FICTION – FOWC & RDP
Chapter 7:
Tacos and Time Loops
Final chapter of Chronically Challenged
The first thing Fiona registered was the smell—
Grilled meat. Cilantro. The unmistakable scent of hot corn tortillas and lime rinds warming under neon light.
She opened her eyes slowly, adjusting to the dim light of dusk. The taco truck stood exactly where it had before, parked under a buzzing fluorescent sign that read “Tacotón 5000” in cracked vinyl letters. The same string of rainbow papel picado fluttered above them, fading from the sun and sagging from the weather.
A warm breeze passed. It smelled like onions and traffic and the city on a Friday night—alive, restless, ordinary.
They were home.
“Didn’t think déjà vu would come with salsa,” Elliot said beside her.
Fiona exhaled. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath.
She was back in her own jeans. Her real boots. Her coat with a broken zipper and a ballpoint pen still jammed in the inner lining. The chrono-device—no longer pulsing, no longer demanding—rested cool and quiet in her pocket like a relic from someone else’s life.
And Elliot? He looked… lighter. Tired, yes, but unburdened. His curls were wind-tousled, his glasses slightly crooked, and his Ramones shirt was—miraculously—clean. She smiled at the thought he’d maybe picked a fresh one on purpose.
A thin fog of steam rose from the taco truck window. The same vendor as last time—greying, gum-chewing, and blessedly nonchalant—tossed two wrapped tacos onto the counter and gave them a single, knowing nod.
They didn’t pay.
“I think we broke his sense of reality,” Elliot said, collecting the food like it might still vanish. “Or earned his eternal respect. Hard to tell.”
“I’ll take either,” Fiona murmured.
They sat on the same bench—their bench—its paint peeling, the metal cold beneath them. The sound of the street curled around them: honking cars, a mumbled rap track from a passing bike speaker, the sharp clatter of skateboards echoing under the overpass.
Fiona peeled the foil back from her taco with careful fingers, letting the scent rise. It was warm, greasy, and strangely grounding. The first bite burned her tongue and made her eyes water. She welcomed it.
Elliot was watching her.
“Do you remember what you were thinking right before you asked me out?” he asked.
She chewed, then swallowed. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I had a mantra,” she said. “In my head. I kept repeating: Don’t die alone surrounded by lab reports.”
He grinned. “That’s so… deeply romantic.”
“It worked.”
He looked down at his own taco, then back up at her.
“I almost said no.”
Fiona froze mid-chew. “You what?”
“When you asked me out,” Elliot said. “I panicked. Thought it was a prank. Or a bet. Or a really elaborate social experiment.”
“Seriously?”
He nodded sheepishly. “Then I realized I didn’t care. You were wearing those boots—the intimidating ones. And if it was a trap, I figured I’d go down swinging.”
Fiona laughed—a surprised, full-bodied laugh that startled a pigeon nearby into a fluttering escape.
“I thought you didn’t like me,” she said. “You always looked like you were trying to solve me.”
“I was,” he said, voice quiet. “Still am.”
They sat for a moment in comfortable silence, listening to the city breathe around them. Fiona leaned into him, their shoulders pressed. His warmth was solid. Familiar. Real.
It felt… earned.
“Do you think this counts as our first real date?” she asked.
Elliot nodded slowly. “We survived 1776. Got interrogated by Hamilton. Made out in a future that might not technically exist.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“Definitely.”
The chrono-device buzzed once in her pocket—just a faint vibration, like a cat purring in sleep. Then stillness.
Fiona didn’t check it.
She didn’t need to.
They were here. And now. And not running anymore.
Elliot raised his taco like a glass.
“To us,” he said.
She clinked hers against his foil wrap. “To now.”
And together, under a taco truck sign that flickered uncertainly between green and purple, with grease on their hands and time behind them, they finally finished their first date.
—
And that’s a wrap!
Chronically Challenged: A Friday the 13th Love Story began with a taco truck, a reluctant crush, and a time travel accident—and somehow turned into one of the most unexpectedly joyful stories I’ve had the pleasure of writing.
Creating Fiona and Elliot’s awkward, brilliant, chaotic journey through history (and each other’s emotional walls) has been such a weird and wonderful ride. From Hamilton’s dramatic entrance to futuristic first kisses, every scene brought something surprising—and often unplanned—to the table.
This was a story about missed signals, emotional experiments, and learning that sometimes the biggest leap isn’t through time—it’s letting someone really see you.
If you made it all the way here, thank you. I hope you laughed, blushed, winced at the secondhand awkwardness, and maybe found a little bit of yourself somewhere in these pages.
And if this is your first read-through, remember: time travel may be fiction, but tacos and courage are very real.
Until next time,
— Mangus
Click the link below for the full story:
Memoirs of Madness 