“Sir, I have my reservations about this particular procedure.” The Professor says, fingers adjusting his flawless glasses.
The General sighs in bone-deep exhaustion, fingers trying and ultimately failing to pinch the frustration out through his eyes.
What was it with geniuses trying to drive him crazy today? He had barely had a chance to celebrate ridding himself of Chris; now, the situation had arisen to reunite with the timid Professor once again.
He spares a glance at the whiny man, fingers fiddling furiously with his glasses. If the man hadn''t needed them to see, he''d have tossed them into the vat of liquid across them. Glass panel be damned.
Two people in full hazmat body suits flit past them into the room with the transparent tub, and they watch the liquid bubble impressively once a significant helping of some random chemical is pumped in through one of the numerous tubes sticking out of it.
The bespectacled man fidgets beside him once again, palms smudging the glass panel he is leaning on in front of them, and The General growls.
“Will you relax, Clifford?” He yanks the man away from the glass by the collar of his ever-present lab coat. “This procedure was successfully tested and used in the 60s, and they barely had color television.”
Clifford intones in deep thought. Hands rushing to straighten his skewed coat, mouth spewing needless information. “Technically the first color television was invented in 1925–”
The General whips to him sharply, shooting the man a look that could melt ice. Thankfully he knows well enough to end the trivia session.
“Sorry.” Clifford clears his throat. “I-It''s just, factoring in the new upgrades, plus the crystal which also hasn''t been tested, we have a whole new kind of unpredictability–”
He takes a deep breath, forcefully grabbing the Professor by his shoulders. It seems he was going to need to literally shake the man into getting with the program.
“We have aliens amongst us now.” He inputs a firm shake here. “Aliens who left unchecked could signal for help from the stars.”
The man''s hand flies up to his glasses again. “But Chris said–”
“Chris has been secretly housing our other enormous problem!” He smacks the hand away before it can reach the glasses, and God was it satisfying. “Why should we have to listen to anything he has to say?!”
The Professor quakes a little, he savors it.
“This is our country, our home. We cannot in good conscience sit by, and let these things take over.” The General says in closing, a hand abandoning its grip on one shoulder to fix Clifford’s spectacles. Warranted this time, as it was sliding down his sweaty face.
“Whatever it takes.” He pats him once on the back, hands returning to their parade rest position behind him. “Now, who''s our candidate?”
The Professor jerks to attention, eyes pouring across the dossier in his hand, as he quickly reads. “Corporal John Fraker.” He says. “Top of his squad, highest endurance levels ever recorded.”
The General nods impressively. “Bring him in.”
The door opens and in steps the man in a bathrobe.
5 feet 12 inches, lean but muscular. His fitness tests were impressive as well as his shooting scores. The fitness part, however, was what mattered at the moment, the updated version of this procedure from the 60s having failed countless times as a result of the subjects dying before their body could integrate with the new modifications. A flaw that Clifford–if you filtered through the incessant whinging–had hoped the crystal would help bypass.
“John Fraker?”
“Yes sir.” The man salutes dutifully, clad only in his sky-blue bathrobe.
“Do you know why you''re here today?” The man had been debriefed once he signed the Non-disclosure clause, but one couldn''t be too careful.
“Yes sir.” He answers crisply, eyes trained ahead in military alertness.
“Well, I guess that means we don''t have to go into details then.” He shuts the file and hands it back to the Professor, who clears his throat pointedly, head gesturing to the undressed man. Right, Terms and Conditions.
“You are aware that we aren''t responsible for any side effects et cetera et cetera?” He rolls his hands, hoping to convey his point across quickly.
“I was extensively debriefed, sir.” Fraker answers, stiff and robotic. A part of him can''t help but wonder--
“You''re certain, this is what you want?” He wasn''t a monster. If this was not consensual, he would pull the plug immediately. No use wasting good American men.
“I am here voluntarily sir.” Fraker nods once, shoulders squared in preparation for duty.
Hazmat number one steps in through the door, interrupting whatever the General was going to say next. The clinical precision of the situation, coupled with the rubber suits, give the entire thing an uncanny feeling.
“We''re ready for him now, General.” Hazmat salutes.
John nods, ready, pivoting around to leave before the General stops him.
He holds a hand out in front of the man, barricading but not touching. “Any family members to contact, just in case things go south?”
“None sir. It''s just me.” Fraker replies.
The General nods understandingly, hand retracting from its stoop. “Good luck kid.” He says
“Anything to serve my country, sir.” Fraker salutes, before leaving with Hazmat one.
They watch him drop his robe from outside the glass panel, subjects the only people allowed into the area without protective gear. Hazmat one directs Fraker into the vat, where he enters face down.
Hazmat two pushes a button, injecting various colors of liquid into Fraker via the tubes sticking through the tub. Then the top is slid shut, the machine whirring on with an ominous hum.
<hr>
Chris glares furiously at the seven enormous moving vans parked in front of his home.
Alex had convinced him of the existence of magic, perhaps he had some untapped talent and could cause the vans to suddenly combust into burning wrecks.
“Look, man!” The head truck driver croaks, snapping him out of his sinister thoughts. The man lifts his dusty baseball cap to swipe the grimy sweat off his bald head, and Chris can''t help but grimace at the thick droplets that fall.
“All we got were instructions to deliver this stuff to this address …” Baldy fishes a crumpled paper out of his back jean pocket, handing it to Chris. Thankfully, his lawyer accepts it because Chris wasn''t touching anything from this man, even if his fingers suddenly transformed into surgical forceps.
Arthur''s eyes quickly skim across the tattered note, his intellect wasted on something so inanely trivial. He looks up at the driver after the fact, and Baldy quirks an eyebrow at him in question.
“… Which is here, isn''t it?” He asks in continuation, eyes darting between the three men opposite him, daring even one of them to dispute the fact.
Chris gives in and snatches the reading glasses off Arthur''s nose–his had wandered off somewhere once again–a stern look plastered on his face, as he peers through the crumpled paper still in the lawyer’s grasp.
“It''s here, alright.” Arthur confirms.
The Truck driver swells triumphantly, nodding some vague communication across to his colleagues who were conferred at the far end of the closest van.
“But …” Chris emphasizes, taking great pleasure in the chance to pull a jolt from Baldy in return. “None of these are mine, so I honestly don''t know what to tell you.”
The driver''s brief moment of delight clouds over once again. “We''ve got another job in an hour, we gotta unload now.”
Chris lets out an aggravated sigh, head angled to the heavens. He would have George toss the men out of the compound if there weren''t seven of them and one of George.
“I just told you they don''t belong to me, why would you possibly want to unload?” He clasps his hands together over his face and hopes it properly conveys the severity of the exasperation washing through him.
“Bub, I really don''t give a shit what belongs to who, as long as I get paid. And the instructions were to unload here and get paid.” The driver attempts to rest a friendly hand on his shoulders, Chris quickly flinching away before he can make contact.
“Get paid by whom exactly?!”
He barely has the sentence out of his mouth, when he is interrupted by obnoxious rock music blasting out of the black 1969 Plymouth Barracuda that pulls to a halt in front of them.
Alex steps out, cool blue Aviator glasses resting comfortably on her face, not a care in the world.
“Hello, Chris.” She chirps lightly, tilting her head to peer over her glasses at the movers. “Well, what are you waiting for? Unload the stuff.”
Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
Baldy stuffs two fingers in his lips, the emanating piercing whistle launching his colleagues into work mode.
“You heard the lady, hop to it!” He shoots Chris a stink eye before joining up with his crew, the movers immediately unloading things into the house.
Chris turns to Alex, hands on his hips. “Of course, they belong to you.”
“Did I forget to tell you?” Alex takes a quick second to scan through her memory. She finds whatever she is searching for. “Shit, I forgot to tell you.”
“Our dilemma has been quelled, George. You may go now.” Chris says to George, who nods understandingly before returning to his security post.
He lets his gaze wash over the entirety of Alex. Her shoulder was properly healed if he were to guess from her furious gesturing to the movers.
She was officially becoming a ‘Jordan’ in a couple of days; Arthur currently present to help her maneuver the hassles that came with a name change, along with the legalization of her numerous assets.
Lilian–once she had recovered from her shock–had been on a steady harangue in an attempt to get her to move in, to no avail. Or a secret avail evidently, seeing as Baldy and two other men were presently hoisting a grey velvet armchair into the house.
He squints at another something that looks like it was plucked out of the baroque period and addresses Alex. “Please tell me you did not rob a history museum?”
“Relax, these are all my stuff.” She assures with a vague wave. “I haven''t stolen a thing in 700-- I mean uh …” her eyes flick to Arthur beside him, and she clears her throat tightly. “What feels like 700 years.”
Her eyes dart warily from the man back to the movers. Chris smothers a laugh.
“So these are all yours?”
“Hopefully you have a huge-ass storeroom.” She says, elbowing him playfully. “Told you I was rich. Possibly even richer than you.”
Chris scoffs. “It''s not a competition.”
“You''re right.” Alex sniffs imperiously. “If it was, I''d have won.”
Thankfully, Arthur, ever the Lawyer, chooses that exact moment to harrumph loudly.
“Right. This is Arthur, my personal attorney.” He introduces, shaking his head slightly when Arthur stretches a hand out to Alex. He retracts it.
“He''s here to legalize the things you''d prefer we keep hush-hush.” Chris concludes.
“Pleased to meet you, Artie. Can I call you Artie?” Alex asks genially.
“You can call me whatever you want to.” Arthur chuckles, digging into his jacket to retrieve a complimentary card. “Since today has been converted into an impromptu moving day, how about you give me a call, and we can reschedule sometime before next week?” he offers the card, which Alex accepts gratefully.
“Done. Done. London.” She grins, Chris and her watching Arthur bow slightly before getting into his car and driving off.
“You didn''t tell me you were moving in.” Chris says suddenly, belatedly hoping he didn''t come off too strong and wind up offending Alex.
Alex to her credit, hums knowingly, nary a flicker of outrage on her face. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
And a surprise it truly was. “You want to see surprised, wait till Lilian gets home.”
An SUV rolls up in front of them, Chris taking an abrupt moment to scrutinize the vehicle to no result. It seemed the Jordan compound was popular today.
“Yours?” He asks Alex, both of them staring at the parked car.
“Nope. Albie’s.” Alex responds, brightening exclusively at the man who steps out of the vehicle.
Chris’ eyes widen inconceivably at the sight before him. Albert Wesson was in his home! Well, in his compound, not that he''d recount the story like this later.
Albert Wesson, co-owner of Smith and Wesson, was a hermit. More popular for the fact that he had not once been seen in almost 70 years than for the fraudulent Law Firm run by his partner. A rumor of his death had circulated in the late 90s, the photo that had gone around then bearing a striking resemblance to how he looked presently, almost 30 years after the fact.
Alex was chattering away comfortably at the man, with a familiarity that Chris doubted he could explain. Heck, she had even referred to the man with a nickname.
“Wait, wait, hold on,” Chris says, as soon as he''s in control of his tongue once again, shock dialed down to a respectable level, he turns to Alex. “How the hell do you know Albert Wesson?”
Alex''s brows furrow at Albert in question. “Albert?” She asks, prompting the man to lean on his walking stick and roll his eyes.
“I look like a white-haired Nonagenarian.” He grunts unimpressed, “The Harry Potter jokes would practically write themselves.”
Alex''s lips spread into an amused grin once more, Chris taking an embarrassing amount of time to process that particular statement. Harry Potter–
“Albus, your real name is Albus?” He asks, and yeah he could see the slight resemblance.
“Hey Albie, think fast.” Alex says, before tossing something at the man.
Chris has a moment of panic where he thinks whatever Alex tossed would clunk Albert–Albus over the head. Rearing back in shock instead, when his wrinkled hand darts out to deftly snatch the thing from midair.
There is a deep humming sound, Chris averting his eyes from the bright purple flash for a split second, turning back to see a dapper young man. Jet black hair, decent jawline, dressed in the exact same clothes as Albus, and sporting a matching walking stick–
“What just happened?” Chris crows, eyes blinking rapidly as he processes, his arms extending for a fight on their own accord.
Alex steps into his line of sight, ensuring his focus is entirely on her, as she pacifies him down from what was shaping up to be a monumental panic attack.
Albus quickly rids himself of the walking stick and knife. Shooting a sweet smile at the truck driver who has just stepped out of the house, confusion etched all over his face. Another mover joins him in the parking lot, inciting him back to work, which he blearily returns to with a shake of his head.
“I''ll be sure to fulfill my part of the deal, Alex.” Albus says quickly, probably realizing his continued presence was becoming problematic for everyone involved.
“Yeah,” Alex says from her hovering position over Chris, “I''ll call you.”
Albus parts with a small nod, slipping back into his SUV before it drives away.
“Are you alright?” She asks Chris, who has mostly gotten his hyperventilating in check.
“I''m not crazy, right? A ninety-something-year-old man just regressed back to his thirties. Right?!” He asks, eyes darting to and fro in befuddlement.
“Twenties, but Yes.” Alex responds. And Chris'' voice hits a new pitch.
“I’m crazy?!”
“No! You aren''t crazy.” She glances discreetly at the movers behind them then back at Chris. “Why don''t we take this enlightening discussion inside?” She smiles tightly.
Chris nods gently, and they both head into the house dodging two of the movers hoisting a vintage sofa through the front door.
He distractedly picks up a framed painting of Lincoln on the floor. “Why do you have a painting of Lincoln?”
“Because he gave it to me.” Alex shrugs, sinking into the couch in the Living room with a content sigh. “This is my new favorite couch.” She declares.
“Abraham Lincoln gave you this picture?” Chris asks incredulously, and Alex rears up to shush him.
“Yes, he did.” She says quietly, neck angling to make sure no movers were currently in earshot. “Check the lower left corner, he signed it.” She adds once the vicinity turns up mover-free.
Chris angles it appropriately to see, he actually did. “You knew Lincoln?” He asks, hand subconsciously stroking the painting like it were a cat.
“Of course, I did.” Alex preens. “Who do you think spawned the Civil War?”
Chris stares dreamily at the painting in his hand. “So, he knew about you?”
Alex hums, lifting her feet to cross on the center table. “A lot of people through time have known about me.”
Chris smacks her feet off the table, before taking the armchair opposite hers, painting still in hand.
“I have so many questions.” He says nearly inaudibly, brows furrowed in intense thought.
“Take your time, put your thoughts together. I''m not going anywhere.” Alex relaxes back in her seat.
Chris’ head lifts up at the assurance, mouth opening to say something when Lilian walks in the door.
“Oh my!” She exclaims, a hand to her chest as she takes in the increasing furniture and antiquities around them.
Chris sets the painting down, Alex giving a small wave from her comfortable lounge.
“Hi, honey.”
“Hey, Lilian.”
“All these men with the things …” Lilian halts as a mover passes by her, Viking axe in hand. She points at it in shock. “Chris, that man has an axe.”
“Don''t look at me, you asked her to move in.” Chris huffs, arms crossed.
Alex sputters. “I have a lot of stuff! I’ve been around a while!”
“I might have slightly underestimated exactly how much ''a while'' was, and what it consisted of.” Lilian strides over to give Chris a peck on his head.
“Bet you''re loving the Jaguar and Car Collection now, huh?” He angles his head at her, a wry smile painting his features.
“Speaking of cars," Lilian sits up straight, posture set to scold, eyes in dangerous slits. "please tell me that''s not a new one parked outside?”
Chris makes an offended noise, hand flying to clasp over his heart.
“No, that one''s mine.” Alex says before he can properly guilt trip Lilian. Lilian turns to Alex eyes softening at the announcement. And if this wasn''t a clear case of favoritism.
“It looks expensive.” She tells Alex, eyes scrunched together in apprehension.
“Didn''t you hear honey? She''s rich-rich.” Chris shoots Alex a flat grin.
“Actually, I spent $100 dollars on that car.” Alex relishes the look of disbelief on her audience''s faces. “It was ''69, and Woodstock was in full swing.” She says haughtily.
Chris, ever the opportunist, pounces at a chance to one-up her. “So, technically you''ve never had to actually work for your money? Just a couple of shit you''ve amassed over time?” He flails a hand about vigorously, eyes gleaming in anticipated victory.
“‘Technically’ …" Alex draws the word out, having to stifle a laugh at the peeved look on Chris'' face. "I''ve worked for literally everything I own, even the gifts. My ''payments'' just so happened to shoot up in value over time.”
Chris defeatedly looks to Lilian for help, who raises her hands in a ''leave me out of this'' gesture, amusedly choosing to stay out of the discussion.
“I win this round. Good talk Chris.” Alex lifts from the couch, a victorious smile on her face, as she heads for the grey velvet armchair beside her. “I think I''m going to take this upstairs.” Her eyes dart to the door in approving check before hoisting the hefty chair up the stairs like it were a feather pillow.
Chris turns to his wife, who has a surprised hand covering her gaping mouth and agrees with her sentiment. It was one thing to hear about Alex''s uniqueness or experience parts of it in near darkness. Watching it happen in real time certainly was a different kind of trip.
He snorts as he remembers his reaction not 30 minutes ago. If only Lilian had been here for the transmogrification thing.
"Really Lilian? ''To have and to hold''? ''To love and to cherish''?" He snaps without real heat. "Any of these statements ringing any bells?"
Lilian hums at him in indulgence, placing a bribe of a peck on his cheek. "This was an argument about who had the most money." She says, before starting up the stairs as well. "I''m sure God will understand."