Corrupted: A Time Travel Story

Maximilien sat down on the chair stiffly. He was used to being instructed by the artist to sit or stand in whatever manner most suited them. He'd never met one so blasé about their sitter's pose. Had she no vision or was she a careless genius? The answer to that question would not inform him on how to pose, however.

It would have to be something comfortable, he supposed, if he was to be in that position for hours on end. This was why he opposed sitting for portraits where possible. It was such a waste of time when better things could be done. He finally settled for crossing his legs. It would have been quite natural to place his hat on his knee but…where was his hat? It seemed to have gotten lost in the confusion of events. Perhaps it was just forgotten in the other room or perhaps it was much further away, left in the room where his friends could find him and to which his sister sent letters. Would he ever return? In the absence of his hat, he folded his hands somberly in his lap.

Then the woman set about adjusting the lamps. She had remarkable control over the position and strength of her lamps, creating the precise atmosphere she desired. He knew several artist friends who would sacrifice cherished limbs for such a level of control. Perhaps she was a genius who happened to be careless after all.

When she had fixed the light in the room to her exact vision, she admonished him to "hold still" and stepped away. She placed her device on a tripod and stood behind it. After several moments of silence, she informed him that there would be a click and instructed him to look at the circular glass plate in the front of the device. It was an ominous black, like a glossy abyss in which he could vaguely see himself reflected. Despite his trepidation, Maximilien focused on the plate and there was indeed a soft clicking noise and another.

"Annnnnd....done. At least, your part is, for now." The woman straightened and smiled. Finished? They were finished? How was this possible? And yet the woman stepped away from the tripod and approached a desk, not quite trusting him enough to turn her back on him completely. She opened what Maximilien at first took for a thin volume only to discover that it was not a book but another device rather like the brick-weapon. Shapes appeared on the brightly glowing screen but Maximilien could not make them out clearly.

Maximilien stood and approached the woman and her mysterious machine. He kept himself a little apart from her to not disturb her work, standing comfortably at attention with his hands folded behind his back.

"Wanna see?" the woman asked.

Maximilien had to admit that he was curious what sort of portrait could be taken in a matter of seconds. He took his glasses out of the breast pocket of his jacket and carefully threaded them through the strands of his peruke. His eyes looked very large and very green behind the lenses. He stepped forward to observe the image, then immediately recoiled.

"Mon Dieu," he gasped.

There was his image as clear and stark as if he were looking into a mirror frozen at a moment in the past. Every detail that a generous artist might soften was revealed—every hair out of place, every tiny scar, every worn-out patch in his garments. It was a humiliating testament to his mediocrity as a human figure. He wished he could request for these portraits to be destroyed but this was the price for the woman's help. So, he said nothing about the portrait.

Gently, he tugged at his glasses and disentangled them from the hairs of his peruke without mussing it. He folded them and returned them to his jacket pocket. "Now that the portrait has been taken," he said, "will you help me, Mademoiselle?"
 
Zariah smirked slightly at his shock, taking pleasure in surprising the man from the past with common technology. The picture was indeed stark, and her eyes grazed over it with the pride of someone who had just created a masterpiece. She could edit it later....if she wanted to. She wasn't entirely sure she did.

Once the pictures completed their upload, the woman closed the computer gently, letting it click back down into its closed state.

Then, she turned back to Maximillien. "Yes." She grabbed the chair again and turned off her lights, before waving him out of her studio and letting him lead the way down the hall. She swung the chair back into its place at table, her mind starting to work quickly.

Why stop at a portrait? She could document his discoveries, capture the wonder (or the horror) in his eyes as he saw the modern world, at least for as long as he stayed. Yeah....that would be fun. "We'll head to the college after breakfast tomorrow, and after I figure out what you're going to wear," she announced as she pulled the fridge door open to get some dinner for the bot how of them. It would do no good to sleep on an empty stomach. Then, she hesitated. "What do you want to eat?" She asked. "I have eggs, sausage, stuff for omelettes....leftover pasta.....cold pizza."

What would he have been used to eating back in his time?

Sadie, meanwhile, was playing with the catnip mouse, attacking it viciously where it lay on the carpet and biting at the fabric.
 
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The woman waited for a moment then closed the device on which she had displayed the portrait before turning to face Maximilien.

"Yes," she said in answer to his question.

She took the chair from the place where he had sat for the portrait and ushered him out of the room before her. He followed the corridor out into the open area where he had first arrived in the future.

"We'll head to the college after breakfast tomorrow, and after I figure out what you're going to wear," the woman declared, then.

Maximilien nodded, it was a reasonable enough plan. Surely, the scholars at the university would have some greater understanding of his situation than this purple-haired artist.

The woman was quiet for a moment. "What do you want to eat?" she asked. "I have eggs, sausage, stuff for omelettes....leftover pasta.....cold pizza."

"Pizza being the food which you were enjoying earlier, yes?" Maximilien said. "I believe I shall have to decline. As to the others, I have no complaint. I shall eat whatever you choose to prepare."
 
Zariah snorted at his reply, almost amused at the fact that he was refusing to try pizza. "You're missing out," she shrugged in response, pulling a lukewarm slice for herself out of the box still on the counter. "It's the food of the gods."

Still, she respected his wishes, pulling a small pot frown the fridge. The shiny metal was cloudy thanks to the humidity and the cool air in the fridge, but she didn't seem to mind. The contents of the pot were what was really important, after all.

She set it down on the counter and clicked the stovetop burner on, watching as the clouded metal returned to normal as the flame warmed from blue to orange in a matter of seconds. There was only enough pasta left for one person, after all, and she didn't really feel like making eggs.

The woman left it on the stove after stirring it and adding a splash of milk for moisture, knowing that it would take a matter of minutes to get up to temperature. She took another bite of the pizza slice and then leaned back against the counter, examining him again. "So.....do you always talk so formally, or are you holding back your casual side?" She was raising an eyebrow at him, waiting for his answer.

He'd need to work on his language if he wanted to blend in.
 
Maximilien choked back his derision at the woman's comparison of pizza to the food of the gods. He could not, however, refrain from softly remarking that "Ambrosia it is not."

The woman pulled a pot from an interiorly lit cupboard—the sheer amount of light in this place was dazzling—and set about putting it on a cabinet which Maximilien quickly recognized was some reimagining of a stew-stove, although how it functioned without visible wood or smoke was beyond his understanding.

The woman fixed the contents of the pot and then leaned against the counter to wait for them to cook. She made no attempt to disguise it as she looked him up and down.

"So.....do you always talk so formally, or are you holding back your casual side?" she asked at length.

"How would you have me speak?" Maximilien asked. "With the vulgarity of a sans-culottes? In my native patois? I could speak down to you as with a child or a servant if that would put you more at ease. But, I believe, we have not begun to touch on formality."
 
Zariah snorted with barely suppressed laughter at his words, but it was out of shock rather than amusement. "Woah, there bucko," he said, raising her hands in a gesture of peace. She'd slipped back into her native English to deliver the phrase, then switched back into French.

The woman flicked a strand of purple hair from her face and rose an eyebrow at him, continuing with what she was saying. "All I'm saying is, you sound old-fashioned. Because, well, let's face it....you are. And that's going to stand out."

She leaned forward again, pushing herself off of the counter to stir the already sizzling pasta. "Don't worry, though! We'll get you settled in eventually." A few moments passed before she spoke again. "Which reminds me, you need a nickname. Can I call you Max?"

Once he was eating, she'd start looking for some modern clothes to put him in.
 
The woman said something that was distinctly not French but Maximilien could not place exactly what language it was. It sounded somewhat Germanic but it was beyond his ability for comprehension, whatever the language. Then she returned to speaking French.

She accused him of being old-fashioned and then tried to comfort him by saying that he would settle in before long. The words struck him painfully. What could he say to make her understand that he had no intention of settling in? It was his intention to return home at any cost.

The woman stirred the food on the stove in silence for a moment. "Which reminds me," she said at last, "you need a nickname. Can I call you Max?"

Maximilien wasn't sure that he did need a nickname. Who was this woman that she thought herself in a position to refer to him so intimately? Only his dearest friends and family referred to him with a nickname. He did not even know this woman's name.

"I would prefer that you did not," he told her, "but I cannot stop you if that is what you choose to do. While we are on the subject, however, do you have a name by which I may call you?"
 
Zariah pursed her lips at his refusal, but refrained from saying anything or trying to push him. Even with her explaination, he didn't seem too happy with her about her remark. Perhaps it was too late to salvage it by now. Still, if she was anything, she was stubborn. "Okay. Sorry. Let me restart."

The woman turned to him and held a hand out for him to shake. "My name's Zariah. What I said earlier isn't meant as an insult, you know. It's just...people don't talk like that anymore, and the best chance at getting you home requires you to not sound like you stepped out of a history book."

She gave him a one shouldered shrug and then stepped back to pull the pot off of the stove. She dumped its contents into a bowl and stuck a fork into the steaming chicken alfredo pasta. Then the woman slid it across the counter to him, along with the salt and pepper shakers. "There ya go."

Zariah circled him and snatched another piece of pizza from the box before setting herself at the small table and gesturing for him to join her.
 
Maximilien considered what the woman, Zariah, said and was about to respond when she interrupted his train of thought by sliding a bowl full of pasta in a white sauce with a fork sticking out of it across the counter to him. He looked at it for a moment, unsure of what rules of etiquette applied to this situation.

Zariah took more of her beloved pizza and went to the table. From there, she motioned for Maximilien to join her, so he took the bowl of pasta and cautiously took a seat. Once settled, he was able to arrange his thoughts.

"My apologies," he said. "I overreacted. I did not mean to present myself as insulted. I understand your concerns and, were it possible, I would immediately adopt your manner of speech. Unfortunately, I am not familiar with your dialect, having heard it for the first time from your mouth barely more than an hour ago. Even if I were, it would take months or years to be able to mimic it with any credibility. You seem to take my speech as a mere affectation that can be shed at any time, but would you be capable of trading your own manner of speaking for one that is unknown to you at a moment's notice?"
 
Zariah contemplated this for a moment and finally shrugged in agreement. "Alright. You have a point. ...Sorry." A few minutes passed in silence while she finished her food and- with aim even she didn't know she had- lobbed the crust into the trash can. "We should at least try to teach you some slang, so you don't look completely out of place. Are you willing to try that?" She was trying her best not to sound confrontational, and she hoped it worked. Her intentions were simply to help him fit in, but he seemed to think that some changes would make him betray his time. Or something along those lines...

Sadie crept forward and hopped up onto her lap, mewling in a quite begging manner, and the woman huffed, scratching at the back of her ears soothingly. The cat immediately settled, purring loudly as her tail flicked back and forth. Evidently, this was a common occurrence.

The woman leaned back in her chair, allowing the back of it to bump against the wall, and looked past Maximilien to the window beyond him. "....and we should probably get you some real glasses."
 
Zariah accepted Maximilien's reasoning, so he relaxed and settled into eating the pasta. It was unlike any he'd ever tried before but it was not repulsive. It was creamy and there were small chunks of chicken in it. What was there to complain about there?

Suddenly, Zariah balled up the remains of her food and threw them into a small bucket, making Maximilien jump in surprise. As he was settling down again, like a flustered cat, Zariah spoke.

"We should at least try to teach you some slang, so you don't look completely out of place. Are you willing to try that?"

It seemed suspiciously like a waste of time for Maximilien to learn modern slang, considering that his only purpose while here was to find a way to return to his time, but Zariah was determined to make him learn. As long as it did not impinge on his efforts to return home, he supposed there was no harm done.

"Very well," he said. "I concede to your greater understanding of this time. I will try."

The cat jumped into Zariah's lap and the woman scratched its ears peevishly. She seemed to have an odd relationship with the animal and Maximilien could not tell if there was any affection between them.

He thought of Brount and was for once glad that he had left the big baby of a canine in Arras under Charlotte's strict and Augustin's lackadaisical care. How the poor thing would have suffered locked away in his empty room until someone noticed that Maximilien was missing. How long might that be? Had anyone missed him yet?

Zariah leaned back so far in her chair Maximilien thought she might fall over, but she did not.

"….and we should probably get you some real glasses," she mused.

"And why in Heaven's name should we do that?" he asked. "Or, rather, how? I have no money, and it seems a superfluous expense on your part."
 
Zariah just shrugged. "If we need to do things that require you to be able to see, then we need to get you glasses. I'll look into some cheap options- I know they exist. Besides...your money is worth a lot now. If you have enough pocket change to spare, we would be able to buy a lot more than a pair of glasses. Well, with a bit of effort and authenticity tests, but....y'know. We'll have to just see, I guess."

She shoved the cat off her lap, and Sadie trotted off without a second thought- this time, heading for the catnip mouse that was still residing on the floor.

"Anyway, on the topic of slang....don't worry about wasting time or anything. We can't leave for the school until tomorrow anyway, so I'll just, you know..." a slightly mischevious smile seeped onto her face. "Turn on some vine compilations or something." She knew full well he'd have no idea what she meant, but that was half the fun.

"For now, settle in. I'm gonna try to find some clothes for you." She tipped the chair back up and stood up, then spent a few moments cleaning up the food and dishes before slipping off to the back end of her apartment.
 
"I do have some little money with me," Maximilien said, "but I haven't much to spare. It still begs the question why we should spend that money on glasses, however. I already have some for when my sight is inadequate."

It still boggled him that Zariah was so keen on pushing things from her time on him. What was wrong with the glasses he had that she insisted he purchase new ones?

She shoved the cat off of her lap and it wandered away. They were both bizarre creatures.

A suspicious smile crept onto Zariah's face as she spoke of teaching him slang with "vine compilations". Maximilien did not know what a "vine" was but it sounded similar to "vigne" which in turn made him think of vineyards and wine. Did she intend to get him drunk to learn slang? If that was the case, he would have to decline. There had to be a better way.

Then she said that she was going to get clothes for him and went to another part of the apartment. Maximilien stayed where he was and wondered what sort of strange items might be included in a man's wardrobe in this time? Comparing Zariah's fashion to the dress of his time for women did little to help him, the difference was so extreme.
 
Zariah just shrugged to his mention of the glasses, flicking a strand of purple hair out of her face. "I dunno. I just figured it'd be nice for you to see for once. Technology has advanced a lot, you know. I guess it's not a necessity...I just can't imagine what it's like to not be able to see."

Then she left him alone, rummaging through the box of storage under her bed until she found the clothes her father had left. It was a full outfit, one that would make Maximillien look more like a tourist than a Frenchman, but it was the best she had. And he'd left a pair of underwear, which was...amusing. She left those in the box, deciding to try not to embarrass either of them with something so private.

She spent a few minutes googling on writing forums, hoping to find good ideas on how to introduce time travelers to modern cultures, but all she ended up finding were shitposts. Unhelpful. Finally, sighing, she walked back out to the living room, the clothes clutched in her arms.

The outfit was a pair of old, baggy jeans and a loose tee shirt he'd gotten back in America. It was grey and typed in English, with a nearly-full loading bar and the phrase "fart loading" in bold capitals across the chest. Zariah snickered slightly as she offered these articles of clothing to her charge, trying not to laugh at the idea of the man from the past wearing such a thing. "Sorry," she chuckled, "But it's the only thing I have. We can try to get you some better stuff- that fits you properly- either tonight or tomorrow morning."
 
The clothes Zariah finally returned with were not as bizarre as what Maximilien had been imagining. With as little as Zariah wore, he had been concerned that she might bring back a single item for him to wear. Two was not ideal, but at least all of his sensitive parts would be covered.

The trousers appeared to be a heavy serge in blue and built for hard labor. His finger bumped over a metal rivet when he took them from Zariah and he wondered how hard was the labor that required metal fittings to hold them together.

The shirt gave an entirely different impression. It was light and soft, almost like cotton but not quite the same. The print on the front was befuddling. The bar at the top was bizarre and Maximilien could not decipher its meaning. The words at the bottom in English were only a little better because Maximilien could read the language somewhat. He knew the word "LOADING" but had never seen "FART" before. Judging by its placement with regards to "LOADING" it was likely a vehicle of some sort. As far as he could tell, it was a sign indicating the location where farts (whatever sort of vehicle that was) could be loaded. Why that should be emblazoned on a shirt, was beyond his comprehension, though.

"Where may I go to change my clothes?" he asked Zariah.
 
"The bathroom would probably be best," Zariah responded, waving for him to follow her. She led him over to the small room nestled in the hallway. It was a simple thing, with a toilet, shower/bath combination, and a pedestal sink. But it was functional and had everything anyone would really need, and so she was fine with it.

She showed him how to work the door lock, explained the function of the toilet and the sink (just in case) and then left him alone to change.

While he was in there, she finished cleaning the kitchen and plopped on the couch, staring into nothing. What the hell was she supposed to do with him? What happened if it was impossible for him to return home? And, most of all...how was she going to figure this out without outing him?
 
Maximilien locked himself in the bathroom and set the clothing Zariah had given him down. Then he carefully un-plaited the queue at the back of his neck. When the hair hung free, he gently removed the peruke from the top of his head and set it somewhere out of the way. His warm brown hair hung in the artificial waves made by wearing a braid for a long time down to his shoulder blades.

Next, Maximilien shucked his jacket. He folded it carefully and set it down beside the clothes Zariah had given him. He removed his shoes and placed them out of the way as well. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and added it to the pile. He untied his cravat and wound it up carefully before laying it on top of his waistcoat. He removed his cufflinks and carefully tucked them into the pocket of the waistcoat. He unfastened the knees of his breeches and removed his stockings. He folded those and added them to the pile. He unbuttoned the waist of his breeches and removed those. Finally, he removed his shirt.

Free of the various layers of his clothing, Maximilien was a fair bit skinnier than he had previously appeared. When he put on the T-shirt, it did not fit him much more tightly than his original shirt had. As for the jeans, even accounting for the shirt, which he had tucked in, they would not stay up without him holding them and the extra inches in the legs bunched up around his ankles.

The ensemble looked ridiculous to Maximilien in the mirror and he grimaced as he shuffled out of the bathroom, clutching the waist of the jeans.

"It seems to me," he said to Zariah, "that this clothing may be insufficient."
 
The purple-haired woman glanced up, her lips twisting into an amused smile as she watched him shuffle out of the bathroom with the waist of the pants clutched in both hands. "Yeah...that's a problem." She shoved her phone in her pocket again and stood, making her way to the hallway. "Maybe a belt will solve the staying up problem. Those are the only clothes I have that would be even close to fitting you."

She returned from her bedroom a few moments later, offering him a large brown leather belt. "This should work. Just string it through those hoops and buckle it at the front once it's tight enough." A vague description, but one that would likely explain the function of a belt with modern jeans. She was sure he could figure it out.

Zariah then made her way back to the couch. "If that doesn't work at least a little, then...uh..." She shrugged, scratching at the back of her head. "I guess I'll have to try to get something for you tonight while you stay here."

The only problem with that was the fact that the sun was already dipping below the horizon, and most places to get clothes would be closed already.
 
Maximilien took the belt and laced it through the loops as Zariah had described. He pulled it to almost the tightest notch and fastened it. It was not particularly comfortable, the heavy fabric bunched under the belt in irritating lumps, but the jeans remained at his waist even when he took his hands away.

"More than glasses," he said, bending over to free the extra fabric of the jean legs from under his heels where it had gotten trapped as he moved, "I believe it would be a better use of our resources to acquire proper dress before seeking aid for my situation."

Maximilien straightened and hooked the hair that had fallen in his face behind his ear before he looked to Zariah for her response.
 
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