Material is a short story from several perspectives showing the oddities caused by heaven (and thus causality) being destroyed in the Deceiver Universe's bad timeline.

The story is unfinished and probably won't be finished, any time soon at least.

Contents

Over the last year I've found little reason to be on Earth with all the war going on at the moment. I'll be sitting here drinking my cappuccino, bitches! I sent the BBS post to the travel board, surely someone'd laugh. Anyways, I said to my friend, I'll be star-side. Give me a few minutes in there and we'll be moving again.

What the fuck even went wrong? We fueled up to a 120 lightyear trip and it's failing at only 20. This is worse than when we had to refuel every 5 a few hundred years back, at least then we'd know when we'd have to spend all our money. Her annoyance filled the room with a stifling atmosphere, and then I knew it was fate that I'm getting the hell out now.

Well, I said as I jumped down to the base chamber, laden in all kinds of colors, maybe we were shammed when we bought this ship.

No good, she says, no good at all.

I didn't agree with the sentiment. The retro-deco design of the ship was definitely my style.

We reached the abandoned ship, a mere thousand something kilometers out of high orbit. A few hundred years pass and there should only be a bit of rust on these things, but the ship was in worse disrepair than I've ever seen.

The four of us trunked into the ship and checked out the interior. A few hours pass and we didn't see anything. The report was dull, but an object that big just coming out of hyperspeed – which it apparently entered for no reason – just isn't right. I guess I just don't have time to dwell over these things anymore.

Excessive time waste summed up the trip. I did like the parts of design on the she ship I could see, though. Retro-deco is definitely my style.

Four men in space suits walked into the café. Kind of a strange sight to see, but I'd heard of these garbage hunters before. Seems like an excessive time waste to me, you can't get money from selling space trash.

… Maybe you can, who knows. My friend was singing at me but I wasn't paying attention. The four guys, in unison, sat down at a table. It was pretty funny. They didn't all ask for the same drink, though, and I was disappointed. I looked at the seat next to me and waited for my friend to arrive.