November 11th, 1928 New Orleans, Louisiana
The rain that day was relentless — a true autumn storm. Wind tore umbrellas from the hands of ladies and gentlemen rushing for cover, heels clattering over the slick cobblestone streets as they hurried home or ducked into storefronts.
Alastor had just finished his shift at the radio station. When his program ended, he removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose, eyes closed for a brief moment of rest. After allowing himself a few breaths, he rose, stretching until his stiff shoulders loosened. He flipped the switch on the bulky machine that served as the transmitter, slipped on his coat, wrapped a scarf neatly around his neck, returned his glasses to their rightful place, and headed for the door, umbrella in hand.
He bid farewell to Bernard, his colleague, and stepped out into the rain. Passing by the bakery — as he did every evening — he bought a loaf of bread and a Heath Bar. As he packed the items into a paper bag, something flashed outside, catching his attention.
Reggie: “Lightning again, damn it all. Last night it struck my shed clean through — barely put the fire out in time!” the old man grumbled as he counted out the change before handing it over. “Here’s your change, Mr. Alastor. Care for a fresh sponge cake? Just arrived this morning. Folks snatched up nearly all of them — only two left.”
He nodded toward the display, where a golden pineapple sponge cake sat invitingly. After a short pause, Alastor returned the coins with a polite nod.
Alastor: “Wrap the remainder in sponge cake, Mr. Reggie, if you would be so kind.”
Reggie: “That’s more than enough, son. Comes to eighteen cents. Come by again. I’ll be listening to your broadcast tomorrow.”
Alastor was a well-known figure in his city — respected, familiar, spoken of fondly by many.
Another flash of bright white light streaked across the sky just as he passed the house of one of the local inventors — Sir Pentious. The poor man had been attempting to build a time machine for nearly three months now, and most had written him off as delusional. Alastor paid it little mind and continued walking.
Until the third flash hit — and something slammed into his ribs with enough force to nearly knock him off his feet.
He gasped, stumbling back, before lowering his gaze in startled confusion.
A girl. A young girl, to be exact, crumpled against him. Her hair was wild, curly, sticking out in every possible direction. On her head sat some strange contraption covering her ears, a cord trailing from it to a rectangular device in her hand.
And she was wearing… pants?
Alastor blinked slowly. Never in 1928 had he seen a woman brazenly walk the streets in trousers — let alone such indecently short garments paired with a cropped top. And those odd canvas shoes with the word “Converse” printed on them?
Converse?
He shut his eyes once more, hoping perhaps he had imagined it, then cautiously opened them.
No. Unfortunately, he had not.
Alastor: “Pardon me?” he managed, choosing the most polite thing he could think to say instead of the far less refined exclamations swirling in his mind.