Time Off, Part Six

Drifter spun and picked direction as a chilling shroud of mist glowed from the streetlights. 

“The direct route is faster, and I have faith you can handle yourself. But you might experience things that are a mite uncomfortable, but they can’t hurt you ‘nless you let them.”

“Are they real?” Katrina asked. No armor. Not even a sidearm. Some vacation this is shaping out to be.

“In some senses, as real as you or I. Things that are, things that could have been. Most are harmless.”

“Alright, but before we go, what did you mean when you texted me  ‘It’s handled’?” Katrina asked, remembering Drifter’s cryptic message on her phone.

Time Off, Part Five

Two soldiers in cord-and-plaque armor, their queues immaculate, marched in unison to a deep, rhythmic drumbeat on either side of the long rosewood table. The litter between them cradled an ornate silver tureen, filigreed with the slender, graceful loops of dragons in flight. The other tables and chairs in the restaurant were stacked in balanced rows on the opposite walls.

With a tap of Hi Pan’s long, black finger nail, the drumming stopped . The tureen lowered to rest in front of Katrina. Gold, dressed in a green pien fu, floated to the table, bowed low, and with a flourish removed the lid. Katrina, engulfed in a steamy wave of anise, chrysanthemum, and ginger indicated her thanks to Gold with a shallow nod, her brows arched in mild surprise.

Now you’re serving me soup? Katrina taunted Gold with a smile. Gold’s eyes narrowed and her hand clenched around the handle of the lid.

Time Off, Part Four

The coffee tasted as if it has been boiled for six hours, and held a bitter, reassuring bite. Despite the cigarette stained walls and the meager “Thank you for not smoking” sign, Nancy Surhoff’s tiny office held for Katrina a certain warmth and sadness. Nancy Surhoff had her red hair tied back in a scraggly ponytail. Still, her face looked a little fuller than Katrina had seen it last. Too thin, Katrina heard her grandmother, or her aunt scoff. With an irritated shrug, she brushed the fractured memory away.

“Kat, didn’t you read the weather report? You’re lucky you didn’t get soaked.”

“Just have to stay under awnings, it's not that bad out,” Katrina lied. The Maniac would worry her, and Drifter -- No.  “Thanks for letting me drop by so late.”

Time Off, Part Three

Her phone faded into smoke before she could press the speed dial. “Hey-- I’m responsible for the equipment issued to me, you know.”

Drifter tipped his hat. “Sorry Missy, but I’d just as soon you didn’t call in the calvary just yet.”  The rain fell hard enough for the water to bounce off the concrete, but no drops hit either of them. 

Katrina noticed that her clothes felt dry, and smelled hot, like they’d baked in the desert sun. “Drifter, I’m under standing orders to call in any contact with a type seven mystic. The Office of Superbeing Relations can provide -- ”

Time Off, Part Two

Technically, leave started tomorrow, so there was just enough time to discreetly check on some things, provided little things didn’t become complicated. Which meant Katherine was just another hoodie and jeans in Westside, hustling through the evening drizzle. The downpour earlier had washed the concrete to a dull brown. While most of Westside’s gangs avoided the wet, the Maniacs loved to cause mayhem in the rain, especially on the weak and unsuspecting. 

Time Off, Part One

Within UNTIL, Major Clay was famous for many things, but his handlebar mustache made him legend. Precise and pencil thin, it struck out from his face to rise in majestic curls just under his cold grey eyes. Between his mustache and his oval face and round cheeks, his was a viage perfect for a straw hat and a barbershop quartet. As long as one didn’t look at his eyes. More than one junior officer had confessed to Sergeant Katrina Mirinova at being perplexed by the mix of the comical and the severe, unable to figure out where to focus their gaze.

Email retrieved from Kettle Falls

Note: The following email fragment was in the DRAFTS folder of a computer located at Kettle Falls High School. The email was never sent. Traces to the email address listed in the to and from do not resolve to a particular server

To: 8918273823@10.0.8.32
From: 9912723@ktf_hs.wash.edu

BT brned them alive. Wasnt part of plan. Im out, will tranfr fee back. BT's got his own plan for this. If youre smart youll drop itt.  Sending coords for trailer. wll transfr funds from a safer location. V probably watchig internet, so i gotta stay off their trail. dont reply, dont call ever