Sometimes you plan for something, and then when you try to execute that plan, a totally different thing happens. You know? It can happen to anyone, so of course it happens to me.
My life is perfectly ordinary. Or at least, it was five minutes ago.
Every morning I get up, prepare my daily rations, check my assignment, walk the twelve feet to my work-unit, log in and appear in whatever situation a client needs me to be. I'm a Fixer, like thousands of others all around the world.
I have an old unit, it fails me every once in a while. It failed me today, but not in the usual way. Before today, it would shut down, sever the connection and leave me hanging in the middle of whatever action or sentence I happened to be in. I'd be back in my room, nearly falling over by the sudden change of scenery. One time I was holding some old lady's laundry basket out the window, so she could hang up the sheets more easily. I guess she won't be calling us again in the future.
More embarrassing was that day when I was meant to be holding a shield in front of some minister of war. It would have been an easy task. I wore special protective clothing and all.
Of course, history would not be affected by my bad unit's failures, they'd always send a repair-team to clean up whatever mess my hasty departure made.
This time, however, that would be a little bit more difficult. You see, usually when my unit malfunctions, I get sent back immediately. That's a fail safe for all Fixers ... I guess the fail safe malfunctioned today.
I had been looking forward to this task. None of the usual Fixers were available and I had taken Korean in class a few years back. I was rusty, but could manage. I had also studied world history, like all Fixers, but for me it had been more like a hobby. History was the water and I the sponge. I could recollect hundreds of useless facts about hundreds of ancient era's.
Did you know that phones used to be connected to a box on the wall by a curly wire? It makes me laugh every time I think about the difficulty people must have had talking to each other, back in the day. The tiny dot I press against my temple each morning is so much easier.
I wear that dot today, hidden beneath the blond curls that I hadn't bothered to fix into a ponytail. No one would see me, they'd promised. No contact whatsoever, they'd said. In and out ... Yeah, right.
I would have stayed in bed, had I known this would happen.
"Go back where you came from, daemon, leave this place!" The angry voice of the man before me yells at me from a safe distance. I want to obey him, really I do, but my neck is surrounded by at least five pointy swords and I have no wish to find out exactly how sharp those blades are.
At least I'm wearing my standard issue uniform, the tight leather suit is all black, that helps in the darkness around us. Or isn't it a good thing? Squinting, I cannot help but wonder if, in this instance, it would have been better to wear my silk pajamas?
The unit deployed me in the right time, 1455, just after the ascension of the new Joseon king. I knew that for a fact, because I recognize the style of the jeonrip hat the military guard is wearing. At least, I think I do, my heart is racing and I'm sure my wide, bright, blue eyes must scare the heck out of them. However, since they're the ones with the swords, I reckon I'm the most terrified at the moment and am entitled to a lack of straight thinking.
I only needed to do one thing. Go inside the palace, take the record of the last days of the slain king and go back. I barely took two steps and nearly fell of a cliff before I was discovered.
I want to hide my face, bow down, fall to the ground or whatever I can to get away from the angry, upset glances, but I don't move. I can't, even though I'm shaking so bad I'm scared my teeth will fall out.
Totally unexpected, the officer steps forward and pushes his blade into my shoulder. I scream as the sting hurts like a thousand needles. The effect is instantaneously. All of the men, probably not expecting me to be solid, bounce back and finally I am able to fall over and embrace the black soil.
Just before I black out, the guard's dark voice reaches my ears. "Leave it, back to the palace."
---
I'm dead. I think I am. I must be, right? I was stabbed and they left me to bleed to death. And right now I'm floating, so I must be dead.
My mind is muddled. Thoughts about my demise keep repeating itself over and over and nothing substantial enters my brain. That is ... one thing bothers me. There is pain. Terrible pain. It's everywhere, but the burning is fiercest in my left shoulder. Is there pain in death? That doesn't sound right. My stomach also hurts but when I try to move, I can't.
I open my eyes and see the back of someone walking. Dark clothing against more darkness. The earth is moving beneath two feet clad in some kind of woven straw sandals.
It wasn't supposed to go this way. Of course there were guards, even though I never saw the palace, I had anticipated them, but my cloak should have worked. Everything should have worked. But nothing did. I got dropped in 15th century Joseon and that was the end of it.
I lift the hand I am still able to lift and touch my face. There is dirt on it, no surprise there, dirt and blood and tears. However, the one thing that should have been there, the tiny dot; my lifeline back home, that's missing.
A sob escapes me and before I know it, I am on the ground again. More dirt, more tears, man, that hurts. Someone is staring down at me. When I manage to open my eyes again I see dark eyes, hidden in the shadow of a large straw hat. The man's face is partially hidden by a piece of black cloth and I think I'm going to pass out again. With my last breath I manage to squeeze out: "Help me."
---
This time, when I wake up, I'm on my back and under me is straw beneath a mat. Sunlight peaks through holes in a rag that takes it's role as a curtain not very seriously. The pain is still there, but when I turn my head, my bare shoulder is wrapped in a not so white bandage. Wait ... bare shoulder?
I shoot up straight and squeal as the blanket that covered my otherwise naked body drops. Who undressed me? Who touched me when I was unconscious? Where are my clothes? I guess I should be grateful to whomever it was that took care of the wound, but right now the only emotion I feel is agony. I move my legs and freeze, I'm still wearing my boots, which means ... I gaze around, there's no one here, then I lift the blanket a fraction and sigh immensely relieved. I'm still wearing my pants. The outfit was merely stripped halfway.
Now that breathing has become easier, I take my time to study my surroundings. My right hand travels back to my empty cheekbone while I gaze at the wooden door in the two by three stone shed that I'm in. There's more straw in one corner and some pieces of cloth in a pile.
No wait, my eyes shoot back, those are clothes. I reach with my good arm and pull the pile towards me. There is a long woolen skirt, I think it's light brown, and some dress that maybe, long ago, was white. And then there's a very short blouse. I recognize two of the pieces, which means the dress is probably an undergarment. Ehm... no pants? Please let there be pants.
There are no pants, no real ones, that is. And I refuse to walk around in nothing but what merely looks like a broad ribbon. I stand up after tightly winding the blanket around my chest. My shoulder is killing me, but I need to leave and find my dot and get out of this century before anyone starts to ask questions. I am not prepared for questions, there was no mention of a Q&A in my mission-file.
I sneak a peak through a hole in the curtain and when I see no one, I drop the blanket. Quickly I pull the undergarment over my head and release the air I was holding. Right, what next?
The top of my uniform is dangling, arms down, from my waist. I stare at it for a few seconds and then tie it firmly around my hips. When I drop the undergarment it billows a bit around my legs. I figure the short jeogori should go last, so I step into the skirt. The hem touches the floor and hides my scuffed boots. Very good. I pull the skirt right up to cover my breasts—I'm not entirely sure weather it should go under or over, but I'd better stay on the safe side—and tie the ribbon around them. It's difficult with only one good functioning arm, yet I manage. The blouse is even harder, but I'm tough. I have to be. I don't belong here and powerful people here are quick with the sword. At least, that's what history has taught me.
Shuffling outside makes me aware I am no longer alone. My eyes fly over the meager contents of the shed I'm in, searching for anything that could be used as a weapon.
When I'm not in the midst of a circle of blades a few inches from my carotid artery, I am very efficient in defending myself. I look in every corner, almost stick my head in the straw, upturn everything that is upturnable. In the end it doesn't matter, there is nothing. So I take a stance in the darkest corner and wait with pounding heart.