Are you sure this is actually going to work?” you asked, a bit of worry slipping through as Agent Whiskey worked on the final part of his so-called time machine.

You were Jack Daniels a.k.a. work partner. Coworker, partner-in-crime, sometimes jokingly calling each other work husband and work wife. You’d been through countless missions together, watched each other’s backs, drank together, laughed together.

On the surface, Agent Whiskey was all charm, confident, maybe a little cocky even. But you knew him better than that.

Deep down, he’d never gotten over his wife’s death. Never really forgiven himself. No matter how much time passed, there was still a part of him that wanted her back… even if it was just for a second.

“It’s gotta work, honey. We’re close.” He looked up at you, that usual smirk still there. “Ginger helped me test it a few times. Should be fine.”

Once everything was set, he waved you over. There was something different about him now, more focused, but also… hopeful.

“So… once I press this,” he said, pointing at the big red button on the top left, glancing at you, “I could see her again. Don’t get too happy for me.”

Before you could even roll your eyes, he pressed it.

The machine roared to life, lights flashing, energy building in a rising pulse. For quite a while it looked perfect. Then the pulse faltered.

The lights flickered, once, twice, before spiraling out of sync. The steady hum twisted into something jagged, unstable. A burst of sparks shot out, and the entire machine shuddered violently. The time tunnel did open. Just… not the way either of you expected.

A man dropped through it, hitting the floor face-first with a heavy thud. He groaned, pushing himself up slowly, unsteady on his feet. His deep green jacket was caked in dirt, and even from a distance you could tell, yeah, he smelled bad.

“What the…” he muttered, voice rough with pain.

You froze. Because that voice sounded way too familiar. When he finally lifted his head

Yeah. That was when your brain just about short-circuited.

He looked exactly like Agent Whiskey. Same eyes, same jaw, same mustache.

Just older. Worn down. Weathered. Like life had dragged him through hell a few extra decades.

Agent Whiskey reacted first.

Both revolvers were out in a blink, aimed straight at the man. But the old man had his rifle up just as fast. “Who the hell are you?” Agent Whiskey snapped.

“Funny,” the old man shot back, straightening despite the stiffness in his movements. “Was about to ask you the same thing.”

The shouting match started almost immediately, voices overlapping, tension spiking, the constant buzz of the machine filling in the gaps. You barely caught anything coherent over it, except one name.

Joel Miller.

But the machine… didn’t stop.

Within minutes before you finally shut the damn thing down by force, more men started falling out of the tunnel.

And every single one of them had Agent Whiskey’s face.

The guy with the spear, the one you’d just restrained, looked like he’d stepped straight out of some medieval fantasy novel. Leather armor, sun-browned skin, eyes sharp as a blade.

“Oberyn Martell,” he’d said, like that explained anything. “From Westeros.”

What the hell is Westeros?

And then it somehow got worse.

The man who came after him was dressed in pristine white armor, draped in a dramatic white cloak like he belonged in some over-the-top historical epic. “Marcus Acacius. General of Rome.”

Right.

Sure. Across the room, two more of them were already arguing with Whiskey.

One in a worn leather jacket kept slipping into rapid-fire Spanish, clearly pissed off. “Javier Peña,” he introduced himself at some point, frustration written all over his face. He should’ve been in Medellín, chasing Pablo Escobar not dealing with… whatever the hell this was.

The last one stood out by doing absolutely nothing. He wore a perfectly tailored suit, a rose pinned neatly to his collar like he was on his way to a wedding instead of… this. You caught his name in passing, Harry Castillo, businessman in New York.