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Katia is breathing hard. The train rumbles across the countryside; quickly, as all machinery moves, but she feels trapped within its walls. She is suffocating, and she knows it. Scenery passes by so fast that it is practically a blur, but it is not fast enough. It is never fast enough. 

Katia knows deep down that she should stretch. She could, here, on the train; it doesn’t require that much effort to touch your toes, and she does need to loosen her muscles. 

But the constant press of people watching, judging is overwhelming in the worst sense. So Katia knows that she cannot bring herself to do anything but watch. And so she does. 

.

The girl seats ahead of her is a nun; or at least one in training. Katia knows from the dress and the ramrod straight posture. The man across from her is important; she can tell that much. He pulls paper out of his briefcase and starts scribbling. Boring. Katia loses interest and turns away— for a second; because suddenly, the papers are gone, and he is opening a violin case. 

The instrument is gorgeous, and Katia abruptly feels an urge to play. The man looks up and smiles at her. 

“Ah- do you play?” 

Katia reddens instantly; the words flying in over her head. She can hear them of course, but she’s frozen: it’s as if she’s watching everything play out like a moviegoer in front of a giant screen. 

The train pulls into the station, and Katia snaps out of her trance, still red as she grabs her belongings and pushes her way out of the compartment. And what she sees is not Essex, and suddenly, she is stuck again. 

Top

Gabria~

“I’m not going in first,” I whisper. A Scot in an Irish pub is bound to start a brawl of some sort. 

“Oh, yer scardies,” Laura says, pushing past me. “Standing around here is a whole lot of boxollogy. Let’s crack on now, before the dossers catch up to us.”

“What did she say?” Jack whispers. 

“Don’t ask,” I mutter. 

She bursts open the door, and proudly steps in. They don’t pay much attention to her or her bright red hair, as if it’s completely normal. 

“Newcomers, eh?” the bartender announces heartily with a heavy Irish accent. “They’re out for a good craic. O’JEFFRY, YOU STOOK! Get you noodle out of the clouds, and get your behind over here.”

A man with orange hair walks over, a bit intoxicated, and greets Laura. 

“I’m the equaliser on good days, eh? Where you from m’Lady?”

“Galway,” she replies with a smile. “Born and raised.”

I walk up to Laura. “Really, shouldn’t we just ask the question and leave-“

“Oi! We’ve got a Scot over ‘ere,” O’Jeffry laughs. 

“Great,” I hiss, looking away after Laura looks at me apologetically. 

Jack’s already at the counter, asking the bartender the obvious question while Laura and I distract the man. 

“Where in Scotland, lassie?” he asks snarkily. 

I raise an eyebrow and turn around. “Pluscarden, far fair to the eye than any county in the Emerald Isle.”

“Oh, you picking a fight with an Irishman lass?” he snarls. “I do suppose the Scots could never keep the peace, but I didn’t think they’d be this much of a eejit.”

“Oh you two-“ Laura begins. 

“I’m the eejit?” I scoff, interrupting her. “They only eejit around here is you and your band of hackit, howlin dobbers.”

“Enough,” Laura says crossly. 

“Aye no, this woman picked the fight with me. What happened to your vows, nun? Why ye be picking a reef with me?”

“Why you-“

“I’ve got the answer, let’s go,” Jack says, walking up to me. 

I scowl at the Irishman once more before turning and leaving much to the beckoning of Laura. 

“Well, what did the bartender say?” I ask shortly as we reach the outside.

“The New York Times is where it’s at, home to the finest news rack. But be careful of the large people and company, or else you might just fall off clumsily.”

“Obviously he hasn’t a degree in rhyming,” Laura jokes. 

Suddenly I feel a tap on my shoulder. 

I whip around an see a middle aged man, in a suit, looking back at me concerned. 

“Hi. I’m Floyd Martin. This riddle told me to come to your group, I’m not sure....”

“Ah yes, we got those too,” Katia replies. “Come along.”

We quickly accept him and walk to the large building, the New York Times HQ. Jack walks in first, and we follow him, one by one. 

“Large people,” he mutters. “Maybe we need to talk to the CEO?”

Lola nods and walk up to a woman at the front. “We need to speak to the CEO. It’s urgent. We have a huge scoop.”

She nods quickly. “Of course. I’ll call him. Start heading up there.”

 Lola nods and heads to the elevator, the rest of us following. 

What seems to be billions of stories later, we finally arrive at the designated top floor for the office of the CEO, Mark Davidson (I saw some pamphlets and brochures). As soon as he sees us, he ushers us into his office through the glass doors.

I quickly open them as everyone one else files in from behind.

“She said a large group had a scoop. Well? What is it.”

I clear my throat. “Will you help us pass the test?”

“Oh. Oh of course. Sorry for my excitement.”

For a split second, I feel sorry for the man when I realise that he is helping the Man in the Blue Coat too. 

“There is a place far and wide, that produces chemicals like cyanide. World War Two was it’s test, now the building is put to rest.”

“When will these riddles end?” Christopher shouts angrily. 

The CEO nervously glances around before opening his mouth to speak. “Only five more, fellas-“

Suddenly he’s cut short by a sudden shatter of an entire window pane. He falls flat on his desk, this time a bullet wound in his back. 

Riya runs to the window and look down then up, trying to pinpoint the shooter while Christopher goes to inspect Davidson. 

“Dead. But unfortunately that’s quite obvious.”

“Wait. I see something!” Riya exclaims. “The next building over, a man looking around...wait. He’s saying something in morse to another building through flashing lights...tenth street north, southbound...chemical plant...gardens...oh no. He sees me,” Riya says quickly as she tries to turn around. Suddenly another gunshot rings out, and I look in horror towards Riya. 

She stands frozen, wavering on the window sill, blood slowly oozing from her gunshot wound. 

“Riya,” I whisper, and everything else is inaudible. 

She wavers again and a single tear slips from her wide brown eyes before she falls back and out of the window. 

“No!” I scream, and leap for the window, looking down. Her drifting figure gets farther and farther away. 

“Riya!” Laura sobs. 

I stagger back and then collapse in the middle of the floor, my face in my hands, not sure as to what to do. I’ve seen death before and looked it in the eye plenty of times. But wait. If she died in the past...doesn’t that mess up the fabrication of the future present we’re all from? 

“We barely knew her,” someone adds. “But this has to be the saddest I’ve been in a while.”

My head shoots up and my body stands up just as fast. “This is bad. This is very very bad.”

“Obviously,” Lola says quietly with a sob. 

“I don’t mean that,” I reply. 

I look towards Jack. 

“She’s dead. But she died in the past. I’m overthinking this, I’m sure, but this has to mess something up from where we’re from.”

Jack nods and Martin speaks. “You’re right. Time travel is a hard thing to dabble with. We need to get things done fast before we rip a hole in the space time continuum.”

We quickly exit the building, leaving a tip by his desk saying we found him this way, and walk down the busy street. 

“The old chemical implant,” Jack says. “I heard about it in U.S. History. It’s on the edge of the city, so we’ll have to take the train, but it used to also be a experimental place for the American scientists around this time, especially when they tested chemical weapons for the Second World War.”

We head to the train station we came from (luckily we haven’t wandered too far away), and get everything sorted. After an hour of paying for the tickets (Jack’s American currency switched to the old bills from the 40s when he got off the first train) and waiting for the train, we finally board it. Luckily not too many passengers are in our compartment, but we’re still careful to act normal and to not draw too much attention to ourselves. This train is smaller with more limited seating, so I sit between Jack and Laura, with the other three on the other side. 

I think back to the pub. I definitely acted out of my vows there. Not only was I foul mouthing and insulting (although the Irishman was barely hurt by it), but I also put loyalty to country above loyalty to the nun’s vows. I sigh and try to think around it, but it stays in my head. I glance towards Jack, and look away, my face reddening. That was unorthodox. To think that I would begin to have any feelings beyond friendship for anyone...the nuns would shame me and reprimand me for it back in Scotland. I can’t take it. I foulmouthed and have feelings. Sister Agatha was right, along with Sister Tully. I’ll never be a nun. Oh, and I sing outside of chapel too. 

I sigh and take off my veil. I ignore the questioning glances of the others, and instead at the next stop (although it’s not ours), I throw the veil out the train doors so it blows away in the cold, more rural breeze before I sit back down. 

Just a note about my character, Christopher:

I seem to have given some of you the impression that he's irritable, agressive, and grumpy. That's not really what I had in mind when I created him. He tries hard to think logically, so the reason he doesn't like the trail of riddles and clues is because he doesn't know where they lead or how they relate back to all the people who've died. He's also stressed right now because he feels like he's failing as a doctor, due to the fact that he's been unable to save the people. He might not openly show how upset he is by the deaths (he's a professional, after all), but they've really rocked him. So he's not angry about the clues, he's upset by the fact that they're just running around following them with no plans for the future. 

Please post, humans. It's no fun if you make a character and never write a single post.