TWO

The thick jungle vegetation rolled along with the hills seesawing into the distance. Flynn tapped the large observation window, reminding himself this wasn't make belief. No, this moment, this jungle – they were real. He had to have faith – that this ludicrous plan would work.

"What time period?" The sound of his voice was surreal and barely recognizable. He grimaced.

"There's a moment in time where both your counterpart and your target are distracted. Arguing over whether or not to kill a young boy. Rittenhouse's son to be precise."

"Fine."

Richard Townhouse smirked satirically. "You can be more enthusiastic, you know."

Flynn ignored the blasé attempt and walked by the lab coat. "Enthusiasm's a lost cause. And for goodness sake, get a smaller coat or stick to a less obvious outfit. I'm the spy and you're the scientist. The only confirmation you need to distinguish the one from the other."

"Geez, who died and made you the stylist?"

They entered the hall, which recently converted into a wardrobe, stocked with clothes from different eras, and headed for the Civil War section.

"General Washington is this way." Richard turned left. "1780 not 1861. C'mon, Garcia, get your head in the game."

"Excuse me, but you hold my memories in a glass jar." He shoved the tiny scientist aside and into a row of colourful ball gowns. "Do mind the mix up."

"I'll reset you." Richard threatened half-heartedly, fixed his askew coat before retrieving the clipboard which hid underneath the load of fallen ball gowns.

"Ah please, don't get your dress into a twist."

"Funny." Muttering his discord, Richard kicked at the gowns and trotted after the giant Croatian. "You looksee the trend of clothes and decide quickly. Weapons are this way when you're done." He stalked straight down the row, then disappeared to the right.

"Uh-huh." Flynn traced his long, slender fingers over the fabric of the red and blue military dress uniforms, walking along until he stopped.

What would represent a man of prospect and class and assassination?

White breeches, stockings and shoes? Sky blue coat and a hip length waistcoat over a white dress shirt?

No, he needed to exhibit power and stature, to knock the silk brocade shoes off his target.

He retreated with a few steps and pulled at an ensemble, smirking light-heartedly. His shivering hand reached for the hanger while the other hand sleeked back the stubborn grey fringe covering his forehead.

A dashing black and gold ensemble. If only for a split second, it would allow passage wherever he wished to go, whomever he wanted to address and whenever he needed authorities to go by him without waver. It was perfect. Rubbing at his thickened beard, he walked down the row, turned right, and found Richard tapping the glossy floor with an impatient foot.

"Were you chatting up the shop assistant or something?"

"For a man you sure do whine a lot."

"I'm built for intellect and ingenious inventions, not . . ." He waved curtly at the strutting spy. "Not babysitting a living, breathing human."

"That's a double negative, genius."

"Just. Pick your damn arsenal before I faint from tolerance."

Behind the scientist, several steel lockers stocked various weapons big and small. Flynn's green eyes sparkled. His fingertips, he found traced each one thoroughly and automatically. A sense of touch was second nature these days, a reminder he was alive with selective memories and not dead.

He sighed contented, and yet was undecided in terms of weapon's choice. "The mission will be a quick one?"

"If you're inferring precision, your wardrobe already blends with the nature of the era. So of course, it will be in and out. Weapons are not a problem."

"Good." He grabbed the Sig Sauer pistol famous for federal agents, then a silencer and three clips. "Great." Then picked a dagger well known in the 1700's. "Got one of those canes?"

Richard's blonde brow shot up to his even lighter hairline "Hmm?"

"Concealed Rapier."

"Oh. Yeah." After backpedalling, the scientist jogged beside the steel lockers until he reached the last one in the line. He opened it, humming under his breath, bit his top lip, then reached in. "Oh yeah baby. She's a beaut." The cane had a dark mahogany colour to it, its polished surface glittering in the overhead lights.

Flynn smiled, chuffed by the design and its appealing appearance. Folks wouldn't think twice about his status, or mysterious handsome features. Not when their eyes were glued to the transcendent walking stick.

"Excellent! You outdid yourself Sigmund Freud."

"Oh please." The cane exchanged hands, with Richard scowling deeply at the reborn spy. "Science fiction, not psychoanalysis."

"As if I would know the difference." The sharp double-edged blade glinted when Flynn pulled it from its hiding place. "But oh so perfect." The blade glided back into the confinements of the cane, and then tapped the floor thrice in procession. "September 25th, 1780, Revolutionary War. Here I come."

"Don't forget to click your heels twice."

Flynn scoffed. "Huh, there's no place like home."