Morning (Zoe)
The hammering of his blood inside his veins woke him. With one hand, he shielded his eyes from the streaming light on his face; with the other, he reached for the bottle that was always present at his side. After a few painshot moments of aimlessly floundering for said bottle, he cracked an eye open.
Then he dropped his hand.
The next move was a mistake, though; standing up so quickly with a raging hangover he'd been building for months meant that he immediately sat back down again. Where was he? Too much absinthe? But he'd never actually hallucinated on the stuff before...
It was morning. He was in a city. But it wasn't Montmartre, and it wasn't even Paris. The buildings were wrong -- the streets were wrong. He sat up straighter on what appeared to be a bench plastered with advertisements that didn't need glue....
Back in 1894, there had been a race with the newest, most modern invention; the streetcar. He'd even seen one before. But the streetcars here were wrong. Christian, bleary-eyed and suffering, straightened his rumpled suit jacket and ran a shaking hand through unkempt hair. How long had it been since he'd shaved? He stood - far more carefully now - and tried to decide what to do.