Chapter Text
To be honest, Al was surprised as anybody would be to awaken in a glass case. Not to mention his confusingly gray complexion. Mere minutes after he awoke, he used his gun to smash the glass confinement, bits and shards flying everywhere, and stepped out.
Where the hell was he?
All around, other people seemed to be waking up, too. Strange-looking people. People that didn’t make sense. He had to blink a couple of times at the frolicking statues and the tropical animals and the portrait paintings who were moving around inside their little canvases.
“What the hell kinda dream is this?”
Thankfully, his buddies were close by. They also happened to be gray — “Why’re we all gray? Nobody else is!” — which made Al feel better. At least he wasn’t the only one; he hated being the odd one out.
Al and his men quickly got to work. They asked around, threatening any poor soul daring enough to come near their posse. They intimidated bobbleheads and stone cherubs for information — for anything that would make a lick of sense. It proved to be a fruitless endeavor. Nobody knew anything. Most couldn’t speak English or seemed to be at a loss at the sight of the group of thuggish gray men in suits.
Never before had Al never been so appreciative to interrogate a bust of Teddy Roosevelt. The man — could he even call him a man? — was certainly no walk in the park but he at least had answers, or, at least, theories.
“We’re in a museum,” Teddy told them, eyeing their legs jealousy. “Everyone here is an exhibit.”
“That’s crazy,” one of Al’s men spat. “That makes no sense!”
The others agreed.
“How d‘ya know we’re exhibits in a museum?” Al pressed. “Who told ya? D’ya have somethin’ to do wit’ all o’ this?”
“Nobody told me. It’s obvious. Or perhaps you really are that thick-headed. How else could you explain all of this? I’m a talking bust of Teddy Roosevelt, for God’s sake! Didn’t you see those paintings, those statues? How do you explain that, tough guy?”
“So we’re all exhibits at a museum? And, what? We magically came alive? Is that it?”
“Do you have a better explanation, Mr. Capone?”
Even Al’s goons had to agree with Teddy. It did make a lot of sense. However, Al had one more question.
“And what ‘bout me?” he asked, almost shyly, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
“And what of you?”
“We’re all exhibits, right? So I’m a part o’ the museum. I’m a historical person that people learn ‘bout, right? I’m important.”
“I suppose you must be. I can’t say I’ve heard of you. May I ask what year you were born?”
Al looked at each of his men. Should I really tell this guy? They all looked at each other. Sure. Why not?
“1899,” he replied.
“Ah. I passed in 1919. You were only twenty. You probably hadn’t done anything of historical significance in my lifetime, now, would you?” explained Teddy. “I apologize, my boy. If you want to know about yourself, then I’d find someone from a later decade.”
Al stared at Teddy a moment before turning to leave. “Let’s get outta here, guys.”
“Yes, please do,” Teddy muttered as they left. “Rotten bunch of men, if I’ve ever seen one…”
Al and his men, now knowing the drawstrings of their situation a little better, decided to go find some trouble. In a museum as vast as the Smithsonian, there was bound to be something — or someone — they could mess around with. Besides, what else would they do in a museum?
The French turned out to be an easier target than most. They looked like they were from the 1700s, dressed in those ridiculous blue and white uniforms of fancy-pancy soldiers. Al would never give them the satisfaction of saying that they were formidable opponents but, goddamn, those Frenchies had some olden-day vigor in their souls.
It had started out with a particularly confident member of Al’s gang, trying to show off to his buddies, walking up to one of the soldiers and shoving him, saying something along the lines of his clothes being stupid. A dumb joke. The Frenchmen seemed not to understand English but could understand a rude comment when they heard one. They were furious.
One might say that, from there, things escalated out of proportion. Al disagreed. In his book, it was just the right amount of escalation!
That is, until he got shot.
The French and the mobsters were currently locked in a vicious battle. At one end of the hall, the French knelt behind a bend, only peeking out to shoot at the mobsters with their muskets. The mobsters did the same from behind an upturned couch — stolen from some kind of television-viewing area. A few men had already been injured but thankfully none had fallen.
The bullet had embedded itself into his chest, just high enough to not hit anything important. Why would it make a difference? A bullet is a bullet and it still hurt like hell. Al toppled backwards. The vision of their leader falling over seemed to fuel some kind of deep-rooted loyalty inside their bones because, as soon as they heard Al hiss “Goddamnit!” in pain, they lost their marbles and charged the Frenchmen.
The Frenchmen, seeing a band of angry gray men coming for them, got the same idea and charged the mobsters.
The clash was fierce. It might’ve gone on for hours if a museum exhibit who had been watching the entire battle didn’t speak up in a way that commanded attention. Both the French and the mobsters turned to face this interrupter in a nearly comedic fashion, mid-fighting. They stood so still that it looked like someone had taken a photo.
“Why are you fighting?” asked the person. She was old and wore a sweater with the words Peace Pilgrim sewed on; she was definitely more modern than any of them. “What is the reason for this?”
The men looked at each other, at a loss.
“Uh, well…” one spoke up. “There’s really nothin’ else to do ‘round here.”
“Yes,” a heavily-accented Frenchman agreed. “Nothing to do.”
“Well, that’s not very smart now, is it? What, are you all a bunch of brutes who do nothing else but fight? There has to be more than this. We’re in a museum.”
Al couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The Frenchmen and Al’s goons stopped the fight so some old granny could fill their heads with pacifist bull! And, what’s worse, they were all listening to her like she was some wise elder!
As much as he’d like to put an end to this foolishness and resume the battle, Al made the mistake of looking down to find blood on the hand that he’d been pressurizing the wound with. Oh… He suddenly began to feel very woozy. The room spun a thousand miles a minute and suddenly he couldn’t tell which way was up. Slowly, gradually, his vision faded…
Al woke up for the second time that night. However, instead of being trapped inside of a glass case, he was lying on the floor, all alone. As he sat up, a few drops of blood stained where he had been laying. It took a lot of courage and willpower but he managed to jam two fingers into the wound and retrieve the damned bullet. He threw the blood-stained pebble across the room.
“Where the hell did my men go?” he muttered.
Well, no time for mopin’. Al got to his feet. He walked across the hallway. Nobody. A few exhibits passed by, looking lost, but he did not recognize any of them.
He walked around the bend that the Frenchies had been shooting their muskets from. A man was laying on the floor. The curled-up, face-down body of a soldier. A French soldier. And not just any soldier — this was a commanding officer!
“Their general,” he breathed.
Al clasped his hands together in an evil manner; he crouched down to examine the corpse — er, man.
“Are ya dead?” he murmured.
He couldn’t see the man’s face; his body laid prostrate, his back to the ceiling and his stomach to the floor. Dark short hair, perhaps black or a very deep shade of brown, matted the back of his head. His uniform was much like other Frenchmen except it was more blue and stylized to the different, more extravagant degree of a higher-up. Aristocratic prick.
Al let his own hand make its way to the man’s shoulder. He poked it as if it would explode.
Nothing happened.
He did this a few more times until he was sure that the man was fast asleep. He certainly wasn’t dead — the gentle rise and fall of his back was apparent. Very gentle, in fact…
For some odd reason, there was something serene about that moment. Al felt like he was seeing a magical creature for the first time.
Pah! he thought. A Frenchie is quite the opposite!
Nonetheless, Al grabbed the man’s shoulder and lightly pushed. The body rolled onto its back, chin pointed towards the ceiling and arms splayed out on either side of him.
“Huh.”
He was older. Older than Al by a decade or two. And, come to think of it, a little short. On the pudgy side. Definitely French — he had one of those distinctively Western European faces.
Al breathed. The man’s face had paled from losing quite a bit of blood; his left thigh had been shot. Blood could be seen through his white breeches — nothing serious. The general’s dark eyelashes gracefully contrasted against his skin in an almost womanly manner.
His stomach suddenly lurched. The man was pretty, Al would give him that. Oddly pretty. For an old guy. But still… pretty.
You’re staring, he reminded himself. Stop being weird.
“Let’s see,” Al muttered, eyes fixed on the body before him like it was somehow special. “What should ol’ Al do with a lil’ guy like yourself?”
Take his weapons, you idiot! If he wakes up, you’re gonna be in big trouble! Better yet, why not eliminate the threat and just kill him? You could shoot him right now.
Al only half-listened to the little voice of reason inside his head. A bit awkwardly, he searched the man’s clothing, padding him down until he found the bulge of two old pistols and a well-crafted knife strapped to the left boot. A dark hue crept onto his cheeks as he lightly padded the man’s chest, earning a soft whimper from deep within his throat. He even stirred a little.
All the while, Al’s eyes locked onto the man’s. He briefly wondered what color eyes he might have — brown or blue? And would they be dark brown, light brown? Dark blue, light blue? And what of his voice? There would definitely be a French accent, but would it be high or deep? Clear or nasally, wise or irritating?
Al watched the slow rising and falling of the man’s chest for longer than he would like to admit, deep in thought. Should he wake him? Shoot him?
He glanced down at his lips. Wouldn’t it be rich if he kissed him! It was obviously a joke, he told himself. But he kind of wanted to. He wasn’t sure why; it was one of those weird urges that people get, he supposed. Laying there like that, all peaceful and pretty — how could someone not think about it? The prospect that a live human being could gaze down at this man and not allow those thoughts to course through themselves was blasphemy in every sense of the word.
Then again…
“Curse it.”
He drew his pistol from its holster and placed the muzzle against the man’s cheek. He sat like that. Contemplative. Desperately trying to pull the trigger. He’d done this hundreds of times before! When did it become so difficult?
Why are you hesitating!
Al harshly poked the man’s cheek with the pistol’s muzzle. Nothing happened, not even a slight movement. He did this repeatedly until finally, the man’s eyelids twitched. His hands absently moved to his face, as if to swat away a fly that was buzzing around. Eyebrows furrowed, nose scrunched. Sleepily displeased with the world.
Al was not prepared for what happened next. The air had been knocked out of him. He could only stare.
The man’s eyes were brown. Dark brown, almost black. They didn’t look around, didn’t take in the surroundings, the high ceiling, the endless hallways, the paintings lining the walls, the strange-looking passerby — the man’s eyes instead locked onto Al’s, staring at him with such… such… oh, he couldn’t put it into words.
The general’s expression was so blank, so emotionless yet Al could discern something more. Confusion, fear, anxiety, intrigue.
Wishful thinkin’, Al. He’s scared. Yer scarin’ him, ya big creep.
The man’s eyes widened. He seemed to come to his senses and, as quick as a speeding bullet, sat up. Surprised and feeling threatened by such fast movement, Al stumbled backwards.
“Qui êtes vous?”
Al’s heart fell a million miles below his boots. His body froze. His entire frame went as rigid as a pole.
He stood up; Al followed suit. Without a response, the man repeated his query. “Qui êtes vous?”
For some reason, Al could not utter a damn word. Why couldn’t he speak? He could only stare at the general like the biggest idiot in the world!
The Frenchman finally took in his surroundings, making sure to keep Al in his peripheral vision. Al could hear the man's heart quicken, his pulse raging at the memory of their situation, their stupid battle.
He looked back at Al, eyes narrowed. “Tu es mon ennemi…”
Ennemi… enemy. At least the French word for enemy was relatively similar to the English one.
The general tried to draw his pistol but was surprised to find it nowhere to be found. He eyed Al with annoyance and knelt down to retrieve his knife, which was also nowhere to be found. This really frustrated him. Al would’ve enjoyed getting under his skin in such a way if he wasn’t feeling so… weird at the moment.
“Donne moi mon couteau!” he shrieked.
Al was sure that the general would strangle him on the spot if he weren’t holding a gun.
Slowly, Al lowered his own gun to the floor, near his feet; he also lowered the weapons he had confiscated from the general. Al then put his palms out in front of himself, as if trying to calm down a wild animal that might attack at any moment. He made his voice as soothing as possible.
“I won’t hurt ya,” he said in English. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya. D’ya understand? D’ya understand me? Yer fine. Really. I wouldn't do that.”
The general was unsure. He stood there, waiting, like Al might pick up the gun and shoot him dead.
“My name is Al.” He pointed at his own chest. “Al. Al.”
“Al,” the man repeated. His accent washed over the name in a nearly comedic way though the suspicion remained.
At least this seemed to calm the man’s nerves a little bit. Men don’t normally ask for the other’s name before killing them; the sharing of names is, if anything, a small peace treaty between two parties. Leaders like themselves knew this better than anyone.
“And you?” He pointed to the man. “What’s your name?”
“Euh… Napoleon. Je m’appelle Napoleon.”
“Napoleon.” He smiled. “That sounds familiar. I think I learned ‘bout ya in school.”
Napoleon only stared, uncertain. He appeared to understand that Al’s statement was of a friendly, pleasant tone. Confusion continued to seep from his countenance. Al could imagine his thoughts: Is this a trick? What’s going on? What’s his motive? How can I get out of this?
Al, having nothing better to say to this man, decided to try Italian. He seriously doubted that he knew any, but it was worth a shot:
“Il tuo nome è molto bello,” he said. (Your name is beautiful.)
Napoleon was at a loss.
“Bene grazie.” he awkwardly replied. (Well, thank you.)
Now it was Al’s turn to be at a loss: Napoleon’s Italian was perfect! Oh, man, this would not be an easy pash to get over, would it?
“Tu… tu parli italiano?” he stuttered. (You… you speak Italian?)
“Sì.” (Yes.)
This was a dramatic turn of events. For once in his life, Al had no idea what to say or do. Neither, it seemed, did Napoleon.
“Questo è strano,” Al announced. (This is weird.)
“Sono d'accordo.” (I agree.)
“Where did ya learn? Yer very good…” Al said in Italian.
“I will be asking the questions, if you do not mind.”
An arrogant Frenchie, isn’t he?
Al took pity and decided to humor the wounded man. That’s what he told himself, anyway. “Sure, ask me anythin’.”
“Alright.” Napoleon gathered his thoughts. “Where am I?”
“Un museo.”
“A museum? Where is this museum? What country am I in?”
“Beats me. A lot of the exhibits here speak a lot of different languages ‘n come from a lot of times in history. I think we’re in the future.”
“That explains a lot,” said Napoleon. “But it still does not make sense. Why is everything in this museum alive?”
“I ain’t sure. I’ve asked around ‘n nobody else knows, either. One guy thinks that we’re all museum exhibits that have magically come alive; frankly, I ain’t buyin’ it.”
“But why is everything so strange? I have never seen such things in my life…”
“You're from the past. I think I remember learnin’ ‘bout ya in history class. This is the modern world. It’s even after my time.”
“And when was ‘your time?’”
“Well, I was born in 1899.”
“1899?” Napoleon was blown away. “That is crazy! I…”
“Yeah, yeah,” he dismissed. “So…”
Napoleon stared at him, expectant.
Al held out a hand. “Friends?”
He looked to Al’s outstretched arm for a moment, stalling. Al immediately perceived it as confusion.
“What? Don’tcha know how to shake hands?” he said, smiling. “Oh, don’tcha Frenchies kiss each other or somethin’? I ain’t doin’ that.”
Napoleon laughed. It nearly made Al jump in surprise but he found that he quickly came to enjoy Napoleon’s laughter. It was cute. The general used his hand to hide his face. Al was nothing but endeared by it.
“No, no, I know what a handshake is,” he chuckled. “We do not have to kiss each other.”
“Good.”
They shook hands, both grips firm, and smiled at each other fondly. All the while, Al tried not to fall over at the thrill of touching him. This was a start of a friendship between two formidable forces — they could feel it. Some more than others.
“Let’s go find our men, yeah?”
“Let’s.”