Young Writers Society

“That’s nonsense. Earth, and especially London, has been contaminated for decades.” The scientist scowled. “Why do you think we’re on Mars?”

Sage’s head turned back and forth from the subterra to the scientist, as if she was watching a floor-cleaning bot putter between the sides of the room.

Cyra blinked. “I’m going to stop you there. What the fuck do you mean we’re on Mars? Like, the fucking planet Mars? That red one?”

The scientist rolled his eyes. “Yes, ‘that red one.’ Now tell me where you really come from." His assistants loitered around the room, fiddling with various pieces of equipment.

“I am telling you the damn truth. London, England. I was born in the pitiful excuse that is the British Underground. You’re the one that’s lying with all of that Mars bullshit.”

The scientist frowned, then said, "Perhaps time travel. Intriguing. Tell me, did you have electricity in your world?"

Sage perked up. Time travel wasn't a thing where she came from, but what if it was here?

Cyra snorted. “Time travel? Electricity? What the fuck are you talking about?”

"No electricity, then. Clearly language was advanced enough for communication. How about the plow?"

Cyra snorted. “It’s not the fucking Garden of Eden. We have plows.”

"Good, good. Then the printing press?"

Sage looked around the room, wondering if anyone would notice if she examined that interesting bit of equipment.

“Yes. We have newspapers and shit.”

One of the scientists glared at her. “Don’t you dare move.”

"Good, good. So 15th century at least, likely 17th. What about pianos?"

Sage pouted. She kicked at her chair.

“If you’re trying to guess what time period I’m from, you can fucking stop. 1838. Alright?”

One of the scientists glared at her. “If you’re upset, you shouldn’t have been a disruption.”

"Ah, the 19th century. Wonderful. Now to figure out what universe you're from... Pam, run a scan on nearby 'verses for any mention of a 'subterra.'"

"I only wanted to look at all the neat technology here!" Sage protested. "I'm sure the..." Sage realized she never got their name "...other person didn't mean any harm either."

One of the scientists, probably Pam, not that Cyra cared any, ran off.

“Doesn’t matter. Your grubby hands will mess with our prized tech.”

Sage looked at her hands. Along with the usual grease stains was a sticky streak on her thumb and a line of orange she had no idea where she’d picked up. Okay, that was a fair point. “If you’ll just direct me to the nearest sink, I’d be glad to wash my hands,” she said sweetly.