Normandy Coast, June 7, 1944
Mud.
Primitive, anaerobic, utterly inefficient sludge, Dr. Juniper Flux catalogued, spitting it from her mouth. Her temporal pod hadn't just crash landed in 1944; it had buried her in the reeking aftermath of D Day. Smoke clawed the sky. Distant artillery thumped like a dying heartbeat.
ERROR: MATERIAL DISPLACEMENT EXCEEDS SAFE PARAMETERS, her Chronitron flashed.
"No kidding," she muttered, shoving the glitching device into her self cleaning tunic. It promptly turned neon pink.
FWUMP BRAAAAAP!
An explosion rocked the crater beside her, followed by a sound like a tuba played by a bear. Through the smoke, a figure emerged. Not running. Strolling.
He bowed, his helmet tilted at a jaunty angle.
"M'lady! Apologies for the theatrics—Fritz's fireworks lack nuance. Sergeant Hank Rigby, at your service."
He offered a hand caked in mud and something unnervingly organic.
"Might I assist you from this… ah… primitive excavation?"
Juni stared. He was objectively beautiful—high cheekbones, eyes like storm clouds—yet he reeked of gunpowder and… beans. His rifle, slung casually over one shoulder, had notches carved deep into the stock.
ANALYSIS: LOCAL MALE. HIGH LETHALITY INDEX. AUDIO/OLFACTORY POLLUTION: EXTREME.
"Your landing strategy," Hank continued, gesturing at her smoldering pod, "lacks subtlety. Though the crater is an improvement. Previous tenant? Rather disagreeable chap. Crack." He mimed a sniper shot. "Resolved that."
Juni's Chronitron emitted a grinding shriek.
ERROR: UNIVERSAL TRANSLATOR OFFLINE.
Hank's next words dissolved into Elizabethan poetry:
"Thou art more lovely and more temperate than—"
BRROOMPH!
A fresh wave of… bio emissions… hit her.
PURGE MODE: ACTIVATED.
Juni's vision whited out. With a feral shriek, she snatched a muddy boot from the mire and hurled it at Hank's head.
"SUBOPTIMAL AUDITORY/OLFACTORY STIMULI! CEASE!"
Hank ducked, the boot sailing past his ear.
"A boot! How… practical! Though lacking in romantic potential. Allow me!"
He scooped up a dented canteen, bowing again.
"For the lady! Aged to perfection in the loam of Libe—"
CRACK CRACK CRACK!
Bullets tore the earth near them. Three German soldiers crested the ridge, shouting.
Hank sighed.
"Rude."
In one fluid motion, he unslung his rifle, dropped to a knee, and fired.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Three shots. Three crumpled forms.
"Thus perish interruptions," he declared, blowing smoke from the barrel. "Now, M'lady—about that canteen—"
PURGE MODE: SUSTAINED.
Juni snatched the canteen and hurled it at the nearest corpse.
"INEFFICIENT KINETIC EXCHANGE RATIO!"
Hank beamed.
"Marvelous form! Truly, a fury as untamed as time itself! Might you consider flinging something toward the enemy next? A grenade, perhaps? I'll provide covering verse!"
He pulled a pin from a grenade with his teeth (loosening it without removing) and pressed it into her hand.
"Channel the chaos! For science! For… whatever future birthed you!"
Juni stared at the grenade. Then at Hank's earnest, mud streaked face. The Chronitron on her wrist sparked feebly.
OBSERVATION: SUBJECT RIGBY. PARADOXICAL COMBINATION OF DEADLY PRECISION, VERBOSE COURTESY, AND PRIMITIVE DIGESTIVE PROCESSES. FASCINATING.
A reluctant laugh bubbled up in her throat, sharp and unfamiliar. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the absurdity of discussing grenade trajectories with a flatulent poet sniper in hell.
"Fine," Juni spat, hefting the grenade. "But stop rhyming!"
Hank winked.
"For you, Lady Flux? Anything. Except perhaps silence. And beans. Never the beans."
BRAAAP.
As German shouts grew closer, Juni Flux—PhD, Temporal Anthropologist, Purge Mode survivor—took aim. Hank Rigby—Silver Tongue, Windmaker, and unlikely anchor in time—began reciting Macbeth.
The most chaotic love story in history had begun. With a bang. And a whiff.