The first sensation is just pure existential pain.

  Not sharp. Not localized. A whole-body wrongness, like every system in him has been rebooted in the absolute wrong order.

  Then the nausea hits.

  Buck stumbles forward out of nothing and into someplace hard and filthy, his boots scraping on stone that is not finished and certainly not forgiving. His knees buckle. He drops to one hand, retches and vomits violently onto the ground. There is none of his usual graceful controlled poise about it. Despite all of it’s contents already laying on the cold stone in front of him, his stomach tries over again to empty itself anyway.

  Corporate time travel does not ease you in and glide you to the past. It evicts you from the present like a tenant several months behind on rent owed.

  His vision swims. The world refuses to settle. Sounds arrive out of sequence. A shout somewhere to his left. The clatter of wood. Metal on metal. A horse snorting, close enough that he feels it in his chest. He lurches to his feet.

  The air smells wrong. Too thick. Smoke, rot, animal waste, old water. No filtration on his assaulted senses. No attempt to pretend this is acceptable.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  He staggers backward and slams hard into a brick wall. The impact knocks the breath out of him and steadies him at the same time. He rolls against the wall and presses his forehead against the cool surface while he tries to think.

  That is harder than it should be.

  His thoughts slide. Not gone exactly, just slippery. Like reaching for something with numb fingers.

  He looks down at himself trying to assess the situation and his immediate risks.

  His first thought is about his appearance, both the suddenness of his arrival there and his physical appearance, he was too clean, too out of time.

  His coat is intact, the dark futuristic fabric designed to shed dirt, water, anything that might mark it. The shoes are lightweight, flexible, built for efficiency of gait on polished floors and optimized pavement. Nothing here is polished. Nothing here was meant to be kind to feet.

  He is wrong in every visible way. His head swims.

  Voices drift through the alley. Harsh consonants. Accents stacked on accents. Languages that feel familiar only in the sense that he knows they are human. None of them are speaking to him. Yet.

  He pushes off the wall and staggers forward, forcing his legs to work. His head pounds with every step. He rounds a corner and nearly collides with a man hauling a crate. The man recoils, eyes narrowing, gaze sweeping Buck from boots to collar with open suspicion.

  Buck opens his mouth to speak.

  Nothing coherent comes out.

  The man mutters something sharp and steps away, calling over his shoulder. Buck does not wait to hear who he is calling to.

  He keeps moving.

  The alley opens into a narrow yard. An animal stall squats against the wall, half collapsed, reeking of hay and horse shit. The smell is overwhelming. Honest. He stumbles inside without thinking, drops to his knees, then slumps sideways into the straw.

  His body is done negotiating.

  The darkness creeps in from the edges of his vision. His hearing dulls. The world tilts, then pulls away like he is backing down a dark hallway, the light fades to a pinprick. As he starts to lose consciousness, a voice snaps to life inside his head.

  Clear. Shocked. Familiar.

  Holy shit. Is this thing on?

  Buck has just enough time to register that the thought does not sound like his own.

  Then the world goes black.