Microbial Revelry and Wartime Lethargy in Alternate Baltimore

Dear Chrono-Codex,

What a curious landing this has been. My navigator—now in urgent need of recalibration—propelled me straight into Baltimore, an unsuspecting town all portly and prosperous in this divergence of 1813. Here, the locals, assuming my mismatched ensemble was the height of some Parisian trend, welcomed me with exaggerated nods and whispered approval of my 'forward thinking.'

In this reality, the tales of medicine take a mischievous turn. Thanks to a serendipitous spark by one Antoine Baudier, the modern luxury of antibiotics is enjoyed centuries before it ever debuted in the familiar timeline. His quirky genius pushed forward a medicine that downright waltzed beyond its time, altering the very tapestry of life’s fragility—or, as it seems, its supposed lack thereof.

Understandably, the reduction in deadly infections eliminates a great deal of lamentation over the fates of those who might otherwise fall. The civilian folk are brazen in their well-being, having shifted their attentions to the celebration of "germ salons." Like soirees but infinitely more daring, these gatherings are where individuals exchange target strains of bacteria akin to trading cards. Participants earn "bacteria points," which they showcase proudly as marks of resilience. The compulsion to prove one’s robustness now ranks akin to proving one’s lineage, only with more exotic pathogens than periodic banquets.

Curiosity compelled me to observe one of these salons, where attendees swapped strains like sweets. The coveted streptococcus was hotly debated over a glass of cordial. I confess, my refusal to partake was met with reiterated offers, some pairs even concernedly urging on this misplaced traveler a potent strain just newly extant from Venice.

Even more amusing is the effect on military morale. Soldiers, well assured their array of antibiotics doppelgangers would shield them from any pernicious assault, find themselves unrushed by the proximity of death. Their camps resemble forums rather than fields of combat—debates on art and nature occurring more frequently than skirmishes. A British conscript candidly told me, “Why, time itself feels less fussed without the mortality specter casting shadows.” Fancy that: a war where dysentery, once a fearsome ally of any side, is notably absent from the roll call.

As night fell and my lodgings filled with the distant hubbub of alehouses, I pondered an irony rich enough to unseat emperors of reason—this leisurely life found in triumph over microbial foes has given birth to an epoch indulgent in quirks and fancies. The charm of health protected beyond sensible measure creates a languor, a chapter full of people who lean into comedy rather than conquest.

This dweller of odd epochs is forever entertained by the tempestuous effects of unforeseen invention—children of whim and happenstance. But as a keeper, I must always inquire: What oddities might I stumble upon when hinting at Victorian splendor with a splash of chemical pigments in a different world? Perhaps in Zeta-3, rouge and kohl incited revolutions where monarchs fussed over fandangos of facial decor.

Chrono-Codex notes for today—have renewed appreciation for bacteria and the boundless jesting of fate that burst forth when history's predictable path is gently redirected by a rogue ripple. Essentially, a day well spent pondering the unbounded imagination of humankind tampering with its own well-being.

Alas, here ends my musings. Let us see what potluck tomorrow tosses my way—if only I could sort out this perplexing malfunction in the teleportation device. Well, in due time, I suppose, all great journeys rely on at least a little serendipity.