The television hanging above the bar flickered on and Ash froze, hand still shoved down his pocket.

A shadowy figure appeared on the screen. She wore a hood that covered her face, and stood in front of a tattered American flag, a sketchy fox painted on the front of her coat.

“Friends,” Quinn said, in her heavily distorted voice. “Do not attempt to adjust your television. Our broadcast has taken over every channel.”

“You still want that pint?” the bartender asked.

Ash realized he’d frozen, one hand still gripping the cash envelope. He nodded and handed over a slightly damp bill, his eyes never leaving the screen.

Quinn continued. “I come to you this evening with happy news. For the past year, the Black Cirkus has been attempting to uncover the secrets of time travel, secrets that have long been kept from us by the scientist Professor Zacharias Walker.

“Tonight, I am glad to say that Professor Walker has been thwarted. Time travel is ours, at long last.”

All talk in the bar ceased. Someone catcalled, while another called out, “About damn time!”

Ash realized he was holding the cash envelope so tightly that his fingers had started to cramp. He tucked it back into his jacket and began cracking his knuckles.

He’d known the Cirkus could travel through time. Or, at least, he’d suspected. He’d seen their time machine himself, and he’d thought he’d seen Roman and Quinn in 1980, at the Fort Hunter complex.

But he’d never been able to figure out how they were able to go back in time without any exotic matter and, over the last few weeks, he’d been able to push that question to the back of his mind. There’d always been other, more pressing things to focus on.

Not anymore.

“And now, we would like to invite you all to a revel of sorts.” Quinn announced. “Tomorrow evening, the Black Cirkus will host a masquerade at the Fairmont hotel, at seven o’clock pm.

“Join us, and see how we will use time travel to build a better present, a better future. Join the Black Cirkus, and we’ll show you a new and better world.”

The image froze, the broadcast over.

Conversations leaped back to life. Ash heard someone say, “Quinn Fox,” but they sounded excited rather than terrified. A first.

Another added, tone casual, like they were repeating something they weren’t sure they still believed, “But, she’s the cannibal, right?”

And, “Didn’t you hear her? She says she wants to help. To fix things.”

Meanwhile, another conversation seemed to be going on at the same time, this one about the Professor and the Chronology Protection Agency. About him.

“Selfish,” someone was saying. “The group of them, thinking they could keep all that technology for themselves.”

“Time travel should be for everyone,” said someone else. “Quinn Fox will make it right.”

Ash bristled, tuning them out. How quickly people forgot. All Quinn had to do was dangle a carrot on a stick and, all at once, years of Black Cirkus violence was wiped away.