An Unearthly Man-Child

The man ran through the terminal, his coat flapped in his tailwind; his monacle trailed behind him. His clothing timeless yet dated: a monochromatic suit with black and white checkered trousers and a patterned waistcoat under a black velvet blazer jacket. He sped through the crowds, manoeuvring through the pockets of other holiday makers and researchers. Eventually, and not without upsetting a small child, he reached his gate.

"I've got tickets to Dallas." He exclaimed out of breath, slamming the return pass on the desk.

"Yes you do sir..." The attendant looked at the sweaty and overdressed figure before her. "I'll just need your name so I can confirm you in the system."

He took a deep breath. "My name is Michael B. Ford." He paused. "There wasn't an option for middle names so it's Michael with a B."

She tapped away at her touchscreen. "Ah, there you are..." She scrolled through the information he had provided. A red flag appeared next to his booking details. "For security reasons, I have to ask you a few, additional, questions."

Michael nodded.

"Okay. Could you please tell me the reason for your trip?" She looked between him and his written statement.

"I'm going to watch the first episode of the greatest show ever, live!" His eyes twinkled with the passion of a virgin babe; hers the Passion of Christ. "Doctor who... I'm going to watch Doctor who."

She gave a slight nod. "And why Dallas?"

"Because My great great grandfather lived there and I've never been to America." Michael smiled.

"Okay..." She was not paid enough to care. The red flag was removed. "Because Doctor Who was a BBC broadcast, it won't be available in the US immediately, things were different back then. We rent MediaRecievers for an additional three credits." 

"I'll take one!" He dug into his jacket and removed his credit bar.

"Okay... You're all set. Your transporter is transport three." She pointed down the corridor behind her. "Third on your left."

"Thank you!" He skipped away.

 

Temporal nausea was something he'd never quite get over. He materialised in the middle of his Great Great Grandfather's home. Just as he was expecting, his forebear was absent. The apartment was quaint and lived in; photographs adorned the walls of a life just beginning. A young man and his wife and children. Michael found the television, spent a moment or two marvelling at its size, then connected the MediaReciever to the underside of the antenna. He turned it on manually then used his implant to search for BBC One. 

"Its six o'clock, I am Jimmy Kingsbury and this is the news." A stiff voice declared.

Shaking his head, Michael turned the television off. "Last time I book Temporease... I'm a day early." He shrugged. "Still, suppose I could go for a wander... Look around." A devious smile crossed his face.

 

He started by looking more closely at the frames across the walls. He found himself confused as, especially in his current attire, they more resembled mirrors than photos; the man that he knew as his Great great grandfather bore a striking resemblance. Unnerved, he moved on to a nearby cupboard.

"Woah!" His smile returned larger than it had been. "Nice!" He didn't know where to start. The cupboard contained several racks, all but one of which were full. Starting on the right with the second to last rack, he removed a rifle. "Combustion weaponry... Neat!" He revelled in the quaint nature of the weapon, levelling it to look through the scope. "That's some serious magnification." He set the rifle down on the coffee table and removed the scope. He took it over to the window and peered out at the street below. Bunting and banners dominated his view as people lined the road in excited anticipation. Michael remained blissfully ignorant and simply observed the festivities below through his scope. Time passed. He wasn't sure how long and something seemed to be happening as the crowd only grew louder. Disliking the noise, he closed the window; he passed the scope between his hands before setting it back down on the coffee table. He returned the screws and was about to replace the rifle where he found it when it slipped from his grip. All he heard was a loud bang; darkness followed.

 

In slipping, the rifle jolted; the hair trigger triggered and the rifle discharged, slamming itself into Michael's face and the bullet into the ceiling. Michael wouldn't learn this for a few hours and the discovery wouldn't be his alone. The police stormed his temporary abode, dragged his unconscious body from it, then bundled him into a van. When he eventually woke up, he was somewhere underground, somewhere cold, somewhere without a television.

He grumbled and groaned as he came to. "Blimey..." He very quickly recovered. "Where the hell am I?" His heart quickened. No one answered him. Frantically, he searched for any indication of his location before attempting escape. A barred door stood between him and a corridor but it was inconveniently locked. Eventually, responding to what was thought to be a cat scratching at the walls, a set of footsteps could be heard. "Hello? Is someone out there?"

"Mr Oswald. Seems you've been lucky... You've gone and missed your stay with us." The Guard's keys jingled as they entered the lock. "You've got a date at County." The Guard entered the cell.

"Wait! Wait! WAIT! I'm not...!" Michael held his hands out, flailing but he found himself too weak to change anything. Cuffs on his wrists, he wriggled but it was a mostly pointless endeavour.

 

Sunlight. It was midday and Michael was just recovering from a head trauma that had him out of commission for nearly two days. Before he could really react to the crowds leering and shouting, he felt something against his gut. It burned. "I'm not him..." He managed to get the words past his lips before falling to the floor. Immediately, sirens wailed. An ambulance met them and started him to the hospital. "I don't want to go." The staff held him down. "I'm not Oswald... I'm not." He slurred in his delirium as he faded in and out of consciousness. "Thank you. It's good... Keep warm..." His body relaxed as the seditive took effect. In the hospital, the medical team waited, unsure of their duty but reciting their oaths. They looked at the figure the ambulance had delivered, barely twenty four and on the brink. They examined him, searching for the bullet that was killing him, their prodding woke him. "It's the end. But the moment's been prepared for." He muttered. Not long after, time of death was announced. 

 

And so ended the life of Michael B Ford, descendent of Lee Harvey Oswald. A man of such dedication and will, who bent time to have a chance to see something he loved live, only to become himself a cautionary tale for those like himself.