Jack raised his eyebrows, impressed. Andromedan. Looked like his alternate self had had a hell of a good night before falling pregnant. Andromedans could control that shape shift down to the finest detail, and oh, damn, that was a good memory.
"51st century, Boeshane peninsula," he confirmed, knocking back the brandy in a single swallow and grimacing against the fire clearing through his synapses. "And fell to a Druid orgy at Stonehenge, Earth, early twentieth. Got careless."
Still coming to terms with immortality and being trapped on Earth after 35 years living linear, and high as a jet-powered kite on nitrous oxide.