A/N: So this is my first ever sci-fi fic. Time travel is always a tricky subject, and I'm pretty sure I broke a ton of the established rules here, but please bear with me. I don't mean for this to be scientifically accurate, just entertaining.

"So you're certain this won't hurt, Mr.—" I asked the balding, middle-aged man by my side.

"Radzinsky."

"Right. I mean, I won't be ripped inside out or trapped in some alternate universe for eternity?"

"Most definitely not. The Revisor has been thoroughly tested and thousands before you have seen results with little to no pain."

"Little?" I whimpered, clutching my Birkin bag just a little bit tighter.

"You'll be fine, Miss Waldorf." I wasn't so sure. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver key. "Now before we send you back, we need to be positive that you're sure about this. Altering your history is not some impulsive decision."

"For God's sake, I've plunked down fifty grand to have this done and you still don't think I'm sure?"

"We've seen customers change their minds before. They successfully Revise their lives, then come back later begging us to let them go back. Let me tell you, it's much easier, not to mention cheaper, to fix whatever problems you have in the now rather than flitting back and forth through time."

"No, I'm sure. I've never been surer of anything in my life," I said, raising my chin up to meet his doubtful gaze. "Besides, it's his money I'm spending. It's the least he could do for ruining my life."

My heart twitched with pain as I thought back to that terrible night at the Palace when all hell had broken loose and Chuck Bass had hurled at me words that only a Bass could dish out. We screamed and we threw things and by the time we were through, he had fled our suite and holed himself up in a room at the Empire, while I turned to Audrey and Jacques Torres chocolates for solace.

It was in the middle of one of these post-Roman Holiday sobfests when it occurred to me that only a day before, I had been reading an ad for something called the Revisor. I dug through my wastebasket (in my defense, it was nearly empty) and dialed the fateful number.

My plan was simple; I was going to travel back in time to that cursed moment when I fell in love with the Basstard, use my natural scheming skills to destroy it, then presto! My future would be Bass-free. Foolproof, right?

Only Dorota knew what I was planning on doing, and she had begged me not to do it.

"I know nothing 'bout time, Miss Blair, but I know you no mess it," she had said, wringing her hands nervously. "Meester Chuck come round soon."

Well, I didn't know about that, not that I would ever give him a chance, and I swiftly proceeded to this ReviseIt store.

This Radzinsky man was now unlocking the glass case and pulling out something that glinted in the light. My trained eyes immediately swept over every inch of it before I lowered them in distaste. Despite its gold exterior, everything else about it was disappointingly ugly. The contraption resembled a digital watch, but the date in blinking neon green accompanied the time, and awkwardly large knobs and dials jutted from the sides.

"This--," he said, holding up the watch-like instrument with pride, "--is the latest model of the Revisor." I sniffed and looked down at my wrist where I was expected to wear the thing.

"It doesn't happen to come in silver, does it?"

He ignored me.

"Now, all you need to do is spin this dial here until it reaches the desired date and time, granted you know it," he said, looking up at me. I smiled and reached deep into my oversize handbag, which was filled with every diary I had ever kept—and I kept my diaries religiously—ready for this mission.

"Anything else?" I said impatiently.

"The other knobs fast forward and rewind, pause and play. Very user-friendly," he said, as he affixed the thick straps around my wrist. "And I assume you're aware that while you are Revising, time here passes normally?" I nodded. "And your affairs are in order?"

"My maid is taking care of all of my phone calls and visitors. I'm on an extended trip to Dubai." Hey, I wasn't valedictorian of Constance Billard for nothing.

"Finally, be forewarned that you can only travel back to and change events in your past. You'll find that you are unable to venture into the memories of others unless you yourself were there too."

"I expected that."

"Then you are prepared." He looked at me expectantly, and I knew what I had to do. With slightly trembling fingers, I spun the dial to the date of my first memory, part of me suddenly thinking that this wasn't such a good idea after all. Blair Cornelia Waldorf, Time Traveler. I suddenly imagined what I would look like inside-out; the picture wasn't pretty.

Taking a deep breath, I pressed the largest button on the Revisor, which was also blinking green.

Suddenly, Mr. Radzinsky's face had dissolved into a dizzying blur, melting into the clean whites of the showroom. It was much like looking into a washing machine, as colors and faces from my past swirled and tumbled around me. Faces and bodies spun like images on a pinwheel past my head, which pounded as if a giant invisible hand was squeezing it from above. The combined effect of my rushing surroundings and my aching head forced me on my knees to the ground, clasping my forehead with my hands. Finally, when I felt like screaming for help, thinking something must have gone terribly wrong, my body collided with the ground and I found myself crumpled against the cold marble of my foyer.

September 1, 1997. 10:34 AM.

Getting up, I assessed my bruises with my fingertips, all the while wondering, "What on earth just happened?". Had I fallen from the stairs and just woken up from a dream-filled coma? The muted thud of footsteps emanating from above me erased all thoughts of my bruises as I scrambled to my feet, my black pumps (entirely the wrong shoes to wear while time traveling, let me tell you) clacking against the glossy floor.

"Dorota? Dorota?" a shrill voice called from the top of the stairs. "And don't think I didn't hear you before." Against my better judgment, I stopped in my tracks. The voice sounded like a distant relic of my memory. Could that be…me?

When no response came, the footsteps became increasingly louder as whoever was calling descended the stairs.

"The DVD player isn't working and I want to watch Sabrinaaa." There was no longer any doubt in my mind that it was me. The nature of the demand, along with the whining tone in which it was delivered, was like my trademark, even now. I held my breath as her—my feet hit the marble then came to an abrupt stop.

I looked up and found myself face to face with my five-year-old self, pink headband, white frock, and all. I looked like Little Bo Peep. Grimacing at the sheer ridiculousness of my childhood wardrobe, I instead regarded the wary eyes she was studying me with. Realizing there was no way she'd be able to recognize me, I relaxed.

"I don't know you," Five-Year-Old Me challenged, her tone sharp and biting. "Does my mom know you?"

"I'm…a friend of the family," I said.

"Then why don't I know you?" she replied. For the first time in my life, I cursed my shrewdness.

"I knew you when you were really little."

She was still studying me.

"What's your name?" It was an order. I wondered how many other adults I had ordered around as a child.

"Blair Waldorf."

"You're lying," she said, narrowing her eyes. "You're making fun of me."

"No, no, I'm not. I wouldn't. I'm just—look. This might be shocking and you'll probably never believe it, but I'm you from the future. I'm who you'll be in nineteen years." She placed her hands on her hips. Never a good sign coming from me.

""DOROT—"

"Shut up!" I whispered. "Look at me. Don't I look at least a little bit like you?"

"If that's what I end up looking like, no thanks," Five-Year-Old Me said with the bitchface I had perfected even then. "And I would never wear that dress. The color alone is atrocious." Touché, me.

"My mother, Eleanor Waldorf, designed this dress and FYI, chartreuse is in this season." I shot back before I could stop myself. Immediately after the words left my mouth, I mentally facepalmed myself. I was not about to argue with a younger me, especially not with a five-year-old.

"Regardless," I moved on. "I can prove I'm you." I searched my mind for some of my most intimate secrets at that tender age. "Let's see..I have a birthmark near my armpit. My diary is hidden in the miniature safe underneath my dolls, and the combination is 5429 for Audrey Hepburn's birthday. I have a crush on Nate Archibald—"

"I do not!" Five-Year-Old Me said, blushing scarlet at my last confession.

I fixed her with a knowing look.

"My mom could have told you all of that stuff anyway," she said.

"Then how do you explain this?" I rummaged through my bag until I found the thin diary with the silken cover and gilded pages, my very first diary.

"Hey, that's mine! You stole my diary!" she squealed. Before she could snatch it from me, I flipped through it, revealing that every last page had been filled with shaky, five-year-old handwriting.

I saw her eyes widen as she recognized the handwriting.

"I'm not making this up," I said as calmly as I could. She continued to stare at me for a few moments, as if thinking.

"Okay, what if I believe you. Why are you here then?"

"I want to stop you from making a big mistake, one of the biggest mistakes of your life."

"Which is?"

"Befriending Chuck Bass." She just looked at me, puzzled.

"I don't even know who that is," she said.

"But you will tomorrow on your first day of first grade. You'll meet him, immediately hate him, then come home and write about it. The thing is, Nate won't hate him, and as long as he and Nate are friends, you'll have to put up with him as well.

"That's bad?"

"Of course it is! Everything involving Chuck Bass is disastrous." She still looked confused.

"Disastrous…bad?," I explained, rolling my eyes.

"So I keep Nate from Chuck?"

"Use anything—turn up the charm, generate some rumors, anything you have to do. I'm sure you can manage, or else I wasn't the girl I thought I was."

"You're sure this is going to work?" she said doubtfully. "I'm supposed to be really mean to a stranger just because you told me to?"

"Just…imagine he has super cooties, or whatever people your age are afraid of. Now's your chance to make your move. Be the top of your first grade class."

"Chuck Bass cooties," she said, still sounding less than enthusiastic.

"Trust me, once you meet him, this'll be a piece of cake."

I held up my wrist and located the fast-forward button.

"Wait, where are you going?" YoungerMe said.

"To tomorrow. You think I'm going to stick around to braid your hair while you write about this in your diary?"

"What if I need boy advice?" she said, looking at her feet.

"Just stay away from Chuck. Forever. That's all the boy advice you'll need."

I pressed the fast forward button and everything around me spun again. I faintly recognized the blur of a maid uniform rushing past me before the nausea and dizziness set in. 50 grand well spent, I thought dryly.

When the digital time on the Revisor read 6:00AM, I let go of the button and my surroundings stopped spinning. It took me a while to steady myself, but I quickly snuck out of the penthouse and began walking down the street.

I spent a couple of hours nearly asleep, propped up against a nearby building and trying to avoid the suspicious stares of doormen. It seemed like every single person in the building had come and gone, yet my younger self still hadn't left for school yet. Just when I was considering fast-forwarding again, the glass door swung open and Dorota appeared, stooping slightly in order to walk hand in hand with my younger self. Five-Year-Old Me, wearing my Constance Billard uniform and a headband with an enormous flower, was scanning her surroundings as if I might pop up from behind a car any second. Dorota was cursing under her breath in Polish, occasionally switching to English to reprimand Five-Year-Old Me.

"I not know who you looking for, Miss Blair, but you late for school if we don't hurry."

I made sure she saw me and that she was reminded full and well what I had told her to do. Her mouth hung agape as I waved to her, and she looked like she was about to stop in her tracks, but I furiously gestured at her to keep walking and she reluctantly obliged.

Making sure Dorota wasn't looking, I quickly sped up so that they were within view, not realizing when I neared my building that a black limo had stopped beside me. The door nearly hit me in the stomach.

"Excuse me, do I know you?" came a female voice from within. I was about to retort with a scathing reply, but one look at the face, and I felt suddenly ill.

"Mom?"

A/N: Reviews are always appreciated.