The future night was silent, and Nolan seed peaceful. In the empty gallery, Jenkins stood alone, gazing up at the portrait of a young woman. The painting was protected by a glass case, a clear testant to its importance.
Where the glass case t the wall, a complex, foundational structure of gears was visible. The cogs glinted coldly in the faint moonlight, and Jenkins guessed it was so kind of steam-powered, gear-based anti-theft system.
In the moonlit corridor, the man looked up at the girl in the painting, and the girl in the painting seed to look back at him. A wave of lancholy washed over him for reasons he couldn't explain. Jenkins quickly shook his head, pushing the feeling aside to search for more information.
Though the gallery was deserted at this hour, Jenkins could still gather clues. A newspaper lay carelessly on the bench beside him, half-tucked beneath his hip. The date was printed in the conspicuous top-left corner: Spring, 1882.
"Sixteen years in the future, this ti."
Jenkins processed the answer, pressing a hand to his forehead to quell a budding headache before picking up the paper.
The front page featured a black-and-white photograph of an unfamiliar middle-aged man in formal attire, complete with a ridiculous wig. The headline celebrated the successful completion of the nation's third five-year plan for combating air pollution. A quick scan of the article revealed the man to be the kingdom's Minister of the Environnt and a mber of the Upper House.
"A third five-year plan..." Jenkins mused. "Why does this phased environntal protection act feel so familiar? Don't tell I'm the one who proposed it."
He scanned the page for his own na but found nothing. Instead, he discovered sothing even stranger: the "Fidektri Kingdom" had beco the "Fidektri Empire."
"Only a nation that occupies more than half the continent can call itself an empire... Could it be that the war between Fidektri and Cheslan ended in our country's total victory?"
He could find no answer, so he continued to flip through the pages. But this ti, a wave of exhaustion ca over him so swiftly that he only managed to read the headline "Notice Regarding the Calendar Change for the End of the Eighteenth Epoch (Third Edition)" before he passed out.
"What's going on? An official announcent about the end of the epoch? Is this what a peaceful end looks like?"
This was his first reaction upon waking. But he reminded himself that he was only observing one of many possible futures; it was not a certainty.
"I really feel sick."
The physical discomfort was growing worse, the sensation akin to stepping through the shimring gate of a Mysterious Realm. He heard Chocolate owing nearby, the cat gently pawing at him in an attempt to offer comfort.
"I'm fine," he murmured to his cat. "It'll be over soon."
He had barely spoken the words before he blacked out again, the transition startlingly fast this ti.
The rumble of thunder and the drumming of frantic rain woke him. He was back in the sa familiar corridor, but on this sumr night, the unlit interior was rendered terrifying by the storm. There was no moonlight now. Before he could summon his monocle, he had to rely on the occasional flashes of lightning to see the image on the opposite wall.
It wasn't the painting of a cat chasing a butterfly, not a self-portrait, not a landscape, and certainly not the portrait of Dolores. Curiously, it wasn't a painting at all, but a simple note placed inside the fra.
"Wells Alley, 32B, second floor, room 3. Kill him. Kill him before the end of the third month of 1866!"
The handwriting was slender and looked familiar. After a mont, it dawned on him: it was his own. The "present" he belonged to was indeed the third month of 1866. The note was apparently written for him.
"What is this now?"
He couldn't make any sense of the situation. B-07-1-6233 was for observing an uncertain future. But now, it seed soone from the future knew he would be here at this very mont—and that "soone" was himself.
"A trap? Or is this a genuine hint?"
His experience with A-10-1-0230, the Parchnt from the Future, had made him deeply wary of anything claiming to be from another ti, especially things that tried to give him hints about what was to co.
He was inclined not to trust the note in the fra. He closed his eyes, intending to wait out this "jump." But as he did, his gaze flickered sideways, and he saw another note on the empty part of the bench, this one written in the Latin alphabet.
As he tried to read it, he realized it was Hanyu Pinyin, the romanization system for a language from his past life. It said:
"It's real."
"..."
Jenkins was at a complete loss. He had never heard of B-07-1-6233 allowing soone to receive ssages from their future self.
"This is an uncertain future!"
He told himself again, then glanced down and saw he was stepping on yet another note. This one wasn't Pinyin; it was written in Chinese characters, running diagonally from the bottom left to the top right.
"I know how suspicious I am. Relax. This is real. You will get everything you want."
"This is..."
Jenkins still wasn't sure if this was so elaborate trap ant to harm him, but he committed the information from the frad note to mory. He closed his eyes and waited for the ti to run out. He didn't have to wait long; the familiar fatigue washed over him again, pulling him into unconsciousness.
When he ca to this ti, the physical sickness had reached its peak. He opened his eyes and imdiately began to dry-heave. A passerby looked over with concern, ready to help, but Jenkins managed a weak wave, dismissing them.
The old painter, Grant, soon returned with a glass of warm water. According to him, Jenkins's complexion had worsened, turning as pale as paper. With no mirror, Jenkins couldn't see for himself, but he knew he desperately needed to rest.
He once again refused the suggestion to find a doctor and instead asked the old man to hail an empty carriage. Jenkins knew his condition was grim. As soon as B-07-1-6233's effects wore off, he had to get out of there and find a place to collapse.
The fifth jump occurred seven minutes and thirteen seconds later. When his consciousness returned, he lurched forward from the bench, one hand catching the armrest as he dropped to a knee. His other hand clutched his chest as he gasped for air, his lungs feeling as if they were on fire.
A woman's hand entered his peripheral vision, gently helping him up and guiding him back onto the bench. Her soft, fair hands rested on his forehead, and a green energy flowed from her palms, slowly seeping into his head.
"Uncle Jenkins!"
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