The Tickell Arms, North Road, Whittlesford Cambridge. 7:53 pm, July 27, 1926.
“That'll be a shilling,” said the bearded landlord as he placed the second foamy beer on the bar.
A young man slid the silver coin across to the bar keep and picked up the two pewter tankards.
He made his way over to a table in the corner. The young man was clean shaven, had black hair and tanned shin akin to his Greek heritage.
He placed both jugs on the table and slid one across to a man in his thirties. This one had a moustache and dark brown hair in a neat cut. Both wore suits that were off-the-rack. The moustachioed man had removed his jacket and loosened his tie.
The pair had come in five minutes previous and joined the three older men who already occupied the table.
"Well, gentlemen," one of the older men said, raising his glass in a toast. "Good to see you all looking so well. Here's to our future endeavours.”
They all took a drink.
"I wrote to Dr Lung in Shanghai, and he has replied," said Dr Dash, an aged portly man who still sported mutton-chop sideburns.
"His translation of the texts has been most useful. He was intrigued by our interest in such a, and I quote, ‘whimsical subject’. I feel obliged to extend him an invitation to join the Society. Do you all agree?"
There were nods and murmurs of acceptance all round, until a voice spoke up.
"Well no, actually, I'm not,” the voice of Dr Nathaniel Chase said.
Dash, who had been looking rather pleased with his efforts suddenly looked furious. Dash was not a man used to people telling him no.
His position at St Mary's Teaching Hospital was a senior position in the medical profession, and he was used to students and junior doctors hanging on his every word.
This young upstart opposite him, objecting, was not something Dash was expecting nor did he like it.
But, one could not ignore a leading Harley Street surgeon who had operated on the King himself. And, Dash noted with annoyance, nor were several of the other doctors.
“You have an objection Dr. Chase?" Dash asked as civilly as his ire would let him.
Dr. Nathaniel Chase mused to himself.
Dropping the “I” meant Dash wasn't happy. "We should be cautious about whom we invite into the Society. Firstly, we have no idea how good Lung's translation is. And secondly, if we invite him in and our theory, theories, turn out to be fruitless, then the Society will appear like a collection of Whimsical old men clutching at fantasies. Both are grounds for rumour, and the latter could discredit much of our work outside of the Society."
There were grave faces around the table now.
Dash looked crestfallen, but nodded solemnly.
“Bloody hell, Chase, my boy. You're right, of course!"
Chase have him an apologetic smile.
"But should we be successful, then yes, invite the eminent doctor,” Chase placed a metaphorical bandage over Dash's wound. With the group conscious of the potential of their discovery they subconsciously decided to avoid talking "shop" and chatted amongst themselves about all sorts of things.
The Hermes Society was initially formed of like-minded doctors and physicians who sought better understanding of medical practices, utilising medical knowledge from across the globe. These like-minded men and women soon became friends as well as colleagues and were happy to talk about anything from movies to cars, to foreign travel.
All in all, Chase thought as he and Dr. Alexandros Petrou made their way home."That was actually pleasant."
He was even feeling very confident about the ceremony that was planned for the weekend.
The Hermes Society
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Re: The Hermes Society
The wind came in hard off the Atlantic, sharp with salt and the promise of rain, tearing at coats and scarves as if the island itself wished to cast them back into the sea.
Dr. Nathaniel Chase leaned into it, boots slipping slightly on the wet, uneven ground. “Steady—steady, man,” he called over his shoulder, though his own breath came in visible bursts. His gloved hands were wrapped around one edge of the curved wooden segment he and two others were hauling.
“It is not steady, my friend,” came the strained reply beside him. Dr. Alexandros Petrou—broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, and perpetually unimpressed by British weather—grunted as he adjusted his grip. “It is madness. Scientific, yes—but still madness.”
“Then we’re in excellent company,” Nate said, managing a brief smile.
Behind them, another pair struggled with the second segment of the ring, while a third team laboured further upslope with the final piece. The terrain was brutal—rocky, bog-soft in places, and cut through with low heather that snagged boots and trousers alike.
They had been at it for hours.
Above them, the sky hung low and grey, pressing down on the island like a lid. Somewhere beyond the ridge ahead lay the site—the place The Hermes Society believed would reveal one of the mysterious Nexus Gates described in obscure notes tied to ancient Egyptian rituals.
If those notes were right.
If the device worked.
If they had not dragged half a ton of precision-engineered brass and wood across a forsaken Scottish island for nothing.
“Why here?” Alexandros muttered. “Of all places in the world—why must the doorway to infinity be in a place that smells of wet sheep?”
“Because,” Nate replied, shifting the weight as his arms trembled, “no one else thought to look.”
They crested the ridge just as the wind dropped slightly, as though the land itself were holding its breath.
The site lay in a shallow hollow beyond—a natural bowl of dark stone, scattered with ancient, weather-worn standing rocks. Some leaned at odd angles, others lay half-buried, as if pushed down by centuries of storms.
Nate stopped.
Not from exhaustion—though he had plenty of that—but from something else.
Recognition.
“This is it,” he said quietly.
Alexandros glanced around, eyes narrowing. “You feel it too.”
Nate nodded. There was no visible sign of anything unusual. No glow. No shimmer.
And yet—
The air felt… strained. As though something unseen pressed against it from the other side.
“Set it down,” Nate called.
One by one, the teams lowered the three massive segments onto the damp ground with heavy, metallic thuds. Several of the group staggered back, flexing aching hands.
From further behind, the rest of the expedition approached—men and women in heavy coats, carrying crates of instruments. Among them was Andrea Meaner.
Nate noticed her immediately, though he did not turn.
She moved with purpose, her nurse’s satchel slung over one shoulder, her expression as composed and cool as ever. Where others showed fatigue, she showed control.
She always did.
“Try not to collapse before the important part, Doctor Chase,” she called dryly as she drew nearer.
Nate exhaled through his nose. “I’ll do my best to disappoint you, Nurse Meaner.”
“Your consistency in that regard is admirable.”
Alexandros smirked. “Ah. The ice between you remains unbroken.”
Nate ignored him.
The assembly took the better part of an hour.
The three curved segments were dragged, levered, and coaxed into position, their edges aligning with painstaking precision. Bolts were driven home. Brackets tightened. The structure rose slowly—an immense ring of brass and darkened, aged ebony, nearly twelve feet high, standing upright against the bleak Scottish sky.
As the final fastening clicked into place, a hush fell over the group.
Even the wind seemed to ease.
Nate stepped back, wiping sweat and rain from his brow. “Power connections,” he said.
A pair of engineers hurried forward, attaching cables from a compact generator unit. The device itself—though elegant—was clearly experimental. Coils ran along the inner circumference. Small lenses and crystalline nodes were set at intervals, each one angled with deliberate care.
Andrea stood off to one side, arms folded, watching.
“You’re certain this won’t… explode?” she asked.
Nate glanced at her. “Not entirely.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Reassuring.”
“But I’m confident it won’t,” he added.
“That is marginally better.”
There was a pause.
Then, more quietly: “You should stand further back.”
Her gaze held his for a moment—cool, appraising.
“I’ll decide my own distance, Doctor.”
Of course you will, Nate thought.
“All right,” he called, turning to the group. “This is it.”
The Hermes Society—doctors, scientists, scholars—gathered in a loose semicircle around the ring. Faces drawn with exhaustion, lit with anticipation.
Years of research had led to this moment.
Nate moved to the control panel—a compact arrangement of switches and dials mounted at the base of the structure. His hands hovered for just a second.
Then he threw the first switch.
The generator coughed to life.
A low hum spread through the ring, deep and resonant. The coils along its inner edge began to glow faintly—first a dull amber, then brighter, threading with pale blue light.
“Voltage holding,” one of the engineers murmured.
“Stabilise the phase alignment,” Alexandros added, already adjusting a dial.
Nate flipped the second switch.
The hum deepened.
The air inside the ring shimmered—not with light, but with distortion. Like heat haze… but colder. Wrong.
Someone gasped.
“Do you see—?”
“Yes—there—!”
Nate leaned forward, heart hammering.
At first, there was nothing.
Then—
A shape.
Faint. Impossible.
A vertical plane, like a tear in reality itself, hovering just beyond the ring’s frame. It flickered, slipping in and out of perception—visible only when viewed through the aligned lenses of the device.
“Move it,” Nate said suddenly.
“What?” Alexandros asked.
“The ring—it’s not centred. The gate’s offset!”
Understanding flashed across several faces at once.
“Lift!” Nate shouted.
Groans of protest—but no hesitation.
Hands returned to the cold metal. Muscles strained anew as they shifted the enormous ring a few feet to the left.
“Stop—there!” Nate called.
The moment the ring settled—
The shimmer snapped into clarity.
A perfect oval of impossible depth hung in the air, framed exactly within the circle of the device. Its surface rippled like liquid glass, reflecting nothing of the world around it.
Beyond it—
Something else.
Colours that did not belong to Scotland. Shapes that did not belong to this world.
A collective silence fell.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Even Andrea, ever composed, had taken a step forward, her eyes wide despite herself.
“My God…” someone whispered.
Alexandros removed his glasses, as though doubting them. “It is real.”
Nate felt it then—not triumph, not yet.
Something deeper.
A door.
Not metaphorical. Not theoretical.
A door.
He glanced sideways.
Andrea stood close now, nearer than she had been before. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer than he had ever heard it.
“You were right.”
Nate looked at her, surprised.
She met his gaze, something warmer flickering beneath the usual reserve.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she added quickly.
He smiled, just slightly.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Behind them, the Hermes Society stood on the edge of infinity.
And for the first time, the world felt… larger than history.
It felt endless.
Dr. Nathaniel Chase leaned into it, boots slipping slightly on the wet, uneven ground. “Steady—steady, man,” he called over his shoulder, though his own breath came in visible bursts. His gloved hands were wrapped around one edge of the curved wooden segment he and two others were hauling.
“It is not steady, my friend,” came the strained reply beside him. Dr. Alexandros Petrou—broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, and perpetually unimpressed by British weather—grunted as he adjusted his grip. “It is madness. Scientific, yes—but still madness.”
“Then we’re in excellent company,” Nate said, managing a brief smile.
Behind them, another pair struggled with the second segment of the ring, while a third team laboured further upslope with the final piece. The terrain was brutal—rocky, bog-soft in places, and cut through with low heather that snagged boots and trousers alike.
They had been at it for hours.
Above them, the sky hung low and grey, pressing down on the island like a lid. Somewhere beyond the ridge ahead lay the site—the place The Hermes Society believed would reveal one of the mysterious Nexus Gates described in obscure notes tied to ancient Egyptian rituals.
If those notes were right.
If the device worked.
If they had not dragged half a ton of precision-engineered brass and wood across a forsaken Scottish island for nothing.
“Why here?” Alexandros muttered. “Of all places in the world—why must the doorway to infinity be in a place that smells of wet sheep?”
“Because,” Nate replied, shifting the weight as his arms trembled, “no one else thought to look.”
They crested the ridge just as the wind dropped slightly, as though the land itself were holding its breath.
The site lay in a shallow hollow beyond—a natural bowl of dark stone, scattered with ancient, weather-worn standing rocks. Some leaned at odd angles, others lay half-buried, as if pushed down by centuries of storms.
Nate stopped.
Not from exhaustion—though he had plenty of that—but from something else.
Recognition.
“This is it,” he said quietly.
Alexandros glanced around, eyes narrowing. “You feel it too.”
Nate nodded. There was no visible sign of anything unusual. No glow. No shimmer.
And yet—
The air felt… strained. As though something unseen pressed against it from the other side.
“Set it down,” Nate called.
One by one, the teams lowered the three massive segments onto the damp ground with heavy, metallic thuds. Several of the group staggered back, flexing aching hands.
From further behind, the rest of the expedition approached—men and women in heavy coats, carrying crates of instruments. Among them was Andrea Meaner.
Nate noticed her immediately, though he did not turn.
She moved with purpose, her nurse’s satchel slung over one shoulder, her expression as composed and cool as ever. Where others showed fatigue, she showed control.
She always did.
“Try not to collapse before the important part, Doctor Chase,” she called dryly as she drew nearer.
Nate exhaled through his nose. “I’ll do my best to disappoint you, Nurse Meaner.”
“Your consistency in that regard is admirable.”
Alexandros smirked. “Ah. The ice between you remains unbroken.”
Nate ignored him.
The assembly took the better part of an hour.
The three curved segments were dragged, levered, and coaxed into position, their edges aligning with painstaking precision. Bolts were driven home. Brackets tightened. The structure rose slowly—an immense ring of brass and darkened, aged ebony, nearly twelve feet high, standing upright against the bleak Scottish sky.
As the final fastening clicked into place, a hush fell over the group.
Even the wind seemed to ease.
Nate stepped back, wiping sweat and rain from his brow. “Power connections,” he said.
A pair of engineers hurried forward, attaching cables from a compact generator unit. The device itself—though elegant—was clearly experimental. Coils ran along the inner circumference. Small lenses and crystalline nodes were set at intervals, each one angled with deliberate care.
Andrea stood off to one side, arms folded, watching.
“You’re certain this won’t… explode?” she asked.
Nate glanced at her. “Not entirely.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Reassuring.”
“But I’m confident it won’t,” he added.
“That is marginally better.”
There was a pause.
Then, more quietly: “You should stand further back.”
Her gaze held his for a moment—cool, appraising.
“I’ll decide my own distance, Doctor.”
Of course you will, Nate thought.
“All right,” he called, turning to the group. “This is it.”
The Hermes Society—doctors, scientists, scholars—gathered in a loose semicircle around the ring. Faces drawn with exhaustion, lit with anticipation.
Years of research had led to this moment.
Nate moved to the control panel—a compact arrangement of switches and dials mounted at the base of the structure. His hands hovered for just a second.
Then he threw the first switch.
The generator coughed to life.
A low hum spread through the ring, deep and resonant. The coils along its inner edge began to glow faintly—first a dull amber, then brighter, threading with pale blue light.
“Voltage holding,” one of the engineers murmured.
“Stabilise the phase alignment,” Alexandros added, already adjusting a dial.
Nate flipped the second switch.
The hum deepened.
The air inside the ring shimmered—not with light, but with distortion. Like heat haze… but colder. Wrong.
Someone gasped.
“Do you see—?”
“Yes—there—!”
Nate leaned forward, heart hammering.
At first, there was nothing.
Then—
A shape.
Faint. Impossible.
A vertical plane, like a tear in reality itself, hovering just beyond the ring’s frame. It flickered, slipping in and out of perception—visible only when viewed through the aligned lenses of the device.
“Move it,” Nate said suddenly.
“What?” Alexandros asked.
“The ring—it’s not centred. The gate’s offset!”
Understanding flashed across several faces at once.
“Lift!” Nate shouted.
Groans of protest—but no hesitation.
Hands returned to the cold metal. Muscles strained anew as they shifted the enormous ring a few feet to the left.
“Stop—there!” Nate called.
The moment the ring settled—
The shimmer snapped into clarity.
A perfect oval of impossible depth hung in the air, framed exactly within the circle of the device. Its surface rippled like liquid glass, reflecting nothing of the world around it.
Beyond it—
Something else.
Colours that did not belong to Scotland. Shapes that did not belong to this world.
A collective silence fell.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Even Andrea, ever composed, had taken a step forward, her eyes wide despite herself.
“My God…” someone whispered.
Alexandros removed his glasses, as though doubting them. “It is real.”
Nate felt it then—not triumph, not yet.
Something deeper.
A door.
Not metaphorical. Not theoretical.
A door.
He glanced sideways.
Andrea stood close now, nearer than she had been before. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer than he had ever heard it.
“You were right.”
Nate looked at her, surprised.
She met his gaze, something warmer flickering beneath the usual reserve.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she added quickly.
He smiled, just slightly.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Behind them, the Hermes Society stood on the edge of infinity.
And for the first time, the world felt… larger than history.
It felt endless.
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- Magi
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Re: The Hermes Society
Field Journal of Dr. Nathaniel Chase
The Hermes Society Expedition
28th October, 1926
We crossed today.
There is no elegant way to describe the sensation. It is neither stepping nor falling, neither passing through air nor water. One simply ceases to be in one place and finds oneself in another.
The jungle received us immediately.
Dense—oppressively so. The air is thick with moisture and life, every breath warm and heavy. Towering trees blot out much of the sky, their canopies layered like vaulted ceilings in some vast, living cathedral. The ground is a chaos of roots, ferns, and loam that seems to breathe beneath one’s boots.
No signs of humanity.
No roads, no tools, no structures.
And yet—this place does not feel untouched. Not entirely.
We established a provisional camp within sight of the Gate. The device continues to function, though its stability fluctuates slightly on this side. Alexandros assures me it is within tolerances. I trust him, though I do not entirely trust this world.
Andrea remained composed throughout the crossing. She said very little, but I noticed her hand lingered briefly against the ring before stepping through—as though committing the moment to memory.
I did the same.
30th October, 1926
We have begun our initial surveys.
The biodiversity here is… staggering.
Several plant specimens collected today exhibit properties that, if confirmed, could redefine our understanding of medicine. One vine secretes a clear sap that appears to act as a potent antiseptic. Another broad-leafed plant, when crushed, produces a vapour that eases bronchial constriction almost immediately.
Andrea has been tireless in assisting with cataloguing and preparation. She has a steadiness that grounds the rest of us—particularly the younger members, who are already overwhelmed by the scale of discovery.
We are not alone in our excitement.
Dr. Edmund Dash arrived through the Gate this morning.
Late, of course.
And already speaking as though the expedition were his.
1st November, 1926
We found it.
Roughly half a mile from camp, partially reclaimed by the jungle, lies what can only be described as the remnants of a settlement.
Not native.
The construction is crude but deliberate—wooden frames long since rotted, stones arranged in patterns that suggest shelter walls, fire pits, and storage areas. Tools—or what remains of them—are unlike anything produced in recent centuries.
Corroded metal. Strange alloys.
Alexandros believes they may predate modern metallurgy as we understand it—or come from a parallel development entirely.
Which raises the obvious conclusion:
We are not the first to find this place.
Whoever came before us did not stay—or could not.
There are no bones.
No graves.
Only absence.
Andrea stood beside me as we surveyed the site. “Do you think they made it back?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
She didn’t press further.
3rd November, 1926
Tensions are beginning to show.
Dash has taken it upon himself to “organise” the expedition.
By which he means issuing directives to those he deems beneath him.
This includes nearly everyone.
His treatment of the junior staff is… unacceptable. He speaks to them as though they are instruments rather than colleagues. Today I observed him dismiss one of the assistants outright for mishandling a specimen—no injury, no loss of data—just wounded pride.
Andrea has borne the brunt of it as well.
He corrected her in front of others this afternoon—incorrectly, I might add—and did so with a tone I found difficult to tolerate.
She said nothing at the time.
That concerned me more than if she had argued.
5th November, 1926
Andrea sought me out this evening.
Not in the usual professional capacity.
She found me at the edge of camp, where the jungle thins slightly near a rocky outcrop. The light was fading, and the air carried the distant sound of water—something we have yet to fully investigate.
“He’s making it intolerable,” she said without preamble.
I did not need to ask who.
“I know,” I replied.
“He treats us as though we are… expendable. Decorative, even.” There was anger there, tightly controlled. “And no one challenges him.”
“I will,” I said.
She looked at me then—really looked.
“You already have,” she said quietly. “That’s the problem.”
I hadn’t realised.
Or perhaps I had, and chose not to dwell on it.
We stood there for a while, the jungle alive around us, neither speaking.
The frost between us—so long in place—felt thinner.
7th November, 1926
We followed the sound of water today.
It led us to a natural basin carved into dark stone, where geothermal heat feeds a series of clear, steaming pools. A hot spring—utterly pristine.
The water is rich with dissolved minerals. Early tests suggest therapeutic properties—muscle relaxation, improved circulation, possibly even antimicrobial effects depending on composition.
But beyond the science—
It is… beautiful.
Hidden. Quiet. A place untouched even within this untouched world.
Andrea stayed behind when the others returned to camp.
I found her there at dusk.
“You should be resting,” I said.
“So should you,” she replied.
Fair.
The steam curled around her, softening the sharpness she so often wears like armour.
“You don’t have to endure him,” I said after a moment.
“I know,” she said. “But I won’t be driven out either.”
“I wouldn’t let that happen.”
She smiled—just slightly.
“I’m beginning to believe that.”
There was a pause.
Then, almost casually: “You should come in. The water helps with the strain.”
I hesitated.
Only briefly.
Later
I am not certain how to write this with the same detachment I have tried to maintain.
Perhaps I cannot.
The water was warm—almost impossibly so after the damp chill of the jungle air. The tension I had been carrying for days, weeks perhaps, seemed to dissolve the moment I stepped in.
Andrea was already there, leaning back against the smooth stone, her usual composure softened by the heat and the quiet.
We spoke at first.
About the expedition. About Dash. About the absurdity of standing in another world arguing over professional hierarchies.
And then—
Less about those things.
More about ourselves.
About why we joined the Society. What we hoped to find.
What we feared we might.
At some point, the distance between us ceased to exist.
Not abruptly.
Not dramatically.
Just… gone.
When she reached for me, it felt less like a beginning and more like something long delayed finally allowed to happen.
The jungle continued its endless chorus around us.
The steam rose.
And for the first time since stepping through the Gate, I felt something other than awe or unease.
I felt… anchored.
10th November, 1926
Work continues.
Discoveries mount daily—plants, compounds, possibilities that could change medicine across worlds.
Dash has already begun drafting reports in his own name.
I will address that soon.
But not today.
Today, Andrea passed me a sample vial without a word, our hands brushing briefly.
A small thing.
But no longer a cold one.
And in a world beyond history, that feels like progress of a different kind.
The Hermes Society Expedition
28th October, 1926
We crossed today.
There is no elegant way to describe the sensation. It is neither stepping nor falling, neither passing through air nor water. One simply ceases to be in one place and finds oneself in another.
The jungle received us immediately.
Dense—oppressively so. The air is thick with moisture and life, every breath warm and heavy. Towering trees blot out much of the sky, their canopies layered like vaulted ceilings in some vast, living cathedral. The ground is a chaos of roots, ferns, and loam that seems to breathe beneath one’s boots.
No signs of humanity.
No roads, no tools, no structures.
And yet—this place does not feel untouched. Not entirely.
We established a provisional camp within sight of the Gate. The device continues to function, though its stability fluctuates slightly on this side. Alexandros assures me it is within tolerances. I trust him, though I do not entirely trust this world.
Andrea remained composed throughout the crossing. She said very little, but I noticed her hand lingered briefly against the ring before stepping through—as though committing the moment to memory.
I did the same.
30th October, 1926
We have begun our initial surveys.
The biodiversity here is… staggering.
Several plant specimens collected today exhibit properties that, if confirmed, could redefine our understanding of medicine. One vine secretes a clear sap that appears to act as a potent antiseptic. Another broad-leafed plant, when crushed, produces a vapour that eases bronchial constriction almost immediately.
Andrea has been tireless in assisting with cataloguing and preparation. She has a steadiness that grounds the rest of us—particularly the younger members, who are already overwhelmed by the scale of discovery.
We are not alone in our excitement.
Dr. Edmund Dash arrived through the Gate this morning.
Late, of course.
And already speaking as though the expedition were his.
1st November, 1926
We found it.
Roughly half a mile from camp, partially reclaimed by the jungle, lies what can only be described as the remnants of a settlement.
Not native.
The construction is crude but deliberate—wooden frames long since rotted, stones arranged in patterns that suggest shelter walls, fire pits, and storage areas. Tools—or what remains of them—are unlike anything produced in recent centuries.
Corroded metal. Strange alloys.
Alexandros believes they may predate modern metallurgy as we understand it—or come from a parallel development entirely.
Which raises the obvious conclusion:
We are not the first to find this place.
Whoever came before us did not stay—or could not.
There are no bones.
No graves.
Only absence.
Andrea stood beside me as we surveyed the site. “Do you think they made it back?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
She didn’t press further.
3rd November, 1926
Tensions are beginning to show.
Dash has taken it upon himself to “organise” the expedition.
By which he means issuing directives to those he deems beneath him.
This includes nearly everyone.
His treatment of the junior staff is… unacceptable. He speaks to them as though they are instruments rather than colleagues. Today I observed him dismiss one of the assistants outright for mishandling a specimen—no injury, no loss of data—just wounded pride.
Andrea has borne the brunt of it as well.
He corrected her in front of others this afternoon—incorrectly, I might add—and did so with a tone I found difficult to tolerate.
She said nothing at the time.
That concerned me more than if she had argued.
5th November, 1926
Andrea sought me out this evening.
Not in the usual professional capacity.
She found me at the edge of camp, where the jungle thins slightly near a rocky outcrop. The light was fading, and the air carried the distant sound of water—something we have yet to fully investigate.
“He’s making it intolerable,” she said without preamble.
I did not need to ask who.
“I know,” I replied.
“He treats us as though we are… expendable. Decorative, even.” There was anger there, tightly controlled. “And no one challenges him.”
“I will,” I said.
She looked at me then—really looked.
“You already have,” she said quietly. “That’s the problem.”
I hadn’t realised.
Or perhaps I had, and chose not to dwell on it.
We stood there for a while, the jungle alive around us, neither speaking.
The frost between us—so long in place—felt thinner.
7th November, 1926
We followed the sound of water today.
It led us to a natural basin carved into dark stone, where geothermal heat feeds a series of clear, steaming pools. A hot spring—utterly pristine.
The water is rich with dissolved minerals. Early tests suggest therapeutic properties—muscle relaxation, improved circulation, possibly even antimicrobial effects depending on composition.
But beyond the science—
It is… beautiful.
Hidden. Quiet. A place untouched even within this untouched world.
Andrea stayed behind when the others returned to camp.
I found her there at dusk.
“You should be resting,” I said.
“So should you,” she replied.
Fair.
The steam curled around her, softening the sharpness she so often wears like armour.
“You don’t have to endure him,” I said after a moment.
“I know,” she said. “But I won’t be driven out either.”
“I wouldn’t let that happen.”
She smiled—just slightly.
“I’m beginning to believe that.”
There was a pause.
Then, almost casually: “You should come in. The water helps with the strain.”
I hesitated.
Only briefly.
Later
I am not certain how to write this with the same detachment I have tried to maintain.
Perhaps I cannot.
The water was warm—almost impossibly so after the damp chill of the jungle air. The tension I had been carrying for days, weeks perhaps, seemed to dissolve the moment I stepped in.
Andrea was already there, leaning back against the smooth stone, her usual composure softened by the heat and the quiet.
We spoke at first.
About the expedition. About Dash. About the absurdity of standing in another world arguing over professional hierarchies.
And then—
Less about those things.
More about ourselves.
About why we joined the Society. What we hoped to find.
What we feared we might.
At some point, the distance between us ceased to exist.
Not abruptly.
Not dramatically.
Just… gone.
When she reached for me, it felt less like a beginning and more like something long delayed finally allowed to happen.
The jungle continued its endless chorus around us.
The steam rose.
And for the first time since stepping through the Gate, I felt something other than awe or unease.
I felt… anchored.
10th November, 1926
Work continues.
Discoveries mount daily—plants, compounds, possibilities that could change medicine across worlds.
Dash has already begun drafting reports in his own name.
I will address that soon.
But not today.
Today, Andrea passed me a sample vial without a word, our hands brushing briefly.
A small thing.
But no longer a cold one.
And in a world beyond history, that feels like progress of a different kind.