I totally didn't write this on Saturday and only got around to posting it now. DX Picture this: a laboratory report, two exams, a paraphrasing statement, and a HURRICANE. Just a day in the life of Stormy. (Yeah, I forgot that where I moved to has a bit of a problem with extreme weather conditions. Huh. Smart thinking on my part.)

WildfireDreams: Yay! Avid returning readers! I hope this version is a bit more up to par than the ongoing original plotline. A person's writing style can really change in four years.

M: Thanks! And trust me when I say that you fool no one. Mwahahaha~

I own very little. The perks of being broke. XD

Insane Persons Need Only Apply

unknown

I awoke to my favorite sound in the entire world: the beeping of a heart monitor.

"Doctor, she's coming to-! Vitals are... as well as can be expected." A woman's voice. Unfamiliar. "Should we sedate her?"

"No, no. Let her come to. She's stable, more or less."

"More or less? Dr. Blankenship, how can this woman still be alive? She's been here since New Year's Day, no one's claimed her or the girl, and during that time, her blood sugar levels plummet fatally if we don't give her three glucose drips a day. It's not a form of diabetes or hypoglycemia, and I doubt that one's metabolism can work that efficiently. I've spoke to everyone else about the matter but... they can't figure out it either."

"Three a day?" A rustle of papers. "Let me see her charts." More rustling. "My God... I heard the rumors but this... this is something else. It's almost as if—Dr. Brown, have you tested Jane Doe for worms?"

"The results came back negative. Whatever's draining her of nutrients isn't something we've been able to pick up with normal tests. The only difference between her and anyone else off the streets is that choker she's wearing. The nurses on this floor wanted to take It off, but x-rays showed that inner probes punch straight into her spinal column and nerves. If we take it off, she could die, and for all we know, that thing is all that's keeping her alive."

Sigh. Pause. Rustle, rustle.

"Jane Doe is waking up, but it may take her a while to become fully oriented; I'd like to speak with her as soon as possible. Dr. Brown, tell the front desk to relay to the police that if I deem Jane Doe healthy enough to withstand questioning, she'll be released into their custody in two days at the earliest."

"What about the girl? She's been asking for Ms. Doe, but refuses to give her own name or the woman's."

"Has Social Services sent their agents?"

"I think Alice said that they'd arrive in a couple of hours."

"Thank you, Dr. Brown. I'll handle it from here."

Heels of dress shoes tapping against the tiled floor, a door opening with a creak and slamming, a drawn sigh—then the rest of me began to function. Pain laced every thought and breath, both of which felt extremely lacking. It took the names a moment to process, but neither of them came up familiar with their associated voice. The smell of hospital chemicals—cleansing and the likes—slammed into my unsuspecting nose, and years on the job were all that kept my stomach from revolting. I twitched my fingers and toes, relishing in the tingling sensations as blood began to rush into my limbs, and slowly opened my eyes.

I took a few blinks to dull the whiteness and assure myself that I had not ended up in front of the pearly gates. Rather, I found myself sprawled on an ivory-colored bed, swaddled in equally pale sheets, with a doctor in periwinkle scrubs watching me intently from where he stood by the door.

Hospital. Wonderful. Sometimes I hate being right.

I moaned softly, more for the sake of testing my voice than to express my extreme dislike for large medical facilities.

"How are you feeling?" Doctor Blankenship asked in a soft tone, far quieter than he had been with his coworker.

"Like I got hit by an SUV," I answered honestly. (Sadly, I can say that my description was fairly accurate, as I have actual experience with being on the wrong end of a runaway vehicle.) My throat felt dry and scratchy, leaving me to cough roughly a few times at the lack of lubrication. "Did the ambulance get pummeled on the way over?"

"No," the doctor said with a smile. Pulling a clipboard from the chair at his side, he took the vacant seat and drew a pen from his shirt pocket. "Now, can you tell me your name?"

"Jessica McGee," I said, though it came out as more of a grunt. For some reason, I couldn't get up properly and it took me a few seconds more to notice the thick straps restraining my arms and legs. An exasperated groan left me before I could help it.

Doctor Blankenship noted my struggle with an air of indifference as he added my "real name" to the top of the paper. "How old are you?"

Snorting softly, I raised an eyebrow and asked, "Isn't it rude to ask for a woman's age?" When he stared blankly, I sighed and amended, "Thirty-one."

"Do you know what year it is?"

What, did they think I had amnesia? "2038."

He froze, pen quavering above the paper as his eyes shot upwards. "I beg your pardon?"

"2038," I repeated, returning my focus on the straps. Velcro, by the looks of it, but the ones around my wrists had buckles.

"Do you know who the current President is?" Dr. Blankenship asked uneasily.

What's with him? It's like he was expecting something different for the year... I frowned but verbally relayed, "Susan Robinson." Trey, are you getting this?

He blanched. "Vice president?"

"Wallace Truman." The fool... But he had helped balance out Susan's ticket when she ran for office.

"Secretary of Defense-?"

"Marcus Day." Another fool, but at least he had a sense of humor.

"Head of Homeland Security...?" the good doctor asked weakly.

"Loretta Mayfield." Though given as an answer, I presented it as more of a question.

Doctor Blankenship leaned forward, so much so that I could make out the beginnings of deep wrinkles tracing the contours of his aging face. Fatigue plagued his eyes, the dark irises appearing more black then brown. The unforgettable scent of Vaseline momentarily overran the ocean of cleansing products; his hands looked well-worn under his transparent gloves. Scrubs riddled with awkward creases and faint discolorations, the clothes stood out against the whitewashed walls and pastel chairs lining the far wall. The poor guy must have been working one of those thirty-six hour shifts. However, his appearance came nowhere close to the lack of force in his next words as he dared to ask, "And who would be the most... qualified international detective?"

Here, I almost grinned. One thing I loved about being me: Jessica could play the goody-two-shoes for the federal government, KC could toy with the morons of the underground, but not a single person could deny that one persona was slightly more efficient than the other.

"KC, of course," I replied, masking my pride behind a countenance of apathy.

Because no one was daunted by the President's lapdog, but people tended to roll over or try to fight when faced with a more... persuasive woman.

Instantly, Dr. Blankenship's face fell and I knew that there was more off than the answer I had just fed him.

"Doctor?" I recognized the distinct voice of Dr. Brown a nanosecond before she slipped into the room, the hinges of the door shrieking as she closed it behind her. The blonde cast me a curious look before adding, "The girl wants to see her."

Before anyone could reply, or I could give a thought to the matter of said girl, Autumn Virginia Hall herself blew into the room with the force of a hurricane and threw herself on top of me with a delighted squeal.

"Auntie Jess!"

The hug caught me by surprise and I felt my lungs being permanently crushed one millimeter at a time. My vision swam in shades of red until the girl launched herself backwards into a standing position at the bedside, opened her mouth, and let loose with the longest speech to ever originate from a single breath of air.

"Oh my gosh, I was so worried when they told me you were in intensive care and then you didn't come out when they said you would and I thought you had died and I wasn't allowed to see you because by the time they moved you into not-so-intensive care, the police were here and people kept asking me weird questions that made me upset and they wanted to take me away since you didn't wake up and we were here for like two weeks and would have died if that room cleaning person at the hotel hadn't have found us and we were like charred and stuff and I got worried 'cause you didn't wake up and I didn't wanna be alone!"

I'll be damned. Girl certainly brings a new meaning to the phrase, "If you can't dazzle the world with your knowledge, baffle its inhabitants with your bullshit." The sad part? I couldn't tell what parts the kid was faking and what parts she actually meant. Or maybe I was overestimating her acting abilities. Did small children even have acting abilities? Did she even know what was going on?

Child rearing is obviously not on my lengthy list of qualifications. Why did Susan think this would be a good idea?

Covering my own rear, I smiled gently and said, in the tone of a concerned aunt, "It's alright, sweetie, I'm awake now. Sorry for worrying you. Are you feeling okay?"

Autumn nodded and sat back down on the bed, snuggling up against my side. "Uh huh, but I'd feel a whole lot better if people would stop trying to ask me stuff. I don't like their questions."

So the doctors probably had the same reaction to her answers as Doctor Blankenship. Interesting. But not in a good way.

"You're not supposed to be in here right now," warned Dr. Blankenship, attempting to speak softly, as though to earn her trust.

"But she's my auntie!" Autumn retorted sharply, much to the man's surprise. "'Sides, I don't take up a lotta room so I'm won't be in the way much."

The doctors exchanged a glance, oblivious to the fact that the six-year-old seemed completely unfazed by their words. Before either of them could make a fool of themselves, I rested my hand on Autumn's shoulder and whispered, "C'mon, kiddo. The doctors need to examine me before they'll let me go home. It'll probably be long and boring, and I heard that a secret agent was coming to take you someplace cool until I can get out. Wouldn't you like to stretch your legs?"

Either the girl in her didn't get the hint or the spy in her wouldn't let her take the offer; "I don't wanna go with some weird person," Autumn pouted. "Adults keep asking me the same questions and won't tell me anything but 'don't worry; it'll be okay.' Can't we just go home?"

Were I by myself, like I was used to, skipping out on this joint would have been a piece of cake, but if I had to carry this kid around, Plan A was a definite bust. Besides, I could always get her back from Social Services (and wipe our medical records) once I was out. Kidnapping—even benevolent kidnapping—wasn't my cup of tea, but I had the necessary experience and enough common sense to pull it off.

"Like I said, the doctors need to make sure that I'm all healthy before they release me, but we'll leave as soon as we can," I promised, though I'd probably regret it later.

"Yay!" Autumn laid down next to me and cuddled closer until was practically curled up on my lap. For a moment, I felt tempted to ask her to free my hands, but the second look exchanged by the doctors stopped me cold.

Oh, right. Police. The bobbies had an audience with yours truly.

We have to get out of here. Trey, wake your lazy ass up! I'll get some caffeine as soon as I get out of here. When I received no reply, I added, Actually, I'll come get you, wherever the hell you are, and then I'll get caffein.

Sorry. Can't say much. Being watched. But I'd appreciate a rescue ASAP.

Rescue?

"Well, the tests shouldn't take long, but we should probably get an MRI," said Dr. Brown, pursing her lips.

Yes. Let's lock the woman with a strip of metal attached to her neck into a giant machine that works via magnets. What could possibly go wrong?

"Can I go to the bathroom before then?" I asked, being sure to add the right amount of hesitation. No good in plotting and scheming if someone's on to you from the beginning.

Dr. Blankenship nodded and ventured over, unlatching the straps and ripping away the Velcro in loud jerks. (So were the straps to keep me from hurting myself or to hold me until the police arrived?) "You might be a little unstable on your feet at first. Do you want anyone to help you?"

"Nah." I flexed my arms. Gently pushing the kid aside, I rolled off of the bed and into a crouch, all in one fluid movement. Ignoring Dr. Brown's dropping jaw, I shot Dr. Blankenship a smile. "I think I can handle myself."

The look on his face came this close to cracking me up.

Yeah, my knees felt a little wobbly and my head spun more than I liked, but walking was doable. Feeling gradually returned to my bumbling feet as they slipped over the slick tiled floor. It took a good thirty seconds, but I finally made it to the bathroom door. Turning, I flashed the doctors a thumbs up.

"Ten-four." I grinned.

The good docs exchanged another conspiring glance before Dr. Brown addressed Autumn, "How about coming and hanging out with me until your…"

"Aunt," supplied Autumn.

"-Until your aunt clears her tests?"

As discreetly as I could, I mouthed 'lobby' and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear as an excuse to block my face from the doctors'. Lady Luck must have realized just how much I hated hospitals and decided to bless me with her gorgeous light; Autumn shook her head and asked, "Can I just wait in the lobby? I don't wanna go anywhere until I know Auntie Jess will be okay."

Damn. Kid's got good peripheral vision. I added another trait to her ever-lengthening list of enhanced talents.

Dr. Brown took a deep breath. "If the agent says it's okay, I have no problem with it."

Note to self: today I have to dodge the police, the Social Services, and the typical hospital staff. Note to self part two: find a phone and call Shar.

Trey, answer me. Are they recording your communications array?

Movements and radioactivity.

Which sadly meant that he was probably in quarantine. Yes, my AI conscious is radioactive, but I don't need to explain myself to you.

Closing the bathroom door behind me, I flicked on the light and glanced around. The lavatory had been combined; the shower head dangled from the wall, the entire floor tilted towards the drain in the center, with a toilet next to the spout and a sink on the other side, an oval mirror positioned on the far wall. The setup reminded me of a European bathroom where the showers consisted of the entire bathroom to conserve space. Sadly, I didn't believe this to be a hospital in Europe. The smells were all wrong. Eleven ceiling tiles, one hole for the fan, and a single cord dangling down (the emergency call).

Yeah, I could do this without the graphire.

When I dropped to the floor, all I could hear where the soft sounds of breathing as the trio abandoned the room. Such polite people there were, going outside to wait for me to do my business.

"Sucks to be them."

roughly two weeks after New Year's Day
St. George, Utah; United States

"Why did we have to climb out the window?" Autumn questioned as we hurried through the streets of the St. George.

People jostled us from side to side as each footstep took us further and further from Dixie Regional Medical Center. We had five more minutes at best before they noticed us missing and starting searching, and maybe thirty minutes before handing over our identities to John Q. Public to assist in our seizure. So not only had I compromised our covers, but now we had to find Trey and get the hell out of Dodge.

Assuming the loctopus decided to participate and tell us where he was.

"One typically can't leave the hospital until people in said hospital decide that you're healthy enough not to die on them," I answered offhandedly, hand fastened unyieldingly to her shoulder, "and I'm not really a fan of the police."

"What about Social Services?"

"Pushovers. All of them."

Snow bore down on us, the minuscule humans, as the majority of the population scattered about the streets without seeking cover. At my side, Autumn tugged up the collar of my jacket, her teeth chattering loudly enough to be heard over the dull roar of the crowd. I busied myself with trying not to freeze in my sleeveless turtleneck and locating my perfect, and somewhat uncooperative, other half.

Trey, send me your coordinates.

The loctopus complied all too easily for the rebellious little devil I know him to be.

"Shit. Well, at least we don't have to pay a visit to the Pentagon," I sighed, matching the longitude and latitude with the given address.

"Huh?" Autumn risked a glance in my direction.

Oh, right. No swearing around kids. Bad examples, and all that jazz. "We have to nab a lazy… colleague of mine who seems to have worked himself into a pickle," I explained begrudgingly. On second thought, I added, "Got any B&E skills?"

later that day
Washington, Utah; United States

My view on police officers was forever ruined during a particularly grueling case I worked as the federal investigator McGee. Suspected treason in the White House, faked intelligence killing our foreign spies, our domestic sleepers going missing—fun stuff like that. But I had been getting close. Considering that the Department of Homeland Security had tried to nip this in the bud and simultaneously screwed up our relations with Spain, the fact that I had made more progress than them in a week and a half than they had in five months made me especially happy; the fact that I wasn't a fan of their director at the time was just a bonus and sadly not my own doing. But in the end, the D.C. police had barged in at the last possible second, shot my only suspect, and tried to pin the blame on me. Two days before the court date, the bodies of the corrupt officers were found in a ditch across the road form the White House, their heads stabbed onto spears. In court, a man named Oliver Taylor was accused of pitting the government against itself and the murders of Officers Pyles and Yale, but got off scott-free when spontaneous evidence saved his ass and mine. Turned out, the cops had been gang members attempting to infiltrate the police department and later, the FBI and the undercover assholes just so happened to be working for a dealer who wanted high-profile connections. Two weeks later, Mr. Taylor approached me with the alias of his employer and demanded a million dollars in hush money; I sent the Blacksmith the corpses of the Colombian and Argentinean drug lords in the back of a very nice hearse. Needless to say, we've been "friends" ever since.

My life in a nutshell.

I was twenty-seven at the time.

Hovering across the street from the police station, I surveyed my surroundings with a wary eye, though faking a delighted smile as I checked my watch, whose reflective glass face I used to look over my shoulder.

The nth district of the police had been crammed on the south side a little past the downtown area, just out of the way to avoid the masses of rush hour, but close enough to hop to any emergency. Two buildings dared to hover nearby: a boutique farther up the street and a family-owned bank directly across the road from the station. All three structures in the immediate vicinity had been painted a dull grayish-tan with darker speckles, their white doors and aluminum rooftops equally bland. At a glance, one might have mistaken them for rather large houses, for the streets signs were pretty much all the public had to go on. The parking lots for both bank and police station left no extra spaces, but having taken a taxi to a small café two blocks over, I needn't worry.

Sipping my second double-large slushie (one at the café, one to go), I felt the energy gratefully returning to my body, which had been running on fumes up until now. With my weapon of choice (orange-flavored Monster) concealed in my hoodie and my reluctantly-accepted apprentice hidden out of harm's way, I felt more in my element than I had in a while.

So I might be an adrenaline junkie, but I'm the best damn junkie at dealing with her addiction in the history of the world.

I flicked my wrist, discreetly checking the coast, and crossed the street. First rule of super sleuthing: blend in. Blending in does not include suspicious glances or the wringing of one's hand or jerkiness of movements. Forget hiding behind dumpsters or decal-ing your getaway car with paint that dissolves in water—all you really need to avoid detection is plain old common sense and the underestimated ability to read body language. Real people, when executing their actions correctly, can make James Bond look like a fool.

Now, that doesn't mean that you're not allowed to have quirky gadgets.

As soon as I polished off the drink, I lobbed it into the nearest trashcan and pulled out a pack of chewing gum. Much to my dismay, everything in my pockets (and Autumn's entire suitcase) had been confiscated upon induction into ICU and handed over to the police as "evidence." This included Trey, the graphire, the diamond daggers and lighter, my "homemade" exploding bubble gum, the acidic glow-sticks (fun back story, that), and the combat boots in whose heels I had hidden my "illegal drug store." To make a long story short, I was left to improvise with whatever I could conjure up in between leaving the kid at that café and now.

Thank God I majored in chemistry.

Popping a piece of fruity goodness into my mouth, I kept careful count of the seconds as I made my way through the parking lot of the bank. Second rule of super sleuthing: don't be obvious. As soon as my count reached thirty seconds, I spat out the gum back into the wrapper and lobbed it at the front door; the wrapper bounced up to the door where it hit the bottom panel and halted. Then I turned and, with no hesitation whatsoever, began to skip up the street towards the boutique.

By the time the explosion went off, I had pulled a black cashmere sweater off the rack and was in the process of finding an open dressing stall.

Instantly, the customers let out loud exclamations and a herd of rubberneckers rushed to the windows. The two ladies previously slumped behind the front desk leaped up as if someone had lit a fire under their stools and quickly pressed their noses against the glass. During the commotion, I transferred the energy drink to the waistband of my jogging pants, ditched the hoodie on a clothes hanger and tossed it into an occupied stall, slipped the sweater over my head, grabbed a wig as I blew past the manikins, and snagged a large satchel on my way out of the back door. Sure, I set off the fire alarm, but by that point, the majority of the people were on the opposite side of the store, peering out at the front of the bank going up in flames. Sirens overtook the crowd's commotion within the minute, and the wailing only grew louder as I stepped outside and closed the door firmly behind me. From there, I slipped the Monster into the satchel and went about my merry way.

In my peripheral vision, cops exploded from the station and flooded the street. Some went straight to the scene of the crime; others began to set up a blockade; a rare few spoke into their walkie-talkies and whipped out their pistols as though the perpetrator would emerge from the bank at any minute. Over thirty of them exited the police station, but not a one of them kept their eyes peeled towards the back door.

Naturally, I waltzed up behind the nearest officer—who happened to be hovering from a distance and was using his common sense to call an ambulance—and discreetly slipped the taser from his belt. Like a good little martyr, I waited until he finished the call before I locked his neck in my arms and introduced my knee to his head. The poor guy literally didn't see it coming; he slumped into my arms, leaving me to drag him out of sight behind the bushes lining the outside of the station building. It took no more than a heartbeat for me to ensnare his wrists in his own handcuffs. Swiping his badge and belt, I shoved the latter into the satchel and looped the former around my neck. With luck, his friends wouldn't have memorized his number. I wasn't really in the mood to deal with an angered officer.

From there, I hustled straight through the side door.

To say that the boutique was a commotion would have been accurate, but the police station made said commotion seem as passive as a funeral progression. Officers trampled from one section of the building to another with no regard for anyone's toes. Files flew over cubical dividers, frantic shouting actually managed to drown out the sirens, and off to one side, the fax machine spewed papers from its over-capacity catch tray and onto the floor. Dodging a foursome of detectives dressed in matching plaid suits, I slithered through the crowd, picking up random files as I went. Whenever someone made to stop me, I yelled over the noise, "Have you seen the sheriff? Tell him the FBI is asking for jurisdiction!" which would successfully piss off everyone in the immediate vicinity.

For a good two minutes—that I spent scrambling over and around bodies—it seemed almost impossible to locate the stairwell. It wasn't until the deputy exploded into the building to tell the officers to get outside and set up a perimeter that I could fight my way through the masses and onto the steps. Sliding down the handrail, I burst through the double doors at the bottom, years of training being all that kept me from running face-first into the mesh of steel surrounding the desk.

"Hi," I said, genuinely breathless.

A man glanced up from the television sitting on the far corner of his desk. If I tilted my head just right, I could make out a news station's footage rolling a live screening of the mayhem outside.

"Hi," he returned, straightening his tie.

"Deputy called everyone outside to help set a perimeter. Told me to fetch you, something about you having experience and this being my first day," I explained quickly, propping myself on the ledge with locked arms.

The guard flashed me a smile—dear God, actual flirting; somebody shoot me—and crooned, "I'm very fetching, aren't I?" At my exasperated eye-roll, he added in a drawl, "Just be sure to keep a close eye on the evidence. Jennings will have my head if any more shit goes missing."

The next minute lasted a good hour as the security guard gathered himself, cast one last glance at the TV screen, and bumbled up the stairs to help.

Mentally punching the air, I slid myself behind the desk and immediately swiveled the desk chair around to face the many televisions positioned against the solid edges of the metal cage. What little solid wall surrounded the space had been completely covered in television sets, angled expertly so that they were unable to be seen by anyone standing outside of the enclosure. Then again, to anyone else, these were just surveillance tapes.

Five minutes later landed me solidly in the yellow. Tapes wiped, police badge tucked into a spare evidence locker, Trey clambering out of the recently vacated metal basket—yeah, life was good. Stuffing my satchel with a few other things (ammo, an extra pistol, a taser, pepper spray, another pistol, more ammo), I graciously collected the graphire from a separate locker and added it to the collection in my fat bag. Only once I secured my newfangled [and recently reunited] gear to my person did I pull the cords to the current tapes, blackening the TV screens, toss Trey loosely onto my shoulder, and make for the back door. Opening it set off yet another alarm, but I grabbed a stick of my gum from the pack, spit on it, and wedged it between the door and its frame.

The second explosion of the day occurred twenty minutes later; I had long since tucked myself away in another quaint hotel with Autumn in another town on the outskirts of Washington.

The girl herself now sat on the foot of the bed, watching me with wide eyes as I emptied the satchel onto the quilt. Police and previous equipment spilled out and I proceeded to check all of the ammunition magazines, crouching so that everything was eye-level on the bed. Trey adjusted his position between my shoulder blade for the millionth time since his "rescue," and the loctopus had no qualms about jabbing me none-too-gently with every moment. Once I was satisfied that everything was in working order, I began to load most things back into the bag before I felt a bit of Trey's arrogance falter.

Uh... Houston? We have a serious problem.

Police didn't like me blasting a hole in their back door?

Well, no, but that's not what I meant. You know how it's supposed to be two weeks after New Years? Were he human, Trey might have taken a deep breath. We haven't been in a coma since July and only recently been moved to Dixie Regional.

Trey, just tell me the date, I instructed with far more patience than I knew I possessed.

January fifteenth... 2007.

The bag slipped from my hands and landed on the bed.

"KC?" Autumn peered up at me.

What... the fuck.

"Um... are you okay? You're really pale."

"Hey, kid, can you run downstairs and grab a newspaper?"

"Sure!" The door slammed in her wake, but all I could do was stare at nothing in particular.

Trey...

I'm not screwing with you, KC. I'm checking everything on the net but every soul on Planet Earth swears that we're not even a full decade into the twenty-first century. There's nothing from 2008, much less 2038.

We traveled back in time. We were electrocuted... and traveled back in time.

...What?

And it gets worse. First of all, we didn't go back in time.

I abruptly reached behind my head and yanked the loctopus out into view. To his credit, he didn't cower in my palm when I glared down at him.

"Elaborate, and elaborate quickly."

Instead of replying, Trey forwarded what seemed like half of the Internet directly into my brain. Images of people and inventions and web pages and calenders with models and current events and this one weird MySpace page ranting about the injustices of playing God. And while everything consistently told me that it was the year 2007, everything also told me that we hadn't traveled back in time.

Because most of history was different.

Half of the American Presidents since World War II, famous musical artists, medical advancements—gone and replaced with people and things I'd never even heard of. Apparently, the Cold War hadn't been an actual war here. The current world leaders for this time period were all foreign to me, no pun intended. And furthermore, there was a different detective's name floating around the darker corners of the web, and let me tell you right now, I didn't recognize it to be a single one of my aliases.

Autumn came through the door at that exact moment, and I almost didn't notice. She was so quiet that the only thing that alluded to her return was the soft click of the door as it closed. When I lifted my eyes to her face, sheer bemusement drained every other emotion from her expression. Then she looked me straight in the eye and asked, "How did the newspaper people get the date this wrong? There isn't even a seven in 2038."

Crap on a stick.

January 15, 2007; 11:43 P.M.
Hurricane, Utah; United States

It was late. It was dark. It was cold. I was cold. The thermostat was broken. The kid wouldn't go to sleep. Also, the car I'd "borrowed" to get to the hotel in the first place had run out of gas when I'd driven back into Washington in an attempt to buy warmer clothes; I had had to walk back, in the snow, for the full five miles because in Utah, nobody seemed to understand the point of hitchhiking. Now I was cold, I was tired, the clothes had gotten soaked on the way back so nobody could wear them, the kid was driving me up the walls again, we had magically teleported into the past of another universe, and damn it all, I just wanted a NOS and a bag of Pixie Sticks.

Look out, world. Uber-bitch KC has been unlocked.

Look on the bright side—things could always be worse, Trey said, nuzzling the back of my neck affectionately as he began to shut down his systems. At least your brain didn't get electrocuted into mush. Then you'd be stranded and stupid.

Thanks for the wise words of encouragement. Maybe you'd like to be of some help and-

Nopeitty nope nope nope. I'm getting on the Nope Train to Nopeville and nope-ing all the way there, he said. Nap time. Ciao, amica.

Recalcitrant AI didn't even need sleep. Figures.

"KCCCCCCCC," Autumn all but whined. "Can I at least watch TV?"

I took a very deep breath and reminded myself that it was wrong to kill people, small children included. "I'm working on how to get us home and the television would be distracting me." Not to mention that without Trey to help me regulate my incoming signals, I might accidentally start picking up on the TV's channels instead of my research websites.

"Pleeeeeeeeaaasssseeee?" she begged. "I promise to keep the volume really low!"

It was like she didn't understand the kind of situation we were.

But on the other hand, a happy child was a child that required less pampering. Less pampering meant more focus put towards problem-solving.

"Fine," I relinquished with a drawn sigh, "but mute the TV and put on subtitles if you can't lipread."

Autumn complied all too easily and spent the next few minutes burrowed under the blankets without another peep. Once I was certain that she wouldn't try to interrupt my train of thought again, I let my mind wander back to the task at hand.

Electrocuted in 2038. Teleported into a different reality in 2007. Where was the logic in that? For someone who didn't believe in the supernatural, I could state with great sincerity that all of this was a little beyond my comprehension. My problems were generally solved with money, bullets, or a devilish smile, but I highly doubted that any of that would solve the problem now.

I was in over my head.

Furthermore, I was in over my head with a six-year-old noose tied around my neck.

Susan, why the hell did you think this would be a good idea?

Susan! I realized with a jolt. The President of the United States was supposed to be signing a treaty in Japan right now... or least she was back in 2038. If it was January 2007, then Susan would be... four and a half years old?

Schist. I couldn't exactly ring up my high school friend and ask for a little guidance if she had even less mental capacity than my apprentice.

This was a little too much, even for me. Even for Jessica McGee. Brilliance be damned, experience was worth zilch since I kind of flunked Blind Faith 101. Worm holes were conspiracies created by mathematicians who wanted an excuse to seem smarter than the average bear; ghosts were lazy-ass explanations created by people too ruled by fear to try to solve the mystery; psychics never had to mind to lose in the first place because they were all batshit crazy to begin with; other worlds were created by dreamers who lived with their heads in the clouds because their imaginations could conjure up far better worlds in which to live. "Supernatural occurrences" were what kept some people sane, but tore others' sanity to shreds. It simply didn't exist, didn't occur, never happened, and most certainly could never, under any circumstance, happen to me.

So how the hell was this possible?

I inhaled slowly and watched my exhale fog up the glass of the hotel window. In the distance, I could see the lights of Washington, fighting through the snow and the fog. Three little towns, all in a row: St. George, Washington, and Hurricane. And not one hundred miles in the opposite direction lied Las Vegas.

I had never seen so much snow this close to Vegas.

Running a hand down my face, I was beginning to understand why Trey shut down—a part of me was shutting down, simply because I couldn't process this. My mental capacity had reached its threshold. What I really needed was a second brain, a good night's sleep, a small cache of Pixie Sticks, and a few more energy drinks... but not necessarily in that order.

Sleep was a sound first.

Glancing at Autumn, I saw that the kid was already fast asleep. She had drawn the covers right up under her chin and wore a tiny smile on her round face.

If all kids were this cute when they slept, and this quiet...

Nah. Still wouldn't be worth it. No kids for KC.

Grabbing the extra bedding from the closet, I wrapped myself into a human burrito in an attempt to fight off the cold and tried to ignore the fact that the carpet smelled of cheap cigars and aged perfume.

January 16, 2007; 6:45 A.M.
Hurricane, Utah; United States

I found the solution to our little 'trapped in an alternate universe' problem, and by solution, I meant the means to find our solution. Or rather, fate dropped the means right into my lap when I awoke the following morning to see Autumn still curled up in bed, watching the news with a puzzled expression.

"Charles, this could very well be the most internationally-recognized battle since the second World War," said the woman onscreen. I realized, with a bit of a wry chuckle, that I owned that exact blue blouse. Except I called it vintage. At least the clothing trends didn't seem to have differed from one 2007 to the other.

"But can we even call this a battle? It's between two people: L and Kira. Two different forms of justice colliding." The man shook his head and pushed bulky frames farther up on his nose. "I don't know, Annette. Frankly, I just wish it didn't feel like Kira was holding the world hostage."

His coworker seemed to let out an exaggerated sigh. "So far, Kira has only killed people who have committed serious crimes against humanity. Besides, what kind of death is more humane than a heart attack?"

"Are you saying you support Kira?" the man's jaw dropped.

Annette quickly shook her head. "I'm just saying that there are two sides to every coin. Between L's reputation and Kira's motive, I have to say that ever since their throw-down back in December, the crime rate has dropped significantly. Maybe this rivalry will have a similar positive outcome."

L. I recognized that alias from Trey's search of this world's Internet. L: the internationally-renowned investigator, nicknamed the World's Greatest Detective. A super-sleuth in his own right and one hundred percent anonymous.

But "Kira" was completely new to me. And did that woman just suggest that Kira somehow inflicted heart attacks in order to kill criminals? Hold on. Wasn't that somewhat my job? "If you can't beat them, join them, then take over;" was my own little motto when I entered the business of organized crime. How else to quickly remove scumbags from this planet without a man—or woman—on the inside?

Damn. So now I've been replaced twice. Jessica McGee by this L, and KC by this Kira. Somehow, I felt slightly more offended by Kira, because gosh darn it, Jessica McGee was just a pretty mask I wore, but I actually was KC. Katheryn Freaking Carpenter. Nice to meet you.

Wait. How exactly would someone kill by causing a heart attack? Some kind of chemical, perhaps, or a weak defibrillator?

I grabbed the remote and unmuted the television, mostly because I didn't want to risk misreading the news anchors' lips. Unfortunately, they'd already moved on to "more pressing information," aka: traffic. Slightly annoyed, I tossed the remote on the foot of the bed and looked over at Autumn. The kid gave me a little smile before sitting up and pushing aside the covers.

"How you feeling?" I asked, in as much of a mothering tone as I could conjure.

"Not as cold," she said after a moment of thought.

She was right. It was a little warmer in the hotel today.

"Um... what are we going to do now?" she asked quietly.

Oh, yeah. Trapped in another world.

"I assume you want to go home," I said in a grunt, retrieving the graphire and leaning against the TV stand.

Autumn nodded.

"How about you go take a bath and I'll let you in on the whole path once you're all clean and dressed."

"Okie dokie!"

Smooth. I had bought myself a good twenty minutes, give or take, to pull a plan out of my rear end and hope it was somewhat sensible. Then again, why did I even care what the kid thought? She'd probably go along with anything I tell her and I wouldn't even have to give a reason in the first place. Then again, it would be wrong would give her false hope. Then again, did six-year-olds need help bathing themselves?

Parenting. Bleh.

No sooner than the lavatory door bang shut did I bellyflop onto the bed and force Trey into rebooting. Up and at 'em, Sleeping Beauty. We need a ride back to 2038, so get your butt in gear.

Slave driver... Trey muttered. So how do you propose we go about hopping universes? Asking our local psychic? Bribing a demigod? Visiting every church in the area to pray?

You're awfully snide this morning, I noted absentmindedly as I skimmed a few more websites in search of information.

I'm rescanning the entire Internet because everything's different. Core processors are bitching at me about being overworked, he replied wryly.

Didn't think your core processors had their own opinions.

If human intestines can have an opinion with all the ruckus they make, I'm allowed to pretend my own inner makeup has its own say about life. At least I don't get diarrhea.

He had a point.

So how are you planning to get home? Or are we just making this up as we go along?

I felt my gaze being tugged back to the TV screen. A little bit of both, I believe.

Trey read my thoughts and promptly burst out laughing. The loctopus's version of laughter is similar to the sound a car makes when its gears grind in a manual transmission. It reminded me of my Hyundai on its more... difficult days. Regardless, that laugh takes some getting used to either way.

But frankly, I'd like to see Trey take the wheel once in a while. Maybe he'd be less apt to criticize.

This isn't criticism, hon. This is classic schadenfreude, he said by means of answer.

I chose to ignore him in favor of pulling up the World Wide Web and scouring its contents. Finally, I managed to locate a leaked video of a Japanese broadcast aired back on December fifth. At first, I merely listened to it as I continued my search, only for me to pause clip and replay the entire video without any distractions. The second time through, I gave one hundred percent of my focus to the controlled chaos on the graphire's screen.

"But I assure you that L is real—I am real. I do exist. Now... try and kill me!"

L was either the most suicidal, asinine detective I'd ever encountered or the most brilliant.

And he forced Kira's hand on national television.

It was a broadcast aired only in Kanto, originally planned to be shown around the entire world until the entity known as Kira would shown himself. Kira, having previously believed to have been little more than a series of unrelated heart attacks, was proven real, just like L. And overnight, both names had swept the globe when prior to the broadcast, few people knew of either existence.

But L did in ten minutes what the entire International Criminal Police Organization had been struggling to even consider for weeks, and then some. Fifty-two deaths at the time, with many more unknown. Criminals around the world dropping dead like flies with the only connection being their cause of death: a heart attack. But all it took was one little broadcast to begin the manhunt for Kira.

Damn.

In this world, the Blacksmith didn't exist. I had no supreme dealer to whom to turn for supplies, but more importantly: my semi-nemesis was nowhere to be found. In other words, I didn't have to worry about playing nice all of the time. If I wanted "help," I could go to whomever I wanted without fearing a bullet in the back. This world wasn't as developed. It lacked serious class and execution. However, L seemed to operate outside the sphere of society. He bowed to no man, kissed no one's shoes, and wasn't swayed by money or power. He did his job, accepted his reward, and went about his merry way without ever revealing his name or face.

This is almost as bad a plan as throwing me at Matthew Noel, Trey pointed out.

True. But this plan had something that plan didn't;

Another genius mind to work a separate angle.

And it was at that very moment that Autumn stumbled from the bathroom, a toothbrush sticking out of her mouth. She mumbled a low "ow" around the toothbrush and rubbed at her foot, the sleeve of her over-sized T-shirt sliding down her arm. It suddenly occurred to me that the kid had a lot of clothes that seemed too big for her—and very masculine. And to think I walked five miles in the snow for two oversized coats and snow-boots.

"You ready for my master plan?" I asked in what I hoped to be a playing tone.

Autumn nodded.

"First," I held up a finger, then pointed at Autumn, "we need to get you clothes fit for action. As of right now, we're playing the ultimate game of hide and seek, so we'll need to clothes that'll help us blend in. Furthermore, they'll need to be durable, and preferably something suitable for running."

She stared. "What's 'furthermore' mean?"

I faltered. "Um... 'in addition'?"

"Okie dokie." Curiosity satisfied, the child flopped down on the foot of the bed and scrubbed away at her teeth. "So who're we playing with?"

It took me a moment to translate toothbrush-talk, but then I replied in kind; "A very smart man—maybe even this smartest in this world. I figured that I could make a very interesting proposition that involved me doing him a favor and us going home."

"What's 'proposition' mean?"

"...An offer."

"That's weird."

I wasn't sure what I wanted to do more: throw a dictionary at the kid in the vain hope she might learn via osmosis or crush Trey in the palm of my hand when he started snickering.

"After we get you some clothes, we'll be heading to Los Angeles," I continued, trying to ignore my rising blood pressure.

"Why?"

Here, I grinned. After all, L may have some nerve pulling that televised stunt, but for all I knew, he was nothing more than a hoax. A stand-in hero. Or worse: an organization of people with an ulterior motive. It's hard to imagine such a pure, determined form of justice without picturing corruption hovering overhead. Basically, we knew nothing about L, including his thoughts on interstellar travel. We needed an informant, someone close to L, someone who could provide us with more information than John Q Public.

Fortunately for Trey's extensive hacking, I now knew exactly who that person was.

"We have to pay a visit to the one person with connections to L," I said. "Very few people in the world even know he exists. In fact, of the few people who know of this "special case," one of them is missing and the other is L himself. In other words, I highly doubt that anyone trying to find L would have even heard of him."

"Who is this person?" Autumn asked, and I could practically taste the curiosity bleeding into her words.

"Just your average schizophrenic serial killer," I said with a bit of a smirk. After all, dealing with these kinds of people just so happened to be my specialty. "But he prefers the name Beyond Birthday."