Celestino's chest heaved. He tried again, concentration sharp, will focused, but the world didn't bend. The museum, the trees, the eerie quiet of 2025—nothing changed.
He stumbled, tripping over a root, and the small, shallow hole he had been standing on turned into a minor disaster. Loose dirt tumbled into the shallow foundations of the memorial. A beam inside the glass-fronted museum trembled.
"Oh no," whispered Joseph B., peeking from the truck. "He's destabilizing the site!"
Benny rushed forward, pulling him upright. "See? Every action has a reaction. You think brute force will solve this—you'll just make everything worse."
Celestino felt a shame that cut deeper than fear. He had acted alone, impulsively, and now he had endangered not only himself but the group, and perhaps—he imagined—the fragile rescue around him.
He sank to the ground, head in his hands. If I can't go home… if I can't fix this… what am I supposed to do?
Benny knelt beside him. "You're going to survive," she said. "But surviving doesn't mean fighting the impossible with your old self. You'll need to change—think differently. Work with us. Work with this world."
Celestino looked at her, then at the trucks, the other men inside, their eyes wide, trusting, scared. He realized that trying to force the past had nearly destroyed them all. He exhaled, shaking.
He was not the same man who had sat in the truck that morning. He would have to be stronger, smarter, calmer. He would have to let go.
And maybe, just maybe, he could help the others survive.
The convoy rolled into the clearing, the trucks rattling over gravel that had no right to be there. Lights glinted off steel and glass; tents and small buildings hummed with energy unlike anything the 23 had ever known. For a moment, the men thought it was a Resistance outpost—they had been prepared for secrecy and danger—but the scale, the machines, the quiet order—it was wrong.
Benny stepped out first, her posture calm, authoritative. Eddie, the dog, stayed at her side, scanning the edges of the camp. She waved, and the men followed, hesitant.
"Welcome to the basecamp," she said simply. "You're safe now. But… there's a lot you don't understand yet."
Celestino's stomach tightened. Safe? Safe from what? He tried to make sense of the lights, the quiet hum of vehicles that seemed alive.
From behind a low building, three men approached—tall, broad-shouldered, identical in posture, though one was black and the other two were white. They moved with effortless coordination.
"These are the mission leaders," Benny said. "Lou and Augustin. The other one, who you probably already seen, is Kyle."
The men nodded politely, eyes sharp. "You survived because we made it possible," Kyle said. "And because you trusted—well, some of you—to fight, even in the worst conditions."
Augustin added, voice quiet but firm, and, a reassuring detail to them, in French "And because we follow the protocol. History can't be broken lightly."
Celestino stared. "Protocol? You're… you're not French… not Resistance."
Benny's lips twitched. "We're not from your time."
A ripple of whispers passed through the group. "Not… from our time?" whispered Rino. "Then… where? When?"
"Later," Benny said. "Much later. But that's not important right now. What matters is that you're alive, and you're not going back to 1944 Paris. Not ever."
Arpen's face went pale. "Not back? You… what do you mean? I—I can't see my home again?"
"No," said Lou Grover. "Even if you tried, returning would put you right back on that wall, or worse."
Celestino's chest constricted. I can't go home… I can't fix this. He bolted toward the edge of the clearing, ignoring Benny's shouted command.
"Celestino, stop!" she barked.
He slammed his hands against a low metal console, closed his eyes, trying to picture the streets of Madrid, the smell of bread, the tram sounds, his old apartment. Nothing happened. The forest remained. The memorial-museum loomed behind him, silent and indifferent.
"You're making it worse," Augustin Dubeau said quietly, stepping forward. "Every action has a reaction. Every attempt to force the past will fail. You need to understand that first, before you act again."
Celestino's hands shook. "I… I just need to go back!"
Kyle put a hand on his shoulder. "You can't. Not yet. Not ever. Try to understand that."
Benny crouched, voice low, calm: "You're angry, confused, scared—that's normal. But you have a choice. Panic or action. And action here doesn't mean brute force. It means learning, adapting, surviving."
The rest of the 23 watched her, some wide-eyed, some whispering to each other. For the first time, the magnitude of their displacement hit them. Safe—but lost in a world that had no place for them.
Celestino's knees buckled. He sank to the ground, panting, head in his hands. Around him, the hum of the basecamp continued: computers, unseen machinery, and the quiet vigilance of Eddie, the dog, who pressed close to him, sensing his fear.
Arpen knelt beside him, steadying him. "You're alive," he said softly. "That's the first step. The rest… we'll figure it out. Together."
Celestino looked up, tears streaking dirt from his cheeks. The world around him shimmered with impossible technology, lights reflecting in the glass walls of the memorial behind them. And he understood, with crushing clarity, that nothing—nothing—was as it had been.
And yet… he was alive.
Celestino was still crouched on the gravel, trying—and failing—to summon a fragment of his old life, when a soft, firm voice cut through the hum of the basecamp.
"Everyone, please," the woman said. She stepped forward, carrying a small tablet in her hands, the glow of the screen reflecting off her gentle features. Her brown hair was pulled back neatly, and her eyes had a clarity that immediately drew the group's attention.
Benny gestured toward her. "This is Eleanor, Augustin's wife. She'll help you get your bearings."
Eleanor smiled, just enough to ease tension without undercutting the gravity of the moment. She knelt beside Celestino, resting a steady hand on his shoulder.
"You're safe now," she said softly. "All of you. Your families… for those of you who had parents, siblings, loved ones—they will be safe in this timeline. You won't have to worry about the Vel d'Hiv, or Auschwitz, or any of the horrors you left behind."
Wolf blinked, incredulous. "Safe? But… my parents…"
Eleanor shook her head gently. "They were protected. You survived because they were spared the consequences of this war, thanks to the work my team and the Breachers did. You were rescued before fate caught up. That's why you're here."
Thomas swallowed hard. "But… we can't go back?"
"No," she said, voice calm but unwavering. "Not in the way you imagine. The past you remember… it's gone. The world you knew is gone. What you have now is this: safety, a chance to live, and a world you can begin to understand."
She stood and gestured at the glowing screens, strange machines, and odd devices surrounding the camp. "This is your new reality. And to live in it, you have to learn how it works."
She tapped the tablet in her hand. "These—cell phones—allow you to communicate instantly across distances. That—" she pointed to a large flat screen glowing in the corner of the tent—"is a television. It can show moving images from anywhere in the world, at any time of day. We'll teach you everything you need to know, one step at a time."
Celestino tried to speak, but no words came. His mind was racing: the streets of Paris, the forest at Mont-Valérien, the firing squad—they all seemed impossibly close, yet vanished.
Eleanor crouched again beside him, voice softer now. "You may feel lost, frightened, angry. That's normal. But remember why you're alive. Remember why this rescue had to be permanent. Everything you see around you—the technology, the food, the safety—it exists because someone chose to save you completely, not just once, but forever."
Celestino felt his chest tighten, a mixture of grief and relief. He glanced at the trucks where the others had gathered, the younger boys whispering among themselves. For the first time, he understood the scale of what had happened: 81 years separated them from the lives they thought they would return to.
Eleanor gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "You are here. You are alive. And now, it's time to begin learning how to live."
Slowly, hesitantly, the men rose and began following her toward the tents and workshops. Every step brought them farther from their past—and closer to a future they had never imagined. Celestino's legs shook, but he kept moving. He had failed at going back, yes—but maybe now, under Eleanor's guidance, he could learn how to move forward.
Minutes later, the men were led into the compound's washrooms, modest but clean and modern. Hot water flowed from taps in ways none of them had seen; the sensation of warm showers after months of cold, rationed baths brought tears to some eyes. Wolf shivered with relief, while Georges laughed nervously, water dripping from his hair, the first laugh in months that felt more than fear.
Next came food. Plates of warm, cooked meals, meat and vegetables, bread, fruit. Maurice hesitated at first, scanning for poison, then hesitantly ate and muttered, "I… I don't believe it. We're alive and being fed like kings!"
Clothing followed—simple, durable garments, completely unlike the uniforms and tattered clothes they had worn. Socks and shoes fit perfectly, and for the first time, Celestino noticed how strange it was to feel comfortable. No dirt, no exhaustion pressing on every limb.
Finally, the medical team checked them over. Minor wounds were cleaned, bruises noted, injections given. Emeric winced, then relaxed as the doctor explained each step. "You're alive. Your bodies survived what should have killed them. That's something extraordinary."
Once the practicalities were complete, Eleanor guided the group to a demonstration area. A large table held various devices: cell phones, tablets, and small computers. Nearby, a flat-screen television blinked on, showing a news broadcast from a city none of them recognized.
"First," Eleanor began, "this is a cell phone. It allows you to communicate instantly with anyone else who has one. Watch." She tapped a few icons, and a video call connected to Benny, who waved from another building.
Celestino leaned forward, frowning. "So… you can speak across… the air? No wires?"
"Exactly," Eleanor said. "No wires. Just signals."
Thomas, the youngest, grabbed a device and fiddled nervously. "It's… small. But so fast!" His eyes shone.
Georges poked at the screen, accidentally opening an app that flooded it with maps and glowing blue lines. "What is this? A map of… everywhere?"
"Yes," Eleanor said, smiling patiently. "This shows the world. You can see locations, movement, and routes instantly."
Rino tried to grasp a tablet like it was a ball, frowning at the smooth glass. "And this… tells us where to go?"
"Yes," she replied. "Or where anyone else is. It's not magic. It's information—real-time, everywhere."
Nearby, a small garage held a row of sleek military vehicles. Benny and Kyle gestured for the group to take a closer look.
"What are they called"? Joseph, the chemical engineer asked, clearly interested.
"Humvees," Kyle said. "HighMobilityMultipurpose Wheeled Vehicles, They run on electricity. No fuel, no combustion engines. Quiet. Efficient. You'll get used to them, but they're nothing like the trucks you came in on."
Spartaco's eyes widened. "What are they used for?"
"Everything," Augustin said dryly. "And they're bulletproof and armored as well."
Missak chuckled, despite himself. "The world you've brought us into… it's unbelievable."
Eleanor led the group to a large screen in the living space. "And finally, the television. You can watch moving images from across the globe. Real-time. You can learn what's happening, keep in touch, even… understand this new world."
Celestino, still dazed, stared at the screen in front of him. News images of skyscrapers, flying drones. The feeling of wonder was quickly tempered by fear.
"This… this isn't our world," he muttered.
"No," Eleanor said gently. "It's your world now. And you need to accept it to survive. You can't go back, Celestino. Not to your past. Not to Paris. Not to the day you thought was your last. But you can learn to live here, safely, and maybe even… thrive."
He swallowed hard, feeling the enormity of her words. The others were absorbed in devices, vehicles, maps, even Eddie sniffing curiously at a tablet.
"I don't… know if I can do this," Celestino whispered.
Eleanor knelt beside him. "None of you can do it alone at first. But together, step by step, you will. The world has changed. You've survived impossible odds. Now, the next challenge isn't death—it's life. And it's waiting for you, right here, right now."
Slowly, Celestino looked at the glowing screen, the strange vehicles, the other men testing their new shoes and clothes. Fear still churned in his chest, but for the first time, a spark of determination flared. I may not understand this world… but I can learn it. I have to.
The group had entered the future. There was no going back.
Scene: Eleanor and Emeric – The Fall of an Ideal
Emeric (a Hungarian and a hardened Resistance fighter, stumbled out of the chaos of the time-jump, his mind reeling from the sight of the glowing date: February 21, 2025. But the shock of the new century was instantly eclipsed by the sight of Rose. She wasn't just beautiful in a way he recognized; her appearance, her ease of movement, and the quiet authority in her voice spoke of a freedom he couldn't have imagined a woman possessing in his time. He watched, mesmerized, as she moved through the hectic basecamp with a calm competence, coordinating the medical checks and debriefings for his bewildered comrades—Wolf, Léon, and the others. Emeric, who was accustomed to a world where women were either confined to domestic roles or driven by desperate necessity, had never encountered a woman who was so effortlessly in control, so sharp-witted, and yet possessed a radiating warmth. For a man who had just lost 81 years of history, Rose was not just a woman; she was the most intoxicating, bewildering glimpse of the future. The metallurgical worker, who had faced down the German firing squad, suddenly found himself speechless, realizing he had just crossed not only a vast span of time but an entire social chasm, all embodied in her presence.
Rose finally noticed his intense, speechless gaze. She paused, her intelligent eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Hello," she said smiling at him. "You look a bit lost... Can I help you with anything?"
"I... I..." he stammered, his eyes wide, still unable to process the confident familiarity of her tone.
"Well, that's normal, I guess," she replied gently, offering her hand. "I'm Rose, and you?"
"Emeric..." he finally managed, his deep voice rough. He didn't take her hand, unsure of the modern protocol, and in his desperation to cling to something familiar, he blurted out the first questions that came to his mind: "Where... where did you learn to speak French like that? And why are you wearing a... a man's trousers?"
A soft chuckle escaped her. "Well, to answer both your questions. I learned French in school, and took a sabbatical at the Sorbonne. And about the trousers..."
"I am sorry. I didn't mean to..." God, he was blushing like a schoolboy.
"It's alright, Emeric. I understand that all you went through today must've been quite an experience," she said, her tone one of immediate, deep empathy.
"Oh, yes!"
"Would you like to go for a coffee and tell me all about it?" She smiled again.
"Yes, of course," he smiled back, surprised by the simple, grounding invitation. He followed her, still lost in the future, but utterly fixed on the woman who held the key to its incomprehensible wonders.
Scene: Rose and Emeric – The Fall of an Ideal
They sat by the edge of the fire pit behind the basecamp. The air was cool, rustling gently through the leaves. Above them, stars shimmered in a sky much clearer than Emeric remembered from wartime Paris.
Rose handed him a mug of warm herbal tea. He didn't drink. Just held it.
"I still don't understand," he said, voice rough. "How could something with so much promise—so much purpose—turn into… that?"
She sat beside him, arms wrapped around her knees. "Because it was built on fear, Emeric. And when fear is your foundation, it doesn't matter how noble the goal is. Eventually, it rots."
"But we believed in it," he said. "The Soviet Union held the line. They pushed the Nazis back. I saw it on the maps. We followed their victories like beacons."
"You weren't wrong to believe they fought bravely," Rose said. "But after the war, when Eastern Europe lay broken and exhausted, they didn't rebuild with freedom. They imposed control."
Emeric turned to her, searching. "Hungary. My people…"
She nodded, solemn. "In 1956, they rose up. Students, workers, everyday people—demanding change, freedom from Moscow's grip. And the Soviets rolled in tanks. Thousands were killed. More fled. The dream of socialism with a human face—crushed beneath steel."
He clenched his jaw. "And the West?"
"Watched," she said softly. "Sent words. No help."
He looked away, ashamed—not of what he'd done, but of what had followed.
"Then came Prague in 1968," she continued. "Czechoslovakia tried again. And again, tanks came. Guns answered ideas."
Emeric's shoulders sagged. "So it was all for nothing."
"No," Rose said firmly. "It meant something to you. That matters. But by the time of perestroika, the regime was collapsing under its own weight. Corruption. Economic failure. And when the wall finally fell in '89—there was no revolution left to defend. Just people trying to breathe."
She paused, then added quietly, "And before any of that—before your war—there was Ukraine. The Holodomor. Millions starved in silence. A famine crafted by policy. They kept it hidden, even from their own people. That was the cost of loyalty."
Emeric closed his eyes. "And all those who stayed behind…"
"Many suffered. Some became what they fought against. Some vanished into prisons. Some lived quiet, small lives."
He finally drank the tea. It had gone lukewarm. But it grounded him.
"When we stood with our fists raised," he said slowly, "I thought we were lifting the world."
Rose gave a sad smile. "You were. Just not in the way history wrote it."
She glanced toward Jonas and Léon, the Polish boys sitting close, silent but attentive. "And then there was Poland," she said, her voice soft but edged with admiration. "When the West had mostly stopped believing change was possible behind the Iron Curtain, the Polish people proved otherwise. In the 1980s, a workers' movement called Solidarity—Solidarność—rose from the shipyards of Gdańsk. They were electricians, welders, factory workers… led by a man named Lech Wałęsa. The regime tried everything to break them—declaring martial law, imprisoning leaders, shutting down presses—but they never gave in. It took nearly a decade of resistance, negotiations, strikes, and sheer willpower, but in 1989, they won. Free elections. A new government. A bloodless revolution."
"Wałęsa to the Poles," she continued, "was what General de Gaulle was to France—a symbol of resistance who never stopped believing in his people, even when their struggle looked impossible. The Polish spirit," she added, turning to Jonas, "was never crushed. It endured, like yours did. That's the legacy you carry too."
Jonas didn't speak at first. His gaze remained fixed on the fire, jaw clenched, shoulders hunched. Rose's words had landed hard—not as an insult, but as a reckoning. When he finally looked up, his eyes were bright, haunted.
"So they won… without killing?" he asked. "Without secret weapons or partisan networks? Just strikes. Just faith?"
Rose nodded. "And unity. And persistence."
Léon gave a short, hollow laugh. "All those years we thought it would take a revolution. Guns. Underground cells. Death. And they changed the world with a union card and a hunger strike."
Maurice, only nineteen but hardened by prison, looked down at his hands. "They told us we'd be part of history if we died the right way. But these men lived—and still became heroes?"
Thomas, the Hungarian student, was visibly shaken. "My father idolized the Soviets. He said they would protect us, teach us to be strong. I believed it too. But all they taught us was silence."
The younger boys exchanged looks of confusion, betrayal, awe. They had been raised to think in absolutes: fascism bad, resistance good, the Red Army saviors. But now history fractured into grey.
Rino, the footballer from Lyon, leaned back and exhaled. "So the Polish found a way to fight without becoming what they hated." He glanced toward Emeric. "We didn't. We burned out. Got swallowed by someone else's story."
Jonas finally spoke again, his voice firmer now. "But we kept the flame. Even if we didn't see it through… maybe we lit the match for the m."
Rose smiled gently. "You were part of the long resistance. Every generation carries the fight a little further. Yours fought with rifles. Theirs with courage. Both mattered."
Missak, who had been silent all along, simply nodded. "I would rather have been forgotten than lied about. But maybe now, we can start remembering ourselves—truthfully."
They sat in silence, two generations divided by decades but bonded in disillusionment—and something deeper: the courage to see clearly.
Not all revolutions wore red.
Some came in whispers, and healing.
Some came in truth.
The small, crackling fire was the only sound for a long time, its warmth a poor substitute for the cold, crushing weight of 81 years of hidden history. The older men like Emeric and Missak sat with a profound, weary silence, their ideological foundation—the very thing they nearly died for—having crumbled not by Nazi bullets, but by Rose's quiet, devastating truth. The younger boys, Wolf and Thomas, stared into the flames, trying to reconcile the heroes they admired with the monsters Rose described. They had survived execution only to face the death of a belief.
Rose rose gracefully, brushing the pine needles from her modern trousers. She extended her hand to Emeric once more, and this time, he finally took it—a tangible connection to a present that, despite its bewildering complexity, was still alive and breathing.
"You are not the first men to fight a good fight for a bad cause, Emeric," she said softly, her gaze sweeping over Léon and Jonas. "But the only thing that matters now is that you lived. And because you lived, you get to choose what flag you follow next."
She led the group toward the main basecamp building, where the French and American carers were waiting with stacks of folders. The air inside smelled of disinfectant and warm paper. A woman with a kind but efficient face handed a plastic-cased card to Roger R., who turned it over, his expression a mixture of awe and bewilderment.
"This is your life now," Rose explained, indicating the folders. "Your names are real, your faces are real, your story of being refugees from a forgotten conflict is... half real. Only the birth date is new. It tells the world you were born in 2007," she said to Wolf, who now legally matched his age of eighteen. "It gives you a future."
Emeric looked down at his own new ID, the laminated card feeling impossibly light yet heavy with implication. Emeric, born 1983. He was 42 again, a man starting over in a world where his youth was stolen twice—once by war, once by time.
He slipped the card into the pocket of his new jacket. The past was gone, the ideology was dead, but the man—the husband, the Resistance fighter, the metallurgical worker—was still here. He looked at Rose, the woman who spoke of Holodomor and Solidarity with equal passion. This was the start of his long education, his 81-year lesson. He had nothing left but his courage and this new, unbelievable day.
The chapter ended not with a bang, but with a plastic card and a whisper of truth.