Lydia was daydreaming again. Well, that's what she told herself as she perched atop a rusted metal heap and stared into the horizon. Zorkon had a way of doing that to you. Time was funny here; it had its quirks. Sometimes an afternoon stretched for days, and evenings zipped by in seconds. Not exactly time-efficient, but hey, who was counting, right?
Lydia's shift at the Salvage Hub was nearly over, but she felt restless. Perhaps it was the faint shimmering coming from the heap below. She'd never noticed it before, and things around here didn't just shimmer without a reason. Picking her way through obsolete spacers and half-built droids, Lydia spotted a sleek, glassy object. It was palm-sized, swirling, and suspended in the air, like it had been waiting for her.
"Hey, girl! Better wrap up soon," shouted Marvin, her oil-smudged colleague, from the workshop's other side.
"Yeah, yeah, hold up," she replied, pocketing the shiny contraption.
Once home, Lydia took out the device, curiosity buzzing. Activating the central button, it flickered, projecting an array of images floating mid-air. Strangely, they looked like ordinary moments from her life but set in a linear order.
Nothing here ever happened in a straight line. Yet, here she was, holding a crystal-clear film reel of her tenure on Zorkon. It was unsettling in its predictability. Annoying as Zorkon's randomness was, it was their norm—and now here was evidence of a different rhythm. "So, what's your secret?" she mused aloud, as the device glimmered enigmatically.
Days passed, and Lydia's obsession with the device grew. She woke to a kitchen scene from her future, made breakfast to a rewind of last night's dinner fiasco, and watched a tear-jerking playback of her mom's laughter from years ago.
But time caught on. As Lydia grew out of sync, her presence in her own life seemed offbeat. Conversations felt rehearsed, meals tasted oddly before the first bite, and she got this *déjà vu* that made even her pet gimbus bark backwards.
Hugging the device, Lydia realized her dilemma. She saw her life playing out just right and it shook her, like gazing into a universe that ran smooth as butter. But at what cost?
One evening, compelled by what she'd seen, Lydia tried altering the course. She followed a sequence that showed her taking a shortcut home, preventing a massive scrapyard explosion. But upon reaching, time blurred the lines; she stumbled upon remnants of the past looping back—an echo racing forward.
"Lydia, keep your eyes open!" Marvin hollered as he darted for cover, pulling her along. Echoes of the blast set them ajar as timelines split open and converged.
Out of breath, Marvin gasped, "What on Zorkon happened?"
Lydia glimpsed the device, flickering fiercely, and it dawned—she needed to let things flow unpredictably, gaffes and all. Because the way Zorkon worked; it wasn't defective; it was divine in its disarray.
Returning home, she climbed the heap, gazing at the same horizon with newfound clarity. She took one last look at the device, then hurled it into the ether. Without the shimmering seduction, unpredictability returned.
"Life's a bit like Zorkon," Lydia murmured, feeling the free flow again. "Leading with your heart rather than a map."
The workplace charged back to full throttle, the sun burdened fewer arcarn time lapses, and tentatively, Lydia felt the warmth of time settling oddly, yet comfortingly, back into chaos.