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Brian Finch is not new to the experience of waking up in an alleyway at some godforsaken hour of the morning, coming off some god forsaken drug, and covered in sweat and grime and who knows what else.But he is new to this alley.A siren wails in the distance. A breeze ruffles the pages of a soggy, dirt-stained (hopefully just dirt) newspaper. A cat hisses at him from the rusty fire escape looming ominously over the alley.Badass Brian, complete with a badass leather jacket and complimentary sunglasses, peers down at Actual Brian from his perch on a tower of wooden pallets.“We’ve reached a new low, I see,” Badass Brian says.Brian lets out a groan and attempts to roll his eyes. It sends a spike of pain through his skull, so he aborts the mission halfway through, making what should be a dismissive gesture into what appears to be a brief glance to the heavens. Like, hey God? It’s me, Brian Finch. Could use some help down here.“How did you even get us into this mess?” Badass Brian says interrupting his prayer as badass-ly crosses his arms.His NZT must really be running low if he’s trying to conjugate the word badass right now.He rubs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know.” He racks his brain, rocketing through a playthrough of the past twenty-four hours.Breakfast (waffles). Work commute (Mike and Ike played Chauffeurs, Brian blasted Madonna on the radio [Material Girl]). CJC (Picked up a new case, Illegal Artifact Smuggling). NZT (NZT). Tracked down a lead, epic shootout, criminal in custody, case closed, back home. (Altogether, successful day.)Nothing out of the ordinary.Naz had even been proud enough of Brian to let him slip out early, trusting him to wean off that days dose of NZT snuggled up on his couch with Sinbad and a new episode of whatever was on tv.And that’s exactly what Brian did! Unless the weed—“NZT and pot have been shown to have no serious effects when used in tandem,” Badass Brian says. “Come on Brian, you know this. We know this. Think harder.”“Was there something wrong with the NZT? New supplier? Tampering?” Brian asks, pulling himself into a more vertical position. Still sitting on the cold alley cement, but with his back resting on one of the solid brick buildings that frame the area.“Could be,” Badass Brian offers. He scratches his beard in a way that seems extra manly. “You piss off Sands or Morra recently?”“Any more than usual?” Brian shook his head. “Not particularly.”“So booster shot wearing off is a no-go,” Badass Brian says. “What are you feeling? Think through this.”Brian thinks through every molecule of his being. Everything feels…off, in a strange way.One April fools, he and his sister had gotten up before the whole family and rearranged the living room. Rearranged is actually a pretty generous term, since they only moved each piece of furniture to the left about two inches. It had been funny, watching his whole family bump and stumble around the room for the next week, catching Rachel’s eyes and almost losing the whole prank because he couldn’t stop bursting out into laughter.That’s how it feels now.No, not the humor.The wrongness of it all.He’s not in pain or exhaustion. Brian feels a bit tired, but considering it looks like he spent the night sleeping on the street, that seems to be an airtight explanation.But he’s feeling like maybe he woke up to his whole house moved to the left.The breeze morphs into a hearty gust of wind and sails down the alley, blowing the newspaper closer, until it flails while meeting contact with Brian’s leg.Badass Brian nods towards it. “Gonna pick that up or what?”Brian bends over, stretches in a way he hasn’t since high school PE and plucks the newspaper out of the dirt.He frowns.Instantly the world feels even more wrong.Strike one: Gotham Gazette is scrawled across the first page. Brian has never heard of the newspaper.Strike two: apparently, it’s a paper located in New Jersey, and last Brian remembers, he was firmly in New York. Not—and he shudders to even think the name—Jersey.And Strike Three. Most Worrisome:The date is October 8th, 2024.And as far as Brian is concerned? It should be March 10th, 2014.Brian glances back up to Badass Brian, just to catch the bewildered smirk on his face drop and to watch him disappear. The world shrinks around Brian, his senses dull as the colors warp back into mediocrity and everything slows down.He needs to figure out everything.And it looks like he’ll be doing it alone.***So, here’s the sitch.Brian is in New Jersey (gross). Specifically, someplace called Gotham, which, by the looks of it, is just rebranded Newark. Luckily, Brian has one advantage in this situation. One Cameron Finch, older brother and New Jersey resident, who shouldn’t mind Brian crashing on his basement couch for a day. Just until Brian can figure out his next step.He's also got three NZT pills burning a hole in a hidden pocket within his comfortable coat.He debates the pros and cons of popping one right now but figures he might as well just make his way to his brother’s house. He’ll apologize for not being able to provide an answer as to why he's missed out on 10 years. Blame it on the FBI and Time Travel. And everything will work itself out.Brian’s personal bet is on aliens. But if he's being honest with himself, maybe a little bit of Sinbad, regardless of what Badass Brian had to say.His brother’s lecture on not taking drugs from strangers (or in this case, the FBI) is going to be a welcome conclusion to this Horrible Awful No Good Very Bad Day.After Brian gets the “Older Brother Knows Best” Speech of a lifetime, and possibly some delicious food from his sister-in-law, all of this wacky shit will start making since. After Mike and Ike swing by in the unmarked van to pick him up and drop him off at his safehouse for a nice long nap, Brian will probably leave the NZT where it typically sits with his records. As soon as they sort this whole, Back to the Future bullshit out, he can give himself a clap on the back for being so prepared for disaster.But right now he’s got shit to do. People to see. Public Transit to scam.He finds ten bucks spare in the other pocket of coat, which he uses to buy a student pass for the bus. That’s four bucks out of his ten. Jesus, inflation. Hopefully everybody is convinced with his story of being a late bloomer and seeking his degree in astrophysics with a minor in Gender Studies, but the bus driver doesn't seem to care.Brian ends up sitting in the back, slumped against the window as he watches the streets blur by.Against din of passengers getting on and off at each bus stop, the cold weather starts to shift into a rainy, drizzly mess. As the clouds begin to block the sun and droplets stream down Brian’s window, he lets out a sigh. The rain isn’t pretty in New York, but it seems worse in New Jersey.That pollution has really kept going in these past years. The smell goes down as the leave Gotham behind, but some part of it just seems to linger, even in the more suburban areas.Maybe when he gets back Brian can talk to those green peace ladies that like to frequent the sidewalk outside his favorite Kwik Mart. Always out there—rain or shine. Really dedicated women. Brian respects it.They cross out of the city lines and Brian gets out at the last stop. He races, ducking under the raindrops, and barely makes his way onto another bus. He stumbles over the bumpy metal floorboards as they bounce on the pothole ridden suburban streets and continues to stare out the window miserably once he makes it to his seat.He hasn’t gotten a single call or text that asks if he’s alright. But it seems a bit embarrassing to admit that it bugs him. And even if he did, he wouldn't be able to answer it. His phone is dead. He had briefly entertained the idea of finding a payphone before getting on the bus in Gotham, but it seems that they're even harder to find in 2024 than in 2014.Some kids at the front of the bus, a group of teens purposefully crowded just out of sight of the bus driver, are giggling at something on their phone. Maybe Vine. They’re being a little loud for public bus, yelling and laughing and being too “rowdy” as Brian’s grandmother would say., but somehow, it's kind of comforting. Brian leans his head against the condensation window. Letting the rumbling of the old bus lull him into a restless sleep.Somehow, he wakes up in time to get off at the right stop. Some god out there must be looking out for Brian Finch.He makes his way down the winding streets and suburbs. It’s one of those places where ten years can pass, and it still doesn't look any different. The classic East Coast middleclass suburban neighborhood, green lawns, a tree in each yard with a dubiously safe swing, houses in slightly faded blue or beige paint. It’s early evening, so Brian’s stroll is accompanied by the sound of parents calling their children in for dinner, and one by one, step by step, the neighborhood quiets down.He can still hear music from each home and there's flickering lights from whatever TV they have playing inside. He passes one house with a lopsided mailbox and smells barbecue.His stomach gurgles threateningly.He hasn't had anything to eat since who knows when, he's been on the bus all day and before that…Well, he can’t even remember what he had for dinner.He rummages around his pockets once again, finding a piece of gum and a selection of various almonds in the front of his jeans. He pops the almonds and the gum into his mouth and continues his walk down the street.Eventually he makes his way up to his brother’s house, a little colonial thing with fake support pillars and trellises with tastefully draped ivy. Brian knocks on the brown wooden door with his knuckles and strains to listen to a house that is oddly silent.The silence doesn’t break, and Brian knocks harshly again. Sending a rap-rap through through the wood as it shudders in its frame, he hears an old, rickety voice calling from the inside; “I'm coming. I'm coming. Hold your horses, I’m almost there.”He waits impatiently, tapping his foot against the wooden deck. The paint is peeling in some places, and he wonders why his brother hasn't gotten around to that.The door creaks open and someone Brian doesn’t recognize stares back at him. Last, he’d seen, his brother was two heads taller than him. He's only gone 10 years into the future, so this figure can’t be his brother.His brother shouldn't look ancient. He has a brief panicking thought that maybe this is his father but no, the sagging face and stooped body, and their relevant features are much different than his fathers.“Can I help you?” The old man asks, looking Brian up and down.“Hi, yeah,” Brian says. “Um, I'm looking for my brother, Cameron Finch? Can you tell him I need to talk to him? It’s important.”The old man shakes his head. “No one by the name of Cameron Finch lives here. Sorry kid.”“Right,” Brian says. “It's been a while since I visited. Do you know where their new address is?”The old man shakes his head. “Listen kid, I’ve lived here for the past 30 years, this house has been in my family for generations. I don’t know no Cameron Finch.”Brian's heart shrinks and falls to the empty cavity in his stomach. The wet socks in his sneakers feel colder than before. He curses New Jersey weather in September.“What do you mean by that?” Brian asks stupidly. “Cameron Finch, his wife Lucille? Their two kids? They were just here.”The old man shrinks back into the darkness of his home. “Look,” he says. “I don't know what you're selling, but I don't want any part of it.”Brian pushes his foot in between the door and the frame, preventing it from closing as the old man tries to slam it shut. He grunts a little in pain, but the sneakers do their job, forcing the old man to stop and readjust with geezer strength.“Just tell him I was here please. I just need to talk to him.” Brian says urgently. “If you know any Finch, just tell them Brian was here.”The old man gives him one final frosty look as Brian wiggles his foot out of its jam. Before he shuts the door again, the old man looks Brian in the eyes.“I'm very nice for not getting my gun right now,” He says in his gravelly but trembling voice. “But you should know not everyone is as kind to you Gotham folk as me.”Brian nods and withdraws, hands up in peace offering. “And Brian? If that’s your name?” The old man continues. “I don't know a single fucking Finch.”And then he slams the door shut, right in Brian's face.