ROGUE REBORN - ONC 2023

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An unsettling screech stabbed through the air. Like a horn belting out its discontent after being pressed one time too many, or a wounded animal expressing its pain.

But it was my pain that lured me out of slumber, to sit up straight in my bed and scowl through the darkness, searching for the source of the unearthly noise. I massaged my temples, wondering what in the devil could make such an obnoxious, borderline ridiculous sound.

I shivered, goosebumps trailing down my exposed arms—arms that should have been covered in the long-sleeved night-gown I'd packed for my trip, for bedtime. Why wasn't I wearing my night-gown? I hugged myself, grimacing; those arms shouldn't have been cold, regardless, because it was mid-May in southern California, and the nights were usually cool, but not like this. I was on a boat, off the coast, partying with friends and toasting to someone or other's birthday; I hadn't bothered writing down names nor remembering them.

Why was I cold?

Something had been off about that screech, prompting those chills still squirming up and down my spine. I might have mistaken it for the honk of a car, but sharper, piercing the atmosphere in a more defined way, not sounding comedically silly as most of the vehicles I'd driven.

But how would I hear a car's horn if I was on a boat? We weren't too far from the coast, but there'd been no coastal roads near where we'd docked. I remembered, because we'd dropped the anchor and cheered to the fun we'd have on our three-day sojourn aboard The Maryland.

Yet I started to wonder if I was still actually on The Maryland. There was no gentle to and fro swaying beneath me. I'd memorized the rhythm of the waves from prior nights of sleeping on ships, and from walking around on the deck to observe the water's movement, adjust to it. I'd usually succumb to the soothing oscillation, and close my eyes to be swept away into a pleasant dream.

This was a dream, then, wasn't it? It had to be.

A breeze wafted in, a very real breeze that created very real goosebumps along my bare arms. A window was open to my left, allowing in the loud, familiar noises of a street. But I'd chosen a cabin on the boat without a window, to avoid any potential sea-sickness I was prone to. I loved boats, as long as I couldn't see outside when I lay down to sleep.

I squinted towards the window, noticing neon lights flashing in, blasting the room with vibrant pink and lime green streaks over a dark plush carpet. The screech had come from out there, hadn't it?

And carpet? No, the cabin I'd picked had hardwood floors, polished but scratched, dented in places. Peeling floral wallpaper and framed pictures of ocean creatures and drawings of pretty seaside cities.

It didn't have a window. It didn't have neon lights coming from the shore, it wasn't located anywhere near a shore.

I shifted about on my mattress, and realized the covers and sheets spread out far ahead of me and on either side of me. It was a massive mattress, much larger than the one in my cabin, which was barely a twin sized thing big enough for a man of average height. I was a woman of irregular height, at least, according to my peers; and my feet weren't even halfway down the bed.

This wasn't the bed I'd chosen, in the cabin I'd chosen, on the boat I'd boarded earlier that day, equipped with my overnight bag, my pearls, my red lipstick that I planned to smear all over pretty Arlena's face when we kissed—

Another screech came in, this one lasting longer, then cutting off into shorter, quicker beeps, in a strange rhythm that my heart thumped along to. On, off, on, off—the noise blared into the room, and I covered my ears with a wince.

Touching my ears, I expected to get tangled in my complicated network of curly hair, which never uncurled since the first time I'd used curlers to give it more volume. But my hands found something else; they slipped over silky strands that draped gently over my ears, then cascaded down my back and shoulders.

Not my hair.

"Oh, no." I lowered my hands to my sides, and felt drawn to the rest of my body, to inspect what else had changed. The fabric over my upper half was a flowy, cotton-like shirt, loose at the sleeves that stopped at my upper arms, and cut off below my navel. It was soft, but there was something peeling on the front, possibly a logo, lettering of some kind. I touched the surface, curious, and my palms passed over my bosom, that was—

Whoa there, that wasn't my chest. Those weren't my breasts. Mine were smaller, almost pressed in; these were huge, firm, and perked up in excitement at being handled.

"Oh, dear. Oh, Josephine, calm down, calm down," I told myself, willing my heart to stop running a marathon. This had happened before. I was familiar with this; the awakening, I called it.

But it wasn't supposed to be happening now.

Despite the neons flickering in and out of the room, I couldn't see enough to conclude what the full situation was. I needed light, actual light, and fast, before I drove myself into a panic attack.

I noticed the bedside table to my right, and reached out a hand to search for a switch, a string to pull, something to turn on, to illuminate the area enough for me to gather my bearings.

I located no switches or strings, but instead came across a small, rectangular device in the middle of the nightstand. It was flat, sleek, cold to the touch. I grabbed its edges and picked it up, and found that it was lightweight, but large, bulkier than I'd anticipated.

I drew the gadget to my face, squinting at it. The neon flares showed a reflective surface staring back at me, a screen of some sort. Like a film of glass covering a sturdy rectangle of metal.

I tapped the glass once, twice; then again, in quicker motions.

It lit up, flooding my eyes with light, causing me to squeeze my eyelids shut and emit a gasp. I hurled the thing to the ground as it buzzed in my hand, and my heart banged against the walls of my rib-cage.

"This is hokum*, my goodness," I said, pressing my hand between my breasts, still in disbelief at their size, but more focused on the string of events occurring in the space of a few minutes.

Something screeched and woke me up. Something that shouldn't have been screeching at my window, because I didn't have a window, and that sound was unlike anything I'd ever heard before. I wasn't on my boat, in my bed, peacefully floating over calm waters. Neon lights kept prying into my room. And I'd touched something straight out of this world, clearly, because it had activated and was about to explode in my palm.

I slowly moved to the edge of the bed, peering at the ground to see if the thing was still buzzing; it was lying there, glass screen faced up, flashing at me.

With a swallow, I got off the bed and plucked the device from the floor, and with a trembling hand, brought it close to my face again. Something was scrawled over the screen—a time, a date. My eyes were blurry from the tears brought on by my fear. I rubbed them profusely, then refocused on the screen.

00:03 — 05/12/2023

I rubbed my eyes again, harder this time.

"Twenty... twenty-three? As in... the year two thousand and twenty-three?" I blinked, then pinched myself. Again. And again. But the screen still showed the same date; the time changed to 00:04.

I released the gadget from my grip, softly, this time, and fell to the ground beside it. I clasped my head between my hands, taking deep, steady breaths, trying to settle the shivers racking my body. My legs were uncovered; I wasn't wearing anything but that odd, short-cut shirt. Apparently, that was what women wore to bed in twenty-twenty-three?

A pressure pushed me forward, to draw my knees to my chest, to rock back and forth and continue working on my breathing.

A century. I'd slept... a century. When I got on that boat, it was the eleventh of May, nineteen-twenty-three.

And if I'd slept a century, it could have only meant one thing.

"Someone killed me?"

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*nonsense, 1920's slang