AN: Right. Next chapter. Didn't take nearly as long as I expected (by which I mean practically no time at all) and I'd like to warn you not to get used to the speedy updates. I'm usually a notoriously slow writer. Though getting feedback from readers was a huge part of the quick update. As I was telling The Boy, I can't afford to be stuck for long, people actually like it! So thank you, thank you, thank you.
Still looking for a beta. You can still reach me at GoblinQueenie on AIM and YIM and goblinqueenie at gmail dot com.
Hope you enjoy!
Chapter Three
Like most places that housed experimental technology, Chrono-Gen was only remarkable in that it was so very unremarkable. The only oddity about the series of gray, squat buildings was the tall fence circling a rather large perimeter, topped with razor wire. The fence was merely a visual notice that the place was off limits to the general public: a company as lucrative and secretive as Chrono-Gen could not only afford superior means of protection, but required them.
Aside from the security, it was indistinguishable from any of the other Jersey office parks, especially once the guardhouse had been passed.
Angel and Torres cruised down the long driveway toward the underground parking garage in the same moody silence that had been the hallmark of their entire trip out of the city- each sulking for their own reasons.
When they finally stopped, in the dim of the garage, Torres began, "Angel," but was cut off by the forceful slam of his car door as he got out.
Slamming the door herself, she jogged to catch up with him at the elevators, not doubting for a second that he would leave her behind. "Angel, hang on a minute," she said, catching his arm before he could enter the elevator.
"We're already late, Torres."
"I know, but a few more minutes isn't going to make it that much worse."
He rolled his eyes and sighed, but she continued on as though she hadn't noticed. "Listen. This is ridiculous. I'm sorry I'm stealing your heroes, it's clear I like it as much as you do, but this pouting thing has got to quit."
"I'm not pouting," he snapped.
"I know you are, because I am too."
"Pouter," he accused, but his usual good humor was returning.
She grinned and said, "You called me out. Are we cool?"
"We're cool."
He hit the call button again and they waited in a more comfortable silence. "I just don't get it, though," he said, holding the doors open for her. "The Captain has to know that this is an awful idea."
"When was the last time you remember the Cap'n having an awful idea? We may not like it but-"
"But she has her reasons, which will no doubt become clear and sensible. I know. But still."
"You're telling me, partner," she agreed, as the doors opened, the voice announcing the floors thanked them politely for riding.
The interior of the main Chrono-Gen building was as different from the plain exterior as possible, a symphony of modern-modern architecture, sweeping support curves done in glass and metal, recessed halogen lighting and bold accents of color.
One such accent was the large seemingly floating purple desk behind which a young blonde man was chatting animatedly on a headset.
The two detectives approached, Angel clearing his throat. The man didn't look at them, only acknowledging their presence with a raised hand. Angel turned to his partner and rolled his eyes. Trying to fight down a laugh she was forced to turn around abruptly when the receptionist finally did look up.
Unfortunately, they weren't the center of his attention; he resumed the typical unfocused scanning of someone using a retina screen.
"Hey," Angel greeted. Torres faced him again, mouth still quirking in a suppressed grin.
"Afternoon," he acknowledged, writing something across the desktop with his stylus. "What can I do for you?"
"To start with, could you stop multitasking and actually look at us? Specs creep my partner out, silly I know, but they remind her of Glass addicts, old childhood trauma, Freud, blah blah blah. Humor us," Angel said with a charming smile.
The receptionist returned the smile, tapping something on the desktop. "There, they're off."
"Thanks," Torres said, finally successful at holding in her amusement. "We're here for the Great Detective and the Good Doctor."
"Huh?"
"She means #43706 and #43707," David explained, moving Torres a bit behind him.
"Oh. Them. Who did you say they were?"
"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," Torres piped up from behind Angel's shoulder.
"Shibby."
"Sure," Angel said pleasantly. "Where are they?"
"If I can sign back on now I can call up."
"Feel free, my friend, just don't look at the lady."
"I'll try not to." After tapping a different pattern on the desktop he looked up at the two officers again, saying, "They want to talk to you, so if you could follow the runner," he rapped the desktop again and a bright blue line of light showed up on the pearly gray floor.
"Thanks muchly!"
They walked along the lighted ribbon of color, Torres finally laughed. "Should have made it yellow, eh, Angel?"
"And brick? You're such a loser. Did the secretary really say shibby?"
"He did indeed. He was precious. I won't tell Alex, we can all pretend that you're in blinders."
"I wonder what they want to talk to us about," Angel said, deliberately changing the subject.
"Maybe they want to acclimate the intrepid crime fighters to the new face of law enforcement in a controlled environment, sedatives at the ready."
"Shut up, Torres."
"Didn't think about that one, did you? They are Victorians-"
"You've been pointing that out every five minutes, thanks. I'm sure it won't be that bad."
"Have you taken an history class? Ever?"
Their argument stopped as abruptly as the blue line, at a door the same shining gray as the floor. "This'll be our Emerald City, then?" Torres said and knocked.
A young man who obviously cultivated the appearance of a stereotypical scientist- from dark framed glasses to spotless lab coat with pens in the pocket- opened it immediately with a smile. "Ah! These are the police officers I was telling you about," he said to the other occupants of the room. To the two outside, "Please, come in detectives."
There was a plainly audible snort of derision. Torres ground her teeth and glared at Angel. She had forgotten Holmes' attitude toward the police.
To further remind them, a sharp voice continued, "From my experience, police detectives are hardly the sort you would want solving crimes."
AN: I know, I know, it's hardly a proper introduction. More of the dynamic duo in the next chapter, I promise. It's just so hard to keep Holmes and Watson true to character and if I were to do a bad job of it I'd cry.
If anyone wants to tell my what they think of the original characters (namely Angel and Torres), that'd make my day. They're going to be a major part of the plot and if they're irritating then I should probably start fixing them now.
Right. Constructive criticism is always welcome as is just letting me know that you're enjoying it and would like to see me continue.