Most people like to act that history happened in the past and that it has no importance to them. I laugh, how very foolish. They act as though they aren't actually shaping the history they're living in. Idiots.

But if I were to stick around and name everything wrong with how young people look at history we'd be here all day. Personally, I love history, but that's because I'm biased. My dad is a historian, but not just any historian. He is a part of the elite class of historians known as the Chroniclers. They don't just document history by research and statistics, they actually go back to the time when these events happened. They can go back in time because, well, they're time travelers.

Now, I know what you're probably thinking. Isn't time travel impossible? Well I'll tell you this: Not much is impossible in the year 2058, which is when I'm from by the way, just in case you were wondering.

Just another day for me involved waking up in my room to a beautiful view of Los Angeles' crystal blue skies and the occasional delivery drones whizzing by, and then if my dad wasn't already at work, he'd bring me to work with him. It was the ultimate bring your daughter to work day, at least in my opinion. Today was just another one of those days.

"Charlie I hope you're up! I need you to help today!" I sat up in my bed at the sound of my dad's voice. Usually he brings me along just as a special treat, but when he brought me for actual useful purposes I felt even more thrilled. I grabbed my scrunchies from my nightstand and shoved my thick mass of black coils of hair into a haphazard ponytail.

Rushing downstairs my dad was tapping his foot. He's one of those guys who's always rushing, which I find odd considering he has a time machine and can go and spend as much of it as he likes, but it's never enough for him.

"Thank you for finally arriving," my dad sighed. I ignored the sarcastic tone, he was being difficult because he was anxious about something. I wondered what it was.

"What is it, Dad?" I asked looking around to the clothing on the couch trying to get clues as to when and where we were going. He scratched the back of his hand where the intricate clock tattoo symbolizing his status as a Chronicler sat in black ink. I hoped that one day I'd get to wear that very same tattoo and be one of the twenty-four Chroniclers of Time.

"I have a job. We need to go back to Vendeé, France 1794."

"Uh-oh, The French Revolution. What's the job?" I shuddered at the thoughts of probably the most traumatizing revolution my dad had taken me to. I remembered when we were there in September of 1792. We had been looking for the Princesse de Lamballe, a loyal friend of the queen Marie Antoinette. My dad and I were just supposed to have sat for her tribunal where she declared loyalty to her queen. The job had been to record the tribunal discreetly to keep it in the archives, at least that's what my dad told me.

However afterward we'd stuck around and... I shuddered at the memory of her screams as the mob reached her, the sounds of her absolute terror as the crowd literally tore her apart. I'd been mad at my dad as I later found out that the real reason we'd been there was to confirm the disputed way the princess had died. I didn't talk to him for days after, and I still had nightmares.

"There was a peasant's revolt back in 1794 in Vendeé if you remembered your studies," dad told me.

"There were a lot of revolts in 1794 in France, I'm sorry if I don't remember this massacre out of the countless others. I'm sorry Dad, but you know how I feel about the whole French Revolution. I'm not so sure if I should go." My dad shook his head and I could already feel the lecture.

"As a Chronicler, it's your duty to go and document the events of the past. Sometimes the most gruesome are the most important to log to ensure that the same thing doesn't happen. It's our job as historians to let the public know about the things forgotten by time. Because we should never ever forget. If you truly want to be a Chronicler you must embrace this fact." He handed me my outfit and I frowned, I couldn't complain about the dresses. The one good thing the French did in the revolution was the revolt against the corset in lieu of appropriate material and forsaking it for the empire silhouette gown instead.

"These are one of the danger zones for me though Dad," I reminded him. That's what  we called any era in the post-civil rights movement world.

I had skin that was velvety smooth and darker then ebony. In other words, I was very black. Normally I tried not to worry, because it actually worked out nine times out of ten, but there would always be risks. Like that one time we went to England in the 1770s and everyone assumed I was my dad's maid or something, and this one guy was trying to buy me from him. That was bad.

It was easy for him to time travel seeing as he was light skinned and had fair hair, along with robin's egg blue eyes. I looked absolutely nothing like him. He said I got my appearance from my mother, but that's all he said about her. I assumed she was dead, or ran off leaving me behind, but no amount of pestering made him reveal the truth or history about my mother, which I found ironic given the nature of his work.

"The people are going to be too busy focusing on whether they'll have enough food to eat or worried about keeping their heads to notice the color of your skin," my dad said giving me a look of reassurance.

"Alright, alright let's go then," I mumbled. The sooner we got out of that barbaric time, the better.

The trip to the Timekeepers Facility was a heavy briefing of what we were being assigned to do. Technically, technically I shouldn't have known the information since it was "confidential". And technically—technically I was too young to be accompanying my dad on missions since I was only just barely thirteen, and the ages the youngest a Chronicler can be is eighteen, but most people at the facility turned a blind eye.

"Please tell me if we're there to document a massacre again Dad. I don't think I can handle another Princesse de Lambelle," I looked at the things we had for our journey. My dad had his clothes packed, along with a holo-cam, a nano-microphone, and his old fashioned pen and paper journal. All the things he needed for accurately documenting a scene in time.

"We're going to be watching the actions of General Louis Marie Turreau as his organization of the Colonnes Infernales, a sanctioned military branch that was sent to put the revolts down." He handed me a tablet that showed the old antique pictures of woodcuts of the bloody dead and who I could only assume to be the General himself standing triumphant over it all.

"Well then, all this looks lovely," I said sarcastically, "Why do you need me?"

"The Vendeé Revolts happened over the course of a few years. Unlike most uprisings in Paris that were in full support of this new regime Vendee was estranged form the events of the Reign of Terror and therefore it wasn't afraid to be one of the rare counter-revolutionist insurrections. After four years of bothersome," he saw a notification pop up on dashboard a window of notifications for him to scroll through. I looked at the traffic ahead and saw that he'd have enough time to go through all of them. I crossed my fingers that the one from my school would be at the very bottom.

"Let me guess," I piped up trying to get his attention, "These attacks started off small-scale, then they became full on resistance, and there was an event that eventually stomped out this unappreciated resistance?"

"Yup." He replied mindlessly, too engrossed by the notifications to really pay attention. I suddenly wished this car wasn't self-driving and that my dad needed to use the steering wheel. If this was 2019 that most definitely would have been the case.

"Well, then since this is a big event you need someone to help cover as much ground as they can," I really hoped to make him look up before—

"Charlotte Abigail Lore, why are you failing most of your classes?" Too late. I hung my head in shame. My dad had called me Charlotte instead of Charlie. Usually I felt like decking anyone who called me my full name instead of my preferred nickname, but when my dad used it, I knew I was screwed.

"Because they suck," I peeped. He slid the notification onto the windshield and the glass went dark as it showed us the very pitiful grades from my report card:

==================================
Los Angeles Preparatory Secondary School
2nd Semester Report:
Lore, Charlotte
Homeroom: Ms. Aspen
Grade 7

Algebra I: F
English: D-
Earth Science: F
Foreign Language: C-
History and Geography: A+
Drama: A
Communications: B-

I sunk in my chair as I felt this wasn't going to go very well for me. Maybe the French Revolution wasn't so bad after all.

"How are you doing this poorly?" he asked in shock. I smiled sheepishly

"Did you notice my A in History and Geography?" I said, hoping for recognition.

"Charlie, if you had anything less then an A in History I would publicly disown you," his tone had no humor, so I didn't know whether he was joking or not, I doubted he was.

"I really do try Dad, but it's hard for me in math," I looked to him, "I've never seen you use math once!"

"This isn't about me. This is about you. If you really want to be a Chronicler like you say and dream you need to get into a good college," he sighed and tapped the windshield making the report card disappear to reveal we'd arrived to the towering building that was the Timekeeper Facility.

The imperial of blue-black glass towering over a hundred stories was a hub of archives and information. To me it very much felt like a second home. Spending so much of my childhood here, I had thought in my toddler mentality that I'd been born in the facility, but I knew this wasn't true, although my dad and I joked that I might as well have.

"I'm really sorry Dad," I mumbled as the car pulled up front. My dad input the instructions for it to park itself in the parking garage and he took me by the hand, not roughly, but squeezed my hand giving me a serious look. I didn't care if holding his hand made me look like a little kid, I was glad he wasn't mad at me.

"We'll think of something when we get home," he told me.

Walking into the lobby of the facility which was circular in shape, having a circular ring where the receptionist, Gideon was manning the station. He knew since forever, and I always got my Junior Chronicler badge from him. It wasn't a real badge, he had made it for me on my tenth birthday, and it was prized possession. My dad's badge gave him access to all floors, mine just gave access to the costume department, and unlimited snacks at the cafeteria. For me, that was more then enough. 

"Well if it isn't my favorite history traveling duo. Lore and Lore are on the case," Gideon greeted, "Where to if I may ask? Or do you have to shoot me if you tell me?" I slid up to his counter and high-fived him enthusiastically. Then I leaned in all secretive like in the spy movies I'd seen.

"That depends Gideon, can you keep a secret?" I was hoping to raise my eyebrow, but only succeeded in wiggling them.

"Oh of course, scout's honor," he vowed loyally.

"We've got some business in France, 1794 to be precise," I stuck out my hand and he handed me my badge all officious.

"Well good luck in France," he saluted, "Don't mention anything about eating cake though," I laughed it was historical jokes like that that really got to me. My sense of humor might've deteriorated thanks to my father.

"Thanks Gideon," I said hopping off the desk.

"Good luck Charlie. Oh, you too Flint," Gideon waved.

"Thanks for remembering me Gideon," my dad said pretending to be hurt.

Walking to the elevators my dad and I got to one and he hit the button for the fifth floor, the costume room, which was where we'd be going to change. I loved this floor as much as I loved the Terminal with all the time traveling platforms. Once we reached the floor the whole thing was laid out in front of my dad and I. Rows and racks of cloth, material, beads, threads, and  dresses stretched to the far, large windows that illuminated everything making all the fabrics vibrant and alive.

"No, no, no those are Rococo Period dresses, not Macaroni Period. I'm tell'n you Liz I don't want to be this gosh darn angry, but darl'n  you're testin' my patience." came the familiar voice of a distressed, southern belle. It was Clementine, and she was the head costume designer. From behind a rack of dresses and suits I saw as the petite peroxide blonde came in her elegant uniform of a white blouse, with a black vest, and gray pencil skirt click-clacked right past a designer running away with the wrong Rococo dress.

"Good morning Clementine," my dad greeted politely. Clementine turned to us with a beaming white smile.

"Flint! Charlie! Oh, my lovely travelers. Well ain't you two just a fine sight for me this mornin'? What can I do you for?" she ran her hand through my hair and smiled as she felt its coiling texture.

"We're just here to put on the outfits I borrowed from you last week. The job finally came up," my dad tried leading me to the dressing rooms on the far left side of the floor, but Clementine grabbed his arm.

"What mission was this?" She asked trying to remember. "This wouldn't have anything to do with those lil' counter-revolutionists in France a way back in 1794 would it?"

"That would be the one Clem," my dad said subtlety trying to get free.

"Well then, let me make sure you picked the right outfits, I know you, and I know your daughter Flint. You two have differing sentiments on the word fashion." Then like a sneaky beaver she reached into my dad's bag and pulled out the outfits that we were supposed to wear. A frown formed around her face.

"Flint darlin' we really do need to give you a fashion sit-down," Clementine said, shaking her head and tsking incessantly.

"Oh come on, I tried this time," my dad protested.

"You obviously didn't try hard enough," and with that she snatched the clothes from my dad and began to walk away searching down the racks. I bounded after while my dad let out a heavy sigh before silently ambling after us.

"Fashion." Clementine began, "Was always looked to express individuality through fabric and luxury. The finer the clothes the better standing your blood. Of course, durin' that icky revolution that said sumptuary had to be replaced with simplicity," she sighed as though she were breathing in history from the very fabric she touched as she went down the line of dresses. "Nobles knew they could lose their heads if they kept wearing them over the top garments so, they decided to look to their ancestors of Greek antiquity for fashion advice."

Stopping in front of a rack with similar white and skinny materials Clementine retrieved a dress that was a white, but instead of the flat white of my dad's choice there was an odd pearly hue to it it wasn't as pristine as my dad's but it was far more elegant.

"That's lovely," I murmured and Clementine smiled.

"Course it is darlin'. I designed it," she looked to the dress and then to me and then to my dad.

"It's looks no different from the one I picked," my dad mumbled behind me. Clementine shot him a look, but continued to talk like nothing was wrong.

"The empire silhouette, was inspired by our Greek forefathers, and from the women's chiton and peplos. This forms' bodice ends right below the bust with a cinch tie –as you can see mine is a lovely pale green— to hug and accentuate it," my dad sighed as Clementine winked at me and I laughed nervously. "This gives it a high-waisted appearance that was all the rage back then, believe me honey, it was. Besides all that, there are no more petticoats to fuss with, as the fabric gently skims your body all the way down your ankles giving you a taller appearance."

"And the lesson in all this is?" my dad asked waiting for a reason to stick around.

"Well Mr. Lore let me think... oh yeah! You chose an empire dress."

"I'm not following," my dad said blankly.

"In the 1790s the precursor to the famed early 1800s style of the empire silhouette was the round gown!"

"What can I say? Our fashions have always confused me," my dad said shrugging innocently, "We went from basic tunics and himations to over-the-top hoop skirts and tights, then women gave up the corset only to get them just in time for the Victorian Era. We never stick to a single style."

"Human tastes are mercurial," Clementine said setting both empire dresses on their hangers she led us down the rack, pulling out another dress, slightly fuller then an empire, but obscenely large it would need its own zip code like some dresses I've worn.

"Oh this is very lovely Clementine," I smiled as I took the dress from her and held it front of me.

"Go ahead, put it on. One of the girls will help you of course," I nodded and bounded off  looking for someone to help me.

"What would you ever do without me?" Clementine said shaking her head at my dad.

Half an hour later I was completely ready to begin time traveling. Clementine and a pair of her assistants assisted my in putting on my single and only petticoat needed for the dress, much to my relief, along with the dress itself. It was a dark rich brown in color, which made my skin actually look lighter for once. The fabric was glazed cotton, to imitate the unavailable silk of the time, and it had floral sprays of red and dull yellow all over in brilliantly threaded needlework. Along with accents of blue that Clementine said she hand-painted herself. My sleeves ended at my elbows, while my skirt was entirely smooth in front, with all the pleats in the back.

My hair was filleted with ribbons of dull yellow and arranged in a way so that my curls barely fell to the nape of my neck almost appearing like the ringlets that many of the ladies would be wearing then. I was thankful for my leather flat slippers since heels had been forsaken in the era, and I was still having a personal victory that'd I'd been able to avoid a corset.

Stepping out of my dressing room I looked at myself in a mirror and smiled. I looked nice, and felt pretty. All good signs that I was in character. My dad stepped out of his dressing room and I wolf whistled him to get his goat.

"Looking good Dad," I teased.

He had on his white powdered wig that made him seem much older then thirty-three, along with a red-patterned waistcoat covered by a gray coat that contrasted its dark gray collar that matched his black satin breeches that ended at his knees revealing wonderful white stockings and his shiny Hessian boots.

"Well I think I'm actually pulling off the wig look," my dad stood tall, proudly showing off which made me laugh.

"Keep telling yourself that," I laughed.

"Well folks, I think my work here is done," Clementine said proudly.

"Then I guess we should get going," my dad said looking to me.

Going back onto the elevator my dad pressed the button for sub-basement level 10, which meant it was below ground. The odd sensation filled my stomach as the elevator pitched downward. I counted in my head as the seconds passed, and then the elevator lurched, the doors opened, and there before us was the room of wonders.

A long stadium sized room went on and on. Inside it where twenty-four metal