Quinn stares at the notebook for a long moment before turning the first page.
The handwriting is familiar.
Not because he recognizes it.
Because he has spent the last day surrounded by it.
Lesson plans. Schedules. Loose notes scattered throughout the room. The same careful script appears everywhere he looks, neat enough to read at a glance but dense enough that every page feels packed with thought.
At first, he expects a journal.
A record of thoughts. Maybe answers.
Instead, he finds diagrams.
Lines.
Angles.
Arrows drawn in dark ink.
Figures sketched in rough strokes stand in various positions with swords in hand. Beside them are observations, corrections, and entire paragraphs squeezed into the margins wherever there happened to be room.
Quinn blinks.
Then turns another page.
And another.
More diagrams.
More notes.
More revisions.
"What is all this?"
The question leaves him before he realizes he's spoken aloud.
The notebook offers no answer.
He shifts in the chair and starts reading properly.
It takes several minutes before the shape of it begins to emerge.
Swordsmanship.
Not lessons.
Research.
The realization makes him sit up a little straighter.
Every page contains references to books, military records, dueling accounts, historical texts, and fencing manuals. Some passages have been copied directly. Others have been heavily annotated with comments, corrections, and questions.
Quinn flips through several more pages.
A section compares cavalry saber techniques to boarding actions used by sailors.
Another examines the differences between noble dueling traditions and battlefield combat.
Several pages focus entirely on footwork.
The further he reads, the stranger it becomes.
None of these styles belong together.
Some techniques were designed for formal duels.
Others were intended for open warfare.
Several originate from entirely different countries.
A few are so obscure Quinn doubts anyone except a historian would have bothered digging them up.
Yet there is a pattern.
Slowly, piece by piece, he begins to understand what the original Quinn had been trying to do.
Not preserve a style.
Build one.
The thought causes him to pause.
He turns back several pages and starts reading again, this time paying closer attention.
The notebook suddenly makes much more sense.
Not because he understands swordsmanship.
Because he understands research.
The original Quinn approached fencing the same way he approached history.
Gather sources.
Compare accounts.
Find contradictions.
Test conclusions.
Revise.
The sword itself almost seems secondary.
Most of the notes aren't focused on individual techniques.
They're focused on why those techniques existed.
A strike crossed out because it requires too much space.
A stance altered because it leaves the body exposed.
A guard position abandoned because it assumes an opponent fighting in a way that no longer exists.
The deeper Quinn reads, the more obvious it becomes that this isn't a collection of techniques.
It's an argument.
A conversation between dozens of dead swordsmen spread across centuries.
And somehow the original Quinn had been trying to make sense of all of it.
Time slips by faster than he realizes.
The notebook becomes easier to follow the longer he reads.
Not because it grows simpler.
Because the logic behind it starts revealing itself.
Every note attempts to solve a problem.
Every correction exists because something failed.
Every revision leads to another question.
The style remains unfinished.
Entire sections are marked for future testing.
Some pages end halfway through a thought.
Others contain nothing but questions.
Quinn turns another page.
A single sentence sits at the top.
Most styles are answers to questions that no longer exist.
He stares at it for several seconds.
Then closes the notebook.
The lamp beside him burns noticeably lower than before.
The room remains quiet.
Rain continues tapping softly against the window.
For a moment he considers reading more.
Then his eyes drift toward the rest of the desk.
The notebook can wait.
Right now, he has bigger problems.
He still doesn't know what Quinn Hatchlock is supposed to be doing today.
With a quiet sigh, he pushes the notebook aside and begins sorting through the papers spread across the desk.
Lesson plans.
Attendance sheets.
Reading assignments.
Faculty notices.
Most of it means very little.
Then his hand finds a folded sheet tucked beneath a stack of books.
Quinn unfolds it.
At the top, written in the same careful handwriting, are four words.
Before Monday.
Beneath them is a list.
His eyes immediately move to the first item.
Return borrowed books.
He glances toward the stack sitting on the corner of the desk.
Three thick history texts.
One carries the school's seal.
Another appears to belong to another teacher.
The third bears the mark of the city archive.
That one alone probably explains half the references in the notebook.
Simple enough.
His gaze shifts downward.
The second item causes him to pause.
Meet with the school committee regarding disciplinary review for Amelia Crowe.
For a moment the name means nothing.
Then something stirs.
A classroom with a girl sitting near the window with dark curls.
She has a habit of arguing with authority figures regardless of whether she was right.
A sharp tongue.
A sharper mind.
The memory vanishes almost immediately.
Quinn blinks.
"...that was new."
It isn't the first memory that has surfaced.
But it is one of the clearest.
He looks back down at the page.
No explanation accompanies the note.
Just a location.
A time.
And a reminder to speak with her before Monday.
Which means whatever happened, Quinn Hatchlock apparently intended to help.
Wonderful.
His eyes continue downward.
The final item has several pages clipped beneath it.
Quinn picks them up and begins reading.
Enrollment figures.
Attendance records.
Budget requests.
Student surveys.
Letters of support.
His brow slowly furrows.
By the third page the answer becomes obvious.
The fencing club is under review.
Administration is considering shutting it down.
Questions regarding funding.
Questions regarding classroom space.
Questions regarding educational value.
The arguments feel painfully familiar despite existing in an entirely different world.
He flips to another page.
Then another.
The original Quinn had apparently anticipated every objection.
There are prepared responses for each concern.
Historical relevance, physical education benefits, student participation rates, academic improvements among club members, projected enrollment numbers.
Counterarguments to the counterarguments.
The amount of preparation is almost absurd.
Quinn reaches the final page and leans back slowly.
Three books.
One student meeting.
One proposal.
All waiting for him.
He glances toward the clock hanging on the wall.
The hands stare back at him.
For a moment he simply looks.
Then he does the math.
Three hours.
Maybe a little less.
That is all he has.
Three hours before people begin expecting Quinn Hatchlock to show up and start acting like himself.
His gaze drifts back across the desk, the notebook, the books, the proposal.
The pages covered in careful notes.
The original Quinn clearly cared about all of this.
Why, Quinn still couldn't say.
But that didn't really matter.
In roughly three hours, people would expect him to care too.
Quinn exhales and rubs his eyes.
Yesterday—if he could even call it yesterday anymore—he had been worrying about monsters, impossible studies, and surviving long enough to understand where he was.
Now he had something far more immediate to survive.
A normal day.
The thought is somehow more terrifying.
His eyes drift toward the notebook one last time before he reaches for the proposal papers again.
If he only has three hours, he might as well spend them learning what kind of disaster he's walking into.