Melting snow had warped the timber boards of the small police station, causing the roof to sag beneath the parapet and the veranda to become asperous. The masonry forming the foundation hasn't fared much better, as the crevices in the stonework had become footholds for the vines that crept up from the bucolic sod beneath. The dilapidated edifice was not a unique sight in the inauspicious neighborhood it occupied.
A wizened countenance peered out from the wedge of a bowler hat, complimented by the cashmere muffler wound about his neck
that draped over a knitted sweater. The old man appeared to be sleeping, as his wrinkled eyelids formed a hood above his oculars. Still, the brumal ague kept the man alert as his loafers dredged through the sleet.
He entered the cantonment's ingress and
wiped his shoes on the entrance mat, awaiting an amanuensis to him and guide him towards the interrogator's office. Although he hadn't appraised himself to be prying, he glanced around corridor, transfixed the eclectic decorative choices, especially with the perversely charming angle in which the sheriff's portraits hung. He disregarding that the clock had struck a quarter-hour past his scheduled appointment before an amanuensis guided him to the end of the hallway, a door illuminated by a light that emanated from a stained-glass lamp atop a teetering three-legged stool.
He placed his pudgy palm on the copper knob before tugging, where he was met with harsh light and a tiny bureau. The elder squinted while lingering in the brightly-lit threshold, trying to delineate the amorphous mass that beckoned him inwards. The contour materialized into a man who was emaciated and bedraggled, with husky grey hair and growing stubble. A few rogue follicles titillated his nose. Thrifty glasses lounged on his pronounced ears. He wiped his palms on his smock before sighing, seeing that
the geriatric man was ambling towards him.
"You're late." The detective stated while clicking his tongue. The man forced a crooked grin to apologize for his unannounced entrance.
Despite the smile he offered, he was repulsed by his surroundings. Law books were scattered across the olive-wood floorboards, with the exception of those occupied by rotting rodent traps. In addition, a heaping of scattered paperwork was sprawled across the man's aging Davenport, most of which bore the adornments of golden coffee-ring stains. The client's trained-eye uncovered the accumulation of mold wads which decorated the porous cobblestone walls, a single, load-bearing slab of tabby which supported several diplomas.
"I-I apologize," the old man began, a scrunching his nose in disgust, "I didn't expect it to take this long to walk. I would have left earlier if I knew..." he muttered.
"If you had arrived a moment later I would have suspected that you'd have skipped town. My secretary would have had to send a cop to hunt you down."
The old man unintelligibly grumbled before being interrupted by his own hoarse expectorations.
"You wouldn't have had to send anyone to retrieve me. I can't even stand up straight: a old, sick man like me wishes he had the vitality to commit a crime and escape!" He spat, his face contorting with a certain crestfallen suspicion. The investigator drew a derelict cigar from a cardboard carton, rolling the stub between his lips as he ogled at the elderly man.
"Trust me, that would be my last resort. You're not a suspect, just a witness. I haven't a reason to believe you are anything more than engineer— one in the right place at the wrong time. Now, tell me about what you remember from that night." He stated with conviction and slivers of noxious smoke parting from his flanges. The investigator tapped the blanched paper which enveloped the snuff, watching as lambent sparks fell from the tip.
"Well, I can let you in on a secret." Immuring a somber conveyance, The old man's warm breath titillated the detective's flesh, providing heat which radiated in the dim biz.
"Please do, sir. I need answers to advance my investigation."
"I should be making your job very easy for you then," The old man hoarsely responded before falling silent, the interrogator suppressing an uncomfortable sigh, "We did everything right, everything! I worked on that project for thirty years, and that's not even counting the research I did for my P.h.D. The plan was to send her an hour into the future. You can imagine that I was skeptical when they selected her. She was an arrogant, greedy kid— our prized lab rat.
I feared that she would somehow sabotage the mission, do something reckless and selfish. God! I wanted her to prove me wrong. The way my heart dropped when I saw her emerge bloodied, and with a gun nonetheless, the feeling was just... ineffable."
"A gun, a gun, a gun." The detective contiguously rehearsed to himself; each susurration causing the man's lips to pull further downwards in dismay. He dropped his chattels on his escritoire: a stack of coffee-stained documents. He was overcame by a foreboding perturbation— a particular ambiguous dread— as he watched the papers disseminate. The consternation, however, fed into a blinding surge of rage. He leapt to his feet and seized a pen before slashing the margins of the arrest warrant indignantly, laminating the paper in a deluge of black ink.
"How the fuck is that even possible? Tell me! You designed this program, so please, tell me how she committed suicide by shooting herself with a gun that wasn't present in the facility."
Among the reticent silence, a knot compelled itself up the investigators throat as he muttered a meager apology. The engineer frowned.
"She didn't commit suicide. She looked much rougher: she was dressed completely differently, her hair was a bit longer, she has lost a bit of weight. Yet there she stood, so proudly covered in her counterpa- no, her own blood. I have reason to think that the test went successfully, maybe she really did time travel, and when she returned two timelines converged."
In the dark cubbyhole of his anteroom, the dingy-haired man hovered above his davenport. He attempted to air out his smock with his ink-daubed fingers, as his shirt and unfettered suspenders, dank with perspiration, had begun to cohere to his sunken shoulders. He rolled his corrugated lip between his teeth, parting with a belated sigh as his lanky, fleshless body reposed.
"You fucking scientists. This is why nobody likes you guys— you're always obsessively searching for reasoning to support your proofs, but yet give the most outlandish answers to the most basic of problems. Senile old man, go home."
Culpability lulled his once-racing conscious. He wore a solemn expression, and he looked towards the frost-covered aperture; his gander was prescient as he watched the silhouette of the old man ambulate into the distance.
Gingerly, the detective picked up the updated girl's file: he knew he had been a part of a much larger scheme to uncover what happened the night of the CERN's time machine test. He skimmed the paperwork, his gaze falling upon three highlighted time stamps.
18:27 — Dr. (Y/N) (L/N) enters 183X CPA Model C
18:29 — Test promptly fails, management press AZ-5 to shut down experiment
18:30 — Gunshots reported, suspect (F) emerges covered in Dr. (Y/N) (L/N)'s blood.
He mulled over the elderly man's words. In the slightest possibility he had been correct, he wondered what she encountered that drove her revolve. Was it the events she witnessed? The people she met? The places she had been?
He allowed his pride to consume him, however; he had to be right, and he dismissed the thought.
YOU ARE READING
Eons - Various! Hetalia x Reader
Fanfiction"ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴏᴡ ʀᴇᴄᴋʟᴇꜱꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ, ꜱɪʟʟʏ ɢɪʀʟ, ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴘʟᴀʏ ɢᴏᴅ! ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɴᴏ Qᴜᴀʟᴍꜱ, ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴡɪʟʟɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜʀᴏᴡ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ- ᴛᴏ ꜱᴘʟɪᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴɪᴛʏ- ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛ? ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ? ɪɴꜰᴀᴍʏ?" "ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴘʟᴀʏ ɢᴏᴅ. ɪ ᴀᴍ ɢᴏᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴍʏ...
