The Man JC
Timelines collided into the point of his singularity drive. Sounded like angels screaming outside the stabilizer field. Hunched over the dashboard of his liner cycle, Dwade Rathburn cruised full tilt across the continuum, target locked.
"First century Earth. Precise year, 29 A.D. Palestine, parallel branch 7.975 degree XZ." The cycle's AI recited the coords in a stream of garbled numerals. "Message incoming from your contact. Request to connect. Shall I activate the feed?"
Dwade cracked his neck bones with a satisfying left snap of his head. "Engage comm. Bitch better be right about this job." Damn straight. Supposed to be an easy bounty. Lock, capture, deliver, profit.
He was one of the last line mercs, and he'd always been the best. No wonder the Trumpturds in his most recent timeline had sought him out for this one. He doubted any of his old colleagues were active anymore. And likely none of them would take a run like this. Too big a risk. If the continuum god-cops known as Archonix picked up his intent, he'd be line-kill for sure. Still, the reward had been impossible to refuse. Enough to retire on at last. The big break he'd waited so long for.
All he had to do was kidnap the Lord and Savior of a billion religious dimwits and hand the sucker over. After that, he didn't give a shit. He could finally pick a remote timeline for himself somewhere, settle down, and live out the rest of whatever damn life he had left in relative peace.
The AI emitted a pleasant notification chime, even as the stabilizer fields fluxed through a turbulent core loop. "Comm link on. Message incoming in fourteen local seconds."
A female voice spoke over the comm speaker on the overhead panel, warbled somewhat over the inconstant signal. "Rath. I know you can do this. The Commander-in Chief will be so pleased with your work. I know you won't let the nation down. For God, country, and the glory of Trump. Might makes right, dear brother."
Dwade scoffed. "I don't give a fuck about your God, king, and country, Marta. Long as this slapped-together cycle holds like you promised it would, and as long as you pay what's due. After that, I never want to hear from you or your sheep shit friends ever again. You keep your word on all that, I'll keep my end of the contract."
A long pause hinted at Marta's ambivalence. He'd known her since they were kids. Lovers decades ago. No longer, especially not since she'd been brainwashed into the global theocratic cult of the Trump family. Like so many others in his origin line.
"Just deliver the Savior unharmed, as you've been asked," she replied, flat and stern. "You'll get your money. As well as the anonymity you want. Our Potentialists will cleanse your trail from the timelines. You'll have nothing to fear from Archonix."
"Heh. Great." He tightened his grip around the cycle's yoke, paused for a thought. "So, all the politics and religion aside, what in Hell do they want with Jesus Christ, anyway? The real guy, removed from his time and place, thrown into the future...why? Just curious. Seems like an awful lot of trouble for a regime that already has a grip on world power."
"I knew you'd ask." Marta's sigh rattled the comm frequency. "Because we were...are friends, I hope, I'll tell you the Commander's greatest plan. Here in 2070, we still await the return of our Lord. It was promised, prophesied, and all of the signs have passed. But still, he fails to show. Many grow restless. Ratings are falling. Rumors of a possible coup from the unfaithful. His Most Excellent Self Trump doesn't like that. So, we're going to create the Second Coming ourselves. Make it happen at last, for the glory of all."
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