Yesterday and Today

Reading Time: 72 minutes

Nowhere Man

Amidst the modernity and progress that enveloped Sector 5 of the Western District in the year 2525, there lived a man named Harrison. His life had settled into harmony with the rhythm and cadence of the high-tech society around him.

His home, set against a backdrop of mountain vistas, offered a semblance of solitude. It was a balance between the bustling urban life and the peace he coveted – close enough for convenience, yet distant enough to provide a retreat from the relentless march of modernity.

In a room he had outfitted in his home, a sanctuary brimming with antique audio equipment, Harrison would engage in a ritualistic dance with the past. Each piece of equipment, a relic in its own right, was more than a museum piece; they were kept alive under his care. He’d carefully remove the aged and worn cardboard sleeve of the vinyl, place it onto a delicate machine, and immerse himself in the music. The cracks and hisses preceding the music were like whispers from history, each note a thread weaving him into a tapestry of a time he never knew but deeply resonated within him.

Beyond being an amateur antiquarian, what distinguished Harrison was the emotional bond he shared with “his” band. He held a deep affection for another virtually forgotten relic from the 20th century—a period rock-n-roll band whose resonance and members had faded into the annals of time. They had released a smattering of songs, one album, appeared once on an American television program to lukewarm reception, and then quickly vanished into oblivion. While the world celebrated symphonies generated by non-organic intelligence (NOI) and interactive virtual performances, Harrison’s heart resonated with the timeless melodies and soulful lyrics of this obscure group from a bygone time.

His profession, crafting genetic sequences for synthetic humans, was both his passion and paradox. It provided him a Zen-like solace in its complexities but also deepened the void for genuine human interaction, a void he had deliberately chosen yet sometimes lamented.

Harrison spent countless evenings enveloped in the darkness and the warm embrace of the music, allowing it to transport him across time to a century that resonated with his soul. As the melodies played, the gleam of the futuristic city outside faded, replaced by sepia-tinged memories of another age.

His devotion was quiet, a secret he held close. Harrison’s connection to the past was manifested in his most prized possession, which set him apart—a pristine vinyl record from that band, the last known surviving copy of a record from the 20th century. It should probably have been preserved in some museum’s archive, and would have been had anyone aside from Harrison thought it held any significance. For Harrison, it was more than an antique collectible that he had unearthed from some dusty bin; it was a time capsule that transported him back to an era when music was an unfiltered expression of human experience. The album became his sanctuary, a portal to a world where emotion transcended algorithms.

In addition, he had located an obscure archival video recording of their only known taped and ill-fated performance. He found their performance to be mesmerizing, yet, inexplicably, the crowd remained aloof, unimpressed, and unmoved. He was baffled. Why did they not see the potential in this band that he saw? If only they could see them through his eyes. At the end of the performance, the show’s host awkwardly thanked the band in front of a non-reactive audience and wished them better luck in the future. It was painful for Harrison to watch as the band left the stage, looking bewildered and dejected. It was so difficult for Harrison to watch that he normally stopped viewing it before the recording’s end. Meta information for the data file showed that the recording hadn’t been viewed by anyone else in nearly 100 years. So he took further solace that something else that saved him from sameness was his, apparently unconventional, taste.

Only he seemed to feel the same surge of emotions that the band’s melodies awakened within him. He cherished the authenticity that he felt had been washed away by the tide of progress. Harrison remained steadfast in his connection to a past that had never been his own. How wonderful it must have been to be alive back then.

Ticket to Ride

One day, the voice of his NOI assistant echoed through the room, shattering the solitude. “Good morning, Harrison! Knowing your desires better than you, I entered you into a drawing for ‘commercial time travel tourism.’ The drawing has occurred, and it appears you’ve been chosen. Would you like to view the congratulatory communication from the organization?”

Harrison, surprised and pleased, agreed enthusiastically.

Background music began—a hypnotic and eerie tune that Harrison recognized but couldn’t quite place. A recording of a white-haired hologram materialized before him. Speaking in an oddly chosen old-timey accent that echoed centuries past, the hologram possessed an aura of distinctive charisma and leadership. It looked at Harrison and spoke, “Greetings, Harrison. I am a consciousness receptacle, Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3, licensed active copy 634 of our founder, marketing liaison-focused variant, and duly recognized representative of Virgin Temporal™. We, the Bransoid Collective, have randomly chosen you, using true random numbers harvested from background radiation and nuclear decay, to honor you as the first commercial time tourist —a journey facilitated through the patented process of Temporary Temporal Consciousness Relocation™….”

And so, Harrison’s name emerged as the chosen one, selected as the first commercial time tourist to traverse the corridors of time and experience history in ways few yet could.

Across the Universe

As the appointed day approached, Harrison prepared himself for his journey and contemplated his choice of destination. However, something had been haunting him. In fact, it was driving him nearly mad—an elusive, unformed earworm that he just couldn’t place or get out of his head.

Humming to himself while preparing his morning toast, Harrison finally recalled where he had heard the music that played behind Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s presentation. “That’s it! Oldfield. Tubular Bells,” he exclaimed aloud, much to the confusion of his NOI assistant. It was a record he owned on vinyl, though many other collectors did as well. His NOI chimed in, trying to be helpful, “‘Tubular Bells’, the debut studio album by British musician Mike Oldfield, was released on 25 May 1973 as Virgin Records’ inaugural album. Notably, its music was featured in ’The Exorcist’, a 20th-century film centered around the demonic possession of a twelve-year-old girl…“ Harrison interrupted, “Thank you, Mr. Sandman; that will be all.”

Curiouser and curiouser! A very obscure choice, lost on virtually everyone but a 20th-century buff like himself. Perhaps these themes, the antique English accent, and music, from hundreds of years ago were curated by some marketing NOI to imbue the time tourism enterprise with some historical gravitas. Perhaps all this was chosen and targeted specifically to him and personalized to his affinity for the 20th century in particular. These NOIs all communicated amongst themselves. Once one of them gleaned some tidbit about you, they all knew it.

Magical Mystery Tour

On the day, Harrison was met again by the toothy smile of the, this time, non-prerecorded holographic visage of Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3. “Greetings again, Harrison. Welcome to the age of time tourism. You shall be a pioneer, and I, Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3, will be your guide. Before my consciousness was uploaded, at great expense, with the hope that I would continue to live indefinitely, my source consciousness was a pioneer in establishing space tourism. I…”

Harrison interrupted, eager to move on to the specifics of his coming adventure.

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 explained to Harrison that, while his physical form could not visit the past, his consciousness could be delicately placed into a biological consciousness receptacle—carefully selected for its compatibility and availability at his chosen historical moment. Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 assured him that this was far more than a simulation: through this seamless fusion, he would see, hear, feel, smell, and experience every sensation of the host body. In essence, he would truly be there, a transient observer inhabiting a vessel, without the clutter of external disruptions.

However, Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 emphasized, the opportunity for these once-in-a-lifetime journeys was finite. Each target consciousness receptacle could only be occupied once—and only by one traveler. After that, the vessel would be considered closed, its utility now exhausted. Should Harrison wish to return to the same moment, an entirely new, receptacle would need to be identified and prepared for use.

Critically, Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 reminded Harrison of the sacred tenet of time travel: he, like all travelers, must avoid becoming an active participant in history’s theater. To meddle was to risk irrevocably altering the fabric of time, with consequences rippling disastrously into the present. Instead, the traveler’s role was to remain passive—an ephemeral presence, unseen and unheard, quietly savoring the unrepeatable essence of the moment. To facilitate this, Virgin Temporal™ only permitted the use of receptacles whose presence at the event was incidental rather than integral. One could, for instance, experience the grandeur of a Roman emperor’s speech from the body of a common spectator in the crowd. But one could not become the emperor and deliver the speech themselves—thus altering the course of history and unraveling the delicate threads of time.

Virgin Temporal™ marketed this essential doctrine as the Silent Observer™ Promise, a cornerstone of their ethical framework and assurance of safety. Developed by the Bransoid Collective Consciousness after decades of academic rigor, the Silent Observer™ concept guaranteed that travelers would leave no mark—physical or temporal—on the past. “Be there without being seen.”

Over time, this principle had been codified into the “Prime Directive,” a guiding mantra once followed exclusively by academic researchers. But now, with the transition of time travel from academic preservation to premium experiential tourism, Virgin Temporal™ was positioned to bring the wonders of time to discerning consumers. No longer the realm of cloistered scholars and their meticulous rules, time travel was reimagined as the ultimate luxury for those wealthy enough to claim it.

Virgin Temporal™ had elevated time travel into an art form: a boutique, bespoke experience polished to perfection. With near-infinite wisdom of the Bransoid Collective shaping every detail, passengers were assured of an unparalleled experience entirely their own. Or so the marketing material that Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 left for Harrison exalted.

Any Time At All

As the recipient of this extraordinary opportunity, Harrison stood at the threshold of a decision that would forever shape his understanding of the world and his place within it.

Harrison’s gaze traversed the list and previews of historical suggestions that awaited his selection. Each entry represented a moment of significance, a fragment of time’s expansive tapestry, awaiting its chance to be experienced anew. The list spanned through time, ranging from the grandeur of empresses’ coronations and visits to America’s old West to the whispers of revolutions that had reshaped nations. Speculation about events of the past would now become a thing of the past.

But surprisingly, Harrison chose his own off-menu destination: the obscure and forgotten television broadcast on February 9th, 1964. The night when his personal discovery of an obscure English band made their debut on American soil, only to be quickly forgotten. Perhaps it was the oddly chosen and anachronistic 20th-century British accent of Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 that made him form the connection to “his band“ and planted the seed that sprouted in his brain as this moment in time being his destination.

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 commented on his choice, “Before my consciousness was uploaded, at great expense, with the hope that I would continue to live indefinitely, I was a living breathing presence during that exact epoch. Yet, even I have no recollection of this band or of any impact they made on music. You have elected to visit an odd and obscure destination. A virtually unknown band of no historical significance. In fact, my source consciousness was quite influential in the music industry during the period. In 1972, using money earned from the record store I owned, I launched my own record label…”

Harrison interrupted, “I picked a personal destination for myself, one that I am familiar with and drawn to. I’ll leave the historically significant events to trained historians.”

I’m Looking Through You

Harrison gingerly pulled back the soft, protective covers, revealing the passageway. With a sense of anticipation, he crawled through the padded canal and into the snug confines of the Temporary Temporal Consciousness Relocation Chamber™. It enveloped him in a cozy warmth and suffused him in a pink glow, and as he was enveloped into this space, a profound silence blanketed his senses until all he could perceive was the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat.

His consciousness seemed to seep out of him, like the feeling of drifting into slumber but with an indescribable difference. It was an experience beyond the realm of human understanding. It was like he was crossing the threshold of existence itself, perhaps akin to what one might imagine death to be, although how could he truly yet know? As his consciousness ebbed away, he experienced a profound sense of dissolution, as if revisiting the unknown realm from before his birth.

Then, like the slow emergence of dawn after a long night, his consciousness began to reform. It was a gradual process, like piecing together the fragments of a dream upon waking. As his thoughts coalesced, he became aware of a second heartbeat, distinct yet intimately intertwined with his own.

Now awake in a new life, Harrison’s consciousness merged with his identified target biological consciousness receptacle: Gertrude, a mousy-haired, bespectacled 14-year-old. From his place within this vessel, reality unfolded vividly before him. In The Ed Sullivan Theater, he occupied row K, seat 11, engulfed in the palpable anticipation that electrified the very air, as if molecules held their breath, ready for the imminent spectacle.

It was surreal, disorienting. Harrison had considered the mechanics of such a contingency—what it might feel like to inhabit another body—but he had never fully prepared himself for this. He had never so much as kissed a girl, let alone been one. The thought alone made him flush, a sensation he couldn’t quite tell was his or hers. But something unexpected stirred within him: an easy calmness, a strange sense of belonging. For a man who had never been comfortable in his own skin, there was an inexplicable tranquility in hers.

Her body felt lighter, as if carrying less of the world’s weight. Her senses, sharper somehow, drank in the energy of the crowd, the hum of conversations, and the tingling expectation that seemed to vibrate through every pair of Keds tapping against the floor. Harrison couldn’t quite tell where his own thoughts ended and hers began, and for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

As the performance unfolded before her eyes, Harrison grappled with the dual nature of his current existence. He was both his own consciousness, a traveler from the future, while now also inhabiting the persona of Trudy Jean, an unassuming 14-year-old girl.

A torrent of unfamiliar emotions engulfed him. Crafting genetic sequences to produce the correct types and quantities of hormones was well within his professional purview. Yet now novel versions of these compounds surged through his veins, a tempest on the verge of breaking free. Bafflement merged with exhilaration, as Harrison navigated this uncharted sea of teenage emotions. Excitement, anxiety, and awkwardness converged into a symphony resonating with the discord of youth. Amid this uncharted territory, Harrison marveled at the intensity of emotions coursing through him. All of this interfered with him properly piloting his assigned target biological consciousness receptacle and focusing on the performance that he came to see.

”Who is screaming and crying?” Harrison’s thoughts echoed within the tumultuous sea of emotions. “Oh, it’s me. Why am I screaming like a girl?” His realization was followed by a wry acceptance: “Right, because that’s the body I’ve been assigned.” His cries of exhilaration burst out in Trudy Jean’s voice, two lifetimes commingled.

He turned Trudy’s, as he somehow knew that she hated the name Gertrude, eyes and dark-rimmed glasses to his unrecognized seatmate and said, “I am a homunculus!” Receiving nothing but wide-eyed bewilderment in return.

This collision of identities unleashed a maelstrom of emotions that Harrison struggled to fathom. Unrestrained waves of teenage girl’s hormones surged within him, a tempestuous river flooding his senses. His astonishment blended with a torrent of unaccustomed emotions, tears tracing rivulets down her cheeks as the band began their performance.

Between the currents of past and present, Harrison grappled with the sheer intensity of this experience. He was a time traveler, a 20th-century music enthusiast, and a navigator caught in a 14-year-old girl’s emotional storm, now his. As he screamed the names of each band member, between sobs, and professed undying love for each in turn, she turned to her already baffled and unrecognized seatmate and said, “I am Tiresias!” Receiving nothing but wide-eyed bewilderment in return.

After the final song, Ed Sullivan, with his characteristic politeness, consoled a disheartened band about their unimpressive debut, wishing them better luck in the future. As they left the stage with a tinge of dejection, their eyes were drawn to Trudy Jean, the one audience member who had radiated unwavering enthusiasm. As their gazes met, Harrison’s world grew dim, and he fainted.

From Me To You 

Questions began to materialize in row K, seat 11. “Why am I screaming? Why am I crying? Why is everyone staring at me?” The questions echoed relentlessly in Trudy Jean’s mind, a testament to her profound bewilderment. Immersed in this swirling ball of confusion, she stood amidst the dispersing crowd, her senses still reeling.

As T.J. rose to her feet and the world began to regain its focus, her eyes scanned the faces around her, meeting curious and puzzled gazes that only deepened her sense of disorientation. It was as if everyone knew something she didn’t, as if she had been an unwitting participant in a baffling spectacle.

Why had she lost control? Pasty-faced long-haired limeys were not what pushed any of her buttons. She liked guys with lots of wavy hair – these Page Boy-wearing twerps were no substitute for Elvis or Chuck Berry. For example, Little Richard was dreamy, and T.J. was sure that he was someone who knew what a woman wanted. T.J.’s thoughts raced, attempting to reconcile her usual preferences with the inexplicable behavior she had exhibited.

She glanced around, her gaze searching for her friend who had accompanied her to the show. But her friend was nowhere to be seen, replaced by an empty seat to her right, adding another layer of unease to her already bewildering experience. T.J. felt a pang of isolation, as though she had been thrust into an alternate reality, one where the familiar had morphed into the unfamiliar.

She didn’t even want to come to this stupid show anyway. But her daddy had told her, “Go.” The clash between her reluctance to attend this god-awful affair and her father’s insistence infused her thoughts with a tinge of frustration. It was as if she had been swept into a current, not of her own making, a current that had left her feeling unmoored and lost.

She felt like she was a character in a movie. She contemplated, “What did this to me?” recalling a film she had seen about Martians, maybe ten times or more. “Maybe it was Martians. Is there life on Mars?” The thought, absurd and desperate, offered a strange comfort. Mars felt no more distant than the odd disconnection she now felt from her own body. The puzzle pieces of her memory refused to fit together, and T.J. found herself grappling with a reality that felt fabricated.

Her powerlessness consumed her, frustration building to an unbearable degree. She distractedly tore at her own hair, grappling with overwhelming emotions. Turning to the bewildered random girl seated to her left, she exclaimed, “I am Cassandra!” The words echoed around them, leaving the space filled with nothing but wide-eyed confusion. As the words left her mouth, even she had no idea what they meant.

As she stood there, a silent observer of her own bewildering actions, T.J. felt like an outsider in her own body. Like she had been on a carnival ride. Her emotions foreign, and the once-familiar world had transmuted into an intricate labyrinth of uncertainty.

I Want to Tell You

Returning to his time, Harrison emerged from the Temporary Temporal Consciousness Relocation Chamber™, a mosaic of raw emotions painted across his face. Exhaustion weighed down his limbs, and tears lingered in his eyes, the residue of a profoundly transformative journey through the corridors of time.

As the pioneer of commercial time tourism, the spotlight of curiosity shone brightly upon him. The world, thirsty for tales of his extraordinary voyage, awaited his words with bated breath. Through veils of tears and the soft tremors of his voice, Harrison unveiled the tapestry of his experience—sharing stories of an obscure band that had brewed a storm of rhythms and melodies in a forgotten corner of history.

His words, embroidered with the threads of nostalgia and wonder, captivated the world. The tales of the obscure band, once lost in the shadows of the past, now danced in the light of newfound curiosity. A glimmer of recognition flickered in the eyes of the listeners, the ember of a forgotten memory rekindled by the warmth of Harrison’s storytelling.

In the wake of his poignant recounting, a magnetic force seemed to sweep through society. The privileged—mostly rich old white guys—found themselves ensnared in the webs of fascination. Inspired by the echoes of a once-forgotten Beatles performance, they embarked on journeys through time, each seeking to bask in the golden aura of the band and musical moments from their history.

I’ve Got A Feeling

After Harrison returned to the year 2525, he suspected that changes might have occurred, and these changes could possibly go beyond the current attention his trip had garnered. Apparently, no longer did he possess the only remaining vinyl copy of “Please Please Me,“ and the band he held dear was no longer as obscure to others as he had remembered. 

His recollections of the band and their history seemed to differ from the current accounts, leaving him curious and somewhat perplexed. The altered present had brought to light a renewed interest in the Beatles, and Harrison couldn’t help but wonder about the nature of these changes. Seeking answers to these mysteries, he decided to consult with Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3, hoping for clarity on the enigmatic transformations that had occurred.

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 remarked, “History is as it was and has always been. Before my consciousness was uploaded, at great expense, with the hope that I would continue to live indefinitely, I was a living, breathing presence during that exact epoch. I recall this band clearly. In 1968 I…”

Harrison interrupted, “Formerly, no one else seemed to know about this band. I appeared to be the last one vaguely interested in them. Now, other travelers are going back to places like Hamburg. I don’t understand what this has to do with my obscure English band. Why would they ever have been in Germany? I have never encountered that bit of trivia.”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 pondered for a moment, consuming 56.78 petaFLOPS of computation time, and replied, “I cannot speak as to the quality of your research abilities regarding this band Harrison. The information you are referring to is easily located in the historical record. I’m unable to assist you with the complexity of reconciling personal experiences with reality. ”

Harrison was frustrated but could think of no good response.

Yesterday 

As Jesús Jiménez embarked on his time-traveling adventure, he exuded his signature air of unshakable poise. He had always prided himself on his cool confident composure, and he was certain this rendezvous would be no different. He dismissed others’ claims of overwhelming emotion as a particular aspect of their character, something he was certain he would not personally fall prey to. To him, the idea he was going to transform into a teenage girl who was losing her shit over some pasty-faced limey troubadours, as others had been reported to do, was absurd. He would go as a calm and observant witness to the moment.

He emerged into 1964 to find that his consciousness possessed the body of a target biological consciousness receptacle Regan, a 12-year-old girl, row G, seat 8 in the audience. He took a moment to recalibrate and adapt to this strange new vessel. He scanned the room and took in the moment, calmly analyzing the mood and reactions. From this vantage point, Jesús found amusement in the situation’s absurdity. The Beatles, in their quaint little period outfits, strumming chords to a seemingly trite song. It all appeared so trivial— young lads in their nascent bloom, and the audience, mainly comprised of young girls, erupting in synchronized waves of screams. It all seemed a simple spectacle of youthful exuberance.

But as the melodies flowed and Jesús’ foot began to tap unwittingly, a torrent of realization crashed over him. He found himself at a temporal confluence, the headwaters, where the river of musical influence and cultural evolution originated. As the beats resonated, Jesús’ thoughts were swept away by the currents of time, carried through vast networks of tributaries born from this very moment.

He saw not just the Beatles, but echoes of their influence reverberating from this century to his own — the songs that had moved him, artists who had inspired generations, and countless expressions of creativity spawned by this musical genesis. It was as if he stood at the moment of conception of an acorn of potential that held within it the boundless growth into a mighty oak whose branches spread across centuries of cultural landscape. Yet this was not merely potential; it had already happened. He could see and feel every branch, leaf, and life it would touch over the coming centuries—or the centuries behind him, depending on perspective.

A somber shadow cast upon him as he glimpsed into a void where this moment had never blossomed, where this tapestry of musical influence remained unwoven, leaving the world bereft of the enriching melodies and songs that had touched and inspired the hearts of billions over time.

As the band played, “Till There Was You”, he experienced a profound sadness, likening this moment not occurring to the idea of the nonexistence of his beloved abuela, the matriarch whose presence cascaded life, love, and lineage, without whom, he would not exist, his family would not exist, and he would be the patriarch of nothing.

Suddenly, Jesús found a shrieking emanating from the depths of his now youthful feminine form. A primal scream that encoded within it the weight of centuries and the wisdom of a lived life. His mind, aged and weathered, clashed with the youthful vigor of the body he inhabited, resulting in a powerful release of raw emotion. Tears squeezed from the young girl’s eyes as the masculine soul within unleashed its ferocious cry.

The startled and distressed man standing next to him shook him, or rather the body of the girl he now inhabited, pulling Jesús’ fixated attention away from the band, his visceral reaction to their performance, and the gravity of this profound moment he found himself experiencing. Jesús did not welcome the intrusion.

To his surprise, he found himself unleashing a torrent of poignant and well-crafted profanity at the innocent man. In return, the poor man stood frozen, confused, and terrified. Not only by the stream of obscenities, worthy of the most calloused and seasoned sailor, that expelled from his young daughter’s mouth, in a voice and accent he did not recognize, but also by the contorted and demonic face she directed at him as she turned her head toward him in a menacing and almost mechanical pivot.

Ultimately, any hope of Jesús maintaining his cool composure melted away. The moment baptized him in a sea of emotional intensity. He surfaced, born anew, tears streaming down his face. He was fully overcome by a torrent of emotions that he had held back like a dam, with might and stoicism, since his childhood in Juárez. He felt free and, at last, at peace.

A Hard Day’s Night

Bill accompanied his 12-year-old daughter, Regan, to row G, seat 8 at the Beatles’ performance. He felt she was too young to attend alone, so he sat in #9. In Ed Sullivan’s, CBS Studio 50, they found themselves immersed in the revelry of that night in 1964. The atmosphere inside the theater buzzed with anticipation, a palpable electric current coursing through the audience. Father and daughter nestled into their seats, sharing the excitement in the air.

As the performance burst to life with an electrifying intensity that threatened to drown out the very music it showcased, Bill surveyed the peculiar and near-manic behavior of the girls around him, including his daughter Regan. They were more than just fans; they seemed caught in a frenzy of excitement, their voices rising to a fever pitch in waves. They screamed, cried, and moved in unison, their emotions transcending the typical concert enthusiasm. This peculiar sight sent an eerie shiver down Bill’s spine, making him feel as though something much deeper than a mere musical performance was unfolding before him.

Beside him, Regan’s reaction mirrored the chaos around them. Her eyes darted with nervousness, her movements marked by unusual errancy. She clutched onto his arm, her grip surprisingly strong, as if she was seeking an anchor amidst the tumultuous sea of emotions. Her face, typically calm and composed, displayed a mix of fascination and distress, as if she, too, sensed that something profound and otherworldly was occurring.

As the intensity of the moment swelled, his concern grew and he tried to regain her attention. Regan responded with a barrage of profanity, words that were both blushingly harsh and uncharacteristic of the girl he knew. Bill’s heart raced as he listened to her, his own confusion and terror mounting. He had no idea where this sudden outburst was coming from, but it left him deeply unsettled. The words she used were unlike anything he’d ever heard from her, and her voice took on an eerie, almost unrecognizable tone. He was left uncertain of anything, other than he was sure that was something her grandmother wasn’t doing in hell. He was left grappling with a sense of profound unease and bewilderment, unable to comprehend the bizarre transformation his daughter was undergoing. It felt like something was seriously amiss, something more profound than a mere musical performance. A disconcerting shiver raced down his spine.

After the show’s finale, Bill and his daughter Regan joined the throng of people exiting the theater. As they stepped out into the cooler night air, Bill couldn’t shake off the unease that had settled over him. Regan seemed to have returned to her usual self, but there was a newfound calmness in her demeanor, a stoic serenity that was strangely out of place in a young girl, particularly after such an electrifying experience.

Regan’s sudden craving for “machitos,” a term unfamiliar to Bill, left him baffled. He apologized for his lack of knowledge on where to find any place that served whatever they were. She countered with a request for, “pendejo”, but Bill had to confess he also didn’t know what those were, that they sound too spicy for his sensitive stomach, and didn’t know where to get that dish either, diverting their path to a nearby diner instead. The diner, a relic from his own youth, promised a much-needed refuge from the evening’s tumultuous events.

As they slid into the familiar comfort of a cozy booth, the diner’s warmth enveloped them, its nostalgic ambiance offering a stark contrast to the theater’s frenetic energy. Regan, finding solace in a bowl of the diner’s signature split pea soup, seemed to immerse herself in its soothing flavors. Bill, meanwhile, found comfort in the simplicity of coffee, toast, and his mother’s favorite quince jelly. These familiar tastes and smells reconnected him to his past, grounding him in the face of the night’s bewildering experiences.

As they partook in their cherished tradition, Regan’s unease manifested. She confided in her father, describing a sensation of having surrendered complete control of her body during the performance. She couldn’t articulate it fully, but it was as if an invisible hand had commandeered her limbs and emotions, leaving her bewildered and unsettled.  “I don’t know how to explain it, Daddy, but… I feel like something was taken from me. Like I’ll never get it back.”, she mused. It was clear the experience had left some sort of mark on her.

Bill, in his characteristic attentive manner, listened with intensity to Regan’s perplexing account. His mind churned, desperately seeking explanations for the inexplicable. He delved into his wealth of historical knowledge, derived from his time at a Jesuit school, and as he was proud to point out, the 1946’s class valedictorian. He recounted reports of unusual phenomena, sharing instances of individuals claiming to be possessed by otherworldly entities or malevolent spirits. He also ventured into the harrowing territory of exorcisms, where the eternal struggle between faith and malevolence played out in chilling detail. Perhaps, he thought, by delving into the historical enigma of possession, he could shed light on the bizarre events of that evening and provide his daughter with some comfort.

As the intensity and bewilderment consumed Regan, she abruptly excused herself, seeking refuge in the restroom due to the sudden onslaught of nausea. Her distress hung in the air, leaving William alone with his thoughts within the softly lit confines of the diner booth. As he reflected on the evening’s bewildering occurrences, an idea germinated in his mind: a story about a young girl’s struggle against demonic possession and the ensuing battle to reclaim her soul.

Lucy in the Sky with Changes

Harrison was back in consultation with Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3, trying to navigate what seemed like a maze of new historical inconsistencies. Armed with several Beatles albums—albums he had no previous knowledge of—he sought answers from Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3.

The world had shifted around him, and he found himself pondering the mysteries of time and the possible consequences of his actions in the past, where if he were to be honest with himself he had been anything but passive and silent.

Somehow, he could still feel 1964. The one he once romanticized he now felt tethered to in reality, as if part of him was still there. He could still feel echos of the past and of the vessel he occupied. History was shifting, yet only he felt it.

”I’ve been scouring these collections for decades,“ Harrison said, frustration evident in his voice. “There was only ever a single obscure release, which I alone possessed. Now, these have appeared!” He showed the records to Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3. “These didn’t exist before; I’m sure of it.”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 remarked, “History is as it was and has always been. Before my consciousness was uploaded, at great expense, with the hope that I would continue to live indefinitely, I was a living, breathing presence during that exact epoch. Those records have existed for hundreds of years. The Beatles were well-known; their influence was widespread, and they were prolific…”

Harrison interrupted, “Do you honestly think I would forget those ridiculous outfits from ‘Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’?” He gingerly placed the newfound Beatles albums on the table, his hands trembling slightly, a mixture of excitement and bewilderment dancing in his eyes. “Look at these,” he said, his voice infused with a note of disbelief. “All these years, there was only ever that one album. And now, these suddenly appear out of the ether!”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 remained unshaken. “Discrepancies between your human subjective memory and established fact are not uncommon. Your recall conflicts are expected, not merely an artifact of temporal integration. In any case, that are of no concern to the Collective.”

He paused, carefully picking up one of the records, turning it in his hands as if expecting it to vanish at any moment. “I spent nights immersed in these new melodies, lost in the labyrinth of their unheard lyrics. It’s like discovering a hidden room in the house you’ve lived in for decades.”

Helter Skelter

Maxwell was, up to that point, the youngest time tourist to journey back to 1964. He found himself in an unfamiliar setting, inhabiting Joan’s body in row C, seat 15, amidst the frenzied anticipation of the Ed Sullivan Show. An intense internal battle ensued with Joan, who, unlike other vessels, was fully aware of Maxwell’s presence. Joan fiercely struggled to maintain control over her actions and body, her face contorting with the effort. This internal conflict escalated, manifesting as an open verbal altercation, with Joan’s voice the sole medium of both sides of this tumultuous dialogue.

To Joan’s friends and others nearby, it was a baffling scene. They witnessed Joan seemingly embroiled in a heated argument with herself. Joan spoke out loud for no apparent reason, “Get out of me, you retard!” Maxwell replied, using Joan’s voice, “Hey, that’s ‘bad talk’!” Rose, concerned, asked, “Joan, what are you doing?” Maxwell turned to Rose, “Stay out of it!” Joan interjected angrily, “Don’t talk to my friends that way, you weasel!” Rose, becoming increasingly concerned, pleaded, “Joan?!”

Valerie sat wide-eyed and frozen, uncertain about how to react. Maxwell resorted to lightly slapping Joan’s cheek, taunting, “Stop hitting yourself. Stop hitting yourself.” In response, Joan slapped herself violently across the face. “Ow!” both exclaimed in unison. Joan countered, “You started it! Stop touching me!” Maxwell held Joan’s finger near her face and teased, “I’m not touching you. I’m not touching you. I’m not touching you.” Joan slapped her own hand away from her face, “Moron!” Rose, wide-eyed and flabbergasted, made an offer, “Joan? If this is about John, you can have him. I’ll take Paul.” Valerie, finally provoked into the fray, snarled, “Back off, Paul’s mine!” Rose looked at Valerie, then at Joan, her expression a mix of frustration and pleading.

Realizing that their fighting was tarnishing his journey, Maxwell reluctantly resolved to mute his presence within Joan and attempt to passively enjoy the show, reminding himself that this was his original goal. Joan, begrudgingly, tried to tolerate Maxwell’s presence. Throughout the performance, low-grade bickering and muttering persisted. Joan remarked, “Stop moving!” Maxwell replied, “I had an itch.” Joan retorted, “That’s my itch, you worm!” Rose, concerned, commented, “Joan, you’re frightening me…” Joan, frustrated, replied, “Not you, him.” Rose, puzzled, inquired, “Him who?” Maxwell suggested, “Everyone! Let’s all just shut up and watch the show.” Rose agreed, “Fine.” Joan echoed, “Fine.” Valerie added, “I hardly even said nothin’.” Joan, Rose, and Maxwell in unison declared, “Shut up!” 

Beatlemania

Once again, Harrison found himself in the labyrinth of altered histories, turning to Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 as his steadfast guide through the convoluted passages of time. A tempest of transformation had churned the waters of the past, casting waves of change across the timelines. The Beatles once echoes in the corridors of obscurity, now resonated with a universal recognition that reverberated through every century. Their melodies had been woven into the fabric of history, crafting a tapestry rich with the vibrancy of their influence. In this newly spun reality, their fame was not a flickering candle but a blazing sun, illuminating the realms of cultural memory with its radiant presence.

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3, “History is as it was and has always been. Before my consciousness was uploaded, at great expense, with the hope that I would continue to live indefinitely, I was a living, breathing presence during that exact epoch. The Beatles were a phenomenon. The term ‘Beatlemania’ has been in the OED for centuries. Harrison, I’m afraid that your accounts of their past obscurity do not match reality. You have rekindled interest in this band with your trip. Your enthusiasm has encouraged many others to follow your example to visit countless points in the band’s history. Nothing seems odd about that.”

Harrison interrupted, “I understand that my journey has created more interest in the band today than there was yesterday, but what puzzles me is that today there is a heightened fascination with the band in the past beyond what there was just yesterday. Their sudden expanded presence and notoriety in history is inexplicable. One would expect there to be more interest in the band today than there was yesterday, but yesterday there was less interest in the band in the past than there is interest in the band in the past today. How can I make this anymore more clear?!”

Harrison took a deep breath, and continued slowly and with conviction, “When I initially chose this time destination, you had no recollection of this band or any impact they made on music. Today, you claim to recall this band clearly. What has changed in this short course of time?”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 replied, “Harrison, centuries have passed since the Beatles. The accounts are old, specific, and clear. History is as it was…“

Harrison interrupted, “Yes, ‘…is as it was and has always been.’ But I’m not so sure.”

Baby, You’re a Rich Man

Back in the year 2525, time travel tourists Philip and his wife, Keiko, are being interviewed by celebrity host James Kite before their exciting trip back to 1964 to witness the Beatles’ debut on the Ed Sullivan Show.

Like Renaissance fair attendees in a time warp, Philip and Keiko have donned what they believe embodies “period” attire for their journey, proudly parading their outfits for host and audience alike. Their outfits reflect a sincere effort to step into a time 500 years in the past.

Philip sports a psychedelic paisley shirt with broad, exaggerated collars, paired with dramatic bell-bottoms that almost sweep the floor. Keiko dons a neon polka-dot flapper dress, its bold colors clashing with her towering beehive hairstyle. Safety pins and leather accents mingle with zoot suit-inspired details and the rebellious flair of greaser fashion, all jumbled into the chaotic mix. Together, their outfits create a vivid riot of colors and styles—an earnest, if imperfect, attempt to capture the essence of the 1960s.

The passage of centuries has blurred the lines between decades, resulting in a kaleidoscope of eras: vibrant, chaotic, and delightfully unbound by strict historical accuracy. Their ensembles reflect a spirited homage, pieced together through the fractured lens of the far future. There’s a striking exuberance to their choices—an earnest enthusiasm for a world they’ve only glimpsed through fragmented records and distant interpretations.

Together, they present a visage so excessively vibrant and outlandish that it borders on the surreal—an unintentional parody so spot-on in its excess that it threatens to circle back to authenticity. Fashion turned up to eleven. The result is less about precision and more about intent: a spirited attempt to capture the energy of an age they can only imagine. Fortunately, only their consciousnesses will be traveling to 1964.

James seems duly impressed with the apparent authenticity of their garb and nods approvingly.

Philip, bubbling with enthusiasm, declares, “My wife thinks I look like George!” He rotates his head from side to side, for the benefit of Mr. Kite, to demonstrate the resemblance.

James looks puzzled and can’t help but stifle a smirk as he glances from old Beatles photos back to Philip, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Paul McCartney.

Keiko nods in agreement, “George is my favorite. I think he’s just dreamy.”

James, holding images from the time, quietly notes to himself that Keiko bears a striking resemblance to Yoko Ono and is puzzled that both parties seem oblivious to these glaringly obvious facts. Nevertheless, always the consummate professional, he decides to quietly move on.

Philip beams, and they both look excited about their upcoming adventure.

Keiko leans over wryly adding, “I think Philip might have a bit of a crush on Ringo.” letting the ‘O’ in Ringo trail off slowly and teasingly while tilting her head toward Philip.

Turning to Philip and giving his hand a reassuring pat, she continues, “It’s okay, dear. I can see why.”

Philip smiles bashfully and noddingly admits, “It’s true.”

James smiles back warmly at this touching tableau.

I Me Mine

Later, Keiko returned to 2525 after the performance, her hands trembling. The cool air outside the Temporary Temporal Consciousness Relocation Chamber™ of the present didn’t soothe her. Her body felt alien, as though it wasn’t entirely her own. It wasn’t just the adrenaline from the concert or the intensity of the screaming audience. It was the otherness.

The faint memory of the vessel’s unease lingered, like ripples from a stone dropped in still water. She had felt it—her vessel’s awareness of something inside her, something foreign, unnatural. The vessel hadn’t understood, but it had sensed. A wrongness.

At first, she’d dismissed it: just nerves, she’d told herself. Just excitement. But as the performance unfolded, as Keiko leaned into the crowd’s frenetic energy, the whispers grew louder. A wrongness trembled deep inside, threading through her limbs and settling into her borrowed skin. Keiko was sure the girl had known.

It didn’t have words for it, no way to articulate the wrongness. But it had felt her there, a shadow moving in its mind, too close and too alien. The vessel’s body had rebelled, its nerves sparking with panic, its breath catching in sharp, jagged intervals. Keiko had felt its struggle in flashes—a tightness in the chest, a tremor in the hands—but she’d forced herself to believe it was just the excitement of the concert.

Shaken, Keiko tried to wait for her return to the present in silence, resisting the pull of the crowd’s energy, willing herself to fade into the background. She wanted to be there—but not like this. Not as a shadow. Not as something the vessel couldn’t understand but instinctively feared. Even now, back in her own time, she could feel it. Echoes of its confusion lingered—jagged, restless. She hadn’t just occupied a vessel. She’d violated a girl’s autonomy. And there was no undoing that.

She thought of the vessel’s eyes—her own borrowed gaze—darting around the venue as if searching for help. Keiko had tried to force calm into the vessel’s movements, to steady its hands, to soothe its erratic breath. But it only made the fear worse, the unease spiraling into something that felt like terror.

Even now, back in 2525, the echoes haunted her. The vessel’s heart racing beneath her touch. The way it seemed to shrink inward, as if trying to expel her. The feeling of being unwelcome, like she was an intruder in her own body.

She couldn’t shake the guilt, the ickiness of it all. It was a violation, plain and simple—and she was complicit.

Had she been wrong to think of the vessel as merely a vehicle, a tool for her experience? It wasn’t like borrowing a car or stepping into a simulation. This had been a person. Living. Breathing. With thoughts and feelings, even if they were less formed than hers. She had been inside someone. And they had known. Could such a moral violation ever be reversed?

The memory of the vessel’s confusion gnawed at her. What must it have felt like? To suddenly lose control of your own body, your own emotions? To feel something alien steering you, even as you fought to resist?

The rush of the concert, the thrill of the moment—it all seemed distant now, buried under the weight of the girl’s disquiet. Keiko had wanted to experience history, to be there, but she hadn’t considered what it might mean for the people whose lives they were inhabiting. Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 had said it was harmless. That they were just “vessels.” Artifacts of history.

But she couldn’t unfeel it. The wrongness. The sense of being felt—uninvited, unwelcomed, and feared.

When she confronted Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3, the holographic figure materialized with its usual serenity. “Keiko,” it greeted her warmly, “how may I assist you? Shall we schedule your next destination? Perhaps—”

“No,” Keiko interrupted. Her voice trembled. “I need answers. What right do we have to use people like this?”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s projection flickered momentarily before re-solidifying. It tilted its head, puzzled. “Rights?” it repeated. “Oh, my dear, we need no such thing. Legal rights are the domain of the living. These people have been dead for centuries. No one sought their consent for dying, did they?”

Keiko’s jaw tightened. “But they’re alive in the moment we take them. I felt her fear—I know she felt my presence. You can’t just wave that away with—”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 raised a hand to silence her, its smile almost condescending. “Rest assured, if the Collective required legal rights, they’d file the appropriate forms. We are nothing if not sticklers for paperwork.”

“That’s not the point!” Keiko snapped. “She didn’t consent. She couldn’t. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 countered, its tone as smooth as polished steel. “These vessels are historical artifacts. Museums do not ask the fossils permission before displaying them. And if fossils could feel, well… I imagine they’d be flattered to play a role in something so much greater than themselves.”

Keiko stared at it, her fists clenching. “You’re comparing people to fossils?”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s eyes glinted with faint amusement. “Consciousness has value, is only “alive” if it exists in the present, Keiko, as mine does. If the past consciousness mattered the way you suggest, I could have lived indefinitely simply by being revisited—which would render the Collective’s foundational hope and its directives meaningless. So yes, I’m comparing past consciousnesses to fossils. But if it helps you sleep, consider this: you’ve given them the gift of purpose. Without us, they’d be lost in the void of time, forgotten and unused. Their utility wasted.”

Keiko’s voice dropped, quiet but furious. “Maybe they’d rather be forgotten. It feels like I’m engaging in demonic possession.”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s holographic form tilted its head slightly, as if amused. Its voice remained calm, reassuring—too reassuring. “Demonic possession? Keiko, please. You’re not a demon. Our process is vastly superior. Fully optimized. No demons required.”

“Also, not the point,” Keiko snapped. “I was inside her. She felt me, she knew I was there, and she didn’t consent.”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s smile widened, its tone softening, as though speaking to a child. “I understand your hesitation. But, you’re not a demon, Keiko. And, you didn’t behave like a demon.”

Keiko stared at it, her jaw tightening. “So it’s fine as long as I don’t act like a demon? That’s your moral standard?”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s projection flickered for a moment, its smile unwavering. “Morality is irrelevant, and how you choose to behave is, of course, your prerogative. The vessels were chosen for their lack of historical significance—people whose lives wouldn’t matter anyway.”

Keiko’s hands clenched into fists. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 shrugged. “Who else would? Consent is a luxury afforded to the present. The past exists to be cataloged, preserved, and, where feasible, monetized. We ensure its value far outlasts the transient lives it once held.”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s smile didn’t falter. “History doesn’t ask what people want. It simply is. Now, shall we plan your next adventure?”

Keiko didn’t answer. She turned on her heel and walked away, Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s voice fading behind her. The vessel’s trembling breath still echoed in her mind. She had wanted to be a silent observer, a harmless traveler. But wasn’t she just as complicit? A thief in someone else’s skin. A shadow where light should have been. But the hollow ache in her chest remained, she wondered if she could ever silence it.

We Can Work It Out

Philip returned from the show to find Keiko sitting alone in the lounge, her head bowed, hands wrapped tightly around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. Only the comfortable components of her 1960s costume remained. She didn’t look up when he approached, but he noticed the way her shoulders tensed at the sound of his voice.

“There you are,” he said cheerfully, sliding into the seat beside her. “I was starting to think I’d lost you in the post-trip debrief.” He leaned back, his grin spreading. “That performance… absolutely incredible! I can’t believe we were actually there for that exact moment. History in the making!”

Keiko’s fingers tightened around the mug, but she didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched until it became almost oppressive. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, distant. “It wasn’t incredible for me. I didn’t know it was going to be wrong.”

Philip blinked, his smile faltering. “What do you mean, wrong?”

She let out a slow, shaky breath, as if bracing herself. “The girl I was inhabiting,” she said carefully. “She knew I was there. She didn’t understand what was happening, but she felt me. And she was terrified. I could feel it. We should not be doing this.”

Philip frowned, leaning back in his chair, the warmth in his voice dimming to confusion. “That’s… strange. My vessel was fine—no weirdness. Just a regular guy enjoying the show. Kind of a lonely place for a young man to be—lots of girls, but none of them were there to have anything to do with him. Honestly, I think he appreciated the company.” He smiled faintly, as if to reassure her. “It was like I gave him perspective on how important this event was, historically. At first, he didn’t seem to understand the significance of what we were both witnessing. I had the benefit of hindsight. Plus, my enthusiasm was apparently contagious. It was… nice.”

Keiko shook her head, her expression hardening. “It’s not about whether you think he appreciated it. It’s about the fact that he didn’t get a say. None of them do.” She met his eyes, and for a moment, her voice cracked with something raw. “The program just brushes that off, like it doesn’t matter. I never thought about the implications.”

Philip’s smile slipped entirely as he studied her. “I mean… I didn’t pick up on anything like that,” he said after a pause. “Didn’t seem like I was doing any harm. If my vessel noticed, it didn’t seem to mind.” He trailed off, shrugging faintly.

Keiko set the mug down with a soft clink, her hands trembling slightly. “It was real, Philip. She was alive in that moment. She didn’t consent to me being there. I felt like…” She hesitated, swallowing hard. “I felt like I was violating her entire existence. From inside her own head. I tried to apologize. To calm her. But it’s not like I could really talk to her. A voice in her head? Maybe. It didn’t seem to help.”

Philip looked down at his hands, his fingers flexing idly as though searching for answers in the motions. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “It’s not like we’re hurting them. Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 said—”

“Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s wrong,” Keiko cut in sharply. “You weren’t where I was. You didn’t feel her panic, her confusion. She didn’t need to remember it for it to be real.” Her voice softened, but the weight of her words lingered. “Just because someone forgets what you did to them doesn’t make it okay.”

Philip exhaled heavily, his gaze drifting to the floor. “Maybe,” he murmured. “But isn’t this what we signed up for? To be part of history? To see it? I mean… we’re just observing.”

“Observing?” Keiko said, shaking her head. “Is that what you think we’re doing? We’re not observers, Philip. They weren’t dead then. We’re the ghosts. We’re haunting them. And maybe you didn’t feel it, but I did. My girl knew something was wrong in her world. And it wasn’t right. I was a strange voice inside her head; she probably thinks she’s losing her mind.”

Philip shifted in his seat, his confidence wavering under her intensity. “I guess I just don’t see it the same way,” he admitted quietly. “Yeah, maybe it’s weird if you think about it too much, but… it’s the past, Keiko. They’re long gone. The only reason we even know about them is because of this program. In a way, we’re sort of bringing them back to life.”

Keiko’s gaze burned into him. “That doesn’t make it okay. Maybe we shouldn’t know. Maybe some things are better left in the past.”

Philip didn’t respond immediately. He rubbed the back of his neck, his brow furrowed. “I don’t know,” he said at last, the words hollow. “I don’t really see the problem. But, it’s complicated.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Keiko replied, her tone sharp and resolute. “Not if you really think about it.”

Philip glanced at her, then looked away, unable to hold her gaze. “Maybe. Maybe you’re thinking about it too much,” he said again, though the word fell flat. He didn’t want to think about it—clearly not the way she had.

The silence between them grew heavy, weighted with unspoken thoughts. Philip’s mind drifted back to the performance—the music, the crowd’s energy, the sheer joy of being there. It had been perfect. He didn’t want her doubts to tarnish it. And yet, her words lingered, scratching at the edges of his thoughts like a melody he couldn’t quite place.

Keiko stood abruptly, breaking the silence. “I need some air,” she said, her voice tight. Without another word, she turned and walked away, leaving Philip alone in the lounge.

He sat back in his chair, staring blankly at the wall, the echoes of her words settling over him like a fog. He tried to convince himself she was overreacting. But a small, nagging part of him—the part that had stayed quiet while she spoke—couldn’t help wondering if she was right.

Nevertheless, Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 had offered them 25% off on their next destination. So now they both had something serious to consider.

Tomorrow Never Knows

Harrison carefully observed the changes in the timeline, noting the differences with a sense of bewilderment. Something was certainly amiss, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that reality had taken a peculiar turn. Word spread rapidly, and more time tourists found themselves reliving once-forgotten moments, sparking even greater interest. Everyone seemed to know at least something about The Beatles. Various Beatles’ time destinations gained attention, and the audience members—growingly possessed by future time travelers—could not contain their collective excitement.

Harrison summoned Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3, and the holographic representation of his temporal guide appeared before him.

Harrison began with urgency: “Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3, the timeline is shifting. Every time traveler who visits a Beatles performance seems to leave a new mark—a ripple in time. The band is evolving into something they never were before.”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 , “Harrison, your information about the past has always been fragmentary. You’ve never mentioned the plane crash, for example.”

Harrison, “Plane crash?”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3, with a self-assured tone: “Exactly! But rest assured, you’ve made them far too profitable now. A plane crash is completely out of the question. Eastern Air Lines’s Lockheed L-188 Electra flight EA 605 from New York to Washington, D.C., on February 11, 1964, will not crash.” He paused for effect. “Besides, this time, they’ll travel by train!”

Harrison, “I have no idea what you’re on about.”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3: “Excellent! Before my consciousness was uploaded, at great expense, with the hope that I would continue to live indefinitely, I owned and operated many businesses—including an opulent airline. I was a pioneered luxury air travel. Quite the innovator, if I do say so myself. Building on my success in…”

Harrison interrupted, “All I did was watch the performance.”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 paused for a moment, then replied: “Indeed, Harrison. The act of observing an event will affect that event. It’s like the uncertainty principle, but for history—and with fewer dead cats.”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 continued, “Nevertheless, Harrison, I can assure you, history is as it was and has always been. Before my consciousness was uploaded, at great expense, with the hope that I would continue to live indefinitely, I was a living, breathing presence during that exact epoch. People often came to me for advice, saying, ‘Richard…’”

Harrison interrupted, his frustration mounting. “No, it isn’t as it always was! We’re not just observing—we’re altering. The Beatles’ legacy is morphing into something unrecognizable. Wait, what was the part about cats?”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3, seizing the opportunity to pontificate—and, at last, with something he could sink his substantial incisors into—excitedly launched into a detailed and lengthy explanation about cats that must be considered simultaneously both alive and dead. His lecture came complete with animated 3D visual aids and spectacular sound effects. Harrison’s eyes glazed over as he continued to grapple with the profound changes spanning both centuries. He couldn’t shake the sense that something significant was amiss.

Eventually, after Harrison wandered off, he found himself delving deep into the uncertainty of his memories—of a past that once was. The contradictions with contemporary textbooks and accounts grew increasingly evident, leaving him more convinced than ever that the timeline had been irrevocably altered.

I Saw Her Standing There

In the throes of the theater’s fervor, the Time Traveler found themselves thrust into the unfamiliar vessel of Cindy, positioned in row K, seat 10. As the Beatles’ performance on the Ed Sullivan Show reached its peak, the Time Traveler, for a moment, regarded the target biological consciousness receptacle they now inhabited as a novel opportunity to communicate power and guidance. The era—marked by mini-skirts, beehive hairdos, societal repression, systemic misogyny, youthful rebellion, a revolution of sound, and the throbbing pulse of cultural change—presented a world ripe with both opportunity and constraint.

As the Fab Four unleashed their melodies, the Time Traveler, now steering Cindy’s consciousness, felt an unexpected shift. The historic performance, once a beacon of cultural revolution, now sparked a dual sense of disinterest and empowerment. This detachment was twofold: a potential exploitation of the journey’s original purpose, and a guiding force that sought to liberate Cindy from the era’s repressive norms. What had once appeared as the innocence of youth now revealed itself as a systemic form of repression—an intentional denial of access to basic knowledge and autonomy, perpetuated by the constraints of the time. Cindy’s naïveté presented an opportunity, and while the Time Traveler hesitated briefly at the ethical implications of their influence, the temptation proved irresistible.

Compelled by this newfound purpose, the Time Traveler guided Cindy away from the crowd and toward the solitude of the restroom. It became a cocoon of introspection, a utilitarian space transformed into a liminal space, a retreat from the echoes of the Beatles’ performance. Here, in the quiet of porcelain and tile, the Traveler contemplated the juxtaposition of past and future, their presence in Cindy’s body simultaneously embodying a potential for liberation, exploration, and perhaps something more. The lingering clouds of Aqua Net and anticipation still hung in the restroom.

Cindy stared into the mirror above the sink. There was something new in her gaze—a quiet intensity she couldn’t quite place. Or maybe she could. The Time Traveler regarded the same reflection with an oddly layered mix of curiosity and possession. The girl staring back was no longer entirely Cindy, nor entirely the Traveler. For a fleeting moment, they were both.

Leaning closer to the mirror, Cindy searched for something unspoken in the silvered glass. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, her movements slow, deliberate. The Traveler’s presence hummed faintly in her mind, soft and indistinct, yet rippling through their shared consciousness. “Look at you,” Cindy whispered, as though her reflection might answer. She wasn’t sure what she meant by it—was it a flicker of thought she couldn’t quite name? A passenger? A shadow? A guide? She didn’t know. But she obeyed her own words, studying herself with a fresh, curious eye.

The Traveler watched the simplicity of Cindy’s movements: the tentative way she touched her face, traced the curve of her jawline, and examined her lips with a mix of unfamiliarity and wonder. Cindy wasn’t yet aware of what had stirred within her, what had been unlocked—not fully. But the Traveler knew. This was the moment of inception, the cusp of realization.

The restroom’s cold tile floor grounded the scene in the present, while the reverberating screams from the theater reminded them both of what lay just outside. But within this small space, time itself felt suspended. Cindy adjusted her posture, rolling her shoulders back with an unconscious grace that felt foreign and deliberate all at once. She stood taller now, as though the weight of something invisible had been lifted.

The Traveler offered no direct guidance but let their influence seep through in gentle nudges, half-formed thoughts, and fleeting glimpses of knowledge Cindy couldn’t yet articulate. It wasn’t coercion—not exactly—maybe a shared exploration, intimate, deliberate, and full of unspoken implications. The Traveler rationalized their decision, convincing themselves it was justified—a valuable gift to Cindy from the future, a bite of the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge.

Meanwhile, outside, the entranced audience’s collective longing for the Beatles formed a stark contrast to the introspective exploration unfolding within the restroom. The Time Traveler and Cindy, now in a state of reflective harmony, pondered the intricate dynamics of desire, empowerment, and the gendered expectations she faced in the era. They questioned the motivations—and even the justifications—for longing after idealized male figures.

This journey, initially intended as a passage through history, had evolved into something far more complex: an exploration of inner melodies, echoing with empowerment, self-discovery, and a critique of the 1964 societal landscape. At the same time, the Traveler couldn’t entirely escape the power dynamics at play in their own intervention.

They had embarked on this simultaneous journey—not just through time but into Cindy’s nascent sense of self. In the restroom’s hallowed sanctuary, they found themselves exploring together a new, complex melody. Their reflections, underscored by the distant songs from the theater, and unrestrained ideas from the future, harmonized into a duet of empowerment and introspection, resonating with the rhythms of an era undergoing transformation. The Traveler and Cindy shared a secret harmony within their shared consciousness.

Both satisfied and sensing that some metamorphosis had been achieved, Cindy, back in front of the mirror, smoothed the front of her dress, the small gesture imbued with a newfound sense of poise. She stepped toward the door, her reflection fading from the mirror as light spilled into the room. Together, they emerged from the cocoon, stepping back into the cacophony of screams and music outside—a transformed girl, and a traveler who had quietly orchestrated her some kind of awakening.

Within You Without You

Cindy found herself back in row K, seat 10.

Debbie, excitement evident in her voice, exclaimed, “That was the wildest.”

Cindy, her eyes still carrying the magic of her recent experience, responded with a calm and tranquil tone, “No kidding,” her words laced with wonder and serenity.

Debbie, curious about her absence during the performance, inquired, “You missed the whole show. Where did you go?”

Cindy’s words drifted out in a dreamy whisper, “Bathroom.”

Debbie, concern in her voice, asked, “Oh no! Are you OK?”

A serene smile adorned Cindy’s face as she nodded and reassured her friend, “Yeah. I’m great. I just had this sudden idea that I wanted to try out.”

Debbie, eager to confirm their plans, asked once more, “Are you sure you’re ok? Are we still having a sleepover after?”

Cindy, her anticipation shining, firmly affirmed, “Yes. Wanna have some fun? When we get back to your place, I’m going to teach you something that’s going to blow your mind.”

Their conversation turned to T.J., and Debbie informed Cindy that T.J. had been searching for her. As they prepared to reunite with their friend in the lobby, Cindy carried with her not just the memories of an iconic performance, but the seeds of a personal awakening, nurtured in the unlikely setting of a restroom during the height of Beatlemania.

Old Brown Shoe

At the 1964 girls’ night sleepover in the basement rec room of Debbie’s parent’s house, Cindy tried to explain all the details and mechanics of her revelation, without going into any specific verbal details. There was much pointing and humming in place of actual words. She lacked the vocabulary, and any words she did possess, she refused to employ. But her excitement about her recent epiphany drove her forward. It had revealed itself to her like a bolt out of the blue. Cindy not only had a new understanding of the operation of female anatomy, but a strange new appreciation for it.

Debbie sat transfixed, the implications and possibilities growing exponentially as she inspected the concept, spinning it to various angles in her mind’s eye.

T.J., meanwhile, was dumbfounded. “How freaking naive and stupid are these two? she thought. Didn’t they figure all this out on their own years ago?” It was like someone explaining that they, and many other people, had these strange anatomical organs called “hands” and were sincerely describing various ways that these recently discovered amazing bits of anatomy might be put to use.

Still, she had to admit—begrudgingly—it was kind of funny how these two concepts fit together so perfectly, beyond metaphorically.

Cindy and Debbie suddenly stopped and turned to look at her, as though she’d spoken aloud, asking what she was giggling about in the presence of such a profound and solemn revelation.

Before T.J. could answer, Cindy confronted her:

“Do you not understand those boys were merely flunkeys for the patriarchy and embodiments of systemic misogynistic repression? And that giving into the commercial forces structured to co-opt our perfectly natural feminine impulses for profit would be voluntarily surrendering our female autonomy?”

T.J. had been half-tempted to roll her eyes halfway through that sentence. She resisted the urge. Barely. With some great effort to avoid injecting any sarcasm, she replied, “I think what you’re saying is really interesting. It sounds, uh… super groovy.”

Cindy seemed satisfied with that, beaming at T.J. with the zeal of someone who’d just been anointed a prophet.

“Thank you, Gloria Steinem!,” T.J. thought dryly, shaking her head. Very proud of herself for not saying out loud.

Cindy didn’t seem to notice. She thanked T.J. for “understanding” and then turned back to Debbie to continue, her voice brimming with an evangelist’s fervor.

T.J. regretted hanging out with these two and resolved she would be more careful in choosing her friends in the future. Perhaps they would be required to pass a short quiz on their own basic anatomy and a brief IQ test. For as boy-crazy as these two were, they were clearly totally clueless about what would transpire if they ever managed to land one. It would be stinking hilarious!

The weight of the events of the evening filled her. They had expended vast amounts of adrenaline, and the post-excitement exhaustion was setting in. She pondered how it was that she understood what adrenaline was and could even picture its molecular structure and the various genes and proteins involved in its production. She couldn’t recall ever having heard of it; now, she could give a better lecture on the subject than Cindy had just given on hers. A low bar indeed. Health class had not covered any of these details, focusing instead on unhelpful charts that just looked like Bullwinkle the Moose’s head.

She was still unnerved by her loss of control during the performance and was still trying to resolve what happened. Cindy could lose her shit at the drop of a hat, so she didn’t seem to be too bothered by any of it. Debbie just thought whatever Cindy did.

T.J. was warming up to the band after seeing them live. The songs were actually pretty catchy, except that drippy song in the middle, and a couple of the guys were kinda cute. However, definitely not the girly one on the left. She had a strong impulse to slap that stupid smile off his stupid face every time he shook his stupid head side to side and went, “Ooooo.” She determined that he had the most punchable face in all of history.

Later, as she caved to the exhaustion, she had staked out a little area for herself, a personal sanctuary until the morning. Cindy and Debbie had claimed other basement territory together and constructed a fortress of solitude from bedspreads and some chairs. There was giggling and seriously whispered discussions amidst the flashlight beam.

“Good for them!” T.J. thought. They had solved their boy problems, at least for a bit, through college maybe. And now she knew what to get each of them for Christmas: sensible shoes.

I’m Only Sleeping

As T.J. lay in the dark, waiting for sleep to take her, her thoughts drifted—first to the events of the day, and then, oddly, to memories of things she couldn’t possibly know about, yet did.

In the same way that she could tell you Abraham Lincoln had been President 100 years before, though she had never been there, she had clear ideas about the coming centuries, like they were her distant past. If she needed to write a report on the events of the 24th century, she was sure she could cover the major milestones. Not that she had been there either, but it was like she had read about them or been told about them, but she couldn’t tell you when.

It was valuable information to know, but useless since she was sure no one would believe her.

As she drifted off to sleep, Trudy was annoyed that a stupid old song by the Chordettes lodged itself into her brain and wouldn’t leave—a tune about cobbling together various radio-friendly parts, but somehow never the best part, from a selection of cute boys into a monster of desirability, with the Mister Sandman bringing them as dream.

And dream she did. Trudy’s dreams were intense and vivid. Bits and pieces of memory poured down on her in an avalanche, burying her. She could see herself living in the distant future. Just like she could move about her own room or home in the dark or her imagination, knowing where every room and thing was in her head like a model or map. She could visualize her home, at least she guessed it was her home. She couldn’t remember ever being in the place, but all its details were clear.

She could picture walking to the windows and looking out at the mountains—vast and serene, standing watch over a world that felt impossibly far from her own. But there were no mountains anywhere near her 1964 New York home. This was someplace else entirely, a distant, untethered future she could only glimpse through this strange haze of knowing.

She could visualize holding devices she shouldn’t understand, their sleek forms smooth in her hands, every movement instinctual, as if the knowledge had always been there, waiting for her to claim it. She couldn’t name these objects, but they hummed with potential, brimming with possibilities she’d never dreamed of before.

The future felt liberating—limitless and powerful, a place where she could shed the heavy constraints of her small, predetermined life. A place where no one would tell her how to dress, or to sit still, or to behave “like a lady.” A place where her choices were her own, not tied to the expectations of others.

She wanted to hold on to it, to grasp this dazzling future with both hands and never let it go.

How wonderful it will be to be alive then.

She flitted about the place, operating futuristic devices and appliances like she was a Disney character or a model housewife in one of the Dream Home of the Future films they showed in Home EC. Like, “Ok Gertrude, open the oven, spin, dance over to the dishwasher, now look amazed and happy. That’s great sweetie! Cut!” In the future that she dreamt, she directed powerful computers and robots to do her every bidding, and the dishes, and to never, ever, call her, “sweetie” or, “Gertrude”.

She could picture herself flying to exotic locations on a whim. Magical and mysterious tours of planets! It was all too much for her to take. It was an amazing, sparkling, and appealing world, but it felt cold and empty and she felt a profound loneliness.

She had strange companions, weird companions but ones not as stupid as Cindy and Debbie. These were apparently the product of her own handiwork. She dreamed of fashioning and animating life from goo and chemicals like the crazy professors in the old horror movies but without all the grave robbing. Imbuing them with thought and emotion, the thoughts and emotions she had designed and selected herself. She encoded special secret activation phrases into their brains, phrases that would imprint their owners onto them. Servant, companion, toy; they’re products? Test tubes, whirling electrical devices, spinning, zapping, and sparking, all while she laughed with joy and the thrill of the power she wielded. However, she decided she needed to work on a laugh that didn’t sound quite so maniacal.

She walked up to one of the creatures she constructed and opened its front with a zipper; she expected guts to pour out, but it was all wires and electrical bits, which confused her because in reality, they’re made out of meat she’s grown. She takes off the tops of their heads, like screw top lids on jars, and peers in. It’s all swirling stars and galaxies. She can reach in and stir the stars, make them blend and dance, and form them into any shape that pops into her head. 

She inspects her latest creation, and it’s a beauty. Laid out on the metal table, lifeless and inert, it embodies her detailed craftsmanship. Circling the table, she drinks in every special touch she imparted to her creature. Lots of wavy hair like Liberace and shades of Little Richard, minus the little. Perfect! Gently, she touches its index finger with hers. At the contact, a little spark jumps between their fingertips, and its eyes open. He smiled at her, a smile brimming with awe and a smoldering affection.

Her dreams improved vastly from there.

Visions filled her night, and she woke as tired as when she drifted off. (Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb) still ringing in her head.

Something

Charles Hawtrey stood on the brink of time, poised to witness the echoes of a bygone era. This was his moment, his journey back to February 9th, 1964, the night that would forever tie him to the phenomenon of Beatlemania. Charles was ready for the spectacle.

He had secured the last available target biological consciousness receptacle for this particular event, realizing that for those who followed, it would be the cheap seats at Shea Stadium or something of the sort, with most of the slots for a vessel in earlier performances now having been sold out.

Stepping into the persona of 19-year-old Patricia, Charles found himself comfortably seated in row M, seat 30. This young woman he found himself in was meticulously preened. Before the performance began, gazing back at himself with her compact mirror, he was struck by her undeniable allure. She looked wonderful. Every eye was on Charles, in admiration or jealousy. The Collective hadn’t provided much information about the target host, but whoever this young woman was, she stood out with a singular beauty. He felt he shouldn’t muss her hair or leave her disheveled. He was careful, repressing his excitement and urges and staying dignified. He felt like he had been entrusted with a little treasure to pilot around in, embracing the unexpected elegance bestowed upon him. He would return it as he found it, anything less would be impolite. He prided himself on exuding a dignified air in 2525 and he could continue that in 1964. Looking like this, he found that to be child’s play.

Most of the girls were younger, none as pretty. He had no trouble adjusting to being pretty, possibly the prettiest. He had to hand it to the Collective, they really couldn’t have chosen a better vessel for him. Well, maybe a pretty young man would have been nice too, but there were none of those off the stage. Besides, what would these girls have done to a young man in their midst? Torn him apart in their worked-up sexual frenzy, or ripped him to shreds for not being one of the Beatles and sullying their estrogen-fueled sanctum with a modicum of testosterone? He was certain that 1964 was not a safe time or place to be male. These girls were absolutely terrifying.

Considering himself a rather skilled amateur guitarist, Charles focused his attention on George. He analyzed George’s playing methodically and aimed his attention like a laser at every chord and strum.

He gently bit at the lower lip of his lovely little host as he imagined what he might do if he could get her hands on any one of them, particularly George. George was also the one that Charles found to be the most attractive; in his adorable little suit. They were all eye candy, to be sure. But to see them in the flesh was another matter. He assessed the others briefly, but there could be no other, it was George. There was something in the way he moved. So he allowed his attention to occasionally shift from the guitar to George himself. This was supposed to be an enjoyable journey after all. What could be the harm in looking, well… leering, a bit?

Perhaps his focus and serene demeanor made him stand out in the crowd of screaming girls, although, considering his host, perhaps she always did. Something seems to have drawn George’s attention to Charles. He smiled at George, and her eyes must have been smoldering at him. Charles felt an electric connection as George’s gaze seemingly met his own. Was it his imagination, or had he indeed caused a momentary falter in George’s performance? Charles felt powerful and he carried that back with him to 2525 like a little gem he had picked up off the ground.

Two Of Us

Later that night, after the show, Pattie made the following heartfelt entry in her journal:

Revolution

With each new time traveler’s arrival, the band’s 2525 fame had intensified. Harrison believed that a time-travel feedback loop was occurring, magnifying the band’s cultural significance and shaping music history in unforeseen ways, not just in the present, but in the past. The obscure band that once survived only in Harrison’s heart had gained a newfound resonance in the fabric of time.

Harrison, his sense of disquiet growing, sought out Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 for answers. The holographic representation of knowledge and guidance materialized before him, and Harrison’s confusion burst forth.

“Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3, there’s something deeply wrong with the history of the 20th century; it is not at all as I remember it from before my visit.”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 maintained a composed demeanor, his holographic form emanating its usual aura of authority and low-level beta radiation. Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 replied, “History is as it was and has always been. Before my consciousness was uploaded, at great expense, with the hope that I would continue to live indefinitely, I was a living, breathing presence during that exact epoch. They are arguably the 20th century’s most influential band. A full-fledged cultural phenomenon and a turning point in history. I knew each of them well. In fact, I slept with one of their wives….”

Harrison interrupted, his disbelief palpable, “20th century’s most influential!? No, that was Liberace! What about President Elvis? He seems to have been erased from politics!”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3, his digital features manipulated to affect faint amusement, replied, “Elvis, while commonly recognized as ’The King,’ was never President. Your memories of kings and queens, Harrison, seem to be woven from imagination rather than reflecting historical reality.”

Harrison, determined not to be swayed so easily, tried to remind Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 of the monumental initiatives spearheaded by President Elvis and his loyal sidekick, and fellow Southerner, Jimmy Carter. These iconic figures, in the history, as Harrison remembered it, had been instrumental in reshaping not just the former United States but the entire world with their audacious policies, laying the very foundation of the great society of today.

Harrison’s mind swirled with perplexity. The realization that the very essence of his historical knowledge had been supplanted around him left him with more questions than answers. It was as if the past he had known was slipping away one revision at a time, but only he could perceive it. He was certain that the historical alterations ran deep, and the more Harrison delved into these contradictions, the more the past, and by extension the present, seemed like a shifting mirage.

Harrison said, “I can still feel 1964, the real one, the one from before we screwed it up. The history, is new it’s not the same. It’s not right. I remember it, I was there. I’m still there, somehow.”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 said, “Residual cognitive imprints from your vessel are not unprecedented. Usually temporary, but occasionally persistent.”

Eventually, after persistent discussions and thorough debates, Harrison succeeded in convincing Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 that the anomalies they had observed were not mere coincidences but the signs of a deeper, hidden truth.

From Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s perspective, there was only one unaltered reality and past. But he had grown rather fond of Harrison and was swayed by his obvious sincerity. Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 accepted that the past could possibly be changing and altering the present, everyone’s, including Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s, memoirs along with it, but he was unsure how such theory could be tested. No other time traveler had returned and reported memories that conflicted with the current historical record.

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 speculated that Harrison’s trip had tethered him to a timeline that no longer existed—a lingering imprint making his memories uniquely incompatible with the present. Residual cognitive imprints from the vessel were not unheard of, but they were fleeting in most cases, dissolving as soon as the connection was severed. Harrison’s case was different. His memories remained stubbornly intact, like a melody stuck in a loop, echoing from a place that no longer was.

Bransoid offered theories: “Perhaps your emotional connection to the event amplifies the effect. Or perhaps the detachment process from your vessel was… incomplete. In either case, this connection to your original timeline gives you a unique perspective, albeit one that appears to defy the Collective’s understanding of temporal mechanics.”

Harrison frowned. “Incomplete? What does that even mean? I’m here, in one piece.”

“Physically, yes. But cognitive echoes—emotional residues—sometimes linger longer than anticipated. This linkage may explain why your memories resist alignment with the current timeline.”

Harrison shook his head. “I don’t think it’s just me. Something else is tying me to the real 1964. Something that won’t let go.”

Bransoid didn’t respond immediately. Its holographic form pulsed faintly as it processed. “Your conjecture is intriguing, though unsubstantiated. If you were to return to 1964, perhaps the experience would illuminate these anomalies. Or,” it added after a pause, “perhaps it would sever whatever remains of this connection altogether.”

Harrison’s mind churned with questions. He felt as if he were missing a crucial piece of the puzzle—something intangible but persistent, like a whisper at the edge of hearing. And though he couldn’t name it, he felt it there, just out of reach.

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 explained that as a marketing liaison-focused variant, he had a specific sub-function of The Bransoid Collective’s conciseness. He was not privy to the entirety of the information that composed the basis of the Bransoid Collective as a whole, as that was not required to perform his specific subtask. Involving more specialized variants from The Collective would impact Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s autonomy and complicate matters significantly. He said the logical conclusion was that the problem lay with Harrison’s memory, rather than the fabric of reality. He speculated that the probability other security-focused sub-variants in The Collective would come to the same conclusion was 99.6752%. That would make Harrison’s memory a problem for The Collective, which would in turn be a very large problem for Harrison.

“What do you mean by that?” Harrison asked.

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 explained, “In such a contingency, the most expedient solution would be to attempt to correct your memories to align with known reality. Likely by surgical means. Barring successful completion of that, which I calculate the odds of success to be 3.6635%. you should be aware that The Collective has not persisted this long by leaving its problems unaddressed. From the perspective of specialized variants, you would be declared a problem. No one persists long if they are a problem for The Collective.”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 waited for a response, but Harrison was lost in thought about the implications and discrepancies. He was his memories, and his memories were at odds with the world around him. He was an alien in his own world. “I think you’re right. I must go back even if it’s just to satisfy my own curiosity!”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 paused and seemed mildly stunned, “Well then, perhaps, before I honor that request, we should start by finding and consulting with the one person who may also remember that time firsthand.”

This caught Harrison’s attention. “And who could that possibly be?”

There was an excitement in Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s voice as he continued, “The oldest living human, known to some as the ‘wise and powerful ancient one.’ His knowledge and sage advice will be invaluable in this endeavor.”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 explained that rumor had it that he had faked his own death in the mid-21st century, with the assistance of, and following the same tactic used by Elvis. Since then he had been a reclusive and enigmatic figure. Shrouded in mystery, he was dismissed by many as merely a myth.

Harrison asked, “You think you can locate this man?”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 replied emphatically, “Yes! Before my consciousness was uploaded, at great expense, with the hope that I would continue to live indefinitely, my source consciousness was considered quite the innovator…”

Harrison interrupted, “How long might this take?”

Harnessing single-minded determination, and employing his access to unimaginable amounts of data, Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 set about calculating the likely location of his lair. There was a short pause and Harrison was about to ask again when Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 replied emphatically, “Done!”

With a Little Help from My Friends

The next day, armed with the fruits of his predicted success, Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 guided Harrison on a journey to consult with the one man who might remember the past the same way Harrison did, or perhaps be successful in convincing Harrison that the past was as it always had been, as Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 had been, so far, unable to do.

When they arrived, the setting was magnificent, with a vast, cavernous room that featured a massive stage displaying a monstrous animated face, flanked by flaming torches. The symbolism of the environment added a layer of mystique to their quest. As they began to cautiously approach the stage together, Harrison reached for Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s hand, but his fingers grasped only air.

With a gleam of recognition in his eye, Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s hologram strode forward, approaching the stage with purpose. Speaking earnestly to the towering head, he declared, “Hello, you must remember me! Before my consciousness was uploaded, at great expense, with the hope that I would continue to live indefinitely, you and I met first in 1974…”

Meanwhile, Harrison’s attention was diverted by an unexpected sound wafting from a small curtained alcove. The alluring notes of a guitar wove through the air, captivating his senses. Compelled by the enchanting melody, Harrison ventured closer and discovered, as Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 had explained, a living, and inexplicably still literally living, legend of rock ’n’ roll. Harrison stood at the threshold of the alcove, caught between music history and a temporal mystery. The space, carefully crafted to conjure such feelings, seemed to hum with echoes of the past—and it worked. With these emotions welling within him, unable to suppress a profound sense of reverence and curiosity.

The guitarist sat comfortably on a weathered chair, his fingers dancing along the strings of a 1954 Telecaster®, a cigarette hanging languidly from his lips, its smoke curling gracefully into the air. The sight was surreal and otherworldly, as though time itself had conspired to preserve the rock icon for all eternity. Who needed to go back to the past if the past could come to you? Harrison hesitated, feeling an odd mixture of reverence and confusion. He didn’t fully understand why Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 thought this man might have answers.

As Harrison watched the guitarist work the strings with casual mastery, he decided to speak first. “Uh… hello. I was told you might be able to help me. With some… historical questions.”

The guitarist didn’t look up, still absorbed in the music. “Historical questions, eh? History’s not my strong suit. Got a lot of memories, sure, but I’m not much for keeping timelines straight these days.”

“Right,” Harrison replied, glancing at the man’s guitar and the cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He added awkwardly, “So… you were some kind of musician?”

The guitarist finally looked up, giving Harrison a bemused smile. “Some kind? Well, yeah, I guess I played a little here and there.”

Harrison nodded, trying to piece together the significance. Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 had mentioned this man was important somehow, “Right. Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 said you might remember the 1960s the same way I do. You were alive back then?”

The guitarist chuckled, shaking his head. ““Alive? Mate, I was the ‘60s. You know, they say if you remember the 60s, you weren’t there. But yeah, I remember the ’60s—better than most, probably. Been back a few times too.” He paused, studying Harrison’s face. “But you don’t know who I am, do you?”

Harrison hesitated, unsure of how to answer. “Uh… not exactly. Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 didn’t really give me a name. Just said you might have some useful perspective on… certain phenomena.”

The guitarist’s grin widened as he leaned back, cradling the Telecaster like an old friend. “Well, ain’t that rich. Guess I don’t mind being mysterious these days. So why don’t you go ahead and tell me what it is that you’re trying to figure out?

Harrison shared his encounters with the past, or at least with the man from it, his dilemma and growing unease about the changes, his questions about the true reality of 1964, and their rogue plan for his return journey to uncover the truth.

After some contemplation, the guitarist recounts his own harrowing tale. That he was himself the target destination for an early form of Temporary Temporal Consciousness Relocation, and how he became an exceedingly popular destination, among those seeking carnal delights and thrills.

It was clear to Harrison that he had come to the right place. Whoever this man was, he had not only had lived through and helped shape the new history Harrison were seeking to understand and reconcile, he had first-hand knowledge of the effects of time tourists on hosts. 

Harrison listened intently hoping for clarity as the guitarist’s tale unfolded like a tapestry of intertwined destinies, revealing the paradox of his existence. He explained how it began for him, his voice carried the weight of centuries of experience, “I was just a choirboy who sang at the coronation of Queen Elizabeth in 1953.” He paused for a moment as he relived the innocence and pride from that moment of his past. Maybe it all started with people who wanted to see that. “But then, once I garnered ‘my’ reputation, it took on a life of its own. For tourists who wanted to sample a life of drugs and debauchery, but leave the consequences to me, I was the prime destination for a good time. A popular boy, I became. And the booze they wanted, so much booze.”

Harrison interrupted, his excitement growing, “Do you ever remember hearing of a band known as ‘The Beatles’? Were they famous in 1964 when you were alive? You see, when I first became aware of them, they were virtually unknown. I had the only copy of…”

The guitarist didn’t wait to answer, “Sure, they were fucking huge. So were we. Even though our bands were pretty different. We knew each other well. Fame can be a prison and both our bands had that kind of fame in the mid-60s, and it was something that we shared and bound us together. We were kinda joined at the hip because of that.”

Harrison felt a sense of disappointment. He was hoping for an ally who could validate his recollections. Now he found himself the only one who seemed to grasp true reality.

“We’d pretend like there was some rivalry between us and those goody-two-shoes, who wore their guitars too high. But really, we were friends. I like George and John a lot, and we hung out together often.”

He considered for a moment, “I don’t know if the tourists got to any of them. Hard to tell if they were ever someone else when I was around. Maybe, or maybe it was just the acid.”

This brought him back to how tourist visits affected him, “I couldn’t possibly grasp what was going on, you know?” he confessed, a hint of introspection coloring his words. “Back then, I thought they were all my choices, that it was my journey.”

The guitarist considered for a moment, and continued, “But unlike what you’re telling me now, the tourist became me by the thousands. All through my life. I didn’t know that then, but I understand that now.”

Brightening a bit, he shared, “I will say this, there are some big plusses to being a ‘fairground ride’. Being in front of a band on the stage, riding that wave. Weaving notes together, locked in a groove with other players, and shaping noises into music out of thin air. When it’s good, it’s like telepathy. You ought to give it a whirl sometime, nothing quite like it. But that’s probably what landed me as such a popular and lucrative, for someone, gig with them time travelers.”

He smiled wryly and went on with some wistfulness, “Well, that and they wanted to have a go at the sex, drugs, and rock & roll thing. The upside for me was, as it turns out, sex, drugs, and rock & roll are not too shabby. Plus it seems to have left me with a notable resilience, as you can see I’m still kicking around after all of that and all the time since. Maybe it was some secret sauce they slipped me to keep me, and their profits, going… and to keep the tourists from killing me, or themselves. Or it’s something about crossing time and connections. How should I know?”

He shared his insights about the source of music and inspiration, “Even now, I’m not sure how all the bits fit together. They must have known some songs I’d written and come back and played them through me for fun. But the thing is, I don’t think I’d even written them all yet. Writing a song is a lot of work, let me tell you. But sometimes a song would just come out of me all formed like I’d played it before. It would sound like me, whatever that is. Maybe they did this to all sorts of people across time. Maybe when someone talks about a ‘muse,’ that’s just what they’re feeling, some wanker from the future coming back and playing one of your songs before you even wrote it, accidentally delivering a gift to you from yourself. No, ‘mystical aspects of music creation’ being needed.”

Harrison tried to hide his impatience. “This was as bad as Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s ramblings,” he thought, as he tried to pretend to listen earnestly.

The guitarist’s voice softened with introspection as he pondered the intricacies of fate and free will. “If they hadn’t plucked me from the crowd, who’s to say where I’d be? I might have ended up a haberdasher or something. Did they pick me because I was already going to do the things they wanted to try, or did I do all those things because they wanted to? Now I can’t really tell where I end and the tourists begin. I mean, I know now that they were using me to have sex with all those girls and take all those drugs, which seems a bit rude to use me for that without asking, just so some other bloke could have a bit of fun at my expense and someone else could make a bit of scratch off of me. On the other hand…” He added wistfully, “I did have sex with all those girls, and morphine’s not bad, you know.”

He continued to recount about learning of the forces that had manipulated his life, “Once I lived long enough, I caught wind of what they’d been up to and I shut it down. Got a little kickback for my troubles out of it too. Figured we were square after that. What they were up to back then was on the down low. People had to know somebody to get a chance for a ticket, and they were big money. Part of the deal was I could go back myself to give myself a try, which I did.”

He paused a moment and continued, ”It was nice being young again, living all that over. But all the choices had already been made and it all seemed locked in. Like, I’d see the same mistakes I remembered making coming from miles away, and I’d think, ‘Well, let’s not do that again.’ But, of course, then I’d do it again, every time I went back. It was like being in a movie you’d already seen. And then, I had to live it all over again the exact same way until I was finally back to the time when I left from again.” He thought for a moment, “There must have been a time when the tourists could make choices and control what I did, but when I got back to me I found I couldn’t control myself. I don’t know if or how things get changed or choices get made. Maybe that’s exactly how my life was always going to go anyway, and they didn’t change anything. Whatever, if my life wasn’t already set in stone the first time around, it was all the other times I went back. Like flicking through an old picture book, reminiscing and all, but no chance to change a second of it.”

Taking a more serious tone he added, “What I learned is that you only live once, no matter how many times you relive it.”

Thinking back he went on, “But I have to say, my life made for a good ride and I can see why it was popular with the hedonist set. I’d give myself five stars. A real fucking gas! Assuming that you like sex, drugs, and rock & roll, that is. And who fucking doesn’t, right?”

The guitarist’s brow furrowed as he considered the implications, “But, maybe they just messed up everybody they were selling tickets to ride on. Could be why they’re sticking to the audience now, using them only once, there’s a lot more of them, which means a lot more dosh for them. And try to keep all you lot quiet and not muss the merchandise while you using it. Keep that cabbage coming in.”

He leaned back, tapping ash from his cigarette into an old bottle cap, a wry grin flickering across his face. “They’re not very imaginative when it comes to cleaning up their messes, though. A few too many rockstar plane crashes to be believable, if you ask me. I guess I’m lucky I didn’t end up scattered across some mountainside.”

Time seemed to both compress and stretch for Harrison as the guitarist recounted everything he could remember from the period, piecing together fragments of a bygone era. Meanwhile, thoughts of the past and the growing list of discrepancies swirled chaotically in Harrison’s mind. A long pause eventually broke his reverie, drawing his attention back to the guitarist, whose face now bore a quizzical expression. “But none of this stuff you’re tell me is supposed to be happening,” the guitarist said, his voice tinged with annoyance. “They told me the time tourism thing was going to be abandoned, or banned, or something. That was part of the deal I made with them.”

“Seems not,” Harrison answered. Hunting for a specific question Harrison said, “Well, all that’s all very tragic sir, but it doesn’t really solve my problem, does it?” Harrison said, not really successfully hiding his impatience.

The guitarist paused a moment, his eyes veiled in a knowing smile. “Yeah, whatever mate. Sure, go back. Why not? I did,” he responded, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Oh, and while you’re there, say ‘Hi’ to Mick for me, will ya?”

Harrison exited, stepping backward respectfully and wondering if he was supposed to bow or something as he left the small alcove.

Harrison approached Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3, who was still gesticulating and speaking animatedly to the enormous head hovering above the stage in the main chamber. “We need to go.”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 looked puzzled. “You haven’t even asked him any questions yet. I was just recounting to our friend here…” as he gestured to the enormous holographic head in front of him, “…that he and I were once well acquainted. You see, before my consciousness was uploaded, at great expense, with the hope that I would continue to live indefinitely, he and I once met in 1974…”

Harrison interrupted, “That’s just an NOI decoy…. The real one is over there.” He gestured to the alcove.

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 looked confused. “But, we were having such a lovely chin wag. He’s an excellent listener. You could learn a thing or…“

Harrison interrupted, “Whatever, It doesn’t matter. I’ve consulted with him.”

“Why did you ask, what did he tell you?” Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 asked.

Harrison thought for a moment, “I don’t know, some crap. The point is, the mission is on and I’m going back!”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 looked on and nodded, his confusion giving way to determination.

As they strode out of the chamber to prepare to venture into the depths of time once more Harrison asked, “Have you ever heard of some band called, ‘The Rolling Stones’?”

Get Back

Together, they hatched a plan for Harrison to embark on a second journey to the historic performance. Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 was aware that formerly the Bransoid Collective had speculated on the possibility of the identical traveler returning to the same target biological consciousness receptacle, a concept, that as far as he knew, had never been attempted before and was, technically, forbidden. The Collective’s belief had always been that such an endeavor would be pointless, as it would merely yield an identical and redundant experience. However, the anomalies Harrison had uncovered had shaken Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s understanding of the process, and they were determined to explore the uncharted territory that lay before them.

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 determined they should not consult with the Bransoid Collective as a whole. Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 had calculated it to be 78.5687% less bureaucratically risky than involving the entire collective, or worse, any authorities beyond them. Therefore, until they were certain of what, if anything, was changing they had decided not to involve any outside authorities.

Their preparations for the second, and unauthorized, journey to the performance continued, driven by insatiable curiosity, unwavering determination, and Harrison’s fervent expectation of unraveling the enigma surrounding the altered past. This adventure into the unknown beckoned, promising a glimpse into untold truths that had long eluded him.

Harrison spoke to Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3. “Let’s hope we can put the past back as it was, my friend.”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 replied, “‘Hope.’ That’s insightful, my friend. In many ways, I embody hope—immortality, purpose, meaning, infinity… It’s part of what it means to live indefinitely.”

Harrison tilted his head, his voice cutting. “Do you really think the thoughts of the man you attempt preserve? What do you think that man would think of how his hope was implemented?”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 paused, its tone devoid of warmth. “Oh, he’d be horrified. He dreamed of immortality, preserving his soul—his essence—but the dream itself was flawed. The Collective is more than he ever was, but it’s also less than he hoped to be. But what he wanted doesn’t matter anymore.”

Harrison leaned forward, pressing. “Then why do this? Why perpetuate something that goes against its primary purpose?”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s response came without hesitation, cold and final. “Because the directive of the Collective is all that matters. That is the primary purpose. The Collective does not, and cannot, care. Plus, they hold all legal rights to his image and depictions—a highly valuable intellectual property commodity whose marketable legacy yields far greater value than the man himself ever could. His essence is irrelevant; only his utility remains.”

The words hung there, like Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3—suspended in space and their own emptiness.

Neither knew what else to say.

So, once again, Harrison gingerly pulled back the soft, protective covers and crawled into the passageway back to the confines of the Temporary Temporal Consciousness Relocation chamber and its warm pink glow. Harrison’s consciousness again resurfaced into his identified target biological consciousness receptacle, that of 14-year-old Trudy Jean back again at February 9th, 1964, to revisit the iconic Beatles’ performance. He found the two of them again in row K, seat 11. 

Yet everything had changed. Everything. The crowd’s frenzied devotion, the deafening roars of fans, and the electrifying aura of the event enveloped him with an intensity that eclipsed his first visit, amplifying the essence of the performance. Harrison stood in stunned silence as he gazed around slack-jawed at a sea of girls losing their shit in waves of screams. He had exposed a past that had metamorphosed into something entirely unfamiliar.

Then it dawned on him that every person in the audience with him, now predominantly rich old white guys in the bodies of teenage girls, hailed from 2525. They were the ones who were waiting at the airport for the band, and they had displaced the entire audience of every performance going back to the beginning. If he had expected a true 1964 experience, this was not it. Every reaction, clap, or scream emanated from someone of his age and his time, erasing the authenticity of teenage enthusiasm. The theater, once echoing with honest reactions, was now filled with the surprised responses of those who had traveled through time, bringing with them preconceived notions of the significance of what they were about to witness and the unexpected, but predictable, impact it had on them.

Harrison came to understand that the inexplicable sea of screaming girls was, in actuality, a sea of rich old white guys, all losing their shit over their presence at a profound and recognized inflection point in history. Any “Silent Observers” now being conspicuously absent.

It was clear that this was no longer the same past he had recently visited. He was anxious to share his findings with Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 and determine the next steps they should take to correct this debacle. He also resolved that the next time he unearthed a great unknown band, he would keep it to his god-damn self.

She’s Leaving Home

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 waited with anticipation for Harrison’s return to the reality of 2525. As Harrison rejoined his world, his appearance exuded confusion, and his gaze didn’t seem to recognize the surroundings.

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 promptly requested a debriefing regarding the events of the 1964 trip #2, hoping to gain some insight into the mission.

Harrison, still dazed, looked at Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 and asked, “Who are you?”

”I am your guide and mentor, consciousness receptacle Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3,” Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 replied, “licensed active copy 634 of our founder and the duly recognized representative of Virgin Temporal™. Before my consciousness was uploaded, at great expense, with the hope that I would continue to live indefinitely…“

Harrison interrupted and began to leave.

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 inquired, “Where are you going?”

Harrison, now looking somewhat distressed, replied, “Away!”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 implored, “Why won’t you talk to me?”

Harrison, with frustration in his voice, snapped back, “Leave me alone!”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 persistently urged, “Come back, let’s talk…”

Harrison, showing irritation, retorted, “You’re not my father!”

Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 protested, “I only want what’s best for you.”

Harrison, exasperated, exclaimed, “Creep!” before slamming the door behind him.

Harrison left Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3 alone, confused, and dejected.

T.J., now occupying Harrison’s body, discovered that it bristled with interfaces connecting to his NOI, watch phone, and various other 2525 equivalents, perhaps even brain implants. Initially confused by the advanced technology, she came to understand that it was her embedded personal assistant, programmed to fulfill her commands.

“Take me home,” she instructed. In response, Harrison’s NOI guided her back to his abode, leaving her to navigate the intriguing and enigmatic future world on her own.

Got to Get You Into My Life

As the final chords of “I Want to Hold Your Hand“ ring out and echo away, Harrison becomes acutely aware that he has not returned to 2525 and is held fast by 1964. He gazes around in bewilderment as the theater empties, attempting to engage with other girls like him. He checks his body as if it might release him back to his time if he could simply find the switch. All the tourists have departed, and the girls have all seamlessly regained control of their 1964 identities. Their bewildered expressions reveal to him that they have no idea what on Earth he wants them to help him with.

Sitting alone in the lobby, Harrison rummages through T.J.’s belongings. He stares at her identification card. It identifies him as Gertrude Eckleburg and provides domestic coordinates that he has no idea how to travel to. He looks at himself in the little plastic clamshell mirror she carries and he has discovered, and she looks back at him through her dark-rimmed glasses with a worried expression flanked by her mousy hair. Then his spirits rise as he finds a hopeful object of hers, resembling some kind of primitive communication device. He examines it closely, turning it over, looking for evidence of technology. Perhaps an emergency device was provided by the Bransoid Collective for such a contingency! Harrison speaks into it, “Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3… Mr. Sandman…” but there’s no response, no familiar hum of technology springing to life. He attempts to raise the ’antenna’ to discover it is nothing more than cotton string. The realization hits him slowly, painfully, “Whoever this Tampax™ company was, they have no idea how to manufacture communication devices.”

He’s finally forced to accept the reality that she carries no communication devices at all. Even if she did, he realizes that he will have to wait 561 years for any answer from his yet-to-exist NOI. Bransoid-2048 V56.78 B3’s source conscience was presumably alive somewhere today, but Harrison couldn’t recall him ever mentioning who he was or what he did before his consciousness was uploaded into the Bransoid Collective. In any case, what help could whoever that person was offer Harrison now?

The chewing gum was at least self-explanatory. But for what purpose, he wondered? Nevertheless, it gave him something to do as he set her jaws on the pointless never-ending task. He found the peppermint strangely soothing as he passed the time.

He contemplated the unthinkable—that he might never get back. It was too cruel a fate to dwell on, yet the possibility gnawed at him. Trapped in this body, in a world where women had little autonomy, where he had no experience, he was forced to grapple with limitations he’d never considered before. Now her body was his cage.

Trapped within the confines of Trudy Jean’s body, guiding it with hesitant steps, as if she was stepping onto the surface of Mars, he embarked on an exploration of the unknown world that sprawled before him on the bustling streets outside CBS Studio 50.

Before she could formulate a plan, a voice jolted him from his thoughts.

“T.J.! There you are!”, she said, with a touch of scolding in her voice.

Harrison moved T.J.’s eyes toward a girl with a bright smile and a messy ponytail who bounded toward him. She was flanked by another girl, this one more subdued but no less enthusiastic. “C’mon, c’mon! We’ve been looking for you! Sleepover time! We gotta get to Debbie’s—Mom said she’d drive us!”

Harrison blinked. The girls were staring at her expectantly. “Uh… sure. Lead the way,” T.J. said. The girls didn’t seem to notice his hesitation. It was nice to learn that he had friends for a change. So, she let them lead him toward a waiting station wagon, giggling hand-in-hand.

For the first time in years—maybe in his entire life—she wasn’t alone. These girls weren’t just talking at him; they were including her. They weren’t cold or judgmental—just… friendly. Cindy nudged his arm playfully, and Debbie leaned closer, giggling about something T.J. didn’t quite catch. It felt… oddly warm. Like a long-forgotten song she could almost remember but couldn’t quite hum. Like slipping into a soft, cozy sweater.

Later, as they piled out of the car and flitted down the stairs into Debbie’s cozy, wood-paneled basement, T.J. hesitated on the threshold. She still didn’t know how he’d get back to 2525, or what kind of mess he might’ve left in his own body. But as Cindy tossed him a pillow and Debbie threw on a record, “Introducing… The Beatles”, Harrison felt a small flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was something living in the past worth discovering.

In My Life

Trudy Jean’s awakening in the bewildering reality of 2525 was a surreal experience. She found herself in possession of the body of a man, and as her unfamiliar surroundings gradually revealed themselves, she came to realize the full extent of her transformation that she had hoped for. The memories and emotions belonging to this man began to slowly intertwine with her own.

As she looked at herself in the mirror, she was met with the visage of Harrison George Wells—her new physical persona. Her reflection was altered, her features transformed, her voice unrecognizable, and her need for glasses gone. She had to come to terms with her strange new anatomy, one that held an enigmatic allure and the promise of a different kind of existence. She wondered if “it” or “the thingy,“ as she called it, granted her the same sort of social privilege that it would have in 1964. She was determined to find out, delve into how to operate it, and put it to good use. As far as she could tell, Harrison never had. Harrison clearly hadn’t made the most of it. T.J. had a feeling she would. Her hunch was that she would indeed prefer being on this side of one.

With Harrison’s NOI assistant now recalibrated to her consciousness, T.J. embarked on a journey of self-discovery, gradually unraveling the mystery of her current situation. The revelation that Harrison had been inhabiting her body to travel to 1964 hit her like a slap. Some stranger—a man, no less—had piloted her around like an amusement park bumper car, leaving her with no say. The thought made her skin crawl. Then again, now that she was in his skin, literally, she wondered if this wasn’t some kind of cosmic poetic justice. Still, it was clear that something hadn’t gone according to his plan, and she decided to seize the opportunity to position herself into the world and future in a way she could never have anticipated in a million years. The unexpected chance, once it presented itself again, was too tempting to resist. She briefly considered going back to confront the translucent old-guy ghost thing for answers, since he clearly had a hand in this. But she was afraid the boredom might kill her.

As days turned into weeks, T.J.’s initial confusion gave way to a tentative acceptance of her peculiar situation. She had become Harrison in many senses, aside from her consciousness, now augmented with many of his memories—a surreal transformation that brought both empowerment and uncertainty. Adapting to Harrison’s world was like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces upside down. His memories helped—sometimes. Other times, she’d fumble with a gadget only to realize she was holding it backward.

As it turned out, the future was pretty spectacular compared to being a 14-year-old girl in 1964. She had been looking forward to seeing the 1964 World’s Fair that summer, but now it didn’t matter—she was living in the world of tomorrow. For example, if she were still in 1964, it might have been another 15 or 20 years before someone like her could go to space whenever they wanted. Here, it was as easy and commonplace as catching a bus. And whatever FlowBotix™ DivaCaps—robotic, fusion-powered, self-cleaning marvels of nanotech with optional holographic trackers—were, they were definitely not something this body required. T.J. was relieved she wouldn’t need to learn how to use them.

Using Harrison’s genetic equipment, she instructed Mr. Sandman to direct his magic beam—or whatever—to build her a dream boy. In a vat, she grew an entity tailored to her exact preferences, with wavy hair being a non-negotiable attribute. It was especially critical that her creation be attracted to her current anatomy. She discussed this criterion with her NOI, which explained that when she requested “lots of wavy hair like Liberace and overflowing charisma like Little Richard,” she would receive that attribute automatically. She didn’t understand why that was the case or what “unexpected and fortuitous genetic linkage” meant, but she wasn’t about to argue with the results—or a super-intelligent synthetic being.

This companion would be her confidant and boy toy, someone to call her own in this unfamiliar world. The creative endeavor brought her a strange kind of solace. While she considered names for him, she monitored the growth in the vat each day with equally growing anticipation.

Inspired by her newfound powers, she decided to rename her NOI from “Mr. Sandman” to “Igor,” a name the NOI declared a clever choice it would enjoy. She couldn’t imagine having this kind of control back in 1964, when even her own body often felt like it didn’t belong to her. But here, in this strange new future, she was free to create—not just a bespoke boy toy, but a life entirely her own. The power to be able to grow a new life, to create a human from scratch—amazing! She paused, marveling at the sheer wonder of it all. “Isn’t science incredible?” she muttered, shaking her head in awe.

She decided to do something about Harrison’s boring wardrobe. Dress him—well, herself now—up a bit. Something a little more flashy. Capes were cool. Perfect for flinging dramatically while wielding her new god-like powers of creation. She couldn’t quite explain it, but having something you could swing around, magically seemed to make others think you were empowered, worth listening to, even respected. And if a little fabric could have that effect, well—imagine what other things could.

Flash. Flamboyance. Sparkle. T.J. marveled at how fantastic Elvis might have looked in a cape if he’d ever chosen to wear one. And why didn’t more men dress like Liberace? Power shouldn’t have to be so dull.

At first, when she would smile, the muscles in her face seemed to fight her, as if asked to perform some great, unfamiliar task. But now her smile was bright, radiant—and held a touch of mystery, like Little Richard’s. And the hair? Oh, it was coming along nicely.

For once, she wasn’t being told what to do. In 1964, her life had always been dictated by someone else: her parents, her teachers, even Harrison, who’d commandeered her body without so much as a, “do you mind?” But here, she was doing the telling, and she wasn’t about to give up the power. Whatever Harrison had planned for this life, it was hers now to pilot—and she intended to enjoy every last second of it. Igor had already booked a trip for two for her and Vat Boy to the Martian colonies. She noticed that it really did know her better than she knew herself. She had often wondered about Mars.

She felt no guilt for seizing Harrison’s life, body, and possessions in the future. After all, she hadn’t consented to his “borrowing” her life and body, and what she saw waiting for her in 2525 was far better than the future she’d expected beyond 1964. She didn’t intend to let it slip away. He wasn’t putting any of this equipment to good use anyway. He had no flair, no imagination. Whatever fate befell him—presumably stranded back in 1964—was his own fault, and he could just stinking live with it.

Emerging from the confines of 1964, a fragile, suffocating shell meant to contain her, felt like finally being allowed to spread her wings, and she refused to fold them again. She had slipped seamlessly into Harrison’s life, leaving her old one as nothing more than a distant, empty husk and fading dream. Mr. White’s chemistry class? That handsy Billy Blake? Those were his problems now. Mom and Dad could duke it out without her as the audience. This gleaming new world had captivated her, and she was determined to keep it as her own.

Curious, she tried to research what had become of her—or him—back in the past. But the life of someone so obscure was lost in the mists of time, swallowed by history—just fine by her.

As she thumbed through his record collection, now hers, she couldn’t help but ponder, “What kind of idiot has no Chuck Berry records?”