[ WP ] Time travel exists , and a new form of capital punishment is introduced : Transporting the convict back to the worst , practically unsurvivable , places in human history to find yourself in . You are such a convict , and just got sent back . You will do anything to try and survive .

`` Do you have any last words?'' asked my executioner. I could n't see his face: the machine was callibrated to transport as little matter as possible, and I was restrained by iron bands to keep me within the boundaries of the time machine. 
 
 `` Yeah - do n't I get a say in where you're sending me?'' 
 
 `` We do that for lesser offenders, on occasion. But that privilege does not apply to you. Nor will you know where you will be sent,'' he added. `` No fewer than three centuries in the past, that much you no doubt know. But where we will send you is irrelevant. The ghettos of Warsaw, the caldera of Mount St. Helens, the siege of London, the Oubliette of Manhatten... it is of no matter.'' 
 
 `` Not particularly fair, trying to get around the moratorium on executions by using time travel.'' 
 
 `` Oh?'' said the voice, growing harsh. `` Neither was the murder of Mercedes LaFontaine. She was the greatest—'' 
 
 `` Whatever,'' I said over him. `` Just get it over with.'' 
 
 There was a flash of light, and 
 
 -- - 
 
 then I was in a... department store? It had been years since they even existed; the last time I'd been in one was when my mother sent me and my father down to buy a new fridge. I was surrounded by sofas and large red signs with blocky script. Japanese hiragana, maybe. 
 
 I went for the door. If I remembered correctly, most governments sent their prisoners on death row back around twenty minutes before their death was assured. No guarantee that the government that had arrested me would do that, or even a guarantee that I'd been arrested by a government at all, but I'd work with the assumption that I had twenty minutes to live. 
 
 There was only one cashiere, an elderly Japanese woman reading a stack of papers printed in black and white. She folded one of the pages over, and I caught a glimpse of the picture on the front: a mushroom cloud. 
 
 Shit. 
 
 I still had my implants from before the assassination: a neural modification allowing hibernation for a set period of time, with no particular requirement for food or oxygen ( perfect for masquerading as a mannequin in an antique suit of armour until the date you know that a certain woman will be giving a speech to a large crowd around two feet in front of you, with a positronic disruptor stuffed on one of the gauntlets ). That would n't do me much good if my atoms were torn apart by nuclear fury, but it was a start. 
 
 I ran back into the store, searching for the right department. Outside, an alarm went off, and the sound of it chilled my bones. I did n't recognize the precise sound, but the meaning of the insistent wail was hard to miss: I was running out of time. 
 
 At last, my whole body shaking from adrealine, I found it: a full-size refrigerator, freezer located on the top. With some effort, I hauled it off the shelf and dropped it to the floor, door facing up. The resonating boom was barely audible over the sound of pandemonium outside. 
 
 There was no time to check if it was lined with lead or another heavy metal, no time to pad myself with styrofoam, no time to prepare at all. But if I was lucky, and survived the blast, then I was safe. I set the time of my hibernation to a week, and shut myself in. 
 
 Maybe, with a little luck, I would survive long enough to return to my own time, and finish the job I started.
