7:14 - September 13, 2012 - Paris
A bad dream, I guess. I awoke this morning in the Parisian luxury hotel, the pair of golden scissors on the bedside table. In this dream, I had been a robot of some sort, controlled by a brain in a jar. My brain. I remember killing, and that's about it. There was so much blood, so much death.
I'm only a teenager of 17 years, and yet I'm following a random journal's directions through time, aided only by a pair of expensive scissors. Perhaps if I attempt to cut something with the scissors, maybe that'd do something.
There are so many questions, I have no idea what I'm getting myself into. My only choice is to press forward, with this knowledge of time travel, there's no turning back.