Again, please note that the chapter title doesn't have any correlation to the substance of the entries; we simply strived to relate it to the task title.  

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1800s: Nerezza Diana Archeli

NO ENTRY RECEIVED.

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1890s: Kaden Larke

NO ENTRY RECEIVED.  

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1910s: Cecil Stephens

No word had arrived from Henry yet, but they'd been updated on his status by an urgent telegram addressed to the head of house: Henry St. Clair was missing in action.

Her Ladyship had let one porcelain hand flutter towards her heart, but had said nothing. Lady Catherine had remained composed and dignified, but her tightened grip on her fork had betrayed her true feelings on the matter. Lord Percy had whispered something - probably a prayer - and shaken his head in disbelief.

Lady Alice's sobs followed Cecil down the stairs as he entered the servants quarters with the breakfast tray.

He was on the last step before his blasted leg caught and he went crashing down. The tray fell first, slipping from his hands to the hard floor; the plates and glasses shattered with an ear-deafening clang that alerted everyone in the area to his mishap. Cecil himself went down next, twisting in midair to try and avoid cutting up his hands. Having hands shakier and more worn-down than the ones he already owned would be a free ticket to "resignation".

He succeeded in avoiding his hands, but instead a shard of broken plate sliced straight through his carefully-pressed jacket and stabbed into his skin. Though he couldn't see the wound, he could feel it's sting. Instinctively, the muscles around the area clenched and Cecil had to grit his jaw to ease his pain. It shouldn't have hurt so badly, yet here he was in a mess of broken pieces with freckles of his own blood dotting the floor.

"Cecil!" Mary was the first one to come racing forward. Maybe she'd come racing forward before he'd even fell - it was all a bit blurry already. Though he was sprawled out on the floor, he found himself feeling a bit dizzy. "Heavens, Cecil, are you hurt?"

"'Course he's 'urt," the kitchen maid's voice came through, "Look at 'is shoulder. It's bleedin'."

"Oh, dear. Is it terrible? Cecil, answer me!"

"Move aside, Mary," the butler's strict baritone alerted everyone to his presence. "Cecil, you've seen worse. Get up, boy."

He was right: Cecil had seen worse. Compared to the bullet he'd taken to his leg, a shard in his shoulder was nothing. With a grunt, he forced himself up into a sitting position. Mary, who hadn't yet 'moved aside' helped him onto his feet. His left leg felt number than usual, and when he tested a few steps he found himself nearly toppling over.

Mildred came bustling up, looking rather put-off by all the commotion. Wrinkles deepened her brow as she gazed down at the mess. "If we weren't so short on staff already, I'd have Mr. Martin write up your notice."

"You would, Mrs. Thomson, if you were in charge of me. Which you are decidedly not," the butler snapped. It was unclear if he was snapping at Mildred, Cecil, or at the situation as a whole.

"Well, you aren't in charge of me, either. You'd do best to remember that Mr. Martin." Mildred turned back to the two maids hovering around Cecil and said loudly, as if to prove her authority, "Mary! Frances! Clean up this mess. Cecil, to your own quarters to clean up. I suppose I'll have to patch up that bloody jacket."

"Sorry 'bout your fall," Frances - the other maid of the house - seemed sincere in her words.

"Do you need help getting to your rooms?" Mary asked, still supporting him on one side. Though they often teased one another, Mary was one of Cecil's closest friends and her green eyes swam with concern.

"No," Cecil replied shortly. A deep, staggering breath left his lungs before he whispered: "Master Henry. He's... There was a telegram..."

No one was listening anymore, except for Mary who frowned almost imperceptibly. Mildred called again and she was forced to hurry away without answers. It was no matter - the entire downstairs would know the news soon enough.

Guilt, fear, and shame were demons that had haunted Cecil since the war. Now, they chased him down the hall as he entered his quarters and stripped off his jacket.

The injury to his shoulder wasn't as bad as he'd thought, but it still stung like the devil. Red coated his fingertips as he reached inside the wound - which was about the width and length of his littlest finger by his judgement. Slivers of the broken plate no doubt still swam within the sea of blood and muscle, and though it was nasty work, it had to be done. Men with bullets still inside them at the end of the day woke up in the grips of infection. A week after that, they often greeted death.

Something hard met his flesh, and he clenched tightly onto it. Twice it tried to escape his grasp, but he managed to successfully pull it out and hold it in front of his face to inspect just how large it was.

The lighting in his room was dim, but it was enough for him to realize that this wasn't part of the plate.

Hell, it wasn't like anything he'd ever seen before.

It was small, but even his untrained eye could tell it was advanced. Some sort of gadget worked within it, and metal coated it's surface. The intricacies seemed complex - like it was part of a clock or an engine. He cocked his head to the side, his shoulder suddenly forgotten as he tried to inspect the little device; mentally, he tried to deconstruct it. What was it, and what was it doing in his shoulder?

A small 'mrrow' interrupted his thoughts and he nearly dropped the thing amongst the dustiness of his floor. Instead, he carefully placed it on his bedside table and took a step towards the eyes glowing from under his bed.

"Have you been under there all morning? I could've sworn you'd go running back to Lord Percy. He could use a steady friend like you at the moment - his brother's gone missing in the war. Bad as a death sentence, some say. It's a damn shame, too." Cecil's voice grew quiet at the end. Reflective.

Amos made another cat sound and shimmied out from his hiding spot.

"This? Ah, it's just a flesh wound. I've survived worse. This, however," he nodded once to the cat, and then towards the gadget he'd left on the table, "is very concerning."

Someone called his name out in the hall, and a knock sounded at his door shortly after. There was no rest in being the only footman; never had been and never would be.

He slipped on his only spare jacket and winked at the cat. Just before opening the door, he whispered conspiratorially: "Looks like we'll have two secrets to keep now, won't we?"

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1920s: Alex Moretti

NO ENTRY RECEIVED.

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1930s: Edith Burke

Wow... that's... pretty big," Edith stepped out of the car in surprise. The house standing in front was surrounded by smooth, freshly painted black fences with a tall gate standing at the entrance. Bushes in the house's doorway were trimmed into small sphere-like shapes, each one bearing its own kind of juicy fruit upon it. And Edith was sure that the house's design itself could have at least half of her classmates' jaws dropping in awe. A private home within the countryside trees? Soldiers guarding the front entrance? This was something only the richest could afford.
"Here we are children. Isn't this private house just stunning? It can really show off one's wealth status in society..." Her stepmother sighed in content as she joined Edith at the side of the car and the child's face quickly morphed into a scowl; she loved the house, yes, but letting her stepmother and sister know would mean they won that battle. And Edith refused to let them win.
Alva scrambled out after her stepmother, and her eyes glazing over in happiness as she took in the pristine state of the house. "Oh goodness! What a beautiful house! You were so right mother. It's just wonderful."
"That, you can thank your father for. He had it built just for us." Their stepmother said. "He added just enough rooms for everyone in our family. Speaking of which, why don't you and Edith go and choose your rooms?"
Upon hearing this, Edith was immediately filled with newfound excitement. If she could claim the room that Alva wanted before her, it would surely upset her sister. After all, watching her sister throw a tantrum was quite humourous. What could be more funny than watching a 16 year old girl stomp her foot and cross her arms, knowing that her little sister beat her?
"Hmm, these rooms are just wonderful," Alva peeked into one room at a time, eyebrows furrowing in concentration as she considered her choices. "Edith! Have you chosen your room yet?"
"I'm still choosing, but I think I found one I liked." Edith attempted to clear her face of any emotion as she said it. But with all her attention directed towards seeing which room Alva probably fancied, the impassive mask she had been trying to wear simply slipped off and the child erupted into laughter, clutching her belly as she did.
"You have such a weird sense of humor," Alva wrinkled her nose in disgust as her sister fell to the ground giggling.
"It's- ok- at least- I have- a sense of- humor," Edith wheezed as she got the last of her chuckles out of her system. "So, what room are you choosing?"
Her response was the sound of a single door slamming shut a few doors down. "Go away Edith; I found my room. So can you go away please? I think your voice is bad for my health," Alva's muffled voice made its way through one of the thick wooden doors a few rooms down.
"Pftthhhh," the sound of Edith's tongue and spittle flying everywhere was Alva's single reply as she stuck her fingers into her ears, attempting to drown out the sound. How could this repulsive, vile and disgusting girl be the sister to a beautiful, all-loved, well known female like her? Alva was almost completely sure that her father took home the wrong child, for there was no way Edith shared any sort of ties with the Berke family.
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"Where are you going Edith?" Edith's stepmother quickly dried her hands and caught up to the child whose posture was stiff with her face carved into a scowl.
"Oh, um... Just to those trees over there," Edith promptly pointed at the cluster of trees sitting on the edge of the driveway they arrived in.
"Well- I wouldn't say no, but-"
"Ok bye!" Edith waved at her stepmother who was still stumbling over words, unsure how to tell her that playing under trees outside wasn't the most lady-like.
Lifting her dress up, Edith closed her eyes once she left the house with adrenaline lowing through her veins and excitement pouring through her pores. The girl ran with the same amount of energy as she did when she was running from the Nazi soldiers. But this time her speed was fueled by exhilaration and the desire to get away for a while.
"Oomph!" A root, coming of of nowhere seemed to sprout beneath her feet, tripping Edith as it did so. The child tumbled into the dirt.
"Oweyyy..." Edith sat up from her little stumble and studied the blood oozing out from a cut in her arm. But what really caught her attention was the corner of a silver mechanism, sticking out of her arm and glinting against the sunlight.
Hiding behind the cluster of trees, Edith quickly yanked the thing out of her arm, screaming as pain shot up her arm.
"Edith? Are you alright dear?" Her stepmother came outside, looking left and right for the child she just heard scream.
"I'm good. Go away," Edith yelled back, making sure to conceal herself with the low branches of the tree.
"Alright dear, whatever you say."
After making sure her stepmother truly went back in the house, Edith looked at the silver mechanism lying on the ground. It appeared to be a silver disk the shape of a square with a red light blinking from the top. There was an internal debate on whether she should tell Alva but one of the sides quickly won.
Burying the disk quickly, Edith hurried back to the house, eager to get her wound cleaned up before it got infected. 

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1940s: Asa Swan

"June 6 1944

"Dear Family,
Today we fight. I woke up and started pencilling without even wiping my eyes. Most of the men are not in bed; they're eating a hearty breakfast, something special just for today. I think I'll skip it. I'd rather write."

He wanted to write but he had no paper. There was no room for it, not on that cramped and suffocating square of metal. It rocked and it rolled, moving at the command of every undulation. Even if he'd had a crisp sheet across his lap, scripture would scribble, ink trembling up through moist fingertips. Shoulders clad in straps and uniforms bumped against his own, which would've thrown him off to begin with, but then the men beneath the sage began to retch and vomit, a stench of poorly digested food wafting up from the bottom of their craft.

Nauseous from odor alone, Asa decided he no longer wanted to write or daydream.

"We leave in five hours for the beachheads. Everyone's on edge but making as much fun as they can. Charlie keeps smacking people on the back and whooping about what a thing it'll be once we secure France again. That man is something else, I tell you, and he'll have my back so you've got nothing to worry about. Nothing at all."

Asa lifted his gaze to that of the man across from him, a man with a shade of green in his cheeks likewise to the color of his eyes. Charlie attempted a sheepish smile, but the discomfort was plain and clear as he pressed a hand carefully to the core of his stomach. Usually, Asa would expect some sort of sarcastic comment, but this was not a usual circumstance - nobody spoke, nobody laughed. It was silent except for the violent thrash of wind and sea.

He scanned the other infantrymen but wound up stopping on the sight of one particular man, eyes closed and lips moving silently to what was probably a prayer. A pull to clap the soldier on the shoulder for reassurance tugged at his fingers, but he kept them tucked tight between his knees to hide the quivering. It's not like I'm the only one, he thought, biting into a chapped lip, we're facing a wall of guns once we land.

Hundreds.

A thunderous chinking of metal on metal sent each of the heads in the boat ducking down, a scream in the throats of half while the other half weakened in pallor. Asa was part of the latter group, and for a moment he thought they'd just been shelled, or something. But then he remembered the arsenal of their enemy, the machine guns.

He couldn't even hear individual bullets. He couldn't.

"Oh, God."

"God bless you. Say, England threw us this nice shindig before we left! I remembered because this other soldier kept making fun of the fact I didn't speak to any girls there. (Lloyd's sort of an idiot, but that's okay. We love him all the same.)"

The ramp tossed itself over and men were quick to raise themselves if only to get off the damned contraption. Asa kept low, waiting for the others to march down and into the roiling surf. Hands had left the secure abode of his lap, instead clutching at Charlie's elbow so tightly that the man had to shake him off and say, "You're hurting me, kid."

He hadn't meant for anyone to get hurt. But they were hurting; every single one of those soldiers descending the ramp was hurting far before they ever made it past the threshold. It took Asa awhile to realize it over the constant bahbahbahbah of hurtling rounds, but then came the agonized screams and the instantaneous twitch of a body being struck and the fall, fall, fall.

Soon the roles reversed themselves, Charlie grabbing up Asa violently by the elbow and screaming something about getting "over the side!" which the younger boy simply blinked at because nothing made too much sense in the rubble of noise and and panic. A palm smacked against his ear; Asa stumbled from his place, boots slopping through a mixture of saltwater and regurgitated steak.

"Don't touch me," he choked out accidentally, but followed along regardless as Charlie slung himself over the the side of the craft - where bullets would cease their fly until one of the guns turned on them.

He hesitated against the slippery edge, but Charlie was gone, and without that man in sight, a tightening thud began resonating through his chest and damn, did that get a kid moving. His legs lunged over the wall, and then he plummeted.

He plummeted right into a churning surf double his height.

"I don't know what else to say. My nerves are just about shot and I'm jumping every time someone says hello. It's gonna be wet and horrible. But I'll make it. And if I don't, I guess I'll just become a gold star in mom's window."

Water sloshed up over his head and muffled everything as he sunk straight to the bottom. Flailing came with immediacy, arms swirling to pull all the weight of he and his equipment. Fuck. Expletives rose up in his throat with nowhere to go, clogged up. Fuck, fuck!

Shoulders wriggled a pack off, uncaring that the supplies inside would be lost forever. Eased, he kicked upwards more violently than before - but then a white stream shot past him once, twice, plopping sounds reverberating through the water, and he wound up swimming clumsily as red expanded through the blue and another figure stopped struggling so much.

That soldier'd just become a gold star in his mother's window.

"I just love and miss you all."

Skin broke the surface of the water. The continuous chug of ammunition still thrived towards them, but momentarily that wasn't an issue; he knew where it all came from, but knew not where his rock was. Volume that'd never, ever come up out of the boy's throat screamed out over the chaotic surf, cracking out into the cloud-laden sky.

"Charlie!"

"Love,
Asa"

Wet skin met wet skin; he whirled and exhaled all that existed in his lungs at the sight of freckled cheeks. "Oh, thank God, thank God!" His teeth chattered as he glanced around at the flurrying carnage, as he flinched away from the blast of a bullet in the water beside him. Death existed inches away at any given moment - never had that been the case back home.

A body floated nearer, and he wanted so badly to go home.

"Keep your head up, Swan. You didn't drown. Now we get to the beach." Charlie craned backwards, closing his eyes to the thunk of metal on flesh, over and over and over. "The dunes are a thousand feet out. We just need to cross a thousand feet."

It was a daunting distance. Asa blanched, floating precariously in the wake of crimson and the seasickness of others. "We don't have any cover."

"Doesn't matter," Charlie said. "They're doing a fucking number on us."

And then he moved.

Asa slammed the forward route, wading behind his companion. Kerplinks! constantly assaulted the waves, and as the two made it close enough to fall upon their chests and worm up the shore, a bullet slashed at the water and sent a whole manner of salt and sand splashing into his mouth. Coughing wracked his ribcage as he crawled up behind a hedgehog - a large entanglement of metal that served as the only available cover.

It was all there was.

Charlie patted his back roughly before unwrapping his gun. Asa noticed that the man's fingers trembled with the covering.

"Where's yours?"

Only here did the boy realize his mistake: in releasing his equipment, he'd also dropped his only weapon, too. Wherever it sat was, mwah, history.

"I lost it."

Charlie's mouth parted in a fit of incredulousness, but he quickly clamped it shut and shifted his weight. "This first part is just running anyways! Don't get hit, and take whatever you find!"

They charged into the gauntlet. It was all running and hiding and spray and screams, screams of all sorts. Lloyd was almost unrecognizable when they came upon him, blood slathered across the nape of his neck, all hunched over another seeping form. "Boys caught Marion!" he wailed, fingers working through the uniform of a man Asa remembered fondly disliking.

But he could no longer hate a dead man.

Still, he moved forward, grabbing and pulling at Lloyd's shoulder. Hastily. Charlie was still moving, and he didn't want to get left behind. Or, y'know, shot. "Come on, Sprinkler," he said, "Marion's fine now, come on."

"No!" The blonde scraped his arm through the air, striking Asa off him. Lloyd had never been a smart man, though, so Asa didn't anger at this. He merely tried again.

He shouldn't have.

The explosion occurred far enough off to not kill them, but air pushed with so much force that Asa went sprawling back, as though a baseball bat had swung around and knocked him a good one right in his righthand side. Then came the heat, but not through the air; it sliced and it burned, scalding violently across - no, within - his leg, his arm, his thigh.

Cries of agony came first the moment he struck the sand. He didn't know how else to react. It was pain, glorious and horrifying pain. Help me! he thought, unaware he was shrieking the same thing.

Help came. It dragged him along from under the armpits and situated him under a shadow of twisted metal, right where he could see Lloyd laying haphazardly several feet from Marion. Lloyd was meant to be a very twitchy guy.

He didn't move.

It was the most telling detail that Asa couldn't help but laugh, a loud and wild laugh that soon spiralled into something uncontrollable amongst his own screams, the screams of others, and the scream of Charlie above him, calling for a goddamn medic already.

But! But the funniest part of it all was that the wound on his leg blinked, a protrusion of flickering red too bright to be blood. And it was so, so small! His fingers reached down and he plucked it right out, taking flesh with it, and held it up to the blocked-out sun.

This was a completely normal thing to find, given the abnormal circumstance.

He decided for himself soon enough that half of this was a lie, and placed the object in the pocket of his uniform just as that graceful medical cross knelt down.

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1980s: Aurora Fernandez

NO ENTRY RECEIVED.

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