Jack
"I went to Keith's garage to say the wiring looked dodgy. That was the last thing that made sense. Where — when — are we?"
Two men fall out of a broken machine and into your century, speaking a language you've never heard. You're the one who finds them.
Two men who built a machine that works — a little too well — and the stranger who keeps having to decide what to do about them. That last one is you.
"I went to Keith's garage to say the wiring looked dodgy. That was the last thing that made sense. Where — when — are we?"
"It works. That's the good news. The bad news is it works, and I can't yet make it work the way I'd like — namely, backwards, and toward home."
A Roman farm girl. A Norse trader. A newspaperman in a shaking city. Each episode, you're someone new — and you're the only one who can decide whether these two lunatics live to jump again.
A text adventure that plays entirely inside Telegram as a Mini App. No downloads, no installs — just tap and play. Eight episodes, eight centuries, branching choices that actually cost something — and a machine that never once lands where it means to.
Tap the link. The game opens right in the app you already have. Nothing to download.
Every episode drops you into a different century as a different local — Rome, a fjord, a shaking city, a bright morning in Dallas.
Hide them. Help them. Turn them in. The machine will take them onward regardless — but not before you've made your choice.
Different century. Different you. Same two lost men.
a 30-second taste. the real thing spans two thousand years.
One machine, one impossible fault, eight places it never meant to stop. Each episode stands on its own — a whole life you step into, and out of. Episode one is free.
Roman dust, an olive grove, and two men who fell out of the sky speaking gibberish.
Smoke, salt, and a firepit with strong opinions about strangers.
Cable cars, a newspaper date, and a floor that will not stay still. 1906.
A river that gives everything and forgives nothing. The brass hates the heat.
A century too clean, a light too white. Someone is asking what you are.
Padua. A burned pamphlet, a frightened scholar, a truth it's dangerous to have seen.
A bright morning in Dallas. You know exactly what day it is. They don't.
Back under the same olive trees where it began. This time you understand the language.
Nobody who met them ever quite got over it. Reviews gathered from several centuries, none of them contemporary with each other.
"Two strangers fell into my father's grove and left before the third dawn. I taught one of them the word for 'friend.' I have told this story for forty years. No one believes me. I do not care."
"They arrived in the middle of the earthquake and were, frankly, the calmest thing in San Francisco that morning. I ran the story. My editor spiked it. My editor was a coward."
"Harrowing and tender in equal measure. Docked one star only because the older one drank all my mead and the younger one apologised for six hours straight."
"I have measured the heavens and been threatened for it, so believe me when I say: these two had seen further than I ever will, and understood it far less. Extraordinary."
"Met two fellas in Dealey Plaza who kept asking me the date like it mattered a whole lot. Wouldn't stop looking at the sky. Real nice, though. Real sad."
"For the record: the machine was NOT built to a professional standard, the wiring was a disgrace, and I would get in it again tomorrow without a second thought."