𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 𝗔𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗞 𝗔𝗦 𝗪𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗥 ⚔︎

10

the FBI headquarters in new york were located on worth street just off broadway, three blocks away from the neighbourhood of tribeca. gaggles of middle-aged men dressed in grey velour and black cashmere suits marched up the huge stone steps in front of the tall, dark building, bustling and shouldering their way past each other like a herd of wildebeest. holding firmly onto their briefcases, their faces were all cleanly shaven and their hair was cut and styled out of their faces, each of them so similar yet so different to the last.

amongst them, squeezing his way through the revolving doors and heading toward the elevator, was a man named william turner. he had celebrated his 52nd birthday just three days ago.

william turner was an average joe. he went to the mets games at the stadium; he tuned in to watch magnum p.i after dinner on a thursday; he listened to old ricky nelson vinyls, and while doing so, liked to reminisce on a time when he was young and happy and life was much, much easier. standing at just an inch under six feet, william was a relatively fit and athletic man, but unfortunately had very few interests that went past his work — he had a face that was almost handsomely ugly, but he looked good for his age, with straight dark hair streaked silver, blue eyes, and a jutting bump on the bridge of his nose that had been passed onto him from the generations of men before him, dating all the way back to his scots-irish great grandfather.

the date was august 1st. william walked briskly across the main reception of the headquarters and marched into the elevator, pressing the button for floor twenty while surrounded by a swarm of people — all of them, including himself, were crammed in like chickens in a coop. when it reached the top floor, he was the only one left in. and then, with a loud ping, the doors slid open. he stepped out.

when he arrived into the office, he was met with an immediate uproar of chaos. all of his colleagues were crowded around a long, glass table, banging their fists on the surface in anticipation while some of them sang a chant and spoke sarcastic remarks; his boss, mr ashkenazy, stood tall at the top, the whiteboard behind him reading 'NEW CASE DAY' written in big, block capitals.

"turner!" one of the men called. william briefly swivelled his head to see who had beckoned him: it was agent rye. "you're late!"

"i can see that," william returned. he took a seat amongst the loud and raucous gathering, seemingly the only still figure in the room.

the banging and chanting subsided when mr ashkenazy turned around and faced the gathering, his face as wrinkled as an old map. he stepped to the side to reveal a smaller sentence. the agents all stared at the whiteboard in disbelief, their mouths zipping shut and their faces growing dull — it was as if they were stuck in a bomb shelter during an air raid, listening to the enemy fly overhead in a jet plane. 'EDWARD LAVIGNE and associates' had been scrawled underneath.

to this, one of the few female agents — denham — spoke up. she was an attractive woman in her mid thirties, often overlooked and undermined by her fellow colleagues. "you're kidding, right?" she said, looking her boss dead in his eyes.

"unfortunately, i am not," mr ashkenazy answered firmly. he pointed at the board. "you all know what this means by now."

he walked over to the rows upon rows of filing cabinets at the far side of the room. all eyes burned into him. he stopped at the middle cabinet and opened the top drawer with quick fingers, before lifting out a velvet black top hat. it was filled with tiny pieces of paper, of which bore the names of every agent.

ashkenazy held out the top hat in front of him, standing once again at the end of the long table. he gazed hardly at the agents and gave a slight shake of the top hat. a sullen silence filled the room — so silent that you could almost hear the atoms fizzing around in the air.