oh wow look who started another fic

okay, this story likely won't get updated frequently until I finish my Hunger Games au fic (because im finishing that goddamn story) but this idea has literally been with me for years and I needed to at least start it. The concept's a little bit weird but stick with me.

The Butterfly Effect

"We should head back… It's too dangerous."

"You're gonna stop now? When we're this close!"

"We can come back when we're more prepared, I just think one of us is going to get hurt if we go further. Come on."

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Birds Twittered outside the window and sun streamed in through the slit in the curtain as Hershel's eyes hazily opened, it was a peaceful and calm way to wake up, with no alarm clock or grumpy children in sight. This was the first sign that something was wrong.

Hershel was confused by the near silence, he looked round the room as he sat up. Quaint furniture, a desk in the corner, tons of books stacked against the wall. It seemed like a nice room.

But this wasn't his room.

He squinted and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, giving himself a second to readjust just in case he was still dreaming. But when he opened his eyes again, he was still in the same place.

Hershel stood up, on edge and considering which item was best to use as a makeshift sword. His fear that foe he'd left in his past would jump out and greet him was overwhelming, but minutes passed and there wasn't mask nor moustache to be seen.

Okay Hershel. You're alone in an unfamiliar place, this is fine.

In an attempt to rule out some possibilities, he made a quick check for any injuries he might have taken that would affect his memory. While looking down he realised that he was wearing his own night clothes. So at the very least it seemed as if he had intended to sleep there. He thought back, desperately trying to remember the last thing he was doing before waking.

His most recent memory was from the night before. He'd finished filing cases about a robbery on the Thames, made a pot of tea and had just said goodnight to Flora and Alfendi, then headed to bed. In his own house. His instincts told him to panic about the children's whereabouts first, but he knew that getting worried would limit his ability to solve the problem. They were both smart, they could take care of themselves. And if he was missing, they'd let someone know.

He looked round the room again, searching for any clues as to where he was. Books on the shelf were about History, with a large encyclopaedia and a handful of murder mystery novels. He walked over to inspect closer. The desk had pieces of academic writing. One was an essay about the Battle of Hastings, it didn't seem to be named. He turned round and pulled the curtains open, he was met with the view of a lush green garden.

Definitely not in London, that was for certain.

Following where the light from the window was shining, he noticed some photographs on the wall and hurried over to them, pleased to see he recognised the images. One of his parents Lucille and Roland on a picnic, one of Hershel and his school friends having a sleepover. He felt a rush of relief, at least this home seemed to belong to someone familiar. He scratched the possibility of this being a danger, it was unlikely that someone with ill will against him would be able to find those pictures.

Maybe I'm just forgetting something he thought to himself Let's piece this together. Someone you know, out in the country, who you trust enough to sleep here.

Annoyingly, there were a few possibilities but he didn't recognise the house as any of theirs.

He did one more take of the room but could gather no more information from the house's obvious furnishings, though he admired the decorative choices of the owner. He noticed a set of drawers and hesitantly opened the top one, reprimanding himself for snooping in someone else's belonging but justifying that he needed more evidence. There were no clear indications of the owner's identity within, but there was a neatly folded pile of shirts. And in the other drawer, similarly folded trousers.

He closed both drawers and continued through the house gently, looking out for anyone else that lived there The hallway seemed empty, and similarly designed as the bedroom. He passed a mirror and jumped back.

His reflection was alarming, if simply because the hair on his head was nothing like his usual style. A thick, curly afro stuck up in all directions. He studied his face carefully, happy to see he was definitely still his own age.

An odd first thought to have, but when you've seen people travel to the future you start to become wary of these things. No solution is too outlandish.

Yet there was no explanation as to why the hairstyle he hadn't donned in over two decades was back. He tried to tie it back but had no use, he was starting to remember why he'd got rid of it. He wasn't happy but it wasn't his main priority, there were more important things to focus on. Though saying that, Hershel's next thought was wondering where his Top hat was.

Trying to ignore the strangeness of the hair, and becoming increasingly concerned with the current situation, Hershel walked to the kitchen and threw the curtains open, hoping to get a better view of the area. He felt a wash of memories as he saw where he was.

He could see a small street, and other little houses facing his. A small stream ran down the side of the pavement. The house was on a small hill, and in the distance Hershel could barely make out a school he was all too familiar with.

He was in Stansbury. A place he hadn't been to since his Teenage years. The place he'd abandoned when he left to study.

But stranger than that, was the many people he saw. Parents pushing prams, children playing, an elderly couple on a walk. As Hershel had known it, Stansbury had become a ghost town after he'd left. The constant Archaeological digs and prying Journalists looking for information about the incident in the ruins had turned most people away, and eventually businesses began to close. By the time he left Gressenheller the town was regarded as abandoned. But today the street was charmingly busy. Perhaps they'd made efforts in rebuilding it, though that normal occurence wouldn't explain the hair or why he washere in town.

He called out into the house in a last attempt, but there was no response, he seemed to be the only one in there. Searching the house seemed like a dead end, and he needed answers. It was time for a different approach.

He went to open the door to head out and try to get a better sense of what was happening, perhaps see if anyone he knew was in town, but caught sight of his pyjama clad arm as he began to lift it.. He walked back to the bedroom.

Pulling open the drawers, he weighed up the possibilities in his head. On one hand, it was rude to take and wear someone's clothes. On the other hand, there was a mystery here that needed to be solved and he wasn't prepared to do it in pyjamas if there was an alternative option. He pulled out a jumper and slacks that were similar enough to his usual wardrobe, thankful that they seemed to fit. He shut the drawers and tried to set the room up as it was when he awoke. Back in the hallway, the shoes by the door also fit his spectacularly well. He took note of the odd coincidence, but tried not to jump to any conclusions without finding out more.

He took the keys off the hook by the door and unlocked it, assuming that whoever owned this house probably had their own set. He disliked the idea of heading out without his hat and bag, but it wasn't as if anybody there would know anything was different. He took one step outside, feeling a sense of nostalgia and dread. He'd never planned to come back to Stansbury, but surely a day trip couldn't hurt.

Time to get to the bottom of this. He thought ...Then cut my hair.

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Confused? Don't worry, there's an explanation for all of this I promise, please let me know if you're interested in where this story's going. (Clue's in the title, if you wanna try and guess whats happening!)

(This is technically set post Lost Future, pre Mystery Journey... but not quite. You'll see what I mean.)