It began on the night of March 2, 1990, the birthday of the orphan whose body he suddenly occupied.
"Urg! Why the fuck do I hurt everywhere?" Julian groaned, forcing his eyes open. It felt like he had only just gone to sleep, yet he jolted fully awake when he realized he had no idea where he was.
He lay in a reeking alley, the stench of rot and piss clawing at his nose, trash scattered all around him. On either side rose stained brown brick walls, hemming him in like a filthy, narrow canyon.
Julian did not even get a chance to properly take in this unfamiliar environment before a wave of raw agony surged through his body. He clenched his jaw to stop himself from screaming.
What the fuck happened!? Julian thought, panic stabbing through the haze of pain. He forced himself to look down at his own body, and his breath caught when he saw that it definitely was not his.
Small, pale hands, filthy and crusted with dirt. Rough burlap pants hung loosely from thin legs, paired with a torn cotton shirt smeared with mud and other substances he did not even want to identify.
The proportions were all wrong. The world around him seemed larger, towering, until the obvious truth clicked into place. Unless everything had suddenly grown, he was barely four feet tall. He was in the body of a child.
Stay calm, stay calm. Breathe in, he ordered himself, pulling in a shaky breath. And out, he exhaled slowly.
Julian had always prided himself on his ability to keep a lid on his emotions, and that habit saved him now. Panic gnawed at the edges of his control, but he forced it back.
Before I even start unravelling how I ended up as a kid, I need to find somewhere safe. And if this pain means anything, I should get checked out too, he thought grimly.
Gritting his teeth, Julian pushed himself up from the pile of trash he had been sprawled on. The moment he moved, sharp pain flared in his side, specifically around his ribs.
Yeah, that feels like at least bruised ribs, if not cracked, he noted, filing the observation away while trying to ignore the pounding ache in his skull. His face felt tight and stiff, as if the skin had been painted over with a crusted layer of something thick.
Probably dried blood, he realized, the assessment unpleasant but calm.
He staggered out of the alley, one hand braced against the wall for balance, only to collide with someone passing by. Julian bounced off the solid body and toppled backward, an involuntary whimper of pain escaping his lips at the jolt to his ribs.
"Are you alright?" a man's voice asked, clipped and serious, carrying a distinct English accent.
Julian looked up and saw a man with thinning blond hair and a narrow but reasonably handsome face. He wore a black uniform complete with a matching cap.
For a split second, Julian almost dismissed it as some kind of cosplay, recognizing the outfit as an older style of British police uniform. But another throb of pain in his ribs dragged his mind back to the present situation. This was all too vivid, too brutal, to be some convention.
"No, sir. I... I can't remember anything. I just woke up in that place. D-do you know what happened?" Julian asked, forcing his voice to tremble as he played the part of a terrified, amnesiac child.
To be fair, that was not far from the truth.
The man's brows pulled together in a deep frown as he studied Julian more closely. It did not take long for him to notice all the details that hinted at something very ugly.
Julian had a nasty head wound, his hair clumped with dried blood. One arm hugged his side protectively, as though every breath hurt. His clothes were ragged and filthy.
The man's expression softened, pity flickering across his features. "What do you remember, lad?" he asked carefully, pulling a small notepad and pencil from the breast pocket of his uniform.
Julian tried to look thoughtful, scrunching his brow, but the motion sent a fresh spike of pain through his head. He quickly stopped and gave a small, helpless shake of his head.
"Just my name, mister," he said truthfully.
The man let out a quiet sigh, his brief hope clearly fading. "Alright, lad, what's your name?" he asked in a gentler tone, attempting a reassuring smile.
"Julian Iron," he replied, just as honestly, and the man dutifully wrote it down.
"Okay, lad. If you come with me, we'll get you sorted back at the station and see about finding your parents, alright?" the man said, voice calm and steady as he held out his hand.
Julian took it, the warmth and solidity oddly grounding.
He quickly discovered that the man was not cosplaying an old English police officer at all. He was an actual, modern officer.
Sitting in the white police car, Julian's eyes had been drawn to a newspaper lying on the seat. One glance at the date printed at the top had made his blood run cold.
He was not only trapped in the body of a child. He had also been thrown nearly thirty-three years into the past.
The officer barely reacted to Julian's shocked expression when he had seen the date. He chalked it up to the supposed amnesia, not suspecting anything stranger than a head injury and trauma.
What the fuck is actually going on!? Julian thought, anxiety coiling tighter and tighter in his chest as the car carried him away. The entire situation felt utterly insane, a ludicrous nightmare that refused to end.