The village was alive with tension. Dust clung to the air as the soldiers began their sweep, their boots stamping through the cracked red soil of the square. Market stalls trembled under the weight of cautious eyes. Mothers clutched their children tighter. Traders went silent. The only sounds were barked commands, the occasional cough, and the restless shuffle of fear.
Elara stayed hidden, crouched low behind sacks of yam and dried pepper in Mama Oje's stall. She peeked through a slit between the makeshift curtains, her heartbeat louder than the hum of the restless village.
It was him.
Damon.
Younger. Broader. Alive with energy that hadn't yet chilled into that cold, hard exterior she knew too well. But even here, now, in this distant past, he was a man who pulled gravity toward himself.
He moved like someone used to command. Used to control. Men flanked him instinctively. Women looked away instinctively. And Elara—Elira, now—couldn't look away.
What was he doing here?
She tried to make sense of it. Was this just some cruel twist of fate? Or had something—someone—dragged them both into this?
His voice rang out, crisp and confident. "We're here for two reasons: security and structure. There will be no tolerance for theft, insubordination, or sedition. Am I understood?"
A murmur of yeses followed. One soldier stepped forward, handing him a clipboard. Damon scanned it briefly and then gestured.
"Begin interviews. Keep it orderly. If anyone resists, report to me directly."
A low buzz went through the market. Interviews. That meant attention. That meant risk.
Elara backed away from the curtain, her breath shallow.
"Elira!" Mama Oje's gravelly voice made her jump. The old woman hobbled into the stall, leaning on her walking stick. "Wetin you dey hide for there like rat? Na soldiers, no be spirits. Come out, make you dey help me arrange dis yam."
Elara swallowed hard. "Mama...I dey come."
Her voice cracked. She gathered herself, wiped her sweating palms on her skirt, and emerged from the shadows.
She kept her head down as she worked, stacking yams, aligning baskets. But she could feel his presence across the square like a storm in the distance.
And then—
"You. Girl."
Her hands froze.
The voice wasn't Damon's, but it was close.
She looked up to see one of the soldiers, tall and lean, pointing at her.
"Come. For questioning."
Mama Oje frowned. "She just be market girl o."
The soldier ignored her.
Elara's legs moved before her brain did. She walked, head down, across the open square. She could feel the village watching.
And then she stood in front of him.
Damon.
His eyes met hers—and something flickered.
Recognition? Curiosity? A trick of the light?
"Name?" he asked.
Her throat was dry. "Elira."
He looked at the clipboard. "Your parents?"
"Dead," she said quickly. "I live with Mama Oje."
"Occupation?"
"I help in the market. And… I clean."
He watched her closely. Too closely.
"You speak English well."
She nodded. "I go school small."
A pause. His eyes still on her. "Step aside."
She did, trying not to run.
As she turned, she heard him say quietly to the soldier next to him, "Keep an eye on that one."
---
That night, Elara sat by the lantern in Mama Oje's small hut, her heart still thundering from the encounter. She picked at the ugali in her bowl, unable to eat. Damon hadn't fully recognized her—but something in his stare told her he sensed something.
She needed a plan. If he was here, he could still ruin her. Or… save her.
She didn't know which version of him this was.
Suddenly, the door creaked open.
It was Cora.
Elara dropped the bowl.
Cora—in this time. Same face. Same sly smile.
"Hello, bestie," she whispered.
"You… how did you—"
"Oh, sweetheart. You didn't think I'd let you go that easily, did you?"
She stepped into the light.
Her clothes were different. She blended perfectly with the time.
Elara stood up. "What are you doing here?"
"Same thing you are. Trying to survive. Except unlike you, I have allies."
Elara stepped back. "You set him up. You set us up."
Cora smiled. "And I'd do it again. He was soft. Weak. You were distracted. And Damon? Damon was never going to let you go."
She leaned closer. "Let's just say... I helped the timeline correct itself."
Elara's blood went cold.
Cora gave a mock bow. "Good luck surviving the '80s, Elira. You're going to need it."
She vanished into the night.
---
The next morning, Damon returned.
He stood outside Mama Oje's hut, flanked by soldiers.
"Elira. Come with me."
"Why?"
"I have questions."
Elara hesitated. But there was no choice.
She followed him to the camp on the outskirts of the village. Tents. Weapons. Radios the size of small boxes.
He led her into a tent.
"Sit."
She did.
He circled her.
"You don't belong here."
Her breath caught.
"Your accent. Your posture. Your fear. You're not like the others."
"Maybe I'm just different."
He paused. "You remind me of someone."
Her heart stopped.
He walked closer. Leaned in.
"What's your real name?"
"Elira," she said quietly.
His eyes searched hers.
Then: "You're lying."