A deader man than he, whose dust has long been scattered across a million stars, who has no dead monument nor living memory, whose every deed and act—his effect upon the timeline is nothing now—is erased, still lives in the hole we’ve torn out. We do not know who or what he is. I say he merely as a convenience. It, she, for all we know, they, are all possibilities. We have done our job so well that all we know is that we’ve done it, whatever it was, whether we meant to or not, whether it was justice or injustice, a necessary evil, an experiment—we’ve torn something out of reality that, in some sense was, but now no longer was. We do not even know when we did it. Only our fingerprints, the necessary amalgamation of time-eddies our interference always begets, surrounds this emptiness in history—that is all that remains.
I do not think there is much argument, save that there is some other race unknown to us, like us in ability—but we have searched long and hard for friends in this universe. The point must, though, be made: we are the only ones who can take responsibility for what is unfolding now, the negative actions of a negative existence. Whatever he was outside our interference, his shadow, the place where he should be, has gained something of a—it is still in the shape of a person, and its non-actions have repercussions too.
Tale Told 