Out of Time

Mission Location: Nuremburg

Year: 1943

Mission: Ensure that the following citizens are evacuated

Mission Parameters: Make sure uniforms, weaponry, and speech meet the standards of the time period. Do NOT give yourselves away.

Bryan

“Sabrina, I’m going to kill you.”

Boisterous laughter and gunshots crackle through my earpiece. “Have to catch me first, Mr. Turtle.”

Groaning, I dive from my poor excuse of cover, avoiding most of the debris from a grenade explosion. A small piece of shrapnel grazes my arm leaving behind a stinging sensation. I don't have the chance to look at how bad it is, but the feeling of blood running down my arm might be a good indication. Thankfully, it’s just my arm; healing won’t take long. But considering this crazed chick of a partner, surviving and making it to the teleport zone in enough time is the bigger issue right now.

“Stop playing with the Nazis and get your butt over to the T-zone.” When she doesn’t answer, I shout, “Sabrina!”

“Give a gal a minute,” she shoots back breathlessly, “I was dealing with…something.” There are sounds of grunting and punching, “take that and that,” and “yahoos.” I heard Sabrina was…unhinged…for lack of a better word. I don’t take much stock in the rumors flying about, but it seems, for once, the truth gained wings along with the lies.

The Timeline Protection Service (T.P.S.) doesn’t have many female field agents, so when Sabrina’s ex-partners warned and teased me after finding out about the change in partner assignments, I thought they were exaggerating. Women always seemed to be labeled crazy quicker than men. And then, nine times out of ten, it is pretty obvious there’s a clear double standard, the whole “men can do it, but women can’t” bull.

Yeah, Sabrina’s definitely the expectation. Although, I have no room to talk. While Sabrina is chaos personified, I am the picture of rigid order. Rules and I are old friends, and choosing to follow the rules to the letter has always given me a sense of control. I had barely dealt with Sabrina for two hours, and she had already broken at least ten different guidelines; I gave up counting after that.

Looking around, it seems I have a clear shot to the T-zone. Sneaking a glance toward the sounds of fighting, I see Sabrina making her way to the designated area. Although, she appears to be taking the way with the most Nazis, opting to get to the target spot through the most arduous path ever. Someone lives for the thrill. She does seem pretty free, though; I wish I could feel that.

“Hey, Franklin!”

I growl. “My name is not Franklin.”

“Whatever. Quit staring into nothing and get over here, slowpoke!”

Great, I zoned out. And Sabrina caught me with an awe-filled look on my face. Did I just say I was in awe?

“On my way. And it’s Agent Tudor. Or Bryan on rare occasions.” I don’t go by my first name, so why am I telling her I sometimes do? Ugh, I hate this; it’s not like me at all. Whatever is going on needs to stop now.

***

Sabrina

Do you know what I hate the most about this job? It’s not the overwhelming amount of testosterone, or the insomniac levels of sleep, or even the crappy food in the cafeteria. It’s this; the whole bothersome list of everything I did wrong. Actually, it’s not even that. It’s the misogynistic double standard intertwined in it. Yeah, I’m not perfect, and I know I’m a little reckless, but I’m deemed crazy. If a guy did twice the amount of stuff I’ve done, they would be celebrated as innovative and brave.

But I should be used to it. It’s not like I haven’t dealt with this crap my whole life. So why am I pissed at this guy for droning on about every little thing? Actually, better yet, why am I paying attention? It’s not like it isn’t the same tired speech the Commander gives me after every mission.

“Agent Wescott, are you listening?”

Okay, so maybe I’m half-paying attention. “Sure thing, boss.” I snap back sarcastically. If it were anyone else, I probably would be more respectful. But since it’s my dad, who dragged me kicking and screaming into this job, well, let's say the need for me to be civil is low on my list.

“Sabrina,” my father removes his glasses and rubs his eyes, “you’re being difficult.”

“And you’re being unreasonable. First, you want me to work five times as hard, and then you fuss at me like I’m some screw-up because I take a few extra risks.”

My father ignores my jab like he always does, opting to grab a file from the Mt. Everest stack of folders. Nepotism at its best. Pushed past the breaking point, held at the highest standard, yet somehow, the biggest disappointment. The supposed upside is exemptions from any real consequences like termination or even suspension.

“This is your next mission.”

What the heck? “Turtle and I just came back from a mission two hours ago.”

The Commander’s face scrunches up in bewilderment. “Turtle?”

“Agent Tudor. Didn’t you hear what I just said?” I look at my father again, trying to see him in a different light. The bags under his eyes are bigger and darker, and he just looks…exhausted. “What’s going on, Dad? You can be a hardass,” he glares at me, “but you’ve never pushed us this hard.” He should know I’m serious; I called him Dad.

He palms his face, frustrated, but I think, for once, it isn’t at me. “There has been an uptick in attempted timeline changes. Small ones, but enough that if ignored, they would create a domino effect that would be impossible to repair. The timeline would be screwed.”

“It’s not the first time we’ve dealt with something like that.”

“Not like this. The changes are so small that the system is deeming them insignificant. I only found these after going through with a fine tooth comb. And you know what that means.”

Our system catches and designates which changes are the most dangerous or the ones that can be let go. It can also predict the outcome of the ignored changes; if the system deems them detrimental, a team goes out and fixes them. The system has been proven the best, except in cases of minute changes. No one knows that except for a few people working at T.P.S. Which means…

“We have a mole.”