and hope, the key to restoring Eleanor and perhaps even Xara. The journey ahead holds not just answers, but a chance to mend the fabric of existence itself.

The plan becomes apparent – to wrest the mat from the grasp of the Prime Minister's family, employing wit and deception. Eleanor finds refuge with my sister, and T, Helen, and I board a flight to Iran. T taps into cameras, gathering intelligence, while Helen orchestrates a meeting with the Prime Minister, cloaked as an interview on his humanitarian efforts.

In the labyrinth of intrigue, I, stand poised at the threshold of an audacious plan. My pulse quickens as I prepare to infiltrate the prime minister's house, a cavern of power and secrets, in the heart of an enigmatic city. The memory of T's past actions lingers, an intricate mosaic of brutality and redemption. Eleanor's fate rests on the edge of my determination.

As the prime minister's house looms, a sense of trepidation mingles with my determination. Disguised as Helen's driver, I slip into the shadows of the basement's vent system, my heart pounding a rhythm of anticipation. The plan is simple yet precarious – navigate the hidden passages, infiltrate the house, and retrieve the mats, weaving my steps between a dance of risk and reward.

Above ground, T dons the facade of Helen's guard, sipping drinks with his unsuspecting companions. The control room's guards, seemingly impervious to danger, succumb to slumber, the snoring symphony a bizarre accompaniment to the daylight drama. T seizes the opportunity, his swift mechanical fingers granting him access to the control room. Cameras disabled, he becomes the unseen orchestrator, a maestro of shadows.

Meanwhile, Helen glides through the opulent house's lobby, her keen eyes a beacon for hidden truths. The tension swells as she perceives the exquisite rugs that adorn the floor, each piece whispering of forgotten tales. Among them, one mat stands out, an enigmatic sentinel amidst the artistry. Her purpose clear, she deploys her charm, luring the prime minister into her spell of a dumbfounded exotic beauty.

As Helen navigates the opulent mansion's halls, her eyes alight upon a rug – an exquisite piece concealing Razeghi's mat as described in the memory loop. Helen's charisma works its magic, leading the Prime Minister to grant her a souvenir. The choice is clear – the conspicuous mat.

A conversation unfolds, and the prime minister's words tinge the air with mystery. "That mat, my dear, holds a tale," he begins, his voice carrying a weight of secrets. "A man named Razeghi once walked a path of audacity, a journey to manipulate time itself."

My concealed microphone captures every word, echoing in the recesses of my hidden perch. The prime minister continues, his tone laced with scepticism. "A madman's pursuit, really. A challenge to the very concept of the Quran, a venture to bend time, but only God could wield such power. His only crime, an ambition too grand, a dream too wild. Schizophrenic I believe."

Helen's smile doesn't waver, her every movement calculated, as she seamlessly ensnares the prime minister in her web of persuasion. The mat's fate seems to sway in the balance.

With a wave of gracious dismissal, the prime minister hands over the mat – the enigmatic piece of the puzzle. Helen departs, a mission seemingly accomplished.

In the hidden depths, I hover at the threshold of a room, listening intently. T's efforts, swift and calculated, are in vain – the control room's defences were but an illusion. Cameras, once his pawns, reveal no truth to him now. As T's digital fingers move in a dance of desperation, I prepare to step into the unknown, bracing myself for the inevitable revelation.

The plan that had seemed foolproof is now veiled in uncertainty. My heart races as I wait, suspended between triumph and trepidation, 45 minutes inside a vent, unsuccessful in my efforts.

With bated breath, I realise. It is done, although this easily! But the prime minister's words creep on me. Would this actually work or is it simply the work of a delusional scientist wanting to bend time?