joke_explainer posted:

Ria McLennan knocked the hidden compartment lose and cool air crisp against her respirator mask. She dropped down into the deck of the B-29 superfortress as it hurtled through the skies. According to the timer glowing softly on her retinal display, it had been 5 hours, 31 minutes, and 22 seconds. If the historical record was accurate, Morris R. Jeppson had just returned to the cabin after disarming the final safeties on the weapon. No one else would be checking on it until the drop. Stopping this genocide would be as simple as re-engaging the safeties, and then Nagasaki will never happen -- and the war will end without the deaths of hundreds of thousands. Her hand grew seams, and gently unfolded as she auged into her toolkit, approaching the primitive atomic weapon. She could feel the psychological weight of the weapon, a pure embodiment of the unbridled destructive potential of man. Though primitive compared to the nuclear weapons they'd design in coming decades, this was one of only two in the Surveilled timeline that was used against civilian targets. The Great Wars Injunction meant even being here was a capital crime, but if all went well there was nothing they could do to restore it, short of bombing Hiroshima itself, and she knew they'd never do it.

She got to work on the bomb. Primitive tumbler-key mechanism as the primary arming switch. It was all too easy, but she heard a noise behind her, and dove into a roll, popping up to her feet down the bomb bay corridor just as a heavy pipe swung toward where her head previously was. How could they have found her at this spacetime so quickly? She took in her opponent. A man, twenty five to thirty, pasty white skin, patchy wisp of a beard and slighty chubby. His gear looked very retro: Some gimmicky thin glasses with projected displays, what looked like an ancient laptop computer strapped to his waist with cords hanging off it and going to headphones hanging on his neck. His eyes looked wild as he stared her down. He didn't look like your average marshal, but they all have their quirks.

The man glared at her. "You don't know what you're doing. You don't understand the consequence of your actions here. I have to stop you."

Ria glared and dropped into a combat stance, her fingertips extending nanofilament-sharp blades. "Hundreds of thousands have to die just so the precious War Timeline stays intact? I've done the math, Marshal, and I'm sure you have too. The war ends anyway!"

The man shook his head. "I'm not a marshal. I'm from 2016. There's more at stake than just lives." He clumsily lunged forward, swinging the pipe -- where'd he even get that? She dodged and kicked, knocking him to the ground. "I'm done playing these games. This bomb is going offline and there's nothing you or anyone time-cleared can do to stop me." 2016? They didn't have the technology for time travel. What was going on here?

The man struggled to sit up, gasping for air thanks to his bruised solar plexus. "Stop! If you sabotage that bomb..." His lips thinned, his eyes pleading as he slowly got to his feet. "Pokémon will never exist. 801 unique creatures, over 7 generations. Millions of unique companions and travelling partners throughout history. Please."