Hunting.
From his clothes, the devastation around him, and the sounds and smells of the street, he could tell he had arrived in England during the Second World War.
Smoke drifted above shattered rooftops. Somewhere nearby, men were clearing rubble with shovels. A bus rattled past with its windows taped against flying glass.
He caught his reflection in a surviving shop window: a young woman in a sensible coat, her hair pinned neatly beneath a hat.
The body was suitable enough. Finding his target would be considerably harder.
The fugitive could be travelling in anyone.
He adjusted the handbag on his shoulder and headed to the technology drop.
Behind a loose brick in the wall of a bomb-damaged warehouse, he found the package exactly where it was supposed to be. Inside lay a compact hand scanner, its casing disguised to resemble a lady's powder compact.
He switched it on.
A faint pulse appeared on the display.
His target's energy signature.
He followed it through streets littered with broken glass, watching the signal strengthen with every turn.
Then the air-raid sirens began.
People hurried towards the nearest Underground entrance. He tried to press on, but a warden stepped into his path.
"Come along, miss. Whatever it is, it can wait."
It could not wait. He had hunted this man for decades.
Nevertheless, the crowd carried him towards the steps, and he slipped the scanner into his handbag before anyone could take an interest in it.
Below ground, families crowded the platforms. Children slept beneath coats. An elderly woman poured tea from a flask with hands that scarcely trembled.
He found a seat beside a young man who moved his case to make room.
"First bad raid?" the stranger asked.
"Something like that."
The young man offered a reassuring smile.
"You're all right down here."
A heavy impact shook the station.
Dust sifted from the ceiling.
He looked up just as a piece of masonry broke loose.
There was a sharp crack, a burst of pain—
Then nothing.
He awoke seven hours later in a hospital bed, his head bandaged.
He could not remember his name.
He couldn't remember where he lived, what he did, or why the young man beside his bed looked so relieved when he opened his eyes.
"You gave us quite a fright," the stranger said gently.
A nurse examined him, then opened the handbag recovered from the station.
His identity card named him as Miss William Black, aged twenty-four.
The name meant nothing.
Neither did the strange little object beneath his purse.
He turned it over in his hands, unable to find a catch or make sense of the dark glass on its face.
"Some sort of fancy compact?" the young man suggested.
"Perhaps."
They put it away.
The young man was named David. He had helped carry him from the platform and stayed until the doctors assured him he would live.
Then he came back the following afternoon.
And the afternoon after that.
When William finally left the hospital, David waited outside.
The memories did not return.
Life continued anyway.
They walked through streets darkened by the blackout, shared cups of weak tea, and spent evenings listening for aircraft overhead. David made him laugh. He never grew impatient as William searched his mind for something that wouldn't come.
Friendship became love.
They married before the war ended.
Afterwards came a small house, a garden, work, bills, and children.
William learned to stretch a week's housekeeping money, soothe a feverish baby, and recognise David's footsteps before his key turned in the lock.
The mysterious object remained in a box at the back of the wardrobe.
Occasionally, during a clear-out, he would pick it up and wonder about it.
Then somebody would call for Mum, and he would put it away again.
His memory returned twenty-three years into their marriage.
He was folding washing when an image flashed through his mind: a white room, a briefing table, a face changing on a screen.
He gripped the edge of the bed.
More followed.
Training. Time travel. Borrowed bodies.
A fugitive.
A mission.
For several minutes he could scarcely breathe.
He remembered standing in the ruined street. He remembered collecting the scanner.
He remembered why he had been there.
Slowly, he knelt beside the wardrobe and reached into the back.
The box was dusty.
Inside, beneath old letters and a broken brooch, lay the scanner.
His fingers remembered the controls before his mind could recall them.
The display flickered into life.
After all those years, it still worked.
He swept it across the bedroom.
Nothing.
Towards the window.
Nothing.
Then a key turned in the front door.
"Honey, I'm home!"
The scanner lit red.
William stood perfectly still.
Downstairs, David set down his case and hung up his coat.
The signal held steady.
There could be no mistake.
The young man who had helped him in the shelter. The man who had sat beside his hospital bed. His husband.
His target.
He sank onto the edge of the bed.
For twenty-three years, he had shared a home with the man he had crossed time to arrest.
He had fallen in love with him.
Married him.
Borne his four children.
"Darling?" David called. "Everything all right?"
William looked towards the framed photograph on the bedside table. All six of them on a windswept beach, David laughing while the youngest clung to his leg.
The scanner glowed in his hand.
He thought of all the questions he ought to ask.
Had David recognised him? Had he ever suspected? Was every kindness at the beginning something William now needed to doubt?
Then he heard his husband trying to whistle downstairs, badly, as he always did when he was tired.
William switched off the scanner.
He placed it in the box, closed the lid, and pushed it back into the darkness.
There would be time for questions. Perhaps, one evening, he would even find the courage to ask them.
For now, he straightened his dress and checked his hair in the mirror.
Downstairs, David smiled at the sight of him.
"There you are."
William kissed him, resting a hand briefly against his cheek.
"I've got the little ones washed and into bed. They're waiting for their goodnight kiss."
"I'd better report for duty, then."
As David headed upstairs, William went to the kitchen and took his dinner out of the oven.
The familiar creak of the landing came above him, followed by delighted voices.
He set the plate on the table.
What's the point of ruining a good thing, he thought, just to catch an outlaw?
Smoke drifted above shattered rooftops. Somewhere nearby, men were clearing rubble with shovels. A bus rattled past with its windows taped against flying glass.
He caught his reflection in a surviving shop window: a young woman in a sensible coat, her hair pinned neatly beneath a hat.
The body was suitable enough. Finding his target would be considerably harder.
The fugitive could be travelling in anyone.
He adjusted the handbag on his shoulder and headed to the technology drop.
Behind a loose brick in the wall of a bomb-damaged warehouse, he found the package exactly where it was supposed to be. Inside lay a compact hand scanner, its casing disguised to resemble a lady's powder compact.
He switched it on.
A faint pulse appeared on the display.
His target's energy signature.
He followed it through streets littered with broken glass, watching the signal strengthen with every turn.
Then the air-raid sirens began.
People hurried towards the nearest Underground entrance. He tried to press on, but a warden stepped into his path.
"Come along, miss. Whatever it is, it can wait."
It could not wait. He had hunted this man for decades.
Nevertheless, the crowd carried him towards the steps, and he slipped the scanner into his handbag before anyone could take an interest in it.
Below ground, families crowded the platforms. Children slept beneath coats. An elderly woman poured tea from a flask with hands that scarcely trembled.
He found a seat beside a young man who moved his case to make room.
"First bad raid?" the stranger asked.
"Something like that."
The young man offered a reassuring smile.
"You're all right down here."
A heavy impact shook the station.
Dust sifted from the ceiling.
He looked up just as a piece of masonry broke loose.
There was a sharp crack, a burst of pain—
Then nothing.
He awoke seven hours later in a hospital bed, his head bandaged.
He could not remember his name.
He couldn't remember where he lived, what he did, or why the young man beside his bed looked so relieved when he opened his eyes.
"You gave us quite a fright," the stranger said gently.
A nurse examined him, then opened the handbag recovered from the station.
His identity card named him as Miss William Black, aged twenty-four.
The name meant nothing.
Neither did the strange little object beneath his purse.
He turned it over in his hands, unable to find a catch or make sense of the dark glass on its face.
"Some sort of fancy compact?" the young man suggested.
"Perhaps."
They put it away.
The young man was named David. He had helped carry him from the platform and stayed until the doctors assured him he would live.
Then he came back the following afternoon.
And the afternoon after that.
When William finally left the hospital, David waited outside.
The memories did not return.
Life continued anyway.
They walked through streets darkened by the blackout, shared cups of weak tea, and spent evenings listening for aircraft overhead. David made him laugh. He never grew impatient as William searched his mind for something that wouldn't come.
Friendship became love.
They married before the war ended.
Afterwards came a small house, a garden, work, bills, and children.
William learned to stretch a week's housekeeping money, soothe a feverish baby, and recognise David's footsteps before his key turned in the lock.
The mysterious object remained in a box at the back of the wardrobe.
Occasionally, during a clear-out, he would pick it up and wonder about it.
Then somebody would call for Mum, and he would put it away again.
His memory returned twenty-three years into their marriage.
He was folding washing when an image flashed through his mind: a white room, a briefing table, a face changing on a screen.
He gripped the edge of the bed.
More followed.
Training. Time travel. Borrowed bodies.
A fugitive.
A mission.
For several minutes he could scarcely breathe.
He remembered standing in the ruined street. He remembered collecting the scanner.
He remembered why he had been there.
Slowly, he knelt beside the wardrobe and reached into the back.
The box was dusty.
Inside, beneath old letters and a broken brooch, lay the scanner.
His fingers remembered the controls before his mind could recall them.
The display flickered into life.
After all those years, it still worked.
He swept it across the bedroom.
Nothing.
Towards the window.
Nothing.
Then a key turned in the front door.
"Honey, I'm home!"
The scanner lit red.
William stood perfectly still.
Downstairs, David set down his case and hung up his coat.
The signal held steady.
There could be no mistake.
The young man who had helped him in the shelter. The man who had sat beside his hospital bed. His husband.
His target.
He sank onto the edge of the bed.
For twenty-three years, he had shared a home with the man he had crossed time to arrest.
He had fallen in love with him.
Married him.
Borne his four children.
"Darling?" David called. "Everything all right?"
William looked towards the framed photograph on the bedside table. All six of them on a windswept beach, David laughing while the youngest clung to his leg.
The scanner glowed in his hand.
He thought of all the questions he ought to ask.
Had David recognised him? Had he ever suspected? Was every kindness at the beginning something William now needed to doubt?
Then he heard his husband trying to whistle downstairs, badly, as he always did when he was tired.
William switched off the scanner.
He placed it in the box, closed the lid, and pushed it back into the darkness.
There would be time for questions. Perhaps, one evening, he would even find the courage to ask them.
For now, he straightened his dress and checked his hair in the mirror.
Downstairs, David smiled at the sight of him.
"There you are."
William kissed him, resting a hand briefly against his cheek.
"I've got the little ones washed and into bed. They're waiting for their goodnight kiss."
"I'd better report for duty, then."
As David headed upstairs, William went to the kitchen and took his dinner out of the oven.
The familiar creak of the landing came above him, followed by delighted voices.
He set the plate on the table.
What's the point of ruining a good thing, he thought, just to catch an outlaw?
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