Elliot watched as Mirabel stood apart from the others, her eyes fixed on the horizon. The setting sun cast a golden glow over the plantation, but she didn't seem to notice. She was lost in thought, her expression unreadable.
"You miss home, don't you?" Elliot asked, stepping beside her.
Mirabel blinked, then let out a short breath. "I don't even know how I got here," she admitted. "So how would I know how to get back?" She looked down at her calloused hands, once soft and unmarked. "All I can do is adapt."
Days turned into weeks, and the cruelty of the colonial masters never ceased. Mirabel had seen oppression before—read about it in history books, watched it in films—but nothing could have prepared her for the sheer brutality she witnessed now. The people who had taken her in, who had fed and sheltered her despite her strangeness, were beaten, starved, and worked until their bodies collapsed. She watched as a woman was whipped for pausing to catch her breath, as a boy not much younger than Elliot had his hand crushed beneath a boot for spilling water.
And no one fought back.
"We have to do something," Mirabel whispered one night, surrounded by the others in the cramped slave quarters. Her voice was quiet but firm. "We can't keep letting them do this."
Silence followed. Some turned away, pretending not to hear her. Others shook their heads.
"What can we do?" an older man asked. "They have guns. We have nothing."
"They have power," another woman added. "And power crushes those who resist."
Mirabel clenched her fists. She had anticipated fear, but this level of submission made her heart ache. "But if we don't fight back, they'll keep doing this. Forever."
"And if we do fight back, they'll kill us," someone snapped.
"Not if we're smart about it," Mirabel countered. Her mind was already working, piecing together a plan. "We don't need to fight them head-on. We just need to level the playing field. If we can get our hands on gunpowder and other materials, I can make something—traps, weapons, even bombs."
The room went dead silent. A few gasps escaped.
"Bombs?" someone whispered in horror.
Elliot stared at her, eyes wide. "You can make bombs?"
Mirabel hesitated, then nodded. "Not like the ones from my time, but something effective enough. I've read about it—gunpowder, oil, metal scraps—I can work with whatever we can find."
Murmurs filled the room. Some looked intrigued, others terrified.
"You don't know what you're saying," the elder from before muttered. "A white man's gun is more powerful than anything we can make."
"Not if we turn their own weapons against them," Mirabel pressed. "We don't need to match their firepower—we just need to scare them. Make them think twice before laying a hand on us."
For the first time, doubt flickered in their eyes. Hope, even.
"We'll need a plan," Elliot murmured. "A real one."
Mirabel nodded. "Then let's make one."
A WEEK LATER
The plan was set in motion. The slaves worked tirelessly yet cautiously, ensuring that their actions didn't arouse suspicion. Under the guise of routine labor, they stole small amounts of gunpowder from the storage sheds. Some smuggled oil and metal scraps from the blacksmith's forge, while others gathered clay and rope. Every item had a purpose, and Mirabel knew exactly how to put them together.
Using her knowledge of chemistry and mechanics, Mirabel created primitive yet deadly weapons.
She mixed the stolen gunpowder with dried plant fibers to create small but effective explosive charges. By wrapping them tightly in clay containers, she ensured they wouldn't ignite prematurely. A simple spark or fire would be enough to set them off.
She designed makeshift firebombs using clay pots filled with oil. When thrown, they shattered and ignited upon contact with fire, creating deadly flames.
Using sharpened metal scraps, wooden stakes, and hidden pits, they created lethal traps in the fields and near common patrol routes. Colonial masters chasing after escaping slaves would fall right into them.
Thick ropes tied between trees were set up at ankle height to trip riders off horses, leaving them vulnerable to attack. Some were even designed as nooses to catch unsuspecting guards by the neck.
Mirabel instructed the slaves to spread thin trails of gunpowder from the storage houses to their hidden base. If the guards suspected anything and came searching, one spark could ignite a barrier of fire between them.
With everything ready, they waited for the right moment.
The Rebellion Begins
The night air was thick with tension. Then, a gunshot rang out, signaling the start of the rebellion.
The first trap was sprung—guards chasing after a "runaway" fell into hidden spike pits. Others who rushed in to help were met with firebombs, their uniforms igniting as they screamed in agony. Gunpowder lines were set ablaze, cutting off reinforcements from reaching key areas. The plantation, once a symbol of oppression, became a battlefield.
The slaves fought fiercely. Some used farm tools as weapons, while others wielded stolen knives. The once-terrified men and women now moved with purpose, fueled by the taste of long-awaited vengeance.
Victory seemed within reach. The colonial masters were overwhelmed, their numbers dwindling against the unexpected resistance. They had never anticipated the slaves fighting back—especially not with tactics that matched military strategies.
Amidst the chaos, Mirabel gave orders. "Some of you must escape!" she shouted. "The more we save, the fewer we lose!"
Elliot took charge of the escapees, leading groups of slaves through the forests toward freedom. But as he guided the last group to safety, disaster struck.
Elliot's Capture and Mirabel's Awakening
A colonial master emerged from the shadows and struck Elliot from behind. He fell to the ground, groaning in pain. Before he could react, more guards surrounded him, their boots slamming into his ribs, his face, his back.
Mirabel saw it all. She screamed, rushing toward him, but a soldier shoved her away. She hit the ground hard, tasting blood in her mouth.
"No! Stop!" she sobbed, crawling toward Elliot. He was barely conscious, his breath ragged, his body limp. The sight shattered something inside her.
A strange energy coursed through her veins. Her heartbeat pounded like a war drum. The air around her vibrated.
Her eyes turned pink.
A brilliant wave of pink light exploded from her body, freezing everything and everyone in time—except Elliot. The battlefield fell silent. The fire, the fighting, the screams—everything stopped. Colonial masters and slaves alike stood frozen, their bodies locked in place as if caught in an eternal moment.
"What...what just happened?" Mirabel stammered, her eyes darting wildly around the frozen landscape.
Elliot's face was pale. "I don't know, but we need to get out of here!"
As they turned to run, three beams of light descended from the sky, streaking across the horizon like shooting stars. Mirabel and Elliot froze, their hearts pounding in unison.
When the light faded, a woman and two men stood before them, their faces stern and unyielding.
"Mirabel, you're under arrest," the woman announced, her voice firm and commanding.
Mirabel's eyes widened in confusion. "What? Why?"
The woman's expression didn't change. "You've committed an offense against time. And since your accomplice here" - she nodded toward Elliot - "is the only other witness, he'll be coming with us."
As the agents closed in, Mirabel's eyes met Elliot's, filled with fear and uncertainty.
"Where are we going?" Mirabel demanded, trying to keep her voice steady.
The woman's smile was thin and cold. "You'll be taken to the Bureau."
As the agents reached out to take Mirabel and Elliot into custody, the world around them began to blur and distort.
And then, everything went white.