Chapter Two

Transitioning back to the station, I saw an envelope on my desk from End of the World Department. I deactivated my scarab's restriction engram, and tried to suppress a sigh of relief as the back of my skull began knitting back together. My vision sharpened, and I could make out the familiar pastel rose crest seal on EWD's missive. Contemplating whether or not I should modify my scarab to deal with stress headaches, I studied my shoes for a moment, and then headed to the water cooler.

I was still a bit disheveled, and the other agents on break took nonverbal note without missing a beat of their conversation. The arena had fallen out of favor as a topic about six months ago, because there are just too many leagues to keep track of, so they were talking about sporting events in the city. One of the schools had unexpectedly trounced their rival in something I figured was not too far removed from American football. When I got "hired," the station had a policy against promoting overly-gendered people to field agent status. Most of the night shift staff were veterans, and so it wasn't shocking that the ladies were holding up most of the conversation.

Nodding and smiling sympathetically, offering condolences for another agent's fantasy league, I thought about the station's new hiring practices. Word had come down from the top that anyone scoring in-or-above the 98th percentile on the Gender Normativity Index could be temporarily deputized to field agent pay grade for long term deep cover assignments. I thought about steering the conversation in that direction, but feared the obviousness of my association chain would make it awkward. Resigning myself to a nonthreatening conversation about unfamiliar sports, I reached for a conical paper cup.

I must've zoned out at some point, because the next thing I noticed was everyone looking at me expectantly. Agent JN was saying something about "Agent Christian" and I realized she had been talking to me. I reflexively looked down at the press badge I was still wearing. I looked at her. "What?" I asked, with what I sincerely assumed was a confident and attentive attitude. Slowly, and in measured tones, JN repeated, "Shouldn't you be heading to a debriefing or something?" Blinking, I nodded. I crumpled the tiny, conical, paper cup in my hand, sunk it in someone else's round file without looking, swung by the lounge to steal an apple from the fridge, and headed to my Section Head's office.

Pretty Miki was in his tiny office, behind his desk, with his chair swiveled around. The back of his chair was high enough I couldn't be sure he was sitting in it, but I sat down across from him anyway. Three perfectly transparent windows in the far wall looked out over the station floor. We were three and a half stories up, near the vaulted brickwork ceiling. I could see a lot of activity down there, typical for a night shift. Third rails were crackling blue with electricity, wormholes flared open-and-shut in that way nobody can ever quite remember, and klaxons blared as particularly unlucky technicians were extinguished and swept into dust bins by tiny robots. I imagined I could smell the ozone from up here. I adjusted myself uncomfortably in his guest chair, fighting against its low back and narrow armrests in hopes of achieving a comfortable position.

Pretty Miki swiveled his chair around, and I envied him for that chair. Cushioned armrests, high back, pleather upholstery, wheels, and – of course – the ability to silently swivel. Truly, it was a chair worthy of a Section Head. Clicking two buttons on his ever-present stopwatch, Pretty Miki put his feet up on the desk between us. He brushed his neon blue hair away from his neon blue eyes and stared at me. "And so," he said. The silence was not comfortable.

"I can explain," I lied, wondering how much extemporaneous lying I would have to do in the next few minutes of my life.

Pretty Miki waved his right hand dismissively. "Psh," he said. He still held the stopwatch in his left hand, and I could see it was counting backwards from a very, very large number of days. He leaned forward. "Did you get your letter from End of the World?"

I scratched the back of my head. "Yeah..." Silence quickly continued its failure to comfort me. "J9 went completely bonkers back there. This guy, Ryan? I'm somehow pretty sure his name was Ryan, anyway. Funny, the things one remembers, am I right? He jumped in, or she would've killed me. Everything got kinda blammy kinda suddenly, so I followed procedure as best I could, but with the local police showing up so rapidly-"

"Let me stop you right there," Pretty Miki interrupted. I glanced at the sword he kept in the corner behind his chair. Straight, black scabbard with a golden cap. Equally-golden basket hilt, with a blood-red tassel hanging from the pommel. If the rumors were true, he'd never drawn it on a failed Agent. If the rumors were true, the swords he pulled out of them were more worrisome. Stupid rumors, passed down to keep the rookies in line. I wasn't a rookie anymore. Pretty Miki continued, "That was Ryan Goodwin."

My heart sank into my stomach. I started to drift away from my body. My mouth was suddenly and completely dry. "Yeah?" is all I think I whispered.

"Yeah," Pretty Miki confirmed, with a slight drawl. "Ryan Goodwin was going to be Chance Goodwin's great-grandfather. Due to the… rather unexpected nature of your actions today, as well as Agent J9's erratic behavior, the timeline for the preceding series of events has been irrevocably altered."

I became keenly aware of the emptiness of my shoulder holster. When had I taken my sidearm out? Had I left it somewhere? No, that wasn't possible.

"Ryan Goodwin is now going to be Chance Goodwin's father. The city's Chance will be born in less than two years. My boss is talking about promoting you. The scuttlebutt is, a recommendation came down from her boss' boss. And yes, that means someone on the C.H.R.Y.S.A.L.I.S. Board of Directors. So don't you worry about that pesky letter from E.W.D. Shenanigans involving other Departments are never much fun anyway." He waved dismissively, with exactly the same motion as before, and smiled perfunctorily. "Happy hunting, Agent. On your way out, throw your press badge in the garbage." Pretty Miki swiveled his chair around again, and I was immediately unsure the entire debriefing wasn't a figment of my imagination. I walked back to my desk in a haze.

Sitting down, I decided to open my letter from End of the World Department anyway, just for a morbid laugh at my own expense. It read,

"Don't listen to Pretty Miki's lies. Agent J9 was supposed to kill you.

~End of the World"