Revisionist Traveling
Apr. 5th, 2014 12:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
breezeshadowNo one really wants to die to save the world - "The Human Stain", Kamelot
On that cold morning in Livadiya, somewhere church bells were ringing. Perhaps they were the palace chapel's -- did they ring on February 5th 1945? Or were these within the town? Mykola tightened his grip on the M44 rifle in his hands, modified to be a sniper rifle in all but name. The M44 had been a purposeful choice, to throw off blame from the Finnish. He was there to stop suffering, not cause more of it.
He was dressed for the cold in modern gear that he could likely sell for hundreds, if the people of Livadiya could but see him. That was one of the many idiosyncrancies of time travel and the human psyche. The brain saw what it wanted to see, and on that morning in 1945, people wanted to see the three men of the world. An assassin would not be unheard of, but they would expect someone in 1940s gear, someone camoflauged. Not someone in bright Northface clothes. The universe and human mind both knew he wasn't from around here, wasn't right -- and so he became no one at all.
It was easy to forget the mission and want to explore the past as an invisible person. It was thought that many initial travelers were lost this way. Amazed that the technology had worked, and more amazed by how people didn't seem to really see them, they were lost to the time period. What happened to them, no one really knew. Everything about time travel was based on theory.
If you traveled incorrectly, you disappeared in a way that Stalin would have killed for.
The rules of time traveling were all based on theory, but there was enough evidence (or absense thereof) to make them credible. The universe had set up various rules for breaking the time continuum. One could only travel back to a time before their existence; simply put, the lack of people who had met their future selves indicated that it probably wasn't possible to do so. Furthermore, time continued while you were traveling. Each second that was spent back in time was a second they weren't in the present -- time they would never get back.
Seventy-two hours. That was the maximum amount of time anyone could spend in the past. It was not entirely arbitrary. Forty-eight hours in a weekend, and if you told your friends and familiy that you were going away for a weekend, they would probably give a maximum of seventy-two hours of you missing before calling the police. Furthermore, there was some recorded evidence that missing more than that was detrimental; people returned to the present sick and confused, seeking people that were long dead, or unable to cope with missing so much of their lives. One day, two days -- those were easy to lie about. More than that, and the brain started to get confused.
Mykola had two hours left of his twenty-four hour mission. He had promised his wife that he would go to a special dinner with her tonight -- their first after their daughter was born. It ate at his conscience, and really, that was perhaps the reason he had not shot Joseph Stalin when he first saw the imposing figure at the Palace.
"An eye for an eye" had turned out to be perhaps the most accurate philosophy of the universe. For if one killed a past figure while traveling, thus altering history, then they too ceased to exist. As the universe rewrote itself after the change, it made its adjustments. People could go to the past and come back, and remember. But they could not go the past, change it, and come back. No one ever had. There was no evidence for it... Except for many deaths reported as mysteries, and some children who had genetics from parents that didn't exist at all.
Thousands had already died or vanished under Stalin's reign. Thousands more were still left to suffer. If he could just shoot the man, thousands would have a chance of living. Destalinization may begin earlier. The Soviet Union may be free earlier. All he had to do was give up his existence for strangers. His grip on the rifle tightened.
His wife wouldn't grieve. She would forget he existed entirely. Someone may replace him, or not. Their six-month-old daughter would be the only evidence that he had existed -- another mystery child with a nonexistent parent. It was the most selfless of acts.
Revisionist traveling wasn't perfect. It couldn't be, if atrocities like the Holocaust and the Gulag still existed. But surely some wars had been reverted by it. Maybe World War III had ceased to exist already. It was a noble task, and that single promise to Marie was weakening his resolve.
The growling of old 1940s cars cut through the morning cold. Mykola jerked his head up. There seemed to be so many more trees in one century past, yet he could just see the cars and small tanks weaving through to the palace. Worn American flags fluttered on the equally-worn vehicles -- FDR, then. Stalin would likely come out to greet him.
Sure enough, as the tanks and cars pulled up outside the palace, the doors opened. Soviet soldiers came out first, scanning the area -- multiple times their gaze swept right by him, though sweat formed on Mykola's wind-frozen face all the same. Two men that Mykola was certain were Kremlin agents followed, and then, Stalin himself.
In photos he looked imposing, a man who never relaxed his back and shoulders, never stopped scowling. Seeing him in person, he was still intimidating, but Mykola wondered how much of that was the knowledge of what this man was doing, had done, had influenced. He walked relatively slowly, showing his age and ailing health, but he still looked worlds better than Roosevelt. The media was not allowed to come until the meeting began, and so Roosevelt was eased into a wheelchair that made his frail, coat-covered form look small. He smiled without warmth at Stalin, and the two men shook hands. The distinct murmur of Russian and English drifted to him.
Mykola took his rifle and lifted it, getting Stalin into the scope. His hands were shaking too much; he'd probably kill Roosevelt instead, and that wouldn't help anyone. Gritting his teeth, Mykola muttered a prayer to god for strength, courage, steadiness--
Stalin turned around, his own professional smile on his gruff, almost puffy face. And then, he looked up.
Straight at Mykola. Their eyes met through the scope of the rival.
No. Even as he tried to encourage himself, Mykola's heart raced. No one could see him. Even if they did, he would just seem to be a mirage, trick of the light. Stalin was just as human as those soldiers that had missed him--
He was still staring at him, making some comment to Roosevelt. The President laughed.
No no no. He couldn't see him, he couldn't, yet his hands were shaking so bad that he nearly dropped the rifle, and he pulled back, pulling a handheld device the size of a 00s cellphone out of his pocket. He looked down to find that Roosevelt and Stalin were moving toward the building, and pushed a button on the device.
Millions of calculations began as Mykola hugged his knees close. How long it had been since he left, what time it was now, then add on the time it took to travel back, the time it was taking to calculate these calculations, then add five minutes just to be safe--
He was staring at the ceiling of the headquarters with his gun beside him and his clothes far too warm for the central air. A car honked its horn outside. Mykola sighed heavily, blinking a few times.
"Mykola, that you?" The voice came crystal-clear from tiny speakers in the room.
Breath shaky, Mykola remembered how to speak. "Yeah. Yeah, it's... He looked at me, Benny."
"Who?"
"Stalin. He... He looked directly at me. I couldn't..." Mykola groaned and pressed his gloved hands against his hatted forehead. "I couldn't do it."
This music video is really, really fucking bizarre/creepy. Because Kamelot.
On that cold morning in Livadiya, somewhere church bells were ringing. Perhaps they were the palace chapel's -- did they ring on February 5th 1945? Or were these within the town? Mykola tightened his grip on the M44 rifle in his hands, modified to be a sniper rifle in all but name. The M44 had been a purposeful choice, to throw off blame from the Finnish. He was there to stop suffering, not cause more of it.
He was dressed for the cold in modern gear that he could likely sell for hundreds, if the people of Livadiya could but see him. That was one of the many idiosyncrancies of time travel and the human psyche. The brain saw what it wanted to see, and on that morning in 1945, people wanted to see the three men of the world. An assassin would not be unheard of, but they would expect someone in 1940s gear, someone camoflauged. Not someone in bright Northface clothes. The universe and human mind both knew he wasn't from around here, wasn't right -- and so he became no one at all.
It was easy to forget the mission and want to explore the past as an invisible person. It was thought that many initial travelers were lost this way. Amazed that the technology had worked, and more amazed by how people didn't seem to really see them, they were lost to the time period. What happened to them, no one really knew. Everything about time travel was based on theory.
If you traveled incorrectly, you disappeared in a way that Stalin would have killed for.
The rules of time traveling were all based on theory, but there was enough evidence (or absense thereof) to make them credible. The universe had set up various rules for breaking the time continuum. One could only travel back to a time before their existence; simply put, the lack of people who had met their future selves indicated that it probably wasn't possible to do so. Furthermore, time continued while you were traveling. Each second that was spent back in time was a second they weren't in the present -- time they would never get back.
Seventy-two hours. That was the maximum amount of time anyone could spend in the past. It was not entirely arbitrary. Forty-eight hours in a weekend, and if you told your friends and familiy that you were going away for a weekend, they would probably give a maximum of seventy-two hours of you missing before calling the police. Furthermore, there was some recorded evidence that missing more than that was detrimental; people returned to the present sick and confused, seeking people that were long dead, or unable to cope with missing so much of their lives. One day, two days -- those were easy to lie about. More than that, and the brain started to get confused.
Mykola had two hours left of his twenty-four hour mission. He had promised his wife that he would go to a special dinner with her tonight -- their first after their daughter was born. It ate at his conscience, and really, that was perhaps the reason he had not shot Joseph Stalin when he first saw the imposing figure at the Palace.
"An eye for an eye" had turned out to be perhaps the most accurate philosophy of the universe. For if one killed a past figure while traveling, thus altering history, then they too ceased to exist. As the universe rewrote itself after the change, it made its adjustments. People could go to the past and come back, and remember. But they could not go the past, change it, and come back. No one ever had. There was no evidence for it... Except for many deaths reported as mysteries, and some children who had genetics from parents that didn't exist at all.
Thousands had already died or vanished under Stalin's reign. Thousands more were still left to suffer. If he could just shoot the man, thousands would have a chance of living. Destalinization may begin earlier. The Soviet Union may be free earlier. All he had to do was give up his existence for strangers. His grip on the rifle tightened.
His wife wouldn't grieve. She would forget he existed entirely. Someone may replace him, or not. Their six-month-old daughter would be the only evidence that he had existed -- another mystery child with a nonexistent parent. It was the most selfless of acts.
Revisionist traveling wasn't perfect. It couldn't be, if atrocities like the Holocaust and the Gulag still existed. But surely some wars had been reverted by it. Maybe World War III had ceased to exist already. It was a noble task, and that single promise to Marie was weakening his resolve.
The growling of old 1940s cars cut through the morning cold. Mykola jerked his head up. There seemed to be so many more trees in one century past, yet he could just see the cars and small tanks weaving through to the palace. Worn American flags fluttered on the equally-worn vehicles -- FDR, then. Stalin would likely come out to greet him.
Sure enough, as the tanks and cars pulled up outside the palace, the doors opened. Soviet soldiers came out first, scanning the area -- multiple times their gaze swept right by him, though sweat formed on Mykola's wind-frozen face all the same. Two men that Mykola was certain were Kremlin agents followed, and then, Stalin himself.
In photos he looked imposing, a man who never relaxed his back and shoulders, never stopped scowling. Seeing him in person, he was still intimidating, but Mykola wondered how much of that was the knowledge of what this man was doing, had done, had influenced. He walked relatively slowly, showing his age and ailing health, but he still looked worlds better than Roosevelt. The media was not allowed to come until the meeting began, and so Roosevelt was eased into a wheelchair that made his frail, coat-covered form look small. He smiled without warmth at Stalin, and the two men shook hands. The distinct murmur of Russian and English drifted to him.
Mykola took his rifle and lifted it, getting Stalin into the scope. His hands were shaking too much; he'd probably kill Roosevelt instead, and that wouldn't help anyone. Gritting his teeth, Mykola muttered a prayer to god for strength, courage, steadiness--
Stalin turned around, his own professional smile on his gruff, almost puffy face. And then, he looked up.
Straight at Mykola. Their eyes met through the scope of the rival.
No. Even as he tried to encourage himself, Mykola's heart raced. No one could see him. Even if they did, he would just seem to be a mirage, trick of the light. Stalin was just as human as those soldiers that had missed him--
He was still staring at him, making some comment to Roosevelt. The President laughed.
No no no. He couldn't see him, he couldn't, yet his hands were shaking so bad that he nearly dropped the rifle, and he pulled back, pulling a handheld device the size of a 00s cellphone out of his pocket. He looked down to find that Roosevelt and Stalin were moving toward the building, and pushed a button on the device.
Millions of calculations began as Mykola hugged his knees close. How long it had been since he left, what time it was now, then add on the time it took to travel back, the time it was taking to calculate these calculations, then add five minutes just to be safe--
He was staring at the ceiling of the headquarters with his gun beside him and his clothes far too warm for the central air. A car honked its horn outside. Mykola sighed heavily, blinking a few times.
"Mykola, that you?" The voice came crystal-clear from tiny speakers in the room.
Breath shaky, Mykola remembered how to speak. "Yeah. Yeah, it's... He looked at me, Benny."
"Who?"
"Stalin. He... He looked directly at me. I couldn't..." Mykola groaned and pressed his gloved hands against his hatted forehead. "I couldn't do it."
This music video is really, really fucking bizarre/creepy. Because Kamelot.
