TIME AGENCY FIELD LOG
Agent: Autper
Report Type: Personal History / Assignment Origin
Status: Active
I have been asked to explain how I got here.
I assume “here” means my current situation:
A secret agent with a cardboard box that breaks the laws of time.
A shapeshifter who has no sense of danger.
A blind man who can see the dead.
And a mission involving strange objects that appear throughout history and make reality behave incorrectly.
When written down, it sounds ridiculous.
Unfortunately, it is also accurate.
Before the box, I was normal.
Or as normal as someone working for a secret organization can be.
My job was simple — Observe, Investigate, Report, Do not attract attention.
I was good at it.
People forget the quiet person in the room. They forget the person standing in line behind them. They forget the person sitting at the table who hasn’t said anything for twenty minutes.
That was useful.
Then I found something nobody was supposed to find.
The room was not on any blueprint; I checked it. Twice, I checked it.
You see, headquarters has three basement levels, and the room was below the third. I do say, it all makes my mind fill with static.
I remember standing there with my flashlight, wondering if I had somehow walked into the wrong building. I had not.
The room was empty except for one object.
A cardboard box.
And no, not a special-looking box. That is important.
It was not glowing. It was not floating. It did not have mysterious symbols carved into it.
It looked like something someone would use to move old books or kitchen supplies. Simply made out of cardboard, with a dent in the side and one of the corners held together with tape.
Good heavens, I almost threw it away.
I am glad I didn’t.
I am also slightly annoyed that I didn’t.
Inside the box was a note with three words.
“Time is breaking.”
That was all. No signature and no explanation. No instructions either.
At the time, I assumed someone was attempting to be dramatic.
I have since learned that people who know about time travel rarely explain themselves properly.
The first impossible thing happened the next morning, when I awoke to find that the box was gone.
This was annoying and confusing because I had locked it inside a secure room, one with security footage.
The video tape showed that the room was never opened.
Nobody entered.
The box simply stopped exiting.
Then later it appeared on my desk.
Inside was a newspaper, and the date on it was forty years in the future.
The headline was about an event that had not happened yet, so I reported it.
The agency did not laugh.
That was the moment I became concerned.
After much examination and figuring things out on our own time, they told me the box was a temporal device.
I asked who built it.
They did not know.
I asked why it appeared to me. And of course, they did not know.
I asked why a cardboard box was capable of time travel.
And they told me:
“Agent Autper, if we knew that, you would not be the one investigating it.”
I did not find that reassuring.
The mission was assigned shortly after.
Distorted orbs were appearing throughout history. Well, we all knew that. That’s why the agency was founded in the first place. Many of the orbs were small at first. Then they grew larger.
They were changing things, but not always in obvious ways.
The first occurrence was a person remembering a childhood they never had.
After that one of our operatives found a photograph showing someone who was never born.
The largest by far was the case of a history document that re-wrote a new holiday for a local town into itself.
Although thankfully, time was not being destroyed. It was only being edited.
Badly, I might add.
I was instructed to locate and destroy the orbs, for now we had obtained a time travel machine that only seemed to work for me.
So, at the time, I assumed I would do this alone.
That assumption lasted approximately two days.
The first person I recruited was not someone I would have chosen.
His name was Dart. Yes, that is his actual name.
I asked if it was a nickname.
He told me, “No, but it was almost Knife.”
So I stopped asking questions.
Dart was a shapeshifter who had survived by performing in traveling freak shows. He could become almost anything, which sounds useful until you realize he has terrible humor.
During our first encounter, he turned into a horse to escape danger.
We were indoors, and the horse did not fit, so nobody escaped.
Eventually, he helped us anyway, and the next thing I knew, he was working alongside me. I will admit, a shapeshifter is quite useful to have around.
The second member of the team I didn’t ask for was Rory.
Me and Dart found him in Victorian England.
He was being hunted because people have a terrible tendency to get rid of unusual things.
And Rory was an unusual thing.
Not because of his appearance, although him being albino definitely contributed to his many problems, but because he could see things nobody else could. And he was blind. He could see ghosts.
At first, I thought this would be a problem.
Then I watched him identify an orb because a ghost had warned him about it three days before it appeared.
So I changed my opinion.
The three of us were never supposed to become a team.
There was no training program or no official partnership.
No careful selection process.
It happened because for whatever reason, we kept ending up in the same places.
Eventually, I stopped questioning it.
Our headquarters is currently a small apartment above a bakery.
This was not my choice.
Dart liked the location.
Rory said the ghosts in the nearby library were friendly.
I was outnumbered.
The landlord believes we are ordinary tenants. This is incorrect.
One of us is in a secret society.
One of us changes shape.
One of us talks to ghosts.
Out of our conversations, I am considered the normal one.
I am not sure how I feel about that.
The official report says I am an experienced agent leading a specialized team against a temporal threat.
That is technically true.
The less official version is:
I found a damaged cardboard box and the box gave me a job and the job gave me two strange friends.
Now we fix mistakes in time while trying to keep the bakery downstairs from noticing anything unusual.
So far, we have failed at the last part.
End Report.
— Agent Autper
Status: Active.
Additional note: Dart has requested that future reports mention he is “mysterious and cool.”
I have declined.
Autper’s Field Log: Assignment 02
TIME AGENCY FIELD LOG
Agent: Autper
Report Type: Mission Summary / Temporal Incident
Status: Active
I have been asked to explain what happened after the previous report. I will do so, although I would prefer not to.
The cardboard box activated again. This is becoming a habit I do not appreciate.
It rattled once, made a noise similar to a disgruntled door squeak, and produced a slip of paper with a date and location:
1985 — Traveling Circus, Pennsylvania. Anomaly Detected. Do not interact with performers.
I would like to note that the last instruction was ignored almost immediately.
Arrival
Time travel via cardboard box is not graceful. We landed behind a popcorn stand. Dart landed on the popcorn stand. Rory landed in a pile of hay. I myself (obviously being the most professional) landed on my feet, only stumbling a bit of course.
The circus was loud, bright, and smelled like funnel cake and sawdust. The orb was somewhere inside the main tent, and unfortunately, so were hundreds of people.
Our plan was simple:
Blend in.
Locate orb.
Destroy orb.
Leave before anyone asked questions.
Dart insisted he could “blend in perfectly.” This was incorrect.
And then we encountered the clown.
We stumbled upon her while attempting to enter the tent unnoticed.
She had green hair, blue stars painted around her eyes, and bells stitched into her clown collar.
Her nametag said Henchly.
She looked at us, tilted her head, and said, “You’re not from around here, are ya’s?”
Her voice sounded like she inhaled pixie dust at some point in her life. Geez, what a metaphor that is.
Right, I must stay on track;
I froze. Rory tilted his head. Dart raised an eyebrow.
Henchly blinked at him, placing her hands on her hips and smiling.
I tried to redirect the conversation. “Ma’am, we are simply here to enjoy the show.”
She leaned forward, squinting at me as though reading a very small instruction manual printed on my forehead.
“Mm-hm. Well, don’t cause trouble. The Ringmaster hates trouble. Hehe! Oh! And the orb is making the elephants nervous.”
She walked away, the bells stitched into her ruffled collar tinkling as she walked.
I would like to emphasize that she said this casually, as though discussing the weather.
The Show
The orb was perched on a platform near the center ring, disguised as a decorative sphere. It pulsed faintly, distorting the air around it. Rory whispered that three ghosts were yelling at it, which meant it was definitely dangerous.
Our plan required stealth. Dart sadly did not understand stealth.
Before I could stop him, he volunteered to be part of the show.
He did this by walking directly up to the Ringmaster and saying, “Hello, I am a talented shapeshifter who can do tricks.”
The Ringmaster, who had a mustache large enough to qualify as a separate organism, clapped his hands and said, “Wonderful! You’re on in five minutes!”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and considered quitting my job.
The Performance
Dart was introduced as “The Amazing Transformo,” which he insisted was not his idea. He transformed into a tiger, then a bicycle, then a black unicorn with an orange mane. he had performed like this throughout his life without raising much suspicion by standing on the stage, just as he was, and then two stage hands would run past with a curtian. of course, when he was behind the curtian for the short five seconds it was in front of him, he would change into anything he thought would be amusing.
The audience looked dumbfounded. but after a few seconds of processing they applauded.
This distraction was useful, although I refuse to admit that to him.
While the crowd was focused on Dart prancing around the stage as a unicorn, Rory guided me toward the orb. He said the ghosts were shouting warnings along the lines of “Don’t touch it.” and “It might rewrite your memories.”
I did not want to know what that meant.
I used the temporal disruptor — a device that looked like a stapler but acted much more like a taser and had a hidden button on the bottom — and pressed it against the orb.
The orb cracked, flickered, and dissolved into static.
The air snapped back into place.
Somewhere behind us, Dart turned into a fire hydrant and the audience cheered again. After all that, we exited quickly. Henchly spotted us on the way out and waved.
“Good job,” she said. “Next time, try not to be so magical!!”
I did not ask what that meant.
The box activated, pulling us back to the present. Dart was still shaped like a fire hydrant when we arrived in the apartment. Rory said the ghosts were proud of us.
I sat down at the table and attempted to process everything.
I failed.
End Report.
— Agent Autper
Status: Active.
Additional note: when visiting the library in town this evening, the air felt colder than usual when I remembered that there was a ghost haunting the place that I was not acquainted with yet.
[Non-Log Entry]
The following is a reconstructed account of an ordinary day for the trio.
The bakery downstairs had closed hours ago, and the apartment was quiet except for the rain tapping against the windows.
Dart was asleep on the couch.
Rory was sitting at the kitchen table, staring with his lifeless red eyes toward the hallway.
Autper made tea.
He made three cups.
He stopped.
There were only two of them awake.
He stared at the third cup for a moment before setting it down anyway.
Rory did not look at him, but seemed to notice.
“You do that a lot,” he remarked.
“Do what?”
“Make things for people who aren't here.”
Autper's hands went still.
“I don't know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
Silence.
Rain against the glass.
Rory reached for the third cup.
He wrapped both hands around it.
“Sometimes I forget,” he said quietly.
“Forget what?”
“That I'm actually here.”
Autper looked at him.
Rory's eyes remained unfocused.
“Back then, I had quite a lot of trouble because of the… Well, because of the way I am. And when people found out I could see ghosts, they stopped treating me like a person entirely.”
His fingers tightened around the mug.
“They'd ask me what the dead wanted. Who they'd seen. What they knew.”
He smiled faintly.
“Nobody asked what I wanted.”
Autper sat down.
Neither spoke for a while.
Then Autper quietly pushed the sugar bowl toward him.
Rory tilted his head. “Is that sugar?”
“Yeah.”
“I don't take sugar.”
“Okay.”
Rory smiled.
A real one this time.
From the couch came a sleepy voice.
“You two having an emotional moment without me?”
Autper closed his eyes.
“Go back to sleep, Dart.”
“Can't what with you two idiots yapping.”
Dart sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“What's happening?”
“Nothing,” Autper said.
Dart looked between them.
Then he got up, walked over, and pulled out the empty chair.
This is not a permanent ban. It is a temporary ban until we determine whether the fire was caused by cooking, shapeshifting, or deliberate sabotage.
Dart claims the oven “started it.”
The oven is from 1983 and cannot speak for itself.
Rory says that the pantry makes human-like voices that are barely audible. He says it usually happens at night. He has been saying this for three days. I checked the pantry, and then the walls. Years of doing what I do has made me too paranoid not to check the walls. There was no ghost, and no distortions, only some dust, a dead beetle, and a mousetrap that had been left there for probably 30 years untouched.
Rory apologized to the beetle.
At 09:40, the normal site loaded by itself.
100% a normal sight. Nothing suspicious.
The words were all in lowercase.
The Adumbrates have invented a code, which in the beginning I had written down on an index card that I kept with me at all times, but by now it had been engraved into my memory.
All lowercase letters meant that the message was sent by someone frightened.
In the spaces between the words there was a code with coordinates. I ran them through an old cipher program, then through a second cipher program, then through the calculator because I started to suspect the computer was mocking me.
The coordinates pointed to our apartment.
Specifically, the pantry.
I told Rory.
He said, “Ah, that makes sense. It’s still there.”
I said, “A ghost?”
He said, “No. The thing wearing a ghost’s voice.”
Dart overheard us from the other room where he was getting ready to go to a bingo game being held at the library. He immediately turned into a crow and flew into the room we were in.
He perched on the faucet of the sink and tilted his head, looking at both of us.
I ended up investigating further into the pantry. I eventually found that there was a distortion behind a pickle jar. Small. Marble sized. Oval. Pulsing faintly. It had been growing there for approximately six hours. The plaster around it was damp, although there are no pipes in that wall.
Dart, still in the form of a crow, flew in, the containment device in his beak.
I reached for it, and the pantry door slammed shut.
Dart jumped, ruffling his feathers.
He landed on my head, changed into a severed hand, and grabbed my ear.
I hit him with the containment device.
He fell to the floor, flopping around before turning back into himself. There was a flash of light (which happens when he transforms) and I am 96% sure I heard him call me a fascist during it.
I told him that was historically inaccurate and personally irritating. His eyelids drooped, giving his face a dry, unimpressed look.
Then the distortion opened.
For two seconds, I could see the bakery downstairs. Not as it is now. As it was, I'm guessing forty years ago. Different ovens. Different workers. A teenage girl standing behind the counter, filling out an order for an old woman.
Rory, from behind the door, gave a polite knock.
“Wait your turn pal,” Dart shouted at him. “You'll be jake a few minutes without us.”
Dart had become almost accustomed to speaking the way people do normally today, but I’d like to note I find it amusing when slang only he understands slips out.
On that topic, the most surprising thing to me was how easily Rory adapted and dropped the 1800s manner of speech. Well, I'm not actually sure if he has or not; he barely talks in full sentences anyway. But I must note his British accent is permanent.
I grabbed the containment device that looked like a stapler, and closed the distortion.
The kitchen went silent.
Rory knocked again. “Are you two quite alright in there?”
“Fine! Just peachy, really,” Dart replied.
He was still sitting on the floor.
He stood up, turned to me and asked if we should move.
I said no.
He asked if we should at least get rid of the pantry.
I said that wasn’t how architecture worked.
Rory opened the door. He held his white cane in one hand, and looked half curious, half concerned.
“‘Sup bro,” Dart said casually, straightening his leather jacket.
Rory gave him a nod.
I looked at the wall for a moment. “I'm going to get my log book,” I said, before exiting.
Rory placed his hand on the wall.
“Mhm.”
He said, and then left, without saying anything else.
I have spent the last four hours checking the apartment for breaches. The windows are locked. The doors are locked. The box is at the agency. The normal site is offline.
Dart is currently at his bingo game. He said it would have to do until he could find a proper gambling group.
Rory has decided to spend his evening sharpening all the kitchen knives.
I am in the kitchen writing this entry.
Sometime in the next hour I am expecting a message from the Adumbrates about that box.
Until then, Autper out.
Dart — 1957
The trouble with Dart was that he had never learned how to be ordinary.
Not that he had ever particularly wanted to.
At twenty-one, he had already developed the sort of reputation that usually took a man twice his age and considerably more stupidity to earn. He gambled when he had money, gambled when he didn't, got into fights when somebody annoyed him, and occasionally got into fights when nobody had annoyed him at all. He had a talent for finding trouble in perfectly harmless rooms.
He also had a talent for leaving those rooms looking like somebody else.
That particular trick was one he kept to himself.
Dart sat sideways in a cracked wooden chair in the back room of a cheap hotel, boots propped against the radiator. Smoke curled lazily toward the stained ceiling from the cigarette hanging between his fingers.
The room smelled of old wallpaper, cold coffee, and something burning.
Dart glanced toward the little tin wastebasket.
A corner of yesterday's newspaper had caught fire.
"Huh."
He watched it burn.
Then he leaned forward, grabbed the wastebasket, and dumped the whole thing into the sink.
"Problem solved."
It wasn't.
The newspaper continued burning.
Dart stared at it.
"You're a stubborn bastard."
He turned on the tap.
Water hissed over the flames.
That finally did it.
He sat back down.
His reflection stared back at him from the little mirror above the sink: orange and black hair hanging in a messy mullet, brown eyes, freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. His expression was permanently halfway between bored and amused.
He smiled.
One sharp fang poked noticeably past his other teeth.
"Still handsome."
The room remained silent.
"Don't argue."
It was just after midnight.
Outside, 1957 rolled past his window in headlights and cigarette smoke. Cars rumbled down the street. Somewhere below, a radio played faintly through a wall.
Dart had been renting this room for almost a year.
Renting was the respectable word for it.
The landlord preferred "tenant."
Dart preferred "place I haven't been thrown out of yet."
He had no official job. No steady employer. No family he spoke to.
He made money wherever he could.
Mostly, that meant freak shows.
It was honest enough.
Well.
Honest-ish.
The traveling shows were full of people claiming to be impossible. Men who could swallow swords. Women who supposedly had hypnotic eyes. People covered in tattoos, people with unusual bodies, people who performed tricks that made an audience gasp and immediately reach for their wallets.
Dart fit right in.
Because nobody questioned a miracle if you called it a trick.
He had discovered that when he was thirteen.
He'd walked into a carnival tent, disappeared behind a curtain, and walked out as a completely different person.
Nobody had noticed.
Or, rather, everybody had noticed.
They simply thought the carnival had put on a particularly good show.
Dart had learned something important that night.
People believed what they wanted to believe.
That had been useful.
It had also kept him alive.
Because shapeshifting wasn't something he'd learned from a book.
He'd been doing it since he was little.
At first, it had been accidents.
A hand becoming too large.
His face changing when he was frightened.
His skin turning the wrong color.
Once, when he was seven, he'd woken up with somebody else's face.
His mother had screamed.
His father had hit him.
Dart had spent the rest of the day hiding in a cupboard, trying desperately to become himself again.
He had eventually managed it.
He never told anyone.
Not after that.
Not ever.
Over the years, he'd practiced.
A finger.
An arm.
His whole face.
His height.
His voice.
His clothes.
Eventually, everything.
Anything.
A dog.
A bird.
A chair.
A stranger.
A shadow.
Once, for the sheer novelty of it, he'd turned himself into a telephone.
He'd stayed that way for eleven minutes before deciding it was boring.
There seemed to be no real limit.
That was the frightening part.
Dart didn't know what he was.
He had stopped caring.
Questions were dangerous.
Answers were worse.
A knock sounded at his door.
Dart's eyes shifted toward it.
Three knocks.
Pause.
Two more.
He sighed.
"If that's the landlord, I'm dead."
He opened the door.
A broad man stood in the hallway.
Dart recognized him immediately.
Not by name.
By the nose.
It was the same nose Dart had punched earlier that evening.
The man's nose was now swollen purple.
Dart looked at it.
Then at him.
Then back at the nose.
"Oh."
The man frowned.
"You."
"Me."
"You broke my nose."
Dart leaned against the doorframe.
"I improved it."
The man's fist came flying.
Dart ducked.
The punch slammed into the door.
Dart grinned.
"Missed."
The man swung again.
This time Dart caught his wrist.
For half a second, his fingers weren't fingers anymore.
They stretched.
Long, black, almost skeletal.
The man froze.
Dart froze too.
Then his hand snapped back to normal.
The man stared.
Dart smiled.
"Bad lighting."
"What?"
"Hallway light's bad."
"You—"
Dart headbutted him.
The man dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Dart looked down.
"See?"
He stepped over him.
"Problem solved."
Then he paused.
He looked at his hand.
For just a moment, the fingers twitched strangely.
He flexed them.
Normal.
Good.
Nobody had seen.
At least, nobody who mattered.
Dart shut the door.
Then he locked it.
Then he locked the second lock.
Then he sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the floor.
His expression had changed.
The joking part of him had disappeared.
He hated being reminded.
Hated the feeling that somebody might notice.
Because he remembered what happened when people noticed.
The shouting.
The hands.
The fear.
The questions.
What are you?
He had never known how to answer.
So he had learned something else.
Lie.
Lie well.
Lie casually.
Lie until people got bored.
Dart stood.
He walked to the window.
Below, the street glittered beneath the lamps.
A neon sign flickered red across the road.
He opened the window.
Cold air rushed inside.
Dart climbed onto the sill.
Then he smiled.
"Why walk?"
His body folded.
Bones shifted beneath skin.
His shoulders narrowed.
His arms stretched.
His fingers became hooked.
Black feathers spread across his skin.
Within seconds, there was no young man standing on the windowsill.
There was a crow.
The bird tilted its head.
Brown eyes looked out from beneath its feathers.
Then it launched itself into the night.
Dart flew over the rooftops.
For a few minutes, there was no hotel.
No landlord.
No fights.
No family.
No questions.
Just wind.
He circled above the city, passing over glowing signs and black chimneys, watching cars crawl beneath him like beetles.
Then something caught his attention.
A fire.
Three blocks away.
Not a fireplace.
Not a cigarette.
A building was burning.
Dart banked toward it.
People crowded the street below.
Firemen shouted.
Smoke rolled through the upper windows.
Dart landed on a rooftop across from the burning building.
He watched.
His eyes narrowed.
There was somebody still inside.
A silhouette moved behind a second-floor window.
Dart glanced around.
Nobody was watching him.
Good.
He stepped off the roof.
Halfway down, he changed.
The crow became a bat.
The bat became a cat.
The cat became a man.
Dart landed hard on the second-floor ledge.
He coughed through the smoke.
"Terrific."
The window shattered beneath his elbow.
He climbed inside.
A little girl was crouched beneath a table.
Dart looked at her.
She looked at him.
"Are you a fireman?"
Dart glanced down at himself.
His clothes were singed.
His hair was a mess.
He had a cut over his eyebrow.
"No."
"Then who are you?"
Dart grinned.
"Nobody important."
He picked her up.
The ceiling groaned.
Dart looked upward.
"Oh, that's bad."
He ran.
A beam crashed down behind them.
He jumped through the window.
For one impossible second, they fell.
Then Dart changed.
His arms became wings.
His body shrank.
The little girl suddenly found herself being carried by something large, black, and feathered.
She screamed.
Dart flapped furiously.
"Quit yelling!"
She screamed louder.
"Fine!"
He dropped her onto a lower awning, changed back into himself, and rolled onto the pavement beside her.
Firemen rushed over.
People shouted.
Someone asked Dart what he'd done.
Dart sat up.
His hair was smoking.
He pointed at the building.
"Uh..."
He looked at the girl.
Then at the crowd.
Then back at the burning building.
"Smoke and mirrors?"
Nobody laughed.
Dart sighed.
"Right. Bad joke."
He got to his feet.
The little girl grabbed his sleeve.
"Thank you."
Dart looked down at her.
For once, he didn't have a smart answer.
So he shrugged.
"Yeah."
He walked away before anybody could ask questions.
Half a block later, he stopped.
He looked back.
The firefighters were still working.
The crowd had grown.
Nobody seemed to be looking for him.
Dart smiled faintly.
Then he reached into his pocket.
A small silver knife glinted beneath the streetlamp.
He flipped it open.
Closed it.
Opened it.
Closed it.
A nervous habit.
Or maybe just something he enjoyed.
He slipped it away.
Then he continued walking.
Tomorrow, there would be another freak show.
Another crowd.
Another lie.
Maybe another fight.
Maybe some cards.
Maybe a bottle of cheap whiskey if his winnings were good.
And, if the night got interesting enough, perhaps something else entirely.
Dart shoved his hands into his coat pockets.
He grinned at the empty street.
1957 was going to be a hell of a year.
And nobody—not a single soul—was going to find out what he really was.
Autper — Personal Log: Meetings and Other Things
PERSONAL LOG // AUTPER
Classification: Private
Date: [REDACTED]
Location: Adumbrate Headquarters / Apartment Above the Bakery
Subject: Another Meeting
I had another meeting with the heads today.
I dislike meetings.
This is not new information.
The meeting room was cold.
It is always cold.
I have asked why.
Nobody has ever given me an answer.
I suspect there isn't one.
The heads were already there when I arrived. Six of them, with the same table and the same chairs as last time. And of course there was that same feeling that I had accidentally walked into a funeral and everyone was waiting for me to realize whose funeral it was.
The oldest head gestured for me to sit.
I sat.
He didn't say anything for a while.
Neither did I.
Eventually I asked, "What did I do?"
"You assume you've done something," said 01, looking up, his hands folded on the table, raising an eyebrow at me.
I feel the need to explain how our system works. We have six people in charge of the whole agency, known as “the heads.” And then we have two of the six in charge of the other four. Those two have real names, yes, but here they are simply known as “01” and “02.”
I folded my arms. "I've been summoned. I have all the right to assume any number of things."
"That doesn't mean you've done something," 01 said. It seemed that he was almost amused.
"It usually does." I said, letting my shoulders relax just by an inch.
He considered this, his eyes staring thoughtfully at the ceiling fan.
He looked back at me.
"Fair."
That was not very encouraging.
------------------------------------------------
As expected, the topic was the box again.
Not a box—the box.
The one I pulled from the basement’s basement at least four months ago.
They had it in the middle of the table. It hummed quietly, like a trapped insect.
They planned to study it “incrementally”—bureaucratic code for “we have no idea what it is, but we’re going to poke it anyway.”
I’d been around it long enough, so I suggested caution. They agreed.
01 told me to take this seriously.
I do.
I always do.
The talk turned to the distortions. Thankfully they remain much the same. Nothing has really changed with the orbs; they pose no great threat for now. Some have grown more distorted, yes, but still, that only seems to happen when they are provoked.
The heads sent for one to be brought in. The agency has studied them since we first learned how to contain them.
From my seat the fractures of light around it felt crowded, as if someone else were stepping through them, just out of sight. The heads admitted—vaguely, reluctantly—that other time travelers probably exist. We just haven’t met them yet.
Later, upon hearing this information, Rory said he hopes they’re friendly. Dart said he hopes they’re cool. I said I hope they’re not going to be more people for me to deal with.
02 looked up from her binder. She pushed her glasses up and stated that she would instruct every operative to watch for signs of other travelers. They have to exist. If we met one we could learn from them, maybe recruit them, and find a way for agents besides me and my two companions to travel. The distortions are minor now. If they worsen, I may not be able to do it alone.
------------------------------------------------
Dart was waiting outside.
He was sitting cross-legged on the floor.
It seemed that he had apparently gotten bored.
"How bad?" he said, closing his pocket knife that he was fiddling with.
"Fine."
"Oh, geez man, you're not getting fired, are you?"
His tone implied sarcasm.
"No, stupid."
"Ah, shame."
Rory was leaning against the wall beside him.
He did not look at me, or turn his head when he spoke.
"What happened?"
I shrugged and proceeded to tell them about the meeting. I didn’t say everything of course. I left out the boring business meeting stuff. I'm not sure why. Rory usually loves listening to me ramble.
When I was finished, Dart stood up.
"So we're going home?"
"Yes."
"Good."
------------------------------------------------
The apartment above the bakery smelled like warm bread when we got back.
It often does.
I got to thinking as I was walking up the stairs today. It's probably the least secure residence belonging to a secret society in history.
There are three apartments.
Ours is the one at the end of the hall. It has three separate bedrooms, and a countertop with a sink that was also in the room with a couch. No carpet.
Dart dropped his jacket on the couch.
Rory took off his vest.
I put the stack of paperwork I was meant to fill out on my desk.
Nobody mentioned the meeting again.
This was deliberate.
We have become good at that, because conversations got so horribly boring when they were just revolving around work, even if one’s job was being an operative of a secret society.
------------------------------------------------
I was sitting on the couch with my laptop when Dart walked in with a deck of cards.
"Poker, anyone?"
"No," Rory said. He was sitting at the counter, reading a book of braille that I had found for him at the library a few days ago.
"And why’s why?" Dart said, leaning on the hallway doorframe and raising an eyebrow.
"Because you cheat," Rory said flatly.
"Hey, I do not," Dart said, sounding mock-offended.
Rory took his hands off of the book, looking amused.
“Look here good sir, I do not even have to possess my sight to tell such of you.”
"Damn, you got me there," Dart said, smiling and moving over to join me on the couch.
Rory turned his head to stare in our general direction. His red eyes were unfocused, and shaking back and forth faintly. He was smiling as well.
“Yes, yes, but even with us knowing this you would still lose.”
Dart looked offended.
"Hey man, that's irrelevant."
I closed my laptop.
"Two person spoons?"
Rory looked at the wall near me.
"Ah, quite so."
Then he went back to his book.
"Apparently," I said lightly, getting up and grabbing a single spoon from the silverware drawer.
Spoons was a personal favorite of mine when it came to card games. Although, it was way more fun when you were in a whole group of people, and not just one on one with an easily excited shapeshifter.
Dart smiled, pulling out a chair at the countertop and sitting across from me.
“Hey, how about we add a little buzz and play with a kitchen knife.”
“What makes you think I would want to do that?” I said, beginning to shuffle the cards.
“You’re the one who practically forced me to play in the first place, not like I want to be here.”
I enjoyed every minute.
------------------------------------------------
We played for about an hour.
Surprisingly, Dart didn’t cheat, and somehow, Rory knew as well.
Not to brag, but I won three rounds.
And so, as is his nature, Dart accused me of cheating.
I reminded him that I had not been the dealer yet.
"That's exactly what a cheater would say," Dart grumbled.
"I don't think that's how evidence works."
"It is now."
Rory laughed.
The bakery downstairs closed around nine.
After that, the apartment became very quiet.
We could still hear the refrigerators humming downstairs, and the pipes clicked on occasion. Someone outside was walking past, with a dog.
For a little while, it felt like a normal apartment.
Three friends playing cards.
Nothing strange.
Nothing supernatural.
Nothing dangerous.
I liked it, I will admit.
------------------------------------------------
Eventually Rory started yawning.
Dart noticed.
"You tired, eh?"
"No."
"You just yawned though."
"Need I remind you, I can yawn whilst awake."
“Sure pal.”
Rory stood.
"But, I am going to bed."
Dart nodded.
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
He disappeared down the hallway.
Dart gathered the cards.
"You okay?"
I looked up at him.
I didn’t realize that I was picking at my nails.
"Oh, yeah. I'm fine."
He gave me a look.
I have never understood how he can do that.
He doesn't have to say anything.
He just looks at you until lying becomes exhausting.
"Well, I'm tired," I said.
"That's not what I asked."
I didn't answer.
Dart shuffled the cards.
"Okay."
He didn't push.
I appreciated that.
------------------------------------------------
That night, I couldn't sleep.
So I went for a walk.
Alone, of course.
The streets were mostly empty.
I left the apartment without telling either of them, because both of them were asleep by now.
A small town at night is a whole different feeling.
During the day, everything feels occupied.
At night, the empty spaces become noticeable.
I walked past the bakery.
The sign was still glowing.
I walked past the corner store.
A man was smoking outside.
I walked past a bus stop where nobody was waiting.
Nothing happened.
That was nice.
I kept walking, and eventually I found myself beside the river. So I sat on a bench.
The water was black at night, and there were lights reflected in it.
I stayed there for nearly an hour, just by the water with the sounds of cars in the distance, and crickets.
Eventually I stood up and went home.
When I got back, the apartment was dark.
Dart had left a glass of water on the kitchen counter, and the ceiling fan was still on.
I brushed my teeth, then I checked the locks, then I went to my room.
Tomorrow, I'll go back to work.
Or we will be time traveling again.
Or something else entirely will happen.
I'm not sure.
— Autper
Personal Log — October 2007
AGENT AUTPER
CLASSIFICATION: MINE. DON’T READ IT.
(the usual year we are in — our main timeline)
I received a message from the Adumbrates last night at 4:13. I’m usually up at that time; I’m a morning person I suppose.
It was not an email. Not a pop-up. A webpage I had open simply refreshed, and the sentence—
100% a normal sight. Nothing suspicious.
came up on the screen.
It had one extra space between normal and sight.
I checked the source code. There was a second message hidden in the page background.
ORBITAL DISTORTION LOCATED. CONTAINMENT FAILURE IMMINENT. SOLO OPERATIVE REQUIRED.
They always say “solo operative” when they mean “we have no idea what we’re doing and don’t want witnesses.”
I took the box from beneath the sink. The bakery downstairs had started making something with cinnamon, so the entire apartment smelled like burnt sugar but in the best way possible. Dart was asleep on the sofa with one arm turned into a lamp. I looked at him; it’s quite easy to forget that he possesses shapeshifting abilities. Rory was sitting beside the window. I was not sure if he was sleeping while sitting up, or was awake. Or maybe in a trance or something… I’m getting sidetracked again. That’s why this is a personal log. I can get sidetracked as much as I want.
I left a note for them saying I was leaving taped to the door.
The box sent me to an alleyway. It was cold, and dark. The only light was a streetlamp, and it felt very much like a place where someone could get mugged. The cold air smelled like wet pavement.
I had no idea what year I was in, or where in the world I was. It did not take me long to find out though because I looked up and saw a poster on the wall opposite me. It appeared that I was behind a video rental shop, in the year 1985. It started to rain.
I remembered being in this year before, but past reminiscences were at the very least of my priorities at the moment. I checked my equipment, and found that the distortion was inside a pay phone.
I found it because the phone rang.
I walked over to it, thankful to get out of the rain, and even more so that no people were around. When I got inside, it was still ringing. So I answered and the voice on the other end said, “You’re late.”
I said, “You’re a phone.”
It dissolved into static. Looking back, this was very disturbing. I really hope nothing that was previously not sentient is gaining sentience out of this. Or maybe it’s just me overthinking. Either way, it’s no longer a problem because I contained the orb in the end.
I was about to do so, when from across the parking lot, I saw a person. At first, I was going to brush it off, and keep working, but then I recognized her.
It was the clown girl I was so unfortunate to encounter two weeks ago. She waved at me, and came rushing over.
“Hey! Howdy! I know you!”
…great.
She had the same green hair, the same blue stars painted on her face, and the same expression people get when they’re about to ruin my evening for entertainment. I think she told me her name once, but I had forgotten it already.
She grinned.
I hung up the phone.
The phone rang again.
So, I punched it.
The distortion came out.
It looked like a fist-sized hole punched through the air, completely black, with a thin line of dark orange light around it. The clown girl skidded to a stop in the wet parking lot beside me.
“Gee willikers, what is that thing anyway?”
“Excuse me,” I said, trying to play it cool. “Do I know you?”
I did not want an answer, but I got one. She clearly did not grow up with siblings, because my tone was unbearably obvious. Or maybe she was a youngest child… anyway, she perked up; “Of course ya do buddy boy! It’s me, Henchly the Squeaky! I’m working on the name.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Okay, yes, that’s lovely. Now, please leave me alone.”
She threw a knife at the distortion. The knife disappeared. Then she threw another one. It’s embarrassing, but it took me a hot second to realize that they were toys.
I told her to stop, and she did.
“Fine, I’ll go,” she said, sounding a bit more like an adult.
“Thank you.”
I replied as I watched her go. Then, I turned back to my work. It didn’t take me long before the distortion was contained. I turned to go myself, and that was when I heard the police sirens…
It couldn’t have been because of the distortion; they would have had no idea, and they wouldn’t be sounding the sirens in the middle of the night for a broken phone? Whatever the reason, I slipped behind a car, and backed down the alleyway, breaking into a sprint.
And guess what, Henchly decided to run after me.
Then a brown sedan turned down the alleyway and followed us. I assumed it was either the police or someone who was too curious for their own good. Soon though I found out it was a car full of a few local gangsters. And suddenly, the police sirens made sense.
The next thing I knew, we stole a station wagon. She drove. I held the box in my lap and tried not to think about the fact that I was not driving.
She hit a mailbox.
Then a parked truck.
Then a person who fortunately turned out to be a cardboard cutout for a furniture store.
The brown sedan began to speed behind us, and soon, the police were there as well.
Henchly laughed the entire time.
I considered opening the door and letting her fall out. I did not, because I’m apparently still a decent person, which at times, has become inconvenient.
We lost the sedan near a shopping mall. The box was still in my lap and I had my arms wrapped tightly around it. I’m quite good at keeping calm, thankfully. Secret agents have to be, and for all I cared this was just another rock in the sea. I still regret punching the phone though, but it did the job.
We slowed to a stop behind the mall. Henchly leaned against the inside of the door and wiped blood from her cheek.
“Was that fun?” she asked.
“No.”
“You’re smiling.”
“It’s a facial injury.”
“Okay, okay. Sure.” She smiled. “It was good to see you again.”
She stuck out her hand, and I shook it. There was now glitter on me.
“Same to you I suppose. Nice doing business with you.”
We got out of the car, and we both stared at it.
“Hmm… I think I was a bit reckless,” she said halfheartedly.
I sighed. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it.”
Later, at the Adumbrates headquarters, I filed a regular log. The vice president of the agency, whom I will not name here, wanted to talk to me. She took me to the back room, and we had a very long conversation about the box that went over the same things a lot. In the end, I left it at the agency. It needs to be studied more.
That concludes this entry I guess. I am writing this from the open window of my room. There is no moon tonight.
The distortion is contained. Adumbrates paid for the car. Henchly is somewhere in 1985.
I’m going to sleep now.
If I wake up and the apartment is on fire, I’m going back to 1985.
