A tale of repaired past

It was a summer night filled with joy and hubris, a festivity of birth and war. Amidst the worst portion of history, where if you were fighting for something you were destined to either die or suffer the consequences of others’ actions. Where the sense of dread and death partake in the walking among the living as the millions of corpses fall and burn. Where trauma is set in motion to create fear into the hearts of all. But yet a party is ablaze as the enriched folk dance and listen to music in a beautiful Italian villa at the top of a hill under the light of billions of stars.

Tuxedoes, full wine and whiskey glasses, violins, violas, flutes, and pianos playing, cheers, celebrations, endless food to fill a gullet and a half, and not a single feeling that something outside of them is happening. Chatter, small talk, and long-awaited conversations powerful people leave out of the record so as not to be liable to scrutiny. But they cared not for that, since they were at a celebration, and not one wished to be a downer at a time like this.

Other than Reich Lieberman. He is a man with a mission and vision. Anything in his way will be exterminated and never be detected by others unless he wishes to. Detail-oriented yet free enough to make risky choices to further his agenda and his agency’s agenda. Kill the governing body of an estranged island off the coast of Africa? Done in quick succession after planting false evidence for the embassy of El Cairo. As simple as it may appear, it took several years' worth of planning to get to his current assignment: eliminate the Nazi delegation and make it seem like an accident.

Time travelers are often misunderstood. Their job is to correct potential timelines and not let them go astray into a dark future. In the technical, they do not travel through time itself, more so they travel through space catching up to branching lines of time that require a slight change and manipulation in order to correct their path. For example, there is a timeline in which Planet Xurnthos waged a war on Planet Earth for resources due to a miscalculation on their part as they thought Earth possessed more minerals than themselves. The Agency swiftly corrected the change before any casualties were to happen.

Lieberman knew where to start his assignment and how to end it. He went straight to the head butler and bribed him with enough cash to be let in without an invitation. Of course, it goes without saying that the head butler notified the lieutenant of this monetary infiltration, but the lieutenant permitted the occasion assessing that the man in question did not possess any threat due to his light color of skin, bright celestial eyes, and golden blonde hair.

Agent Lieberman took a glass of whiskey on the rocks, swirled it in his hand, took a small sip, and pushed forward to the admiral—or higher-ups close to him. No sooner than five steps, a lieutenant detained him respectfully, asking targeted questions to gauge his stance on the celebratory party, as well as the political party. Charisma and quick answers were his forte, and with direct and concise wording, Lieberman gained the confidence of every other individual with strong political ties without breaking a sweat.

“A Mouton Cadet, please.” That was the only demand Lieberman made seconds after making a connection with a fascist military commander; he seemed part of the party already. His ordering was snappy as if the power had gone to his head. But it was further from the truth. The agent played the part, and he played it well; enough to fool high-in-power aristocrats and wagers of war.

The servant delayed no further and brought a Baron Philippe de Rothschild Mouton Cadet 1934 to the agent’s presence. The agent feigned knowledge of the wine and served everyone close by, casually getting them intoxicated. After the first bottle, Lieberman offered for stronger drinks to liven up the party; he did not partake and no one seemed to notice the absence of alcohol in his system. Who would when the only sense that they can feel is of a greater liberation than anyone else at the time.

The midnight chime struck alarming a few and signaling the agent that it was time. Lieberman took out two P08 from inside his breast pockets and guns blazing shot every single woman and servant in his sight. The first sixteen were shot dead. A quick reload and the next sixteen dead. A final reload, and now shooting the drunken military men; except for one. This one individual, sobering up from the shock of the whole situation, stood by in the third F of the fight, flight, or freeze. The agent handed him the two guns, the empty magazines, and a spare full cartridge.

“You will not remember what happened because you drank too much alcohol. You were enraged for some odd reason and took your rage out on everyone in this party. You don’t even remember my name, and if you did my name can never be traced. You will be killed on the spot for treason, there is no judge or jury to defend you here only my memories and my presence, but both will be gone by the time someone gets here. My advice would be for you to run away; however, that would ruin my plan and I can’t have that. Now, will you stay here and wait or want me to put you to sleep?” The man nodded. “Perfect. Put to sleep it is.”

It is highly prohibited to use future technology in the past to prevent any anomalies. But this situation had no credible witnesses to what Lieberman was utilizing to have the man sleep quickly. A swift press of a button in his cufflinks sent a blue mist directly to the nostrils of the man. One cough and the framed man was already on his way to REM sleep. The agent laid him down slowly to not cause a concussion and left the scene without a shred of evidence.