“Temporal Avoidance Game” • by Jeff Currier

Quin baked under his helmet, the galea’s plume barely attenuating the heat. Standing guard at Porto Capena, he scanned newcomers entering central Rome, looking for anomalies. Like that one—stirrups don’t appear in Europe till the eighth century, mate. The key to not getting caught, Quin mused, was blending in. Those two were barely even trying—bamboo viscose togas, nubuck leather sandals, with a gold Rolex and a Gucci handbag. Tourists, not Players, he concluded.

He kept scanning. Was that Thracian mercenary’s equipment too polished? UpTime replicas? He sidled a few steps to the side, ostensibly to shoo away a pair of begging urchins, but really to prevent the Thracian from passing too closely. The mercenary strode through the gate, paying him no attention. Either he’d made it out of an Inter-chronal Tracker’s two-meter range or the Thracian was exactly what he appeared, a DownTime soldier for hire. Quin unclenched his shoulders, letting the tension wash away.

He returned to observing the crowds, leaning ever so slightly on his pilum. He spied a full set of sixteenth century New Zealand Maori warrior tattoos. Did that Player really think those would pass off as Nubian ritual scarring? Quin just shook his head. Do your research and don’t make waves in history, his father, his game mentor, had said. And sometimes that meant joining the Roman legions, suffering through months of training, and then standing still for hours until you were just part of the background scenery. He stifled a yawn and shifted his weight, attempting to ease his tensing calves. He wondered how much time until the end of his shift, wishing he could have checked the sightseer’s Rolex.

§

Later, off-duty, sitting at a small table in his favorite taberna, Quin relaxed, enjoying the sounds, if not the smells, of the waning years of the Roman Republic. He reached down to massage a lingering knot out of his aching left calf. At least he could knock off here. Most Players wouldn’t even think of visiting this part of Rome—too raucous, low-brow, too seedy even for many Roman natives. Instead, Players strove to hide out in the high-end salons near the Circus Maximus. Hell, one Player had tried passing himself off as a Senator—he hadn’t lasted long.

Only two more days to go in this round, he reflected, and then yet another clean sheet to add to his record. After that, six more successful rounds and he would be the foremost Avoider of all time. He’d finally dethrone the pompous harridan, Lucinda Templeton, his father’s long-time nemesis. The pundits all said her run of consecutive avoidances was impossible to beat. He’d show them, reclaim his family’s premier place amongst Avoiders.

Giving up on the futile effort to ease the calf cramp, Quin returned to his wine, savoring another swallow. He surreptitiously checked the latest commentary feed via his retinal overlay. The usual speculation about the next Game Zone—please let it be somewhere with climate control. Hah, speaking of the old goat, it appeared her granddaughter had joined this season and wasn’t doing very well. Kept getting caught. One of the commentators was even suggesting it was deliberate. Quin scoffed. Why would anyone want to get deliberately caught?

Glancing around the cramped single-room space, he noticed a new, quite pretty girl serving the table one over. She deftly avoided clutching hands, yet she gave a short, sharp squeal as she passed his table, almost as if he had pinched her. Startled, Quin froze, spilling the wine he’d been lifting to his lips. Ignoring the cheers from his rowdy neighbors, he tried to catch her eye. All he got was one coy smile, cast over her shoulder as she retreated behind the marble counter. He ordered more wine.

§

After trading teasing glances all evening, Quin found her behind the taberna, emptying dregs out of cups and amphorae. She smiled shyly, then leaned forward as if to kiss. He inhaled her floral scent—her artificial floral scent.

Dammit! Benzyl salicylate, shampoo additive. He desperately sought to back away, but she’d already grasped his elbow with one hand. She pressed a vibrating Inter-chronal Tracker into his palm with her other. Her lips brushed his cheek, on their way to whisper in his ear.

“Grandmother sends her regards. Tag. You’re it.”

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Jeff Currier works three jobs, so has little time to write. Hence, he writes little stories—like this one, or “The Fate of Time Travelers,” or “The Foulest of Them All,” which we’ve published previously. Find links to more of his published stories at @jffcurrier on X or Jeff Currier Writes on Facebook.

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