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It started back in year 2785 AC, when the Nazis showed up on the first meager outpost on Mars. It wasn't even terraformed back then, and going outside required ponderous space suits. The blue Martians stayed pretty far from the post, but kept watch, the lessons the War of Two Worlds not forgotten.
Abigail had her foot on the airtube of Otto Draungt, mid-threatening rant. "Dirty Krout," she hissed, and the tube whipped out of its socket. The results... were not pretty.
(Amelia would run into him later, more than once, but that was the thing about time travel. Well, a thing. Among many other things.)
“Oops,” Abby murmured, her voice close and clear, played in the speakers in Amelia’s helmet. “I killed him.”
“Don’t worry about it. That's the whole point." She grinned, and Abby grinned back. "Not bad for a first mission, though, kid."
Then Amelia turned to the smattering of Nazi redshirts standing around in shock. "Well? Aren't any of you boys going to congratulate the lady here?"
There was a muffled round of German cursing before they scattered into the desert plains, only to be leisurely picked off with laserfire.
"Ooh, these are nice," Abby purred. "No kickback, shoots as smooth as silk... Sure we can't bring these back to the twentieth century with us?"
"Easy there, trigger--Anachronism is an art. You have to learn the rules before you can break them."
“Whatever you say, boss.”
Things were quiet, a Martian wind whipping rust-red, already starting to cover the bodies with fine dust.
"Should we do something about this? Call in a clean-up?"
"Nah. Time travel's full legalized this century and there aren't any litter laws on Mars yet."
"Litter laws?"
Amelia chuckled. "The future's gonna be weird, Abby."
"Guess we should head back to the base. Wonder if that sad sack's still plunking on that space-guitar?"
“Might as well find out.” She slung an arm over the other woman’s shoulders. Their helmets clinked together, the sound nearly musical. They laughed. Amelia wondered if she was blushing. Abby sure was, red as the ragged plains around them.
But it really starts to become on this night--on the cusp of the turn of the first millennium A.D., when the Nazis try to cut in on Leif Ericson's discovery of future America.
Abby pauses, leaning on the Lockheed Electra. "The stars are so bright here, with no city lights or anything. And they're the same here, same as home."
"Well, Abbs, this is home. Just not yet." But Amelia looks up, and her eyes go wide. The skies are hung with silvery multitudes, the drifts of the Milky Way tinged reddish with uncountable flecks of starlight.
Suddenly there are fingers twining between her own and she looks over--
And then Amelia doesn’t care so much about the stars in the sky, not compared to the one’s in Abby’s eyes, so infinite you could fly into them forever.
It will end in 1775, but neither of them will quite realize it at the time. The Nazis won't even be in America, but scrambling to declare Germany a country on July 4th of the next year. It will come off as kind of pathetic, really, and barely take a flash of Abby's guns and Amelia's teeth bared in a grin to get them diving down a time hole.
"I wish this woulda gone out with a bigger bang." Abby will say, her voice distant.
"A whimper's more appropriate for the likes of them."
"Not them. Me."
"Wait, what?"
"Yeah, the thing is, this might be my last Chrono mission for the foreseeable linear future. I'm being transferred."
"...You didn't tell me."
"I'm telling you now. They'll have me working with this new fellow, Jeff Reid. I'll have more missions back home."
"I thought you liked Chronopatrol." For Amelia, home is a cockpit, the staticky crack of a timehole generator and her best girl at her back, not that stale timeline from whence she came.
"Yeah," Abby will sigh. "I liked it. But these days I don't know when I am half the time and I'm so blown off track and turned around that I don't know which way is up. I miss the days going in order.”
Few things ever leave Amelia speechless. She is full of speeches and bluster and vim and vinegar and seven or eight different kinds of backsass, but suddenly, in that moment, there will be nothing on her tongue, no gesture that can breach the foot and a half of empty air between them.
She will swallow, and try to smile. Results will be mixed.
“It’ll be better this way, you’ll see. I’ll still be working with you, tracking Krout interference in the timeline, coordinating missions and the like.”
“Well, you’ll be happier, so it will be better,” Amelia will say, and mean it, but still feel sick inside. She'll know exactly how Abby feels because she's been there before, too.
“Thanks, Ames,” Abby will whisper, and kiss her. She’ll kiss her like it was any other day and things weren't going so far off the rails no amount of time travel could pull them back on track.
They won't be able to quite meet each other's eyes when they part.