A/N: I own no one from the Patriot. Also, this is NOT a story about Harriet Tubman in any way, in case someone wants to get me for portraying a story about a real person.

Eee! Nat's alarm broke the din of her darkened room.

"What the..." she groaned, blinking a sleep-filled eye at the small red desk-clock, "It's five thirty! And Saturday!"

With a lazy slap, she silenced the alarm and turned over to go back to bed when she heard a crashing ruckus coming from outside her bedroom door, followed by a series of frantic barks and a yell.

"Good, Mo got 'em then," she muttered, getting out of bed and started toward her door, and grabbed a can of pepperspray along the way.

There had been a series of break-ins near her apartment and the thugs appeared to be growing bolder.

Nat paused, listening behind her bedroom door, snickering when she heard a string of curse words, followed by a kick and the yelp of her beagle mix. In frustration, she thrust open the door and yelled, "What the hell do ya think you're doing?! That's my dog!"

Before her stood a man, unusually dressed in a certain uniform, of red and green. He kept his hair long but pulled back. The man unquestionably stood out; he was dressed for cold weather and it was clearly summer outside.

"Contain that creature, will you?" he asked rudely.

"The fuck are you?!" Nat blurted, taken aback by his strong accent.

The man's eyes narrowed and he stepped forward; Nat's hands faltered and she failed to release the pepperspray.

"That is no way for a lady to speak," he said smoothly.

Nat raised a brow, tucking a strand of two-tone, chestnut and blonde hair behind a very pierced ear.

"Oooo-kay... if you're looking for the freak show, you've reached the wrong address."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The psych ward, then?" Nat offered.

The man gave her a piercing stare, making her feel as if she was the crazy one of the two of them.

"Who are you?" she finally asked.

"I should ask you the same," he replied smartly.

"Nat," she said in a flat voice.

"Nat," he mused, "like a boy or a bug?"

"Forget it!" she snapped. "You can leave!"

"And where would I go?" he asked, giving her dog a look of disgust as the animal walked up and nudged him.

"What do you mean? Are you really that stupid?" Nat demanded, visibly irritated.

"Perhaps I have failed to explain myself; I am Colonel William Tavington-"

"And I'm Harriet Tubman!" Nat cut in.

"Who is she?"

The woman laughed.

"I can't believe this! You really are a nut job!"

"No; last I checked, I was sober." Tavington answered, his ire beginning to show.

"No opiates?"

"Not since last week. Christ, will you just let me through?"

"Not until I figure out how you got separated from the circus and got into my apartment!"

"Well I didn't ask to be here!" Tavington shot.

"Of course! It was a simple magic...trick."

Nat's mind raced, the events of the previous night flooding her mind. She had been out and had a couple of drinks. Not enough to make her drunk but enough to get her tipsy. On the way home, she happened upon a haggard, homeless man with long, stringy grey hair. He heckled her for a couple of blocks, claiming that he could bring someone, anyone she desired, back from the past. Afraid that he would not leave her alone, she paid a small fee and told him to bring back whomever he pleased. He took the money with a particularly greedy smile and began to recite an incantation, jerking his arms about in a fit. Once finished, he told her to leave and wait until the morning.

"Holy shit, that ratter was't kidding," she spoke to herself.

"What ratter?" Tavington asked, still disgusted by her profanity.

"Never mind. You need clothes."