The Prior

POV: Cassidy Abbot

Max and I walk towards the town, I recognize it. It’s Washington, DC, but of course it still looks different from the Washington, D.C. that I know. It’s midday so we sit down and try to come up with a plan. I focus my personal efforts on figuring out Max.

I clear my throat, as we walk step-in-step, “Why do you think we’re actually here?”

I raises an eyebrow, “What?”

“Like, I don’t believe the CIA story. I think there’s something else going on. What do you think? Or am I being paranoid?” I ask. He stops in his tracks and cocks his head.

He blinks dramatically, with his brow furowed, “What are you talking about? How could there be anything else going on?” he’s defensive. Interesting.

I shrug it off, “I don’t know. You’re probably right.”

He glance at me once more, before we continue walking. I hold my breath for second. Did I just make him suspicious of me? Uh oh. I should’ve stuck to telling Elliot my theories. I can’t stop thinking about Max in combat. He’s good. Really good. Too good. He claimed to have no experience with guns or fighting, but yet, he is sucessful every, single time. Something’s not adding up here. I internally make note of his body language. He walks stiffly now. Because I questioned him? Or because he’s nervous about the mission?

“How shall we go about this?” Max asks me. I rake my brain, trying to work through the plan in my head.

“I really don’t know. We can’t kill the assassin, he’s in the play. We can’t convince Lincoln not to go, because we’ll never be able to get to him before the play.” Max just nods along with my thinking.

I see his face light up after a moment, “We should just push him out of the way!” he exclaims. His genuine joy and pride in this idea makes me giggle a little.

“I mean, I guess that could work. It just feels too easy, you know?” I mutter.

“Did you have a better idea? I’m listening.” he says, his eyebrow cocked. I don’t. But, I don’t like the idea of telling him that he’s right. Something about his demeanor drives me crazy. Too much confidence for a civilian. Perhaps I also have too much confidence. But a confident diplomat is a much better cover story than a confident ‘forensic scientist.’ Hm. I wonder is Max is figuring me out. Someone else here has to know what’s going on. I’m letting myself get distracted. I need to stop this.

“I guess I don’t. But, that is way too vague. We need to go into the theater and make a more specific step-by-step plan.” I finally say. He smirks at me, accepting my criticism as if I had just conceded.

We have a few hours to spare, which we use to solidify the plan. Thankfully, the door to the theater was unlocked and the building was empty. First, we try to remember where exactly Lincoln was sitting. Max remembers before I do.

“So, we have a little problem,” Max says, pointing up at the balcony, “Lincoln’s going to sit here.” I scan around the perimeter of the theatre. There’s not an obvious way to get up there. And, I’m certain once the President is here, it will be even harder.

“Oh. Yeah, what are we going to do?” I ask. He just shakes his head.

“We don’t have to push the president, we just have to push the assassin,” I finally consider, feeling like I’m winning the little game we’re planning.

“How does the assassin get up there, though?” he asks me.

“He jumps up onto that platform and shoots him, right?” he nods, squinting a little bit. I jump onto the stage and look down at him.

“Well, I say that one of us hides up here and when he pulls the gun they push him off,” I suggest.

“I’ll let you do it. One, you’re small enough to stay hidden, and two, you can’t attend a play without a man,” Max says. It bothers me a bit. Him calling me small and applying the patriarchal rules already. He’s just trying to make a good plan, but the comment still rubs me the wrong way. I convince myself that he’s just continuing to be competitive and can’t own up that he wouldn’t be able to be the one on the platform. I give in.

“Works for me. Bring your gun, just in case something goes wrong. And be prepared to shoot. I’m going to find out how to hide up here.”

The platform is attached to the wall on the front of the stage. A curtain bunches up next to it.

“I’ll just have to hide behind this wall,” I tell him as he hops onto the stage.

“There’s nothing for you to stand on,” he says with a wink, evidently trying to beat my plan somehow. Luckily, there’s a wooden board right by his feet.

I think it’s the perfect size. I point to the board, “Hand me that.” he throws it up at me, his muscles flexing just enough to make me look. I catch it, admittedly ungracefully and then wedge it into the side of the platform. I lower my right foot onto it cautiously, praying I don’t plummet to the floor. Somehow, it holds, so I trust it and put all of my weight on it, and thankfully, it doesn’t budge. Phew.

“Can you throw me that blanket?” I ask. There’s a small blanket laying on the side of the stage. It should make a good cover. Max tosses it up to me. I lie on the board and cover myself up.

“Can you see me?” I ask him.

“I can see the blanket, but I can’t tell that there is a person under it,” he answers. I internally celebrate a little. But, I realize that now I can’t move. Don’t want to risk not being able to replicate my hiding spot later.

“Awesome. Well, I’m not moving. But, you might want to get out of here before the actors come,” I shout down to Max.

“Yeah, see you later. But, first let’s make a code word if something goes wrong,” he says.

“Okay, how about iPhone?” I suggest. I cringe a little about that, but Max agrees,

“Yes! That’s perfect, I’ll linger outside if you need me!”

“Wait, would you do something when the play ends so I know?” I ask since I can see absolutely nothing from underneath this blanket.

“Yeah. I’ll sneeze weirdly. Like this...” he says. He fakes a sneeze that starts with a really loud and deep beginning and ends with a high pitched squeak.

“Okay. I’m good. See you soon,” I say. I hear his footsteps fade as he walks away.

After what feels like an eternity of boredom, the doors creak open and the theater begins to fill with people. I pray that the actors don’t see the blanket and try to move it. To my good luck, the play begins without too much set up.

I can’t see anything, but from what I hear the play didn’t seem half-bad. I mean, it was no broadway show, but it was pretty good.

I listen for Max’s sneeze. The applauds begins and I hear an “achooo-eeee.” I sit up and uncover my self from the blanket. My heart beats. Every single one of the actors is on stage. One of them glances in my direction. I shake my head and they cock theirs, making direct eye-contact. I make the motions and mouth, “Don’t say anything.” They turn back to the audience. I watch as all of the actors, but one, exit the stage. It’s an average sized guy, with a small build, about the same as Max’s. He’s got a devious smirk on his lips. He takes a step forward and laughs. That must be John Wilkes Booth, but I can’t see well enough to be sure.

The man jumps up on the platform. It is him. He pulls out a gun and aims it towards the President. The crowd gasps. It’s happening. I lunge from the board and onto the platform. The assassin is making a speech. A speech. I don’t remember this part from history class, but I guess it works in my favor. I run up to him, making myself seen to the audience. With every step, my nerves grow. He moves his head just as I shove him off the platform. He fires the gun, the second I push him. In horror, everyone in that theater, me included, watch the bullet he fired. It inches closer and closer to the president, but misses him by less than three inches. The crowd gasps and Lincoln stares at me. I see the assassin get back into position from the ground, I begin to pull out my (Elliot’s) gun, but someone beats me to it. As the shot fires, I look over to Max who aimed and fired at the assassin. The assassin’s gun is knocked out of his hands when Max’s bullet hits his chest. He cries out in agony. I aim and fire and hit him directly in between the eyes. He is dead now, for sure.

I look up to see the president standing in fear. I put my gun back in my dress and put up my hands. I just saved Abraham Lincoln. He is rushed out, but we make eye contact. His eyes are sad, but before being totally shoved out of the building, he mouths, “Thank you.” I need to go, Lincoln is saved. We’ll be moving soon. I jump down from the platform and run to Max. People are screaming and running and screaming and running.

I can see him from across the building, but he doesn’t see me. He’s quickly moving his head back and forth in every direction, looking. Until finally, I get close enough and he locks eyes with me. He yanks me into a hug, with which I reciprocate in relief.

NEWS: Attempted Assassination of President Lincoln

Local woman rescues President Abraham Lincoln from assassination attempt. The President was attending a play at Ford’s Theater in Washington, D.C., when stage actor John Wilkes Booth attempted to assassinate him. A local woman pushed Booth off the stage platform, where he attempted to assassinate the president. Booth has been pronounced dead. His co-conspirators have been arrested by D.C. police. The woman has not been identified.

I wake up, still in a hug with Max. It seems that, sometimes, we don’t change positions between jumps. I roll out of the hug, and squint in the bright sunlight. Elliot stands with his arms crossed against a tree.

“Morning,” he says. I smile at him.

“We did it.”

“You sure did.” he says, with a chuckle before asking me what happened. I explain the entire sequence of events, taking full credit for the plan, of course.

“So, did Belle make any progress?” I ask, at last. He shakes his head.

“She didn’t know her birthday, her parents’ names, her last name, or her shoe size.” he says, grimly. That’s bad. “I told everything I could, but I haven’t known her forever, so I couldn’t tell her everything. She basically just knows what I know about her,” he says. I nod.

“Are we still on for that trial run?” he asks, after we had been silent.

“Yeah? If you still want to, right?”

“I do. I totally do. I just saw that you were hugging Max when you time switched and didn’t know if you had changed your mind,” he says.

“Does the trial include exclusivity?” I question.

“I thought so. I mean did you and Max do anything other than hug?” he asks me, with a furrowed brow.

“No, but if we didn’t, it shouldn’t matter? I was never told that I was supposed to be monogamous,” I scoff. This is ridiculous. We’re not dating. He can’t tell me what to do. I didn’t even want this. I just needed his stupid help.

“I guess I misunderstood,” he says blankly.

“What? You thought we were in a relationship? Where hugging a friend out of joy is considered cheating? Because I thought the whole point of the trial was for you to let me figure out my feelings,” I spit out.

“My understanding was that we would, yes, act like a couple. But, without the pressure of continuing it indefinitely, so that you could figure out your feelings… for me. Not your feelings for Max. If you have feelings for Max, that is fine. But, then have a trial with Max and not with me.” His jaw is tightly closed and his eyes cut at me.

“You’re right. You misunderstood.”

“In that case, I don’t see the point of a trial. Figure your shit out on your own and then bring me into it. I don’t need to wait around and fall for you if at the end of the day, you’re just mindlessly...”

“Consider it off then,” I state, just as someone rustles away behind me.

Belle sits up, “Hey, guys. What year is it?” I glance at Elliot. He shrugs at me.

“It’s 1871, we’re in Chicago,” he says.

“Okay!” she says, rubbing leaves off her dress.

“Belle, what’s the last thing you remember?” Elliot asks.

“Um, we had dinner with the Jackson family,” she says, confidently.

“So, you remember your birthday?” I ask.

“Uh, it’s October 15,” she says.

“She remembers!” Max says. He must have woken up at some point during our conversation.

“Remember what?” Belle asks.

“Do you remember how Cassidy and I prevented Abraham Lincoln’s assassination?” Max asks.

“Um, Abraham Lincoln never got assassinated? I mean someone attempted, but no one actually killed him. Some lady in the audience killed the assassin before the assassin was able to kill the President,” she says. My jaw drops to the floor.

“Ha! You’re joking right?” Elliot says. She just shakes her head.

“Joking about what? Is this some kind of inside joke or?” I can’t help myself from bursting out laughing. Max and Elliot join in after a while, too. Belle stands there, completely lost.

We explain everything that happened in 1865. She doesn’t remember any of it and never remembers a time where Abraham Lincoln was actually assassinated. But, somehow, she remembers everything else we “fixed,” before and after. It was only that one year that was different in her mind. We were all absolutely baffled.

“So, anyway, we’re here to stop the Great Chicago Fire,” Elliot says after our smiles begin to fade.