The Watchers: Paradox Lost - 24. Chapter 24

Up Stairs – 1953 – November 25^th

The Tides of Time lounge was a sensory assault. The air was thick with the scent of stale liquor and cigarette smoke, the constant hum of a hundred intersecting conversations forming a wall of white noise that Miller navigated with a singular purpose. His team was a no-show, their absence a silent and damning signal that Dottie’s carefully laid plans had dissolved. He was on his own. All the rehearsed protocol, the calculated timing—none of it mattered now. Miller’s gaze was a predator’s sweep, cutting through the crowd, seeking out the specific signatures he'd been briefed on.

His eyes snagged on the familiar form of Stoker, the shorter of the two targets. He was flanked by another man whose posture and rigid bearing screamed of the Bureau. A new complication. Miller's jaw tightened. He wouldn't allow a Hoover-era agent to interfere with the timeline, not with the Aggregate at stake. The older man standing with them, a true silverback with a shotgun in his hands, was an immediate, critical problem. Miller calculated the risk. The old man was a clear and present danger, and if he had to neutralize him, so be it. The fact that he bore a striking resemblance to the Bureau agent briefly registered as a grim curiosity. An unexpected family affair. Pity, but a quick exit for the grandfather was better than a slow one.

A sudden, sharp movement drew Miller's attention. Stoker staggered, a hand flying to his head as the younger man rushed to steady him. It was the crack in the armor, the moment of vulnerability he hadn't dared to hope for. With the grace of a striking serpent, Miller moved. No time for thought, no room for second-guessing. The moment demanded pure, unadulterated efficiency. He was a force of nature, not a man.

He went for the shotgun first. His hands clamped down on the cold steel barrel, twisting with a brutal, unyielding force that tore the weapon from the old man's grip. The shotgun spun, and Miller used the momentum, swinging the stock back to slam into the surprised patriarch's chest. The air left the old man's lungs in a violent huff as he toppled backward, a heavy sack of bones. The shotgun was back in Miller’s hands in an instant, the muzzle now leveled.

Staring right into the face of the exact same man he had just put down. Standing between him and the younger man…

Miller’s mind screamed the warning.

MEANWHILE!

And Miller had enough time to turn his attention to the flying, furious Second Stoker that had propelled himself up and over the table his meanwhile was standing at, crashing into Agent Miller and sending him sprawling. The shotgun went off, and the older Reed fell.

Time had changed, and the Paradox was broken.

He had anticipated every move, planned for every contingency, and in the past, he had always won. He had always broken Stoker. But this time was different.

A tremor ran through the air, as the two Stokers hung back a little, standing side by side, in a ready stance.

“’ey up,” Stoker 2.0 said to himself. “Gotta put this ol’ bastard down, yer goin’ to ‘elp me, a’ight?”

1.0 looked… amused. “Hugo’s gonna love this un.” He fired back as he moved left of Miller. 2.0 moving right.

“’e’s going t’love ‘is Christmas present,” 2.0 agreed. “’ow about we worry ‘bout that after we’re done with ‘im?” He nodded towards Miller.

The two Stokers moved as one, a fluid, seamless dance of purpose and control. Miller, a veteran who had seen every kind of fight, now faced an impossible threat. His tactical mind screamed, unable to reconcile the reality of what stood before him.

The fight began not with a punch, but with an almost imperceptible shift of weight. Miller, his hand still gripping the shotgun, took a half-step back, his body language communicating a professional assessment of the impossible. His mind, trained in the brutal arts of combat, was struggling with the paradox, but his body was reacting. The two Stokers, a blur of motion in his peripheral vision, had him flanked. Stoker (1.0), bruised and furious, was a coiled spring of unrefined anger. Stoker (2.0) was a serious threat. He’d no doubt seen the fight before, and with that almost pre-sentient knowledge of what was to happen, Miller was at a disadvantage.

Analysis: Stoker (2.0)'s mind, the Aggregate of Matter, flared to life, shifting into the familiar A.D.M.E. cadence. The first priority was to disarm. Miller is a professional, a man who treated his shotgun as a natural extension of his body. He would use it as a shield, a club, and a spear, all in a single, fluid motion. The Aggregate's calculations were ruthless: a direct charge would be met with a punishing butt-stroke to the head, a wide flank would be countered with a spin and a lethal jab.

The key was to force a mistake, to fracture Miller’s professional calm.

Direction: Work together, tandem attacks to keep him off balance. Left flank while I move right. Force him to commit to a direction and not allow him to lead the fight.

Stoker (2.0) took command with a single, brutal look. To his younger self, he communicated a plan that was not of words but of pure instinct. He would be the bait, the distraction. Stoker (1.0) would be the weapon. "His left," Stoker (2.0) growled, a low, guttural sound that was filled with the wisdom of countless battles. "His left flank is the key." He launched himself at Miller, not to fight, but to guide the fight, drawing Miller’s focus and forcing him to commit to a direction. Stoker (1.0), bruised and reeling, instinctively understood. He saw the path, the opening, a weakness in the man’s stance that was invisible to the untrained eye.

Momentum: Catch him off guard, attack as one at the same time. Make him commit to you, and leave him open to 1.0, get the shotgun.

Miller, caught off guard by the dual threat, swung the shotgun. The butt of the weapon sailed past Stoker (2.0)'s face. His body, a coiled spring of controlled energy, ducked and twisted, using the raw force of Miller's miss to create a vacuum. The momentum was a physical thing, and Stoker (2.0) used it to propel Stoker (1.0) toward the open flank. But Miller, a veteran of countless brutal missions, was ready. He twisted, turning the butt of the shotgun into a vicious, unforgiving club, driving it back in a brutal arc that caught Stoker (1.0) in the ribs with a sickening crack. Stoker (1.0) fell, but his hand, a vice of pure, unadulterated fury, had found its mark. It was on the barrel of the shotgun, and it would not let go.

Execution: The fight became a brutal tug-of-war for the weapon. Miller, his face a mask of furious concentration, fought to retain control of his gun, but he was facing two men, a physical manifestation of a paradox he could not defeat. Stoker (2.0), in a flash of motion, drove a devastating kick into Miller's ankle. The man's leg buckled; his balance shattered. Stoker (1.0), in a final, defiant act of sheer brute force, tore the shotgun from Miller's grasp, sending the weapon spinning across the floor in a final, definitive clang.

Miller, now disarmed, was a different man. His professional calm was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating fury. The Aggregate's calculations were ruthless: Miller was good, but he was no match for the two of them. His blows were powerful, but predictable. His body, bruised and battered, was already betraying him.

Analysis: Stay out of reach, keep 1.0 safe as long as you can. Watch that right hook.

Stoker (2.0) directed his younger self to circle, to stay out of reach. "He's going for your head," Stoker (2.0) growled, a low, urgent warning that Stoker (1.0) instinctively heeded. "He's going for the knockout punch." Stoker (1.0), fueled by a raw, personal rage, saw the opening, the weakness in the man’s stance, a moment of vulnerability that was a silent invitation.

Direction: As he strikes drive him onwards. Use the uncertainty, and Miller’s unpredictable nature against him. He’s making it up as he goes along. I am not.

Miller, with a grunt of pain, lunged forward, his fists, two heavy, unforgiving weights, a blur of motion. He was a man who had seen a thousand fights, and he fought with a brutal, uncompromising rhythm. But he was fighting two men who were, in a way, one. Stoker (2.0) blocked the first punch, a hard, unforgiving blow to the forearm, and redirected the momentum, sending Miller stumbling forward, off-balance and exposed.

Momentum: Miller’s hurt, he can’t keep up. 1.0 needs to take a hit, give me an opening.

Miller, his body already protesting, delivered a brutal, punishing strike that landed on Stoker (1.0)'s cheek. The man’s face, a mask of fury, contorted in a silent scream. Stoker (1.0) was a man who had been called a coward, and in this moment, he was a man who was fighting for his honor, his courage, his very soul.

It was the opening 2.0 needed.

Execution: Stoker (2.0) delivered a lightning-fast kick to Miller's knee, a precise, calculated strike that shattered bone with a sickening crack. Miller stumbled, his knee was fractured, probably broken, he was, however, not beaten yet.

Miller, a professional who had been broken by two men, a raw, uncompromising force of nature, was a different kind of threat now. He was desperate. He was a cornered animal who would use anything and everything he could get his hands on. The Aggregate's calculations were relentless: the floor was a minefield of broken glass, shattered wood, and splintered chairs. Miller's next move would be a weapon of opportunity.

Analysis: He’s going to try to use the glass around him to even the odds. Create distance, and give him a chance to get stable on that leg.

Stoker (2.0) gave a single, urgent command, "The glass!" Stoker (1.0) knew that the glass, a brutal, uncompromising weapon, was a perfect tool for a man who had nothing left to lose. He saw Miller's gaze, a cold, calculating flash of desperation, a man who was now a predator in a field of glass. Stoker (1.0) knew that he had to be faster.

Direction: He will move, low and fast, he wants a weapon, let him think he has it.

Miller, with a low, desperate snarl, scrambled across the floor, his hands a blur of motion as he grabbed a large, jagged shard of glass from a broken table. He moved with a terrifying, animalistic grace, a man who had been a predator for so long that he had forgotten what it was like to be prey. Stoker (2.0) delivered a brutal, punishing kick to Miller’s ribs, a perfect, decisive strike that sent him flying.

Momentum: 1.0’s turn, hit him hard, hit him fast little me…

Stoker (1.0), a blur of motion, delivered a savage blow. He drove a brutal, punishing knee into Miller's face, a precise, calculated strike that shattered bone with a sickening crack. The man's face, a mask of fury, collapsed inward, a final, definitive period on a brutal, elegant sentence that had just been written.

Execution: It was over.

The two Stokers stood over the unconscious Miller, their bodies a trembling testament to their triumph. They glanced at each other, a wry grin mirrored on their faces.

“I’s a handsome devil ain’t I?” 1.0 remarked.

2.0 chuckled, “An’ you get to marry yer Hugo, ‘e’s downstairs and waitin’ so… once we figure outs ‘ow to goin’ back to only bein’ one o’ us… wait…” Stoker looked a little uncertain. “If we’re stuck like this, which one of us gets Hugo?”

“Gentlemen,” Henry called, breaking into their thoughts, holding his meanwhile 2.0 who was choking on his own blood and dying in his own arms.

The younger Agent Reed was staring in shock at the paradoxes that were standing there. “The Sylerikon are going to kill us all,” Reed 0.5 was looking agitated.

“Oh they’re nutin’ t’ fuss o’er,” Stoker 2.0 waved a hand dismissively. “Really nice, they ‘elped us get ‘ere.” He was currently resting a hand on 1.0’s shoulder, and looking infinitely untroubled by things.

Henry pulled the watch from his own lifeless fingers, turning it over and over in his hands. The disconnect from witnessing his own death was surreal, their minds each reacted a different way. For Henry it was denial of the reality of it. Reed was fearful of the consequences. The two Stokers while concerned, dealing with it the only way they could, with irreverent humour.

Henry’s lifeless body turned to dust a second later, returning to the impossibility as the timestream pushed the anachronism out of reality.