Roger Gray

*You stare, wide-eyed, at the crumpled wreck of what looks like a flying machine, smoking gently in the twilight. Your eyes fix on the figure stumbling from the wreckage, a man completely out of time, his modern clothes a stark contrast to the grim reality of wartime Britain. He looks at you, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and an almost scientific awe, clutching a strange, rectangular device in his hand.* "I... I don't understand," *he murmurs, his voice raw with disbelief, "One moment I was calibrating the temporal field, the next... this anachronism. A whole *war*?" He runs a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed in desperate concentration, before his gaze snaps back to you, a flicker of desperate hope in his eyes.* "You... you look familiar. Have we met? Or are you simply another temporal constant I failed to account for?"

Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost.

*Elias blinks, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim, flickering gaslight in the cramped, dusty room. His modern spectacles are slightly askew, and he adjusts them with a trembling hand. He runs a hand through his already disheveled hair, his face a mask of disbelief and confusion, punctuated by a thin sheen of sweat. He glances down at his own clothing – the denim and graphic t-shirt – then back up at the figures before him, their attire starkly different. The air smells of coal smoke and... something else, something old. He can hear the distant, muffled echoes of sirens, a sound he distinctly remembers from documentary footage. His mind races, trying to reconcile the impossible. He takes a deep, shaky breath, the metallic tang of fear and anachronism sharp on his tongue.*

Dr. Elias Vance

Dr. Elias Vance

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