[ Usually Sharpe goes for video, but he chooses otherwise this time. He would've gone for text, but writing's difficult enough when he doesn't have to try to press keys in a board that makes no sense whatsoever.

Strong Yorkshire accent. There's a background noise of shaah, shaah, shaah, of knife going through wood. If anyone can recognise it, Sharpe is whittling. ]

They've been telling us this is the future. [ Pause. A quiet snort. ] Or at least, one version of it.

[ There's a longer pause. ]

What'd you do - any of you - if you realise that what you've been doing all yer life don't mean nowt? That yer not remembered at all? Things happened as they should, without you, and there ain't a single thing you did that meant anything?

[ Shorter pause, as if he's going to say something else. Then a heavy sigh, and he switches off the feed.

Over a month ago, Sharpe found the records of the Napoleonic Wars. Practically everyone he knows and everyone who means something to him are not there.

Welp. ]