The Timeservers

Chapter 31

New York City, New York

The Spire

Floor 92, Spectre Floor

December 16, 227 P.F.E

1947 hours

Leo was curled on his bed for the fourth, fifth, who knows how many hours. It was enough time for him to lose the ability or desire to perform basic math, though that might have been the head trauma. The head trauma doesn't help anything at all and presents itself in the form of a pounding headache that only gets worse if Leo opens his eyes, moves, or thinks about something too hard.
He's glad that he can't really think. He'd rather not think about what had happened. He'd rather not think about what his friends might consider of him now, or if they even noticed how he'd frozen for minutes while they struggled and needed his help.
Leo pulls his pocket watch out from under his sweatshirt. He'd dressed up again in the things he was found in. He even brought out the shoes but hadn't bothered to put them on. He'd let them fall to the side of the bed, unlaced and in a heap like they must have been when he'd worn them as a Historian.
Sometimes there were inklings of what his life before must have been like. There's the feeling of a warm and sunny place, a safe place that could only be described as home. There's the vague feeling of unease left over from whatever that time held, and who knows what that time even was.
He's not sure what time he must have belonged to in North America. When he'd seen Historians on missions or briefings, even interacted with them, something seemed off. He just assumes that he hasn't come across his time yet.
Still, Leo can't help but wonder if he doesn't belong to any time, or if he belongs to a time unknown. Or if he's evenHistorian.
The revelation that he might not be a Historian, at least not in the traditional sense, had come late one night in early November. He'd been feeling particularly isolated and hated for being that day and made the hazardous decision to experience his own kind for a while. Since getting out of the tear he'd never actually spoken to a Historianalone. Hound or Kelly had always been on the missions with him, or Sophia was in his ear when he'd talked to the ones in New America.
Leo took the scheduled shuttle to the mainland, they went out once every fifteen minutes or so. He took the shuttle going the opposite way of the Docks, just in case. He walked for an hour just to get to the Docks from there and was practically frozen by the time he reached the first few rundown buildings.
Another fifteen minutes of walking and he couldn't take the cold any longer. There was a small restaurant, run down and sleazy, selling Historian foods that were poorly disguised as gastronomic innovations. The restaurant was almost empty, it was three in the afternoon, but it was still uncomfortably warm. The heat hit Leo and set his whole body prickling to the point of longing for the cold again instead of the painful pins and needles.
The restaurant was mostly just wobbly tables and amateur art on the walls. There was the wallpaper that was peeling and ripped. Chipped linoleum of the most anemic green lined the floor though some tiles were entirely missing to reveal the crumbling cement beneath.
Leo went to the bar, shaking a little. He sat down on one of the squeaky and tilted stools and then tapped the counter as he waited for an employee to greet him.
By the time an employee emerged from the back of the restaurant, Leo had thawed. He'd had to punch his legs several times to get them slightly back to normal but he was warmer.
The employee picked up a notepad and positioned himself in front of Leo. He had a scruffy white beard and dark hair greying at the temples. One look at him betrayed his former life as a Historian. Tattoos curled up his hands and forearms, going all the way under his shirt to just past what his open collar exposed of his clavicle. They were a confusing mix of hieroglyphics, ancient Chinese figures, Latin words, and historical items. A three-mast ship sailed across the back of one hand while scenes and patterns from Greek pottery twisted around his exposed forearms.
"What can I get for ya', friend?" the man asked, slapping a laminated menu onto the bar in front of Leo. Leo glanced at it, grinning at the names of the food items; bangers and mash, bubble and squeak, it's a traditional pub and an inside joke for anyone who knows about history.
"I'll take the fish and chips; do you wrap it in a newspaper?"
"Can't get our hands on something that ancient, we do our best though. You've got a thicker accent than I've ever heard. Whereabouts you from back in the old country?" the man asked, tugging at his ear and sliding the menu back towards himself.
"I'm not sure actually, Alberta maybe."
"Tearjerker, huh? You couldn't'a come from Alberta, they've got more of a lilt over there. You also haven't capped everythin' with an eh or a yee-haw. Prob'ly from somewhere closer to th' FrozenCoast. They've all got th' thickest accents you c'n hardly even understand what they're sayin'. Might as well be talkin' ol' English if we didn't already have a group doin' that. How long ya' been over here for?" the man wondered, turning to yell something into the kitchen before giving his attention back to Leo.
"Almost a year now. I lost all my memories in the tear though. I might as well have been here for my whole life."
"If only that were th' case. You'dprob'ly be up in some penthouse 'stead of down here. All we c'n hope for is that our kids get drafted into them Guardians. I wish I could say I wus' a tearjerker myself. I was just a nasty turncoat. The olden' days weren't for me. Being a tearjerker makes you a little less bad in their eyes. They don't have to look at you an' wonder if you saw their friend on the frontlines, took aim. You're just a little more innocent than the rest of us."
"Please, they don't care about something like that. They care about having an enemy. If there's someone they can say is dirtier it makes them look all the cleaner. They're grey as the rest of us. They just put themselves in a more flattering light to make them look brighter than the rest. Good, good. They don't know what good is until they've taken in an enemy and treated him right instead of shoving them where they don't have to look at them and calling it charity," an old man at the end of the bar growled. He looked at Leo with watery blue eyes with crow's feet fanning out from them. It's hard to think that the man ever smiled though. He had deep frown lines, so deep that they could have been drawn on with black marker. He looked like the weight of the world was dropped on his shoulders one day by a passer-by and he'd been forced to carry it ever since.
"Hey, we're lucky that they took using. People like you an' me would have been treated far worse at home," the man behind the bar argued.
"Sure. They took us in alright. Like I said earlier, the same shade of grey, a different cast of light. I don't think I came here by choice."
"You've had a few too many, pal," the bartender sighs and moves to take the old man's glass.
"I'm not sneaking any drink. I know what they do here, just like I know that whatever that boy is, he's not one of us."
"Hey, if I weren't a Historian then how would I know about things like the Gettysburg address? 'Four score and seven years ago.' I know about Camp X. I know that there's this weird secret language with handkerchiefs that ladies use to tell gentlemen they're interested. I know things."
"History can be taught. You are no Historian. You're not New, that's for sure. So what are you? A sleeping beauty awoken from the Frozen Coast?" The old man stalked toward Leo, ready to pounce the minute Leo betrays himself for what he truly is.
"I'm a Historian."
"You're worse than the 'tender. You'll believe anything the Guardians tell you, huh? That's who told you what you were, right?"
Leo backed away, bracing for a fight. A sudden ding startled him and the man as the bartender turned to get Leo'sorder.
"It's to go, son. Stay safe out there. It's a jungle." The bartender pushed the food towards Leo, with a free coffee to keep him warm outside.
Leo nodded and took the food. He glanced over at the old man once then ran out of the restaurant. He ran a few blocks before finally stopping in front of a sketchy building with a mean-looking alley beside it. There were people there with so many marks that their sleeves were black, people who just couldn't help themselves. Their cheeks were hollow and they shook. Leo gave them the food and then ran the rest of the way to the shuttle pick-up point with that weight removed and a new weight settling in.