“I am not your brother,” Adam says, the humanoid side of his face scrunched in confusion. “In my estimation, it is you who has stepped out of time. The false highlights dyed into your hair are an inch wider than is currently fashionable. The stitching on your pants belies an industrial sewing machine used by mass manufacturers reliant on overseas slave labor that Jonathan himself outlawed. And your shoes are in remarkable shape for a brand that has not existed in over twenty-five years.”

The Slayer blinks, too impressed to be insulted. Well, almost. She can’t help but smooth her hair. “Wow, I haven’t been so skillfully insulted since my first day at Sunnydale High. Is Cordelia Chase still alive? Because she could learn a thing or two from you.”

Adam’s eyes—one brown, one red—search the empty air, seeing beyond the Slayer and the museum. “I have no knowledge of a Cordelia Chase. I could search the vital records, if you would like to inquire further about her death?”

The Slayer wonders if he’s got a Terminator view-screen thing in his head, one that sizes up his opponents’ weaknesses. Or if it’s just a regular search engine connected to the internet.

“Nope, I’m good,” the Slayer says. Even in the future, in another dimension, the prospect of hearing about her classmates’ deaths makes her stomach churn. She thinks back to Demondale and having to fight the vamped-out Willow, unable to bring herself to plunge a stake into her friend’s heart. More than anything, she longs to be back where she started, keeping the real Sunnydale safe. It’s what she was chosen to do. But the staff and the green gem can only drag her from terrible place to terrible place. “Anyway, you’re right. I’m a time-traveler on whatever’s the opposite of an excellent adventure. I’m just here to find out what makes this Jonathan guy tick. I met him in the past, but we didn’t get a chance to chat. You must know a lot about him, patrolling these exhibits all day. Does he have any hidden talents? Obvious weaknesses? Known enemies?”

“Jonathan is beloved in this world,” Adam says. He turns his head to the nearest display case, admiring the Jonathan mannequin dressed in Klingon armor. “A movie star, humanitarian, and president unlike any before him.”

“Are you sure? He kinda sounds like Reagan,” the Slayer says, sticking her tongue out. “Was he a pay-or-play Republican too?”

“President Jonathan Levinson is beyond political parties. He won as an independent.”

“Oh,” the Slayer says, eyebrows rising in surprise. “So he sold his soul?”