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THE WATCHER

Rowan Landry eyedthe whiskey on the bar as their mouth watered with longing. But their mind needed to stay clear if they were to get through this excursion. The whole blasted thing seemed damned from the start, but the credits the United World Governments issued were too good to pass up, and Rowan was the best when it came to the big picture, so the UWG had come to them first.

“Drink, uh, mister?” the bartender dressed like a saloon girl behind the bar asked them, face colored pink as she worried her lip between her teeth.

Rowan grimaced. Why couldn’t people ask for pronouns when they were confused instead of guessing? Even in the 22nd century, where multiple genders had become mainstream, few people got it right in practice.

“Mx. Watcher. And water, please,” they corrected, killing two birds with one stone. They’d learned long ago that refusing to give their actual name gave them an edge in the form of intimidation and mystery.

Rowan grabbed a seat at the wooden table farthest from the saloon doors.

The old west held no particular fascination for them. Sure, the winding dirt streets, complete with tumbleweeds, shops, and even horse and buggies, ensnared them in the illusion of immersion in the current time and place surrounding the TCR. But those horses dropped shit that stank, and the dust burned Rowan’s eyes. With realistic tech like that, why they had to travel back in time in the first place was a question at the forefront of their mind, especially now that excursions were out of the question. Seemed a waste to stick around when they’d never pass through unquestioned in a town as small as this Devils Creek was supposed to be.

Rowan downed their water and leaned back in the chair, trying to ignore the stares from all the costumed patrons. Bennet had warned them they were ‘breaking the fourth wall’ illusion, but they were here to do a job, not help bolster the Bennets’ billion-dollar assets. This was serious, and not one of these people appeared to be conscious of anything but their own enjoyment.

The boss had warned them not to interfere too much in the Bennet’s business venture. But no one had anticipated the disastrous mishap, though Rowan doubted that’s what it was. This was no accident. Not when they’d been so careful and spent so much money on this resort. It was too perfect to be a coincidence, and in Rowan’s experience, there was no such thing anyway.

They were also pretty certain that Ms. Bennet thought the same thing, despite her protests.

Frowning, they glanced out the giant glass wall encasing the resort. It was supposed to be a bustling city where no one would pay attention to a few outsiders, not a desert landscape where they stuck out like a cactus in Hawaii. Damn it. They should’ve put a stop to the whole thing before leaving. Now I have to make sure no one fucks up the timeline. Hadn’t these people ever heard of Chaos Theory? A fucking butterfly flutters and it causes a tsunami or something. For all Rowan knew, they’d already crushed a bigger creature than a butterfly, and half the people on the ship would disappear, never to have been born when they returned.

The idea that Bennet was pulling something already sat heavy on their mind too. She was avoiding them, and that meant something. Something bad, they were sure. And all she’d given up so far was, “We’re working on it.” It would be a hell of a lot easier if she’d let them in on whatever she suspected was going on. Not everyone was her enemy. Distrustful, weary, and annoyed, yes, but enemy, no.

Whatever the reasons, it wasn’t enough, so Rowan was going to have to start questioning people. And as a rule, Rowan hated people, especially rich, privileged people like those on this ship or whatever the hell they called it.

That whisky was looking better with every moment.

Rowan sighed and played with their empty glass. Hydropods would be so much better for the environment.

They’d surmised it would be near to impossible to wheedle their way on to Bennet’s good side, assuming she had one. So, it was time to stop procrastinating and start asking questions. Rowan eyed the bartender who’d misgendered them. Bartenders, historically speaking, knew a lot about people. They’d start with her as soon as she was done fixing drinks for the two cowboys that had walked in wearing full costumes, except for one who either forgot or decided to leave on his shiny, new cross-trainers.

Rowan smirked and stood up. A mistake like that could cost a lot if someone in 1888 saw it. Time to get to work and the bottom of what was happening so the future would remain safe.