Caffeine and Magix

“It’s a class five,” the man in Agatha’s living room says. He’s wearing a biohazard suit pulled down to his waist where the arms are tied to keep it from sliding down past his rubber boots. Under the suit he’s wearing a dress shirt and tie, both in an off-putting shade of green. He doesn’t look up when he speaks, instead staring at the pool on her ceiling and then to his clipboard.

Agatha looks from the man to the bubbling mass on her ceiling and does not remember inviting either in.

“‘Course with new department regulations, that doesn’t mean much,” the man continues. He jots another note on his clipboard and sighs noisily. “Class five wouldn’t even touch an old level two, if you ask me. You don’t need to worry, ma'am, I can have this cleaned up by sundown.” He frowns darkly at his clipboard. “If it’s not finished by then, there is an emergency number you’ll have to call.”

“I see,” Agatha says, stepping cautiously into her living room. The edge of the pool bubbles alarmingly above her but not a drop of the hissing acid falls far enough to touch her. “I don’t think the emergency number will be necessary, mister…?”

“Brown,” the man says. He finally turns to look at her, tucking the clipboard under his arm. “And I assure you it is entirely necessary. Why, just last week we had a class three turn into a class seven! It’s the ley lines… something about the moon…”

“You misunderstand,” Agatha says. “I don’t mean that emergency services are unnecessary. I mean to say the number is because it connects to my phone.” She pulls a small red cell phone from her pocket and dangles it from two fingers.

Mr. Brown stares at her. “Ah.”

Agatha allows some of the rage to break through her poker face. “This, of course, could have been avoided if you had waited for an official request.”

“There was an official request,” Mr. Brown protests. He flips through his paperwork quickly. “Otherwise I would have never–” He stood on the last page and closes his eyes. “An official inquiry request. Inquiry.”

Meaning that the department had noted a temporal disturbance in her residence and was supposed to look into it, not send a fixer like Mr. Brown.

Agatha purses her lips. “Indeed.” She takes a slow step towards him, her rage making the air around her heavy. “And because of your oversight, we are now trapped within the bounds of the temporal disturbance until such a time as it dissipates.” She takes another step. “And as a class five, Mr. Brown, it will dissipate in… how many years?”

“Seven,” Mr. Brown says. He is very pale. “I can’t be here for– I’m getting married this weekend!”

Agatha moves to the paisley couch and takes a seat. “And I was going on a spa date. Now both our lives suck.”

Mr. Brown wipes his brow. “There must be– you’re emergency! There must be something you can do!”

“If I had access to the officially recognized timeline, of course,” Agatha says. She digs one hand under the couch cushions and recovers it plus a bottle of rum a moment later. “Ha! Knew that was there.” She uncorks it and takes a healthy swig. Thoughtfully she says, “You know, I don’t think we need to worry about waiting for it to dissipate.”

“We don’t?” Mr. Brown asks, eyes hopeful.

“No,” Agatha says and laughs without humor. “We’ll be dead in a month; I forgot to go grocery shopping for the next seven years.”

Mr. Brown groans as if shot. “You said if you had an access to the ORTime. What a-about a watch? Or a phone?” He scrambles on his pockets and pulls out a satellite phone. “How about–” The phone is ripped from his hand by an unseen force and sent flying up into the pool of acid.

They both watch it dissolve in silence.

“Watch out,” Agatha says belatedly, “class fives are self-protective.” She glares at the bubbling liquid. “I couldn’t have done it from a sat phone anyway. This thing’s eating through all sorts of lines, not the least of which is time.” She takes another gulp of rum and wishes that she was a bit more of a lightweight.

“Maybe I–” Mr. Brown starts to say before being cut off by the outer wall of her house being torn off.

Agatha, having just resigned herself to perishing from alcohol poisoning rather than starvation, stares blankly at the street outside her house.

“Watch your hats,” a woman calls from outside.

“What?” Mr. Brown asks.

A roaring fills the room, like a vacuum but a hundred times louder. The pool of acid, the acid pool if you will, bubbles angrily as it’s sucked out and down to a large hose resting benignly on her lawn. She recognizes a containment unit when she sees one, even if she fully hadn’t expected one to appear again in her life.

“This– what?” Mr. brown asks again, helplessly.

A woman steps around the edge of the hole, high heels easily clearing the few drops of sizzling acid that remain caught on the lawn. She’s tall and leggy and not at all anything like Mr. Brown.

She is, unfortunately, very familiar.

“Helen,” Mr. Brown says with relief.

“McAllister,” Agatha says with loathing.

“Sorry about that Tepes,” Helen McAllister says, walking into her living room. “Just some friendly hazing of the newbie.” She eyes the bottle still in Agatha’s hand. “I see the casual alcoholism continues.”

Agatha’s cheeks burn but she pretends not to notice. As if to defy her embarrassment, she takes another pull from the bottle. McAllister, to Agatha’s frustration, looks amused.

“Hazing,” Mr. Brown echoes, ignoring the byplay. “But I– you said you were sick! You said that you wouldn’t be in until tomorrow–”

“I lied,” McAllister says easily.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Agatha mutters into the bottle opening.

“I never lied to you, Agatha,” McAllister says seriously. She takes a step closer to the couch. “I’ve told you, it was a misunderstanding.”

Agatha looks at her ceiling, scorched from the acid, and her lip curls. “Just what I need, a class five and my ex in my living room. And you wonder why I drink.”

“No, no one wonders why you drink,” McAllister says. She sighs and runs a hand through her curly hair. “Look, I didn’t mean to lock you in with a class five. If I’d known whose house, I wouldn’t have pulled this.”

“I thought I was going to die,” Mr. Brown says shakily. He points a finger at Agatha. “She told me I was going to die!”

“And yet here I am with a hole in my house and a class five disaster trail,” Agatha says. She gives McAllister a sarcastic thumbs up. “Super great.”

McAllister opens her mouth, closes it, and then shakes her head. “Look, all I can say is sorry. I’ll send a disaster crew over and they’ll set this place to rights. Just… this wasn’t personal, okay? It’s not like I set this guy here to fuck with you. You know that, right?”

Agatha takes another sip and purposefully doesn’t answer her.

“We definitely need to talk,” McAllister sighs. She waves a hand at Brown. “Come on, newbie, I have to teach you how to write an incident report.”

Mr. Brown looks between Helen and Agatha. “Were you two a… thing?”

“Oh my god,” Agatha says, “the standards have really dropped since I got moved to emergency.”

“Moved, transferred willingly to avoid facing your problems,” McAllister says, “I’ve heard it both ways.”

“That is frickin rich coming from you–” Agatha starts to say only for McAllister to keep talking loudly over her.

“Okay, Brown, lets go! Report, disaster team, yadda yadda, lots to do!” McAllister walk back out the hole and gestures for Brown to go ahead of her. When he does, she makes to follow him and then pauses. “We do seriously need to talk, Agatha.”

“Or we could seriously not,” Agatha retorts.

McAllister takes an audible calming breath. “Okay, well, if you change your mind, I’ll be at that cafe on Second and Wellington at six. My treat.” She turns to go after Brown. “Id really appreciate it if you showed.”

Agatha watches her leave, butterflies in her stomach. She’s got no reason to go, there’s no more chance for them, she doesn’t want–

“Fuck,” she says and tosses the rum to the side. She’s got to quit while she’s ahead if she wants to be sober before six.