if you are not looking for mental stimulation, turn on your tv and dont look back.

if you are looking for smut, you should stick around because there will be massive amounts of sleaze to come.

this brainchild of mine came from my desire to know what it would be like to be sent back in time, as realistically as possible. i wanted to explore the extent of that alternate reality and maybe learn something about myself in the process. as it turns out, i didn't. also because most – most, not all - of the time travel insert fics i have read here are self-indulgent and choppy with very little emphasis on character interaction and realism which irks me because i believe that this is an underplayed idea that deserves recognition. reading them makes me ask myself "what would i do?" and this is the end result.

this will be an ongoing character study of cutler beckett and his pre-napoleonic era napoleon complex. there will be a few naked encounters with cap'n jack and theodore groves as well as one or two characters of my own creation and a few historical personalities, a healthy splash of stalking from mr mercer, and much later on some romance involving mr beckett. this tale will cover the last steps in mr beckett's rise to capital power and his reign in the caribbean. the movie franchise does not exist.

leigh the protagonist is a drug abuser (formerly opiates, presently alcohol) and a walking existential crisis. the information she has at her disposal does not come from wikipedia. everything she knows, i know, and i refuse to do any extra research because as i said before, i set out to make this realistic. i have taken a few creative liberties, but no one will invent the atomic bomb.

leigh the protagonist is a byproduct of my imagination that i am using to entertain myself, and hopefully you too. i hesitate to call her an anti-hero but she is selfish and manipulative and she will be doing some very bad things as well as some very good things, namely challenging long accepted ideas for shits and giggles. and if you had a more comprehensive education than anyone else in the world at the time, why wouldn't you? this story will dabble in philosophy, literature, and just about every ism you can think of, and it all fits in with the plot. i will also be feeding myself to temptation because of the hyper-decadence associated with rococo style. lavish parties, outfits, foods, champagne for breakfast, and wine for everything else, exotic pets, and gossips that make petty high school attention whores look like nuns. a completely unthinkable lifestyle.

could you even imagine the kind of change a twenty-first century woman would have to adjust to, and if you are a feminist like myself, being up to your tits in misogyny? let me end by saying that if i were to be sent back in time and were able to bring one thing with me, it would be a flamethrower. it might as well be the zombie apocalypse.

the reason this introduction is so long is because this story is also very long and you and i both know i'm not going to to this for every chapter. i'd rather get it out of the way. i just hope i haven't scared you off so quickly.

DISCLAIMER HERE IT COMES OH SHI- I own nothing. Neither do you.

Flying Lotus - Unexpected Delight ft. Laura Darlington

March 6th 2012

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you could please fasten your seat belts as we are entering a patch of turbulence. We should be clear in about fifteen minutes as we pass above the storm. Thank you for your cooperation." The intercom clicks and is soon followed by a hundred obedient buckles. The plane rocks gently, but the flight attendants are still making their rounds. I ask for a vodka and coke.

My scalp is itching mercilessly, and after inspecting underneath my acrylic nails I find sand. It's never going to come out. Sipping at my drink, I race raindrops on the window, like we all did as kids and the lucky few still find joy in as adults. Lauren yanks one of the ear phones from its place to catch my attention. "You awake?"

"Yeah." We left the ground at about eleven at night, it's now four.

"Oh. Because you haven't moved in a few minutes," she notes with an awkward laugh.

"I'm just thinking about going home. I can't remember if I sent my rent cheque before I left."

"That's why I go post-dated. But I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Yeah you're right. In any case I need to look over my theatre notes at least once before the exam." Lauren and I have only recently rekindled our friendship over reading week by surfing in Australia. For all you philistines out there, reading week is the white bread Canadian spring break.

"Theatre notes? Theatre is the one subject where it's entirely unnecessary to study. Improvising is your final. I have to study pre-renaissance religious art. There is nothing more tedious than that when you love the Russian avant-garde. Nothing."

"The extent of your exam: find the red triangle. The extent of my exam? Show the gestus of classism as depicted by Brecht. Impersonate an onion. Show the life cycle of a balloon through 'pataphysics. Fuck your pretty colours."

The plane shivers, jarring me. "How much do you want to bet that's not turbulence?" Lauren wonders loudly with a wicked grin, deliberately turning heads in subtle word of mouth to spread living anxiety into these people's quiet lives.

I'm not too thrilled. "Not much, you know there's nothing but turbulence in a plane."

"Alright, new bet. Ten says we're going to fall out of the sky and crash."

"I see you and raise you five the oxygen masks don't work."

"You're on."

The intercom gives an unsettling crackle. My ears pop so I try to force a yawn. Lauren stretches her jaw as well, trying to relieve the same pressure that is spreading through the cabin.

"Do you feel that too?" I don't know who said that.

The noise of shrieking metal and fire bursts forth through the cabin, pressure dropping rapidly. I don't know from which direction the disaster is coming at us, I can't move my head to see.

No such thing as gravity anymore, it appears to have been reversed, everybody straining unwillingly against their safety buckles; some kind of cruel joke that falling forces our bodies upwards, in the opposite direction of where we're headed at terminal velocity. I start grasping for Lauren's hand, and when I find it we lock eyes with grim understanding.

I shout over the din and panic, "I DIDN'T THINK THIS WOULD HAPPEN SO SOON." My guts are clogged in my throat at the loss of pressure, making it hard to breathe.

Lauren smiles with such sadness. "WE JYNXED IT. I LOVE YOU, LEIGH!"

"I LOVE YOU TOO." We hold each other in a desperate embrace, knowing we won't ever see each other again. "SHOULD I PAY YOU NOW OR LATER?" The oxygen masks have deployed. I just can't win today.

"THERE'S ALWAYS TOMORROW."

"I'M HAPPY I CAN DIE WITH YOU."

"I COMPLETELY AGREE. I SUPPOSE I'LL SEE YOU ON THE OTHER SIDE." Shut your eyes and go there, and I'll meet you on the other side. I don't know if I heard that somewhere or if I made it up. It doesn't matter now.

"WHATEVER THAT IS."

"THIS IS TAKING A LONG TIME!" This is the last thing she yells into my ear and I can't help but laugh before a thunderous nothingness exploded through my being.

It all happened so fast. I only had time to blink before realizing where I am.

Where I am is in the ocean, surrounded by... nothing but ocean. No debris, no sign of other life. I open my eyes to the brightest sun I've ever seen and immediately shut them. Floating on low waves and surrounded by nothing but water, no land for miles. I have no idea how long it's been since the crash, I don't even know if time exists at this point.

My eyelids rebel several times and learn the same lesson over and over again. Hungry and alone, I shout for Lauren but I've swallowed a lot of sea water and my throat burns viciously, petrifying my tongue. I lay back into the waves and shut my eyes to the world, floating without intention.

Not in pain, not unbearably cold. I'm very content to float here. There's no debris to tell of a crash, no bodies to speak of a violent crash, as I am sure I was just in. I guess that I'm on the other side. But how pointless it is. What is there to learn in the middle of the ocean?

Is this the punishment for my ridiculous life, where I once estranged the person I died with and now I want nothing more than to find her from my post in nowhere? I am sorry Lauren. It can't be said enough.

The tears that illuminate my vision magnify the horrid sun, so I shut my eyes and cry to fill the ocean enough to drown myself.

A million uncountable moments later I begin hearing voices.

"MAN OVERBOARD!" A chorus of yelling follows this proclamation; a monstrous wooden ship blocks the worst of the glaring sun, obtuse British flag flying.

"This is gonna confuse me to no end," I mutter painfully as a uniformed man clambers down a rope ladder to hoist me over his shoulder with little complaint from myself. He lays me down gently on the deck with a hollow thump and I am immediately surrounded by curious bodies.

"It's a woman..."

"Is she alright?" In my half-dreaming state I feel about ten or twelve people, probably all men surrounding me.

"Doesn't look like she's hurt, mate." They're in some innocent awe, as if I'm some fallen creature.

"What the bloody hell s'a woman doing this far out at sea?"

"I crashed..." I manage weakly before my consciousness starts to give. The sun is hot on my wet skin, soothing me into warm comfort. The salt sea air seems too warm to be the Atlantic ocean, but then again what do I know? The first thought that strikes me into action is the urge to get out of my wet jeans. But as soon as I roll over to my side an alarm is raised.

"Bring her to Mr Beckett's cabin. Bring water," a commanding voice orders. I'm thankful for the mere mention of water, my head lolls back unimpressively.

"She's fainted, get the smelling salts."

"No smelling salts!" I whine as loudly as I can manage. "Just water. Please." The ship is ancient, but painted like new in gold and black. A man holding my arm over his shoulders leads me inside the ship. All the men in my field of vision are dressed drably and don't seem to have a standardized uniform, which is strange. Assuming this is a military ship, firstly they are scarily outdated and secondly, (judging from the British accents) one would think the British were slightly more uniform in every respect; these men look like they were just picked up off the street. Some of them aren't even wearing shoes.

In my blinking and salty vision I count three men in blue coats, probably officials of some sort, one of them supporting me, his uniform has been warmed considerably by the sun. But the sun quickly vanishes, at least it is not present inside the bulk of the ship and there are no windows in the hallway. I'm surprised there is room enough in a ship for a hallway that winds quite like this.

A set of French doors open to a deceptively spacious cabin, crammed with globes, maps and wooden furniture. The walls are faded yellow, faded from sunlight exposure, accented with hazy teal and gold lines; these colours cover all the walls except for one that is lined with slanted windows, it's nearly an optical illusion. I stumble and free my arms so I can sit on the floor and regain my equilibrium. A cannon sits on either end of the room. Cannons. I rub my eyes to rid myself of the strange hallucination.

"So what gives, you guys reenacting a war or something?" I tease half-heartedly.

"No mum, this is a merchant vessel," one of the scrappy men tells me. "What on Earth are you doing all the way out here, what happened to your ship?" I frown at the assumption that I ended up here by ship.

"Plane," I correct him. He frowns back and looks to his superiors for consultation, they too are confused. "Don't tell me you don't know what a plane is." Evidently, they don't. "I appreciate your commitment to realism, but this is the time to break character."

"I don't gather your meaning mum. What do you mean when you say plane?" His confusion is cute, but unhelpful.

"A plane." I don't think enunciation is the problem here. "Those dealies that fly..." The fingers tipped with a French manicure that I was using to gesticulate an explanation curl into protective fists. "What happened to the other passengers, where am I?" No one seems to want to answer my desperate question and instead assault me with their own.

One of the men in blue coats and white wigs takes a threatening step towards me, clearly taking advantage of being able to dwarf me while I sit on the floor. There is a look of disgust and fear in his cold blue eyes and his face is pockmarked, giving him the expression of an orange peel. A trace of unwarranted hostility in his voice is only the slightest bit marred by worry, "What is your name!"

Another, younger officer offers me his hand to pull me to my feet. I push it away without thinking so he takes a knee beside me. A black felt hat is perched on a voluminous white wig that frames his sculpted face well. If he didn't look like a soft ice cream I'd say he was attractive. "How did you get so far out at sea?" he asks me in a voice that makes my head swim.

"I crashed." My head swims and aches. A cup of water is handed to me, I gulp it back gratefully and ignore its stale taste. "Where are we now?"

"You are on the HMS Endeavour, off the coast of Spain, heading to England." Atlantic coast, nevermind. "Dover, specifically," he adds and receives a stern glare from the other one. Apparently I wasn't supposed to know that, as if it makes any kind of difference.

My voice is sticky, like I haven't used it in a thousand years. "Okay... Who cares about that?" I am quickly running into a patience deficit. "My plane crashed and apparently I'm the only one out of two hundred that survived. What the fuck am I doing on a wooden ship, I'd rather be on the goddamn Titanic!" My voice has risen so much that it irritates my throat and I have to stop my tirade and cough into a balled fist.

The officers exchange stern looks of confusion which only serves to cause me panic. I must be insane. The more considerate of the three, the one kneeling next to me, asks calmly, "Where did you come from? You look a wreck and must've hit your head. Can you remember what happened to your ship?"

I am at a loss. "It's not a ship, or a raft, or a boat, or an anything that sails-" My redundant explanation falls short when the doors fly open in the trail of a flamboyantly dressed man in a hurry. He too wears a sleek white wig under a stiff black hat, but his clothes suggest that he has more money than he knows what to do with.

He walks importantly around the larger of two heavy desks and gives me a forced look of compassion that reminds me of a face that I pull when I try to calculate a tip, speaking to me like a shy child being coaxed gently out of their shell.

"Can you remember your name? Where you come from? Come take a seat, would you like something to drink?"

Would you like to watch TV? Or get between the sheets, or contemplate the silent freeway? Would you like something to eat?

Shakily, I hoist myself up and take the seat he pulls out for me in front of his desk. He sits in the more comfortable looking upholstered one on the other side, looking very important. "Leave us please gentlemen." They all obey without another word; their retreating footsteps melt together into ambiance.

His eyes are the first thing I notice in full depth, they are somewhere between blue and green and light enough that it doesn't matter. He has soft features, but there is some kind of steel in his eyes that lends hardness to his entire face. He carries himself with precision and dignity follows close behind him like a cape.

When the room is empty, save for the two of us, I answer him in as loud a voice as I can manage. The salt in my windpipe is still horribly scratching my throat. "My name is Leigh. Abel. And I'm from Canada. But yesterday I was in Australia."

Right away he is confused. "Are you sure you don't mean Austria? Abel is a Hungarian name."

"Yeah, but no, I mean Australia but that's not important right now - we're in the Atlantic ocean right? Okay that makes sense, we were flying over the Atlantic when we crashed."

I can hear how hard he is trying to keep the incredulous laughter out of his voice. "I beg your pardon but I really don't understand. You can't have been flying over anything; you have no wings so I am forced to assume that you were hallucinating or that you have injured your head."

"No goddamnit, I just said this five fucking times..." Finally, the gravity of the situation becomes clear to me and I begin to panic. "Oh God, Oh Fucking Jesus Fucking Christ, oh shit -! Can you please tell me what the fuck is going on?"

"You would do well in the world by holding your tongue," he snaps with sharp precision, then softens his tone to appease my wet eyes. "Think, please, how did you get here?"

I clear my throat and take him in. "I was on a fourteen hour flight from Melbourne, Australia back home to Vancouver. It was maybe around four in the morning. There was a storm, and suddenly we're in a tailspin, the engines failed, maybe. Something happened, I don't know, I blinked and I was floating in the ocean. Alone, no survivors, no debris from the crash. I wouldn't even call myself a survivor, what the hell did I survive?"

He purses his humourless lips. "So this is your story and you refuse to alter it?"

His lack of enthusiasm is wringing out my dry humour. "That's what happened. If you want me to tell you about the in-flight entertainment I could do that too."

His clasped hands cover his mouth but the thoughtful lines on his brow reassure me. "Explain this to me again. In detail."

A very deep breath works its way through my oxygen-starved brain. "I was on a flight home from Australia to Vancouver when the-"

"Where is Vancouver?"

"On the west coast of Canada, where I live," I explain patiently. "The northern half of North America. So the plane-"

"And a plane is?"

It takes me a moment to think of what to say. "I've never had to explain this before. It's a flying machine. A big metal tube with wings. Uses... thrust and air speed velocity. Something like that."

"How many people were on the plane?"

"Probably around two hundred, give or take."

"That is a terrible loss. And your family?"

"They weren't on the plane. My friend was... a terrible loss." I swallow heavily and repeat, hoping he'll drop it before my emotions thaw. "So the engines failed or something and-"

"A steam engine?" The weird part isn't that he sounds perplexed, it's that he sounds awed, as if the steam engine were some almighty technology. That is what hits me.

"A steam engine?" I can't help repeating in disbelief, almost laughing. "What year is it?"

Taken aback, he stutters, "S-seventeen forty-six." The first straight answer I've gotten.

I knew I was far back, but that was like a kick to the chest. There are so many questions and uncertainties that my mind draws a blank and hides in some corner to regroup. "That far, huh? I won't even be born for two hundred and fifty years... Well less than that, but this is no time for math," I murmur into my hands as a pulsating shiver runs through me. I don't even exist.

There is a pregnant silence between us as this statement hangs in the air. His eyes linger on my hands, probably on my acrylic nails. Simple shit, but not to a guy on a wooden ship of fools. I wonder how he will react to my candy red hair, when it dries and lightens up. I shouldn't have dyed it. The evidence is stacked against me, I just know I'm going to be called a witch at least a dozen times.

He tries to speak but I can't will myself to do anything more than hold a trembling hand up to silence him, making a desperate little noise in the back of my throat. I am scared. There is a film of wetness over my eyes which are almost permanently open. I am scared. By the time I find my voice all I can say is, "I'm scared."

He scrutinizes me, not unkindly, only trying to decode me. I would hardly expect him to let me cry on his shoulder or comfort me, because I hardly think he has convinced himself that I am not just making up a story to save myself from some undetermined fate. Which is exactly what I'm doing, but I'm being completely honest about it. Which, now that I think about it, is probably the worst thing I could have done.

A crippling and justifiable panic seizes me because he probably does think I'm a witch, or at least a liar and he's likely to throw me overboard. But I force my eyes to stay trained on the desk. My knuckles are as pale as the bone hiding under the skin.

The silence doesn't last as long as I'd hoped. Forever would have been preferable. "Look at me, please." The please sounds like a formality but I do it anyway, realizing too late that my eyes are round as dinner plates in my terror. He frowns in thought, again not unkind. "I understand that you're frightened, but you must take some time to calm your nerves. You're safe now."

"Now. Sure," I mumble in a small voice, deliberately averting my eyes again. "but that's exactly what I'm afraid of... You believe me, don't you?" Bravely, I search his eyes for signs of mistrust and find none.

"I'm not entirely sure." Despite wanting to hear an unconditional yes even though I know he would only be humouring me, despite the fear that grips me in a choke hold at the unreadability in his face and voice, I am deeply glad that he is being honest with me. "You should get some rest and recover first, then we can discuss this some more. Until then, if you don't think it too terrible I would suggest that you remain indoors, otherwise the crew-" I attempt to cut him off politely, warning him to stop first with my hands.

"Please, I understand why I should be out of sight, at least for now." My body readjusts itself on the chair that I was perched on the edge of. "I'd rather be out of sight for now anyway... God..." I moan into my hands. "I'm in the middle of the fucking ocean on a BOAT! This morning I was on a plane thirty thousand feet into the air - sure we fell the fuck out of the sky! - but if we hadn't I would be home by now." Give me convenience or give me death. I didn't realize there was a third option.

Luckily he seems unperturbed. "And Vancouver is your home? Where is it exactly? I've never heard of that colony."

"You know where you British are flooding into North America from? You've probably already found the Hudson Bay. Well Vancouver is on the other side of the continent, on the west coast."

"You British?" he sneers. "You are a subject of the king as well, you are no outsider. You live in the colonies, don't you?"

I can only shrug and try not to antagonize him. "What used to be the colonies, sure. But we call the north half Canada and the south half America now. Neither of us have a king either." Neither does Britain, now that I think about it. The monarchy is a tourist trap.

He blinks and sounds genuinely befuddled. "What on Earth are you talking about?"

"America fought it's way to independence and Canada waded it out and signed our way to independence. Britain couldn't mother us forever."

"I don't understand."

My own defeat chains itself around my throat as I start to struggle with breath. "Neither do I. The only thing I understand at the moment is that I seem to be from the future. I thought I was from the present, but now... I guess not."

"I don't mean to belittle you," he begins in a tone that suggests otherwise. "but that is ridiculous."

I nod emphatically. "I don't know what I'm going to do. Everything I know is gone. Unless this is a dream, in which case this would be a perfect time to wake up."

Reluctantly, he puts a hand into a richly embroidered pocket.

"This was found on your person when we brought you aboard. I thought you could tell me what it is." A flash of black polished metal catches my eyes and I feel hope protrude though my mind. I can't breathe for the relief and my head sinks to the table.

And exclamation of "Oh God!" slips from my lips. The words don't exist to describe my feelings. Something I once knew, other than me, still exists. "My iPod..." I don't care if it doesn't work (I am forced to assume that it doesn't or risk hysteria) just the thought of holding it is enough to bring me to tears. I extend my hands pathetically to cradle it, staring at it like a childhood friend as the black earphones drag along behind it.

"What is it?" His voice holds an odd mixture of intrigue and contempt.

I sniffle. "It's um... it plays music. I can't believe I'm holding it..."

He seems just as awestruck as I am. "It's... an instrument? This tiny scrap?"

"No it doesn't make music, it plays it. Look," I present it to him and point out each button individually. "this wheel on the front; the menu button, the pause button, the skip forward and skip back buttons, and this one in the middle is the accept button. You select a song this way. Look, turn it over. There's a serial number, the Apple logo-" He takes it from me to take a closer look at it. Immediately he has questions.

"The apple, this silhouette? What does it mean?"

"The company that makes iPods is called Apple. They make computers and sound system equipment too, but to explain what those are would take hours and I don't wanna get into that right this second. Read the back."

"Well there's the logo, underneath it says iPod... one hundred twenty G.B... what is-"

"G.B. stands for gigabyte, its a unit of measurement. Keep reading. It's all very official."

"Serial number... designed by Apple in California, assembled in China... Where is California?"

"It's one of fifty states in America, on the west coast."

"Seems a long way to travel for one little device."

That astute remark energizes me. "Tell me about it... everything is mass produced in the east and sold in the west. America doesn't make anything anymore, that's why their economy's in the shit. Keep reading." He seems to be enthralled by my vague ramblings about the economy, but due to my prompt he reluctantly returns his eyes to the iPod.

"There is a model number, this EMC number... I haven't the faintest idea what any of these mean."

"Yeah, me neither. But I know how it works and that's all we ever need to know. Even though nobody ever reads the instruction manual."

"What do these symbols mean?"

"Uh... this one means it's non-recyclable. Electrical parts and all that has to be disposed of separately... and this one means its... kosher? I don't know." I have to laugh at myself. "Maybe I should have read the manual."

He perks up slightly, becoming eager. I begin to fidget because I can't give him a demonstration. That won't do my credibility any favours. "So how does it work?"

"It's still wet which means it doesn't. Water and electricity don't get along very well. When it dries out it might start working again... I don't even know your name."

"Mr Cutler Beckett of the Honourable East India Trading Company." PROTIP: if you have to specify that a company is honourable, it probably isn't. "However, I wouldn't advise you to remember it. Without hearing this music I find it difficult to accept your story, do forgive me Miss Abel." He stands and readies himself, smoothing his jacket compulsively. "We shall divigate our course to Corunna and I'm afraid that will be the end of my hospitality towards you-" What can I do if he won't help me? My guts twist in apprehension. I am Jane's morbid sense of defeat. Unless...

"WAIT!" I find myself yelling. "This is a merchant ship. Which would make you a businessman, right?"

"Yes."

To hell with the butterfly effect. "So let's do business." Immediately, I lose respect for myself.

I don't blame him for laughing, but it's still a blow to my dwindling pride. "I'm afraid the East India Company doesn't hire women." I should have known. It's all my vagina's fault, as per usual.

I try not to sound desperate. "I'm not talking about getting me a job with your company. I'm talking about selling you information, personally."

"What kind of information?" His eyes narrow suspiciously but at least he is taking me seriously. He should be.

"The kind that only comes from experience. I took a lot of history classes in university-" Cutler doesn't seem the type to senselessly interrupt, but there's a first for everything apparently.

"You went to university? But how? And why?" In his own small oblivion, he falls back into his seat.

"I've only been through two years so far because I started late, but I like it. As for how, I'm paying for it," With my trust fund. If I wasn't spending it on school, I'd be spending it on drugs. "I'm doing a major in theatre and a minor in philosophy but I like history too so I took a lot of that. Apparently it's going to come in handy after all." Who says you can't get a job with a arts degree?

"A moment. You study philosophy. In university."

"Yeah," I confirm slowly. "Epicurus is one of my favourites, but I really dig existentialists like Sartre and apocalyptic cynics like Nietzsche and..." Your God isn't dead, he's just sleeping. "That's weird. Sartre and Nietzsche aren't around yet. Not for another hundred years, I think, they're not even born yet."

I slip into my thoughts on the matter, my eyes flying upwards when Cutler speaks again. "... I'm sorry if I offend, but I must know. How old are you?"

"I'll never be offended by a direct question. I'm twenty-four."

He's astonished, no trace of mocking in his silky voice."And you're not married? I see you don't have a wedding band."

I blink. "Is that a joke?" I ask. "No. No, never." I smile at him for the first time. "Tradition is dead people's baggage, and I won't burden myself with it." I have a life outside my kitchen.

"What on Earth do you mean by that? Marriage and children, is that not your whole duty as a woman, or am I mistaken?"

"You are mistaken." The expression on his face seems to reset, it tickles me to see that this is his only reaction to being told he is wrong. That's good. "The funny thing is... I know what the social norms are in this era so your quaint reactions shouldn't surprise me... but they do, and it baffles me."

He squints, interested. "So that's not a rite of passage in your culture, then?"

"Not really. I guess you could still call it that but then that same logic applies to divorce if over half of marriages end in it." I grin sheepishly at the statistic and notice that there isn't a ring on his finger either.

"Enough of that for now, tell me more about this information you possess. You may tell me all about your cultural norms after I know what you have to offer." Probably too much, now that I think about it.

I take a bracing breath and hold it. "I can tell you about every major government, discovery and war from now until the next millennium. I can tell you about physics, human history, chemistry, biology, geology, art, math, theology, sociology, philosophy, psychology," I'm running out of subjects, "medicine, sustainable energy and economics. And this is mostly from a general education. The more artsy and abstract the subject the more detail I can go into, but things like chemistry and physics I can only give so much."

Now I've done it. He probably sees me as a bloated golden goose. "I don't think I could turn that down if I tried. In light of that, I think we can do business after all. I would be delighted to, in fact. Shall we outline some parameters and conditions for our mutual benefit?"

Relief strengthens my bones. "Absolutely. What did you have in mind?" He seems eager to do business now. You'll get yours for doubting, Thomas. His precise gaze bores into my resolve, thin as it is.

"You will stay as a guest in my country home at Dover. I won't always be there if I am called away for work so you will be expected to stay out of sight until I return. I would ask you not to draw unwanted attention to yourself. Especially with those clothes, we shall have to have a wardrobe tailored for you when we arrive." My eyes sparkle; this is turning out fabulously. "I must ask, what is it that you are wearing? I've never seen a woman in trousers before in all my days."

Stupidly, I laugh and look down at myself. My wet hair gets in the way and my leg starts to fidget, creating a crease around my wallet and knife. Three relics. Don't waste time creating significance. I need to give myself a moment to mentally affirm its location on my person before I make its presence known. "They're called skinny jeans."

Lines appear between Cutler's eyebrows and he huffs distastefully, "Well they certainly are."

"Hey you're the one in calf socks. If you wore that outfit where I come from you would be laughed at. Wearing this, I might be burned at the stake."

"Hardly."

"Don't you still believe in witches?" Smart phrasing on my part. Implying disdain for belief in them and suggesting that no one does anymore. I will never know if that influenced his answer.

"I don't. The superstitious do, however. Sailors are especially superstitious. For that reason, if you are asked about your story be sure of whom you are speaking to, not everyone needs to know of time travel." He says it like a dirty word. "If the crew asks, tell them you can't remember a thing." So I'll pull a Velma Kelly.

I'm not going to pretend to have accidentally found my wallet at this moment in time. "Before you say anything else I want you to look at this." It's made of red pleather, compact and zippered. "This is my wallet. Further proof, in case you need it." Cutler's breathing shakes slightly, he may have been hoping for proof I'm lying just to spare himself the burden of imagination.

He just stares at it in his hands, turning it over. "You can look inside if you want."

Almost sheepishly he admits, "I'm not sure I know how."

I open it for him, zipping it back and forth to demonstrate. "It's just a zipper. You don't have those?" I shuffle through its contents for him. "This is my health card, my driver's license, points card for Rocky Mountain Chocolates, my student ID, my credit cards, debit card... and thirty expired gift cards that I've had for five years and never threw out.

"I suppose this to be your money? And it's made of paper? Wet paper, as it were."

"This is an old bill, and yeah it's made of paper. But the new bills," I show him a crisp Canadian fifty. "are made of plastic so they can't be counterfeited."

"Or ruined by water."

"Even the paper ones don't get ruined in water. I've put my wallet through the laundry many, many times."

"Wouldn't your laundry maid notice it?" Cutler wonders innocently.

"That's cute, you think it's done by hand."

"...How else is it done?"

"By machine. I've never had servants. I don't know anyone who has. We have technology."

"That's bizarre!" he exclaims delightedly. "Who cooks for you?"

"I do." I'm slightly taken aback.

"And who do you cook for?" he presses.

"Me," I insist.

"Why?"

"Because I don't need any help. I'm self-sufficient. I provide for myself and only myself." By now he is smiling softly and I think I can rest easy for a while knowing that he believes me. He places the wallet near my hands on the table and looks friendlier.

"We can't stay on topic for two consecutive moments, it seems. Before I make any more promises regarding your living arrangements, I would like for you to give me one individual piece of information. I assume that you are making plans regarding the knowledge you have, how to use it best. Tell me what you would like to do first."

Plagues and People, first year. My prof was some FOB, could hardly understand him but his lectures were straight from the textbook so I didn't even summon the energy to go to class, it was redundant. I apologize profusely to whoever discovered penicillin, but this is a selfish world. "I can introduce a cure for syphilis, and most bacterial infections. Something that wasn't even used until the fifties will now be discovered in seventeen forty-six." You're welcome.

"The seventeen-fifties?"

"No. Nineteen fifties." He leans back in amazement.

"Bloody hell... In what year were you born?" There is sweat on his brow that mixes some loose wig powder, making it a milky colour.

"Nineteen eighty-seven."

Those ball bearing eyes fall to the table top. "That would mean..." He doesn't want to say it out loud. I don't blame him.

"Two thousand twelve," I supply for him; he pales.

"Two thousand..."

"Twenty-twelve." I nod gently. "I was a kid at the start of the new millennium. I didn't understand the significance, I thought it was just another year." Thinking of all the implications make me dizzy, my face gravitates down to the tabletop.

My companion is having a similar reaction. His voice has lost all sense of command. "I completely forgot about offering you a drink, but now it seems I'll need one as well. I'm afraid all I have is wine and brandy. Which would you prefer?"

"Whichever is stronger."

"Funny, I was thinking just the same." He opens a beautifully gilded and velvet-lined box for a glass decanter of brandy that is the colour of good green tea, and two snifters. He fills them higher than what would be acceptable under normal social circumstances. I am tempted to drain my glass in a single shot, but I refrain from doing so. I drain it in two. Consecutively.

"Why don't you tell me some about your society?" Cutler refills me immediately. I wonder vaguely if he is using the same technique on me as his honourable countrymen used on Native Americans to gain their assets. But therein lies my advantage; I know exactly what he's doing. If I do happen to get more drunk than would be advisable, I can always count on my brain to ramble about useless trivia.

In regards to modern society, I can't think of many good things. You'd think I would be more nostalgic, but I'm still just a bitter old crone. "We may be more technologically advanced but we're still hopelessly immature."

"Immature?"

"Short-sighted would be a better word."

"In what way?"

"We cling to comforting lies rather than face our problems." The comforting lies we learned from you.

"What sort of problems?"

"The usual problems. Sexual exploration. Freedom of speech. The desire for free education, open government, and no one behind the curtain."

"Is that what would you like to change here and now?" he asks dryly, my ambitions will make waves in his social circle.

Before I start being selfish I'll do something good. "Human rights, pensions, welfare, unions. It won't be any good, but it'll be a start. One of our biggest problems in the future is finding renewable sources of energy. We're an entire world dependant on fossil fuels. We start wars for them. Wars with modern weapons. It's scary what people with power will do for a little more power. Kind of makes me wish I was an anarchist but I just don't trust people that much. I guess if I can set you on a more sustainable path now we won't have so much trouble in the future." Always a self-serving breed.

"You sound bitter if you don't mind me noticing." Apparently my cynicism is palpable. And my sense of patience and tact is back at the airport.

Some tragic frustration is hiding in me. "I have every fucking right to be bitter. My best friend is dead, everyone on the plane is dead, and I'm stuck with survivor's guilt. What do I have to lose now?"

"I'm sorry to have upset you-"

"No, Cutler, you didn't upset me, the world upset me. Whatever the fuck is going on is what's upsetting me. You have very little to do with it."

"There must be a reason for what you believe is happening to you." What if there isn't? Reality isn't obliged to explain its reasoning.

"This isn't fair." It really, really isn't. "I'm at a loss, like, what's left for me to hold on to?" Unconsciously, I squeeze the hard shell of my iPod, which has warmed from my grip.

"I am confident you will find something," Cutler says, trying to be cheerful and failing. "Why don't you tell me something about where you come from." How talking about things I've lost is supposed to help me, I don't know, but he has been kind enough to show tact so I'll humour him.

"I don't know where to begin." No lie.

He smiles strangely. "Begin with something revolutionary. Something you would call the defining discovery of your time." A perfect suggestion. I nod appreciatively and smile a little in spite of myself.

"That would be the internet. I guess you could call it a data network. It's an invisible web of information that connects the whole world."

"Was it discovered, or created?"

My eyebrows rise. "Good question. Created. It's like a global Gutenberg press. Incidentally, there is a collection of classic digitized books through something called Project Gutenberg."

"You've come full circle and are making the rounds once more."

"D'you know what the port city was called that was the birthplace of Greek philosophy?"

Cutler blinks bemusedly at my sudden change of topic, but I have a point to make. "Miletus."

"Right. Think of the internet like Miletus, only infinitely larger, containing exponentially more information, and you don't have to travel to get there."

He scoffs half-seriously, teasing, "Shouldn't you have known the name, being that you are a student of philosophy?"

"I have other things on my mind." He doesn't break his business gaze but the hard condescension in his eyes flickers momentarily. I don't think he meant to upset me, so I continue as if nothing happened. "I figure because there is no frontier left in the physical world we created a new strategic reserve of mystery. There's a saying I've heard: If the government shuts down your internet, shut down your government." Cutler gulps and his eyes lose their steel entirely. "It's serious, the internet has grown to represent freedom of expression and thought and opinion. Countries that have oppressive governments are reflected in that respect. China is infamous for that, detaining political activists, journalists, artists, bloggers."

I begin tapping my nails on the desk in 9/8 for a short moment before Cutler finally wraps his head around what I just told him. "Explain to me, if you would," he drawls aristocratically. "how exactly it connects the world."

"Anyone with a computer, which is the device that you use the internet on, can use the internet. You can send messages called email to anyone else with a computer, anywhere in the world in a matter of minutes."

"Minutes?" he repeats, aghast. His whole face goes slack, like a child who found out Santa Claus is just Dad, snarfing down the milk and cookies diligently left out.

"Because it's data and not physical. News is available on the internet, entertainment, music, there's online schools, online books, online businesses and shopping – with delivery services at an added cost – maps, thanks to Google. Google is a verb, it was added to the dictionary because it became so useful and so common. To Google something means to look it up. It's a search engine, like a concentrated library of every kind of information. You search a keyword, anything, and you get relevant results based on your search in less than a second. It actually says in the corner of the page "so many millions of results in some fraction of a second". Crazy, right?"

"Under normal circumstances I would say yes. It's very nearly overwhelming to hear so much about a strange culture in such a short space of time."

"I'm sorry, I just feel like talking... I don't know what else to do."

"It's nothing to be sorry for, but I wasn't finished. Despite that, it is becoming increasingly more obvious that you are not simply creating a plausible story. I don't believe you could have made up this entire culture in the span of two hours. Could you?" he adds, willing himself to be proven wrong just to spare himself the brain pain.

A whimpering laugh escapes ahead of my answer, "I don't know! If I could tell you then I wouldn't know, and if I did know I couldn't tell you. Time travel was something I thought was only in science fiction. But then again, reality usually is stranger than fiction because fiction has to make sense. Reality can do whatever the fuck it wants, apparently."

"I would say otherwise. Reality bends to you not vice versa. If you are convinced that something is true, it is because you want it to be true, and so it is. The conviction and the desires behind that conviction are what constitute reality, therefore what you want to see in reality is what you have." I have given up trying to explain myself and he knows it and he is kind enough to leave me staring at my hands. I realize I have been shaking my head.

What do I want?

I want heroin to be healthy. Here's what I don't want: I don't want to be stuck on a wooden ship in the middle of the eighteenth century, yet here I am. How can we know what reality is? If reality is a free agent, like a full pot of tea, and I am an empty cup filed to the top, there is still tea in the pot but the cup can't hold any more or else it will overflow. Which is more like the other? Objective and subjective perceptions make a whole lot of contrast; the pot holds more than we could ever hope to understand, so what gives us the right to say we do?

I am talking to myself again.

thoughts? (i made some small edits thanks to the constructive criticism i received)

xoxo