Marcus came to with the taste of Afghan dust in his mouth and the phantom heat of the explosion still on his skin. His combat training kicked in before his eyes opened – assess, orient, survive. The surface beneath him was soft. Climate-controlled air brushed his face. No sounds of combat, no smell of cordite.
He was in a bed. His bed. In his Atlanta apartment.
Memory crashed back in fragments: the IED, the darkness, the choice. 2020. Three months.
Marcus rolled to his feet in one fluid motion, muscle memory compensating for vertigo. The digital clock on his nightstand read 5:43 AM, March 15, 2020. His phone lay next to it, displaying the same date. Four years in the past. Three months before...before whatever was coming.
The first wave of dizziness hit as he reached for the phone. Images flashed through his mind – not memories, but something else. Himself, stumbling, catching the edge of the nightstand. The phone clattering to the floor, screen cracking on impact.
Without conscious thought, his hand shifted two inches to the left. The phone stayed secure in his grip.
Marcus froze, special forces training warring with impossible reality. That hadn't been déjà vu. He'd seen it happen before it happened. Three, maybe four seconds of warning.
"Combat precognition," he muttered, remembering the presence's words about advantages. His tactical mind immediately began categorizing implications, limitations, applications. Three to four seconds was an eternity in combat, but only if—
The second wave hit harder. Marcus saw himself falling, knees buckling, head cracking against the corner of the dresser. This time he was ready. His legs were already braced, his weight shifted to compensate.
The vision faded, leaving him upright but sweating. Each prediction seemed to drain something from him, like performing a complex tactical maneuver on too little sleep. Not something to be used carelessly.
His phone buzzed. Text from Maya Torres, SWAT officer he'd met during a cross-training exercise last year. No, four years from now. Time travel made for hell of a mission clock.
*Hey stranger, still on for morning PT? Promise not to show up your SEAL stamina too bad.*
Marcus stared at the message, tactical possibilities unfolding. Maya was good people. Solid operator. In his original timeline, she'd died in the first wave, trying to evacuate civilians from downtown Atlanta. In the vision-that-wasn't, she'd gone down fighting, covering her team's retreat with nothing but a shotgun and pure grit.
His fingers moved over the keyboard: *Meet you at the usual spot. Need to discuss something important.*
The response came quickly: *Ominous much? See you at 0630.*
Marcus moved to his closet, muscle memory selecting workout gear while his mind raced. He had three months to prevent an apocalypse, a power he barely understood, and knowledge of a future he had to stop. He needed allies. He needed a team.
Most of all, he needed to figure out just what else he could do.
The sun was just starting to paint the Atlanta skyline as Marcus stepped outside, the morning air cool against his skin. Three months to save the world. Time to get to work.