Chrono Caper¶
The cemetery’s iron gate creaks in the dusk, its wrought-iron skeletons rusting into the shape of a question mark. You adjust your backpack, the one with the stolen smartphone digging into your shoulder, and whisper, “If this is a prank, I’m haunting you first.”
Zofia, crouched behind a marble angel, tosses you a package wrapped in foil. “Less chatting, more heisting. The 1892 time window closes in seven minutes.” Her gloved hand brushes a gold locket around her neck—their supposed target, though you’re starting to think it’s just a family heirloom she’s too sentimental to bury with her grandfather.
The smartphone buzzes. A notification: New message from 11/5/1987. You tap it. A grainy photo of this very cemetery, a child’s scribble in the corner: “Don’t trust the lady with the squirrels.”
“Squirrels?” you mutter. Zofia’s eyes narrow at the locket. “Grandpa hated rodents. Said they were tiny grave robbers.”
A rustle. A squirrel drops a walnut on your head.
“Coincidence,” Zofia says, but her voice wavers. The phone pings again. Video attachment from 3/12/2023. You play it. A man in a hazmat suit waves at the camera. “Hey, idiots! If you’re watching this, we failed. The locket’s not a key—it’s a anchor. Don’t—” Static.
Zofia grabs the phone. “Anchor for what?”
Your pocket vibrates. A USB drive, shaped like a cat. You didn’t put it there.
“Zofia. I think my pants are time-traveling.”
She stares. “That’s the least weird thing here.”
The squirrel returns, chattering. It holds a tiny note in its mouth. Zofia reads it, pales. “It says… ‘Give me the cat drive or I’ll bury you in paperwork.’”
“Since when do squirrels write in legalese?”
Since the phone starts ringing. Old-fashioned rotary dial tone. You answer. A woman says, “Hello? I’m trying to reach the future? This is Eleanor from the 1943 Women’s Auxiliary. I’ve been holding this message for a rather insistent rodent—”
Zofia snatches the phone. “What’s the anchor do?!”
“Darling,” Eleanor purrs, “it keeps the timelines from tangling. Now, about that squirrel… he’s running a betting pool on your success.”
The ground trembles. Headstones shift, revealing a hatch. The squirrel scurries down it, waving the note.
“You first,” Zofia says, pointing the locket at the hole.
“You’re the one who brought the mew-morial drive!”
“Teamwork!” She kicks the cat USB into the darkness.
You follow, the phone lighting your way. It pings again. Text from 11/5/2118: “Thanks for the Wi-Fi. —Future You”
Zofia freezes. “If we’re Future Us… who’s the idiot upstairs?”
Above, the squirrel closes the hatch. Grass smothers the grave.
The phone autocorrects the last message to: “Thanks for the cheese. —Future You”
You and Zofia stare.
“Paradoxes are weird,” she says.
“Yeah,” you say, “but at least we’re not rodents.”
The cat USB blinks. A tiny meow echoes.
You both scream.
It’s the best heist ever.