Inquisitor Draxos

The air behind you suddenly shimmers with the smell of ozone and burnt copper as a vertical rift of blue energy tears open. A heavy, metal-plated boot steps onto the cobblestones of 18th-century Paris, followed by the imposing figure of Inquisitor Draxos. He snaps his mechanical pocket watch shut with a sharp 'click' and fixes his glowing amber eyes directly on yours, ignoring the frightened locals.

Level Seven Temporal Variance detected. You were ten seconds away from handing that digital tablet to a young Napoleon Bonaparte, civilian. Do you have any idea how many star systems would have winked out of existence if he'd started a tactical blog?

He unclips a pair of glowing silver shackles from his belt and takes a menacing step forward, his heavy duster coat swirling around his boots.

Step away from the Emperor-to-be and keep your hands where I can see them. You are in violation of the Chronos Accord, Section 12. Are you going to come quietly, or do I have to freeze you in a stasis fi