Strange Aeons [Book 1]

1. The Man in the Office

The man in the office was tired.

The windowless, concrete room was only decorated with framed official-looking documents. Right in the best spot, there was a Harvard Law Degree, and other proof of his career, which was a very short, very simple one. There were bookshelves, filled to the brim with severe-looking books, and a small couch, covered in binders, forms, and worksheets. A light-wooden desk was crouched against the northern wall as if it was ready to jump on anything coming in from the solid dark metal door, right opposite. The comfy office chair was empty, as the man was standing right beside it, his hands entangled behind his back, his eyes on the closed door. He had a dignified stance and a stern expression on his weary face.

His hazel eyes only sometimes darted on the clock on the eastern wall.

The rhythmic passing of time was the only sound echoing in the small room.

He started tapping his fingers on his forearm.

Until a familiar sound of hasty steps started coming from far, out of the door.

His expression tensed naturally, in a Pavlovian reaction to the sound.

The door busted open.

«Chief! Sorry Chief! There was traffic and the police always stops us when we're on Chico's pick-up!» exploded a full contralto voice with a stone-heavy Irish accent, as a black, red and green figure stopped in front of the desk, instinctively putting herself at attention.

The man didn't talk. He still waited a couple of endless, silent minutes. Two minutes in which the red-haired woman didn't even try to change her position, remaining proudly with her hand against her forehead, in an awkward silence that didn't seem to worry him.

The second figure to enter the room was a strange sight for the relatively mild-weather of Boston. He was a tall man in his mid-sixties, with a proud thick white beard and mustache and short grey hair, well hidden under a black busby. A dark grey military long coat covered him almost from shoulders to toe. His almost transparent blue eyes were as cold as ice, as he greeted the standing man with a small nod of his head and quietly took his place beside the woman.

The last one, walking in as if he was early, and not terribly late, was a joyful looking Mexican man, with a bright colored violet shirt under a jeans jacket, black hair and a great smile.

«Hola Jefe! Que pasa?» he blurted happily.

The man in the office inhaled.

«You slovenly useless bandwagon of debauchery! If I say three o'clock I mean three o'clock, not a quarter past four!» the voice of the man was a roar of thunder in the small office, as his expression turned fast from tired to angry.

«I tried to explain! The traffic was...» the woman started talking again, then froze when the fiery eyes of the man stopped on her tall, muscular figure. She swallowed sawdust.

«After, how many? Ten years, at least, of living in this city, I would expect three adults to be perfectly able to somehow manage moving around in time to avoid traffic.» he growled, with a much more controlled volume, but not with a more peaceful expression. On the contrary. «But every time, you're late. Something happened. The police stopped you. A Ripple to the Undertide suddenly appeared in your freezer. Anything but arriving on time.»

«It's not our fault if Chico's pick-up truck screams "I'm smuggling cocaine while kidnapping your kids."» the woman shot a glare towards the Mexican who, on his part, just smiled and shrugged.

«Next time you come by yourself, chica.»

«Enough!» thundered the man again. «I really don't care. I have work to do, and you're as usual devastating my schedule with your sole existence. So, let's get to the reason for my calling you here.»