Hey guys! Thanks to everyone who left a review for "The Countdown Syndrome." I really appreciate it! The following story is the result of sitting in my dad's truck for an hour, during a snow storm, with "Ride of the Valkyries" playing full blast, waiting for my mom to get off work. Luckily I had a notebook and pen, which prevented boredom from setting in too quickly. Here we go.
"The Great Debate Syndrome"
It's cold, windy, and snowing so hard I can barely see the First Security Bank across the street. I can see their flashing letter board, though, and it's informing me that it's seven below out here. I believe it. I pull my collar up over my chin and nose and watch my partner through squinted eyes. He doesn't even seem to mind that we're walking around the back streets of New York in a blizzard. His attention is fixed upon the tracker he's holding. It has the most annoying 'blip' sound I've ever heard. Or maybe that's just because I've been listening to it for more than an hour.
He takes off again, down the sidewalk and around the corner, using those long legs to hop through the snow that's continuing to collect on the ground. My legs are considerably shorter and I'm forced to trudge behind him in a graceless manner. Just as I think I've caught up with him, X rounds another corner. He passes a gated area and disappears from view. But I know he's stomping around in anger- that behavior always seems to accompany the long line of expletives he's now shouting at the top of his lungs.
I race toward the sound of his voice. Actually, I 'galumph' there- this snow is just not letting up. Just as I suspected, he's pacing around and kicking at air, a few obscenities mixed in with the motions. And I can see why. We've just entered a junker lot. There are broken down cars everywhere.
X shakes the tracking device at me. "I knew he'd do this! He's using the metallic surroundings to hide- we can't pick up his iron levels. How are we going to track him down in a city full of cars and skyscrapers? I mean, he's practically made out of metal!"
At this point, I don't care if he's made out of chocolate. I've just spent two hours on foot chasing a petty thief from Neptune and have nothing to show for it but a runny nose and boots that are definitely NOT water-proof. I want to go home. Now.
"I don't know, X. Let's get a team assembled back at headquarters and finish this up tomorrow. It's freezing and I'm tired."
He stares at me for a moment, obviously irritated, but finally sighs and nods. "Fine," he says, and then glances around. "Do you remember where we parked the car?" Guys and direction.
"In front of the art gallery on 9th. About two miles back." I can't help the growl in my voice. It wasn't my idea to travel this far on foot. I hope he doesn't think I plan on walking back that distance.
"What do you say we put it on auto-pilot?" X suggests and reaches into his pocket for the keys. He may have no self-control, tact, or sense of direction, but at least he knows how to take a hint.
"Um, Elle?"
"What?" I already know this is bad.
"Did I give you the keys?"
"Do you ever give me the keys? You put them in your jacket pocket."
"Great. There seems to be a rather large hole in my pocket."
"You lost the keys?"
"I didn't lose the keys. I put them in the same place I always put them. It's not my fault that human textile manufacturing is so poor!"
"So you're saying it's Armani's fault?"
He pulls out his communicator and punches a few buttons. "No keys, no control pad. I'm calling Zed. We'll just have a recovery team pick us up."
That seems like the best idea for right now so I refrain from slapping him upside the head. X and Zed talk for awhile before we're told that it will be at least an hour's wait. The snow is creating a mountain of traffic trouble and we'll just have to be patient. Patience is not a virtue that's sitting high on my list, right now.
Zed advises us to find shelter. While X continues to argue with him, I peek in the windows of several cars, searching for the cleanest and most comfortable seat I can find. An old VW Bug seems to be my best bet. There's a spring sticking out of the back seat's cushion but it's the only car in the lot that doesn't have a broken window. It's bound to be warmer than standing out here.
Awkwardly, I climb into the back and try to get comfortable. X's call has ended and he's still in a bad mood. I watch him as he shuffles around the yard, talking to himself. He finally comes to a halt and leans against a rusty chain link fence, staring at one of the newer metal posts that is holding the dilapidated gate up. As I watch him inspect the pole I ask myself why I'm here. Why I choose to stay with these people. It's a question I seem to be pondering a lot, lately.
Yes, being a field agent in a highly covert, intergalactic, peace-keeping agency may seem more glamorous and dignified than being a mortician. It certainly smells nicer. But working in a morgue offers something that I can rarely find within the MIB- solitude. Some time for contemplation. Room to breathe.
I watch my partner inch closer to the pole. He seems awfully interested in it. I have no idea why. I don't really care. You know what else is nice about working in a morgue? The dead don't offend. Not once has a dead guy ever toyed with my emotions or reveled in pushing my buttons or complained about the way I do my job. And aside from getting bodies shipped out in time for funerals, you're not really under any major deadlines. But when you're working with universal coalitions and trying to abide by clashing peace treaties and arguing with space cops about proper jurisdiction in other galaxies, you have to get things done immediately- before tempers start to flare and you're suddenly on the receiving end of a world domination threat.
Okay, now I'm a little interested in what's going on in his head. He's just staring at that pole. I haven't seen an expression so vacant since Gabe got knocked for a loop by a wayward baseball in Little League.
I still haven't decided whether giving up my past and all of its ties has been a good thing or a bad thing- it's a tossup. I'll be the first to admit it: my family isn't that close. We've got our problems. My mom wanted me to be famous and well-to-do. A diplomat or something important. She tells people I'm a nun in some foreign convent- she feels that it's more respectable than mortuary duties and it helps explain why I haven't given her grandchildren and don't visit. Well, that's what she was telling everyone- I'm not sure what story she's come up with to explain away the past four years.
And I love my dad dearly- but if I have to listen to the benefits of being a neurosurgeon one more time I'll give myself a lobotomy. As for my siblings, I do miss them. But I've had enough experience with family get-togethers to know that the seven of us assembling in one room will only result in broken noses, internal bleeding, and fistfuls of Heather's hair. It's better to keep missing them. Although, when I've just pulled a double shift with X, or when Zed sends me out on babysitter detail for some ambassador's brats, or when Zeeltor can't find Jay and decides that I'm next in line for experimentation, or when I'm stuck in a trash lot during a snow storm because SOMEONE misplaced the keys… these are the days I consider dialing up my parents to see if my old room is still available.
Now don't get me wrong, I've had some amazing experiences with this agency. But along with those experiences I've also picked up a lot of memories that I'd rather forget. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, sweaty and on the verge of screaming, having just had a nightmare about being eaten by a bug or shot down by some alien outlaw. I often dream that I'm being ambushed by a fleet of Fmecks that keep multiplying at an unstoppable rate. That one's only scary while it's happening- it usually seems funny when I wake up. But more often than not what I dream isn't laughable.
I've never been the type to be frequently surprised or easily shocked, but I've had my moments. Before the MIB that is. In the last four years I've seen and done everything that the old Laurel would dismiss as improbable or impossible. I've visited space, entered other people's dreams, helped bring down intergalactic criminals, acted as a bodyguard, been a target on someone's hit list, wielded some very impressive super-powers… What more could I possibly do that I haven't already done? What excitement is left? Maybe I'd be better off as Laurel again- where the surprises were few and far between, but still there. That's the option I always wind up debating when I sink too deeply into my own thoughts.
But right when I think that I've finally had enough and am ready to resign, I catch sight of X doing something stupid. Like what he's doing as we speak. And I realize that if I don't step in right now, his tongue is going to be stuck to that pole 'til I can find some hot water. Where would he be without me? I guess retirement will just have to wait a few more years.