The streets are lined with on-lookers, a mob scene of jostling and standing on the tip of ones toes, craning necks hoping to catch a glimpse of the doomed traveler. Something had gone horribly wrong. He had died before, he hadn't enjoyed it. That was what seemed a long time ago but was actually several thousand years in the future. He had been shot, not hanged. He wondered how how long it would take for him to return to life. Not long he thought, if history was any judge. Which it was. One of the things he pondered when he had downtime, as if he ever had downtime anymore, was if his blessing is a curse. Or perhaps his curse is a blessing. He's wearing a noose around his neck and is seventh in the procession of seven. That number follows him wherever he goes. He considers himself lucky as he baby steps toward the inevitable, at least in some fashion or another he'll survive this. He had arrived in Calais at a most inopportune time. There was a siege on and something was about to go amiss, which must have activated the automatic override circuit in the Archive of Time. "That damn thing has a knack for not alerting me before it kicks in," Pollux thought to himself. He had tried a few days ago, roughly 18,000 years from now, to turn the automatic override off and thought he had succeeded. All he wanted was a loaf of bread. There was a man in Calais named George in the 19th century, an exile, who made the greatest bread he had ever tasted. On Earth anyway, the delicacy known as Uquixian Zero Bread was his all-time favorite. Uquixian Zero Bread, a product of the Uquixian Space Outpost orbiting Uquixa IX on the outskirts of the Uquixian Empire, which wasn't so much an empire as it was their home solar system, but, that's another story all together. Uquixian Zero Bread was fascinating because of its unique properties, no matter where you took your loaf of Uquixian Zero Bread it retained zero gravity, hence the name. And its nickname, Floats Bread. Anyway, Pollux had missed George and his delicious bread by several hundred years, arriving in the 14th century by the look of things. The Place d'Armes looks quite new with parts of it, including the future bakery of George, still under construction or reconstruction, Pollux was attempting to figure out which when the procession arrived at the execution site. A crowd had gathered in advance. It was now that Pollux felt out of place. Thinking he'd just pop in and pick up some bread he hadn't bothered to change his clothing for the 18th century, which, he thought wouldn't have mattered anyway seeing as he arrived in the 14th-ish century. His thoughts now turned to what could possibly have gone horribly wrong at this point in time. Nothing seemed out of place. The six men in front of him were carrying keys of some kind, he had heard one of them mention a long siege when he'd asked the man in front of him, a pleasant man named Pierre, about what was going on during the sojourn. Irregardless his clothing choice of black pants and a t-shirt, in addition to his usual jacket and hat, made him stick out like a sore thumb, which was why he had been thrown in line with the other six men. He was making an attempt to retrieve his phone from his inner jacket pocket when he recognized a voluptuous woman sitting next to a regal looking man in a crown. They were on a balcony of the Calais Keep overlooking the spot where they were to be tried or executed, Pollux wasn't sure which. He suddenly felt a twinge in his head and an overwhelming sense that he had just figured out why the automatic override circuit had been activated. The man was certainly a King, the woman he recognized sitting next to him no doubt the Queen and from the look of her, she was expecting. "Oh shit," Pollux mumbled to himself under his breath. He remembered her now, Philippa, he believed her name was. He hoped she wouldn't recognize him. | 