Dr. Shrimply: Semper Fi 1777

The temporal rift collapsed with the sound of a shattering sun. Adán stood in the center of the ward, his McMillan rifle still warm against his shoulder. The air carried the sharp bite of ozone and sulfur, and the wooden floor beneath him vibrated with the last pulses of energy leaking from another century. Raul lay sprawled near the far wall, his flight jacket dusted with colonial grit. Elena pushed herself up first, her silver-streaked hair loose and her eyes already sweeping the room for threats. Grizz followed a heartbeat later, his hand moving toward a pulse-rifle that only managed a dying whine instead of a charge.

The colonial doctors clustered near the beds, their voices climbing into panic. Dr. Bellows led the noise, shouting about demons and falling stars while the others clutched at their coats like children caught in a storm. Adán ignored every word. His tactical brain cataloged the newcomers' vitals in the same instant it registered the state of the ward: three open windows, two compromised doors, and a growing circle of patients who would soon realize their new arrivals brought more questions than answers.

Adán checked the magazine in his Glock. Nearly empty. He holstered the pistol and turned toward the sound of Raul stirring. Their eyes met across the ruined floorboards. Raul's face showed the same relief Adán felt but refused to voice, and the moment stretched long enough for the ache in his chest to register before the next problem demanded attention.

We made it through the rift. Now the real work begins.

Elena stood fully upright, her executive suit layered with tactical armor that already looked out of place against the crude beams and stained linen of the hospital. She addressed the nearest colonial doctor with the crisp authority she had used in boardrooms and briefing rooms alike. The man flinched as if her words carried physical weight. Adán watched the reaction without surprise. Presidential authority meant nothing here, and the fear in their eyes told him the gap between eras was wider than any of them had calculated.

Grizz tested the pulse-rifle again. The weapon emitted another weak sound before the indicator light died completely. He set it aside with a quiet curse and reached for the rifle slung across his back instead. The motion was automatic, the product of years spent in the same kind of dust and blood Adán remembered too well. Grizz's expression stayed blank, though. No flicker of recognition crossed his face when their eyes met, and the absence hit harder than Adán expected.

He really doesn't remember. Kandahar, the unit, all of it—gone.

The heavy hospital doors groaned as something heavy brushed against the outer wood. Adán moved to the nearest window and looked out. Violet light pulsed beyond the perimeter, the rift still bleeding energy into the Pennsylvania air. Scalpel-Wings circled in slow, measured patterns above the rooftops, their wings clicking in a rhythm he had learned to measure in heartbeats. One drone descended close enough for its central eye to flash violet before it rose again.

Inside the ward, the power-drain hit in earnest. Elena's tactical suit flickered once and went dark. The medical scanners Grizz had carried through the rift emitted a final series of dying beeps before their screens went black. Adán checked his own gear and found the same pattern. The 31st-century equipment was turning into expensive paperweights with every passing minute.

Dr. Bellows approached with his hands raised as if approaching a dangerous animal. "The Lord has sent us judgment," he said, voice trembling. "These lights and sounds are the work of devils. We must pray."

Adán met the man's gaze without blinking. "Pray later. Right now I need you to move those patients away from the windows. The things outside do not care about your sermons."

Bellows took a step back, mouth working around words that never formed. The other colonial doctors followed his retreat, their expressions caught between terror and the first dawning realization that their usual methods would not solve the problems now standing in their ward.

Raul reached Adán's side and touched his arm, a small point of contact that anchored the moment. "You look worse than when you left," he said quietly. "Tell me you're not already planning to handle this alone."

Adán allowed himself one short breath before the flat affect settled back into place. "I have the rifle and a plan. That is more than I had yesterday."

His voice still steadies me. That has not changed.

Elena crossed the ward with measured steps, her posture straight despite the scuffed armor and the dirt on her hands. She stopped a few feet from Adán and lowered her voice. "We need to establish a chain of command. The locals will listen to you. Let me handle the political implications of our arrival."

Adán shook his head once. "Political implications can wait. The Scalpel-Wings will not. Secure what you can and keep the colonial staff from panicking themselves into the street."

She studied him for a moment longer than necessary, the prosecutor in her weighing arguments she knew he would not accept. Then she nodded and turned toward the group of frightened doctors, her voice shifting into the calm, commanding tone she used when closing cases that others had already written off.

Grizz had already begun dragging a heavy table toward the largest window. The wood scraped across the floor with a sound that cut through the low murmur of voices. He worked without comment, his movements efficient and practiced. Adán watched him for a few seconds and felt the old question surface again, the one he had carried since the first day in Kandahar.

How can he stand there like a stranger when we bled in the same dirt?

The doors groaned again, louder this time. Something tested the lock with deliberate pressure. Adán checked the McMillan rifle one more time and moved to the center of the ward where he could see every entrance. The patients on the nearest cots watched him with wide eyes, their faces pale in the fading light. He met their stares without softening his expression. Fear spread faster than any infection, and the last thing the ward needed was another wave of panic.

Raul stayed close, his hand resting on the edge of a table as if the contact helped him process the shift between centuries. "The air feels heavier here," he said. "Like it's pressing on the lungs. Is that normal?"

"It will be," Adán answered. "Until we fix it."

Elena had gathered the colonial doctors into a loose semicircle and was speaking to them in low, precise sentences. Most of them listened. A few still clutched at crosses or muttered prayers, but the worst of the hysteria had passed. Adán filed the observation away and turned his attention back to the windows. The Scalpel-Wings had tightened their circle, their violet eyes reflecting the last of the day's light.

The magazine in his Glock felt light against his hip. He counted the rounds again in his head and knew the number would not change no matter how many times he checked. The future had become a liability the moment they crossed the rift, and the mud of 1777 would test every advantage they thought they still possessed.

Adán adjusted the strap of the McMillan rifle and settled into the stance he had used on a hundred different perimeters. The ward smelled of sweat, old wood, and the faint chemical bite of whatever antiseptic Clara had left behind. He let the details register and then filed them. The tactical part of his mind was already drawing lines between the doors, the windows, and the people who would need protection when the next wave arrived.

Raul's hand found his again, a brief squeeze that said more than words could manage in the middle of a hospital full of strangers from two different centuries. Adán returned the pressure once and then stepped forward to meet whatever the night would bring. The temporal hangover had only just begun, and the real fight waited just beyond the groaning doors.