"Cool. Come ride in the van," the man says, hoisting the entire heavy bundle over his shoulder effortlessly.

There is indeed a panel van parked on the sidewalk at the mouth of the alley. They open the back and throw the corpse in.

"Great; thanks."

He walks around the van and enters through the side, hoping there's somewhere to sit besides crouching next to a corpse.

"It looks like my bag has the same stuff I remember from before my memory discontinuity. What's the current date; is it still June 1?  And where are we right now?  Oh, nevermind, I can check my phone."

What date and time does his phone show? Does he have cell service?  Can Apple Maps get GPS?

He does not have cell service. There are WiFi networks in range, though.

There are a row of chairs and a layer of bars and bulletproof glass between them and the body.

"Uh. No, it's April 20th. 2024. San Francisco, California," Gene says as he get in the driver's seat.

"United States, Earth, Sol System, Milky Way, Reality."

"Also, I'm Sarah. Gene is driving."

Uh.  He stares at his phone, still showing June 1.  He checks his watch, with the same date.

"We're uh... call me Everett.  I have additional anomalous experiences to report.  Does your conspiracy also handle uh... time travel?  Is this a known effect of terrifying orange lizards, or other infohazards?  Last I knew, I was definitely in June 2024, in Berkeley.  My phone and watch still say June 1, although I don't seem to have cell service."

"No, I've never heard of that. Just dragons, werewolves, and vampires. We're in a state of cold war and if the muggles catch on it goes hot. That's the short version."

He fidgets with a black cylinder he takes from his pocket.

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply for a while.

"Okay.  I'm confused and disoriented about something.  Can I borrow your phone to call my wife?  I won't say anything about classified topics."

"Sure," she says after a minute, and hands it over.

He checks the memorized number against the one stored in his phone, then dials a 10-digit Utah area code number on Sarah's phone.  Does anyone answer?

"Hello?," says a female but completely unfamiliar voice.

"Sorry, I think this must be the wrong number."

He hands Sarah's phone back to her.

"So, where are we going right now exactly?"

"A garage where our family runs our patrols. We cover downtown. If we have to read someone in, they have to talk to our local branch and get them to sign on and know what they're responsible for. You... might be handled differently. Time travel or whatever might be a big deal."

He stares out the window.  He thinks.

Okay.  So we were in Berkeley.  Then we lost time, and we're in San Francisco, and dragons and vampires and werewolves are in a secret cold war.  And it doesn't seem to be going well, if dragons are running around loose in downtown SF.  And my emotional support human isn't at her phone number.  And it's April 20th, somehow.

He checks his bag further.

We're not missing cannabis, and my mind feels pretty clear, besides the shock.  Probably the date is a red herring, not *everything* is a sign.

"You think this 'whatever' might be relevant to the cold war?  That wouldn't be a great sign, for a situation that's already this precarious."

"The situation is basically under control. We're on call whenever there's a suspected clutch but that's not really that often, couple times a year, and the babies aren't signatories so we're allowed to kill them if they're threatening the masquerade because the signing dragons haven't kept them in line. We've been stalling for three centuries and the plan is one or two more, but an unprecedented phenomenon might mean we can knock em down early."

"How did you find out about this one? And, I guess, what would victory look like for you, what have you been stalling on?"

"We were backing the Manhattan Project."

"Oh."

He sits quietly and stares out the window, watching the city pass.

"Dragons get tougher with age. The young ones die to swords, the adults can probably match tank battalions, and the ancients cannot be harmed by any weapon ever made. Yet. And unfortunately the ancients are the ones who will never peacefully coexist with humanity or us."

"Also they do things like set up their junior cousins with fake clutches of hatchlings and then tipping us off. To justify killing them. Ancients are nasty selfish fuckers."

"That's terrifying."

Gene laughs. "Yeah. That just says you're thinking clearly."

"They're a bunch of Bronze Age god-kings who haven't noticed the world has changed around them and can't cooperate except at knifepoint. For good and bad."

"So if humans don't have any knife that can threaten the ancients, and the ancients will never coexist peacefully with humanity, what's maintaining the masquerade? What's the equilibrium here, what's maintaining the balance of power?"

"They take us - the semi-humans - somewhat seriously and they don't like having to hunt you in big numbers. We promised to keep them secret and not stop them hunting when they do."

"Grandpa said he had the idea the first time he saw a cannon smash a castle."