So when John stepped out for another one of his maddeningly vague errands (“Back in a bit, don’t wait up”), Alex dove back into his favorite pastime: snooping. Not for proof—he had enough proof to write a dissertation—but to build a profile. A timeline. A case file. Something he could show Sarah so she’d stop texting him things like “ASK HIM IF HE FOUGHT AT THERMOPYLAE” at 3 a.m.
This time, he hit the jackpot—a stack of military papers that suggested John wasn’t just immortal but had saluted his way through history as a decorated war hero.
The Military Paper Goldmine
Alex was in John’s room, heart pounding, rifling through a dresser drawer that smelled like old leather, cedar, and faint gunpowder—because of course it did. Under a pile of flannel shirts (John owned enough to clothe a small lumberjack commune), he found a faded manila folder labeled, in the world’s most suspicious handwriting, “Old Work Stuff.”
Alex opened it like it might explode.
Inside were discharge papers—crisp despite their age, with John’s name in bold:
John A. Harrow
Honorably Discharged
United States Army
1945
Rank: Lieutenant Colonel
Alex’s jaw dropped. John, the guy who once burned toast so badly the fire alarm filed a complaint, had been a high?ranking officer in World War II?
The papers were legit. Embossed seals. Official signatures. A commendation for “exceptional leadership in covert operations.” Alex didn’t know much about the military, but he was pretty sure “covert operations” didn’t mean “helped move furniture quietly.”
He flipped through more documents, each one worse for his blood pressure.
A citation from 1918, naming John as a Captain, praised for “bravery under fire at the Battle of Argonne.”
Another from 1863, listing a Major John Harrow, commended for “strategic ingenuity at Gettysburg.”
The dates were centuries apart, but the name—and the suspiciously familiar handwriting—stayed the same. John’s signature hadn’t changed in 150 years. Alex’s own signature changed every time he signed for a package.
Then came the pièce de résistance: a photo of John in a WWII uniform, standing next to a guy who looked exactly like General Eisenhower. Both were grinning like they’d just shared a joke about invading France.
On the back, in neat handwriting:
Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
“To John, for saving our asses — D.D.E., ’44.”
Alex didn’t need Sarah’s history degree to know “D.D.E.” was Dwight freaking Eisenhower.
He sat back on John’s bed, folder in his lap, and whispered, “What the hell.”
He texted Sarah:
FOUND JOHN’S MILITARY PAPERS. WWII, WWI, CIVIL WAR. HE’S A FREAKING COLONEL. SEND HELP.
Her reply was immediate:
STEAL THE PAPERS. I’M CALLING MY PROFESSOR. THIS IS BLETCHLEY PARK?LEVEL SHIT.
Alex, emboldened by panic and peer pressure, kept digging.
He found a medals case tucked behind a stack of old National Geographic magazines. Inside were:
- a Purple Heart
- a Distinguished Service Cross
- a Civil War?era Medal of Honor
- a ribbon bar that looked like it had seen more action than most Marvel heroes
All engraved with “J. Harrow.”
The medals were heavy, worn, and definitely not “props.” Alex had held props before. Props didn’t feel like they carried the weight of history—or the faint smell of battlefield smoke.
His hands shook as he imagined John casually tossing these into a drawer after D?Day like they were expired coupons.
He also found a dog tag with a serial number that, when googled later, matched no known military database.
Of course it didn’t. John probably predated databases. And filing systems. And maybe the alphabet.
John came home mid?snoop, catching Alex with the folder open and a Medal of Honor dangling from his hand like a guilty toddler holding a broken vase.
“Oh, hey, cool find,” John said, strolling in with a reusable grocery bag that clinked suspiciously. “Those are just old family papers. My great?uncle was a war buff, collected all sorts of stuff.”
He flashed that infuriatingly calm smile and offered Alex a protein bar. “Game night later?”
Alex’s jaw clenched. Family papers? The same excuse he’d used for the photos with Abraham Lincoln, the Roman coins, the Victorian locket, and the sword Excalibur?adjacent enough to make Arthur roll in his grave.
He wanted to scream, “YOU WERE AT GETTYSBURG, WEREN’T YOU?” But John’s casual vibe—plus the promise of Merlin’s cookies cooling on the counter—made him hesitate.
“Uh, these look… real,” Alex ventured, holding up the WWII discharge paper.
John didn’t even glance at it. “Yeah, Uncle John was a stickler for authenticity. Reenactment stuff, you know?” He pivoted instantly. “You see that new Mandalorian episode?”
Alex didn’t buy it. Nobody’s “uncle” gets a personal note from Eisenhower. But he didn’t push. He put the papers back, though not before snapping photos for Sarah, who immediately texted:
THIS IS ACADEMIC TREASON. I’M SHAKING.
The papers changed everything. They weren’t just proof—they were a new category of evidence. A new tier of “Alex’s sanity is hanging by a thread.”
The medals, the commendations, the photo with Ike—it all painted a picture of a guy who’d probably strategized with Ulysses S. Grant, traded jokes with Napoleon, and taught Patton how to swear creatively.
John wasn’t just a passive observer of history; he had been a decorated war hero across multiple wars. Multiple centuries. Multiple governments.
That night, over John’s unfairly delicious chili, Alex caught him humming “Sweet Home Alabama” while polishing his Purple Heart with a dish towel like it was a coffee mug.
“Sentimental,” John said when he noticed Alex staring, then offered him seconds.
Alex took the chili but added “war hero” to his mental list of John’s sins, right under “gaslighting roommate” and “owns Excalibur.”
He texted Sarah:
He’s got medals. MEDALS. I’m moving out.
Her reply:
Don’t you dare. We need more evidence.
Alex groaned. The rent was still cheap, Merlin’s cookies were still divine, and John was now teaching him how to play Risk with strategies that felt suspiciously like firsthand Civil War tactics.
He wasn’t moving out. Not yet.
But if John ever pulled out a bayonet and called it a “prop,” Alex was calling the Pentagon. Or at least Sarah. Or maybe both.
Starts asking 'what.'