𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 ━ five hargreeves

5│THE MISSING PIECE

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❛ ᴡᴀsᴛᴇʟᴀɴᴅs ᴏғ ᴛɪᴍᴇ​​​​​​​​​​. ❜ ° . ༄
- ͙۪۪˚   ▎❛ 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 ❜   ▎˚ ͙۪۪̥◌
»»————- ꒰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪssɪɴɢ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ꒱


❝ THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE ❞

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After Five's narrow escape from the Swedes, he landed in the back alley of Commerce and Knox. Adjusting his tie, he looked back to make sure he'd lost his unwanted followers while puzzling over how quickly his entire time in the sixties had gone downhill. Unprompted, he remembered Hazel's vague answer about getting his equations wrong again and the man's momentary absence as he apparently went to fix the timeline.

Dolores. Where was she? Five had expected his wife to follow him through the portal as she'd done the first time and the fact that she hadn't was throwing him off. Even though it had barely been an hour without her— on his side at least— he could already feel her absence acutely and felt the first of many guilty thoughts as he wondered exactly how long she'd been stuck here.

Distant police sirens made him shake his head, clearing his thoughts. He'd find her, he promised himself. He wouldn't leave without her. Absentmindedly, his left hand went to his right wrist where his ring rested, tied securely by the black ribbon he'd stolen from her days before. The gold metal was cool to the touch and a reassuring presence as he focused on his surroundings, most notably the second-story window whose curtain had just twitched closed.

Dropping his hand, he looked up to the roof where homemade detecting equipment stood out against the sky and instant suspicion made him approach the nearby shipping and receiving door for Morty's Television and Radio. Jumping though it, he landed on the other side of an empty stairwell. He ascended the stairs quickly as they lead to a door at the top with a glass window. The words MORTIMER GUSSMAN, D.D.S. were emblazoned on the pane. Raising his hand, he knocked smartly on the door.

The one to his right opened a crack to reveal a wary, average-looking man. "What do you want?"

"Hi," the boy started. "I'm selling encyclopedias for my youth group. I was curious if—"

The man slammed the door in his face, interrupting him. Growing increasingly impatient, Five ignored proper etiquette and jumped through the door, easily scaring the nervous man. With a shriek, he hastily tried to find his closest weapon, patting his hand along the counter before delving into a drawer to pull out a tool with a tiny blade. Holding it between himself and the boy he asked, "how'd you do that?"

"I don't really have time to explain," Five said dismissively.

"You from the Pentagon? Huh?"

"Definitely not."

"CIA? FBI? KGB?" He spewed out the names of different organizations as he continued to tremble, his eyes never leaving the strange boy.

Five ignored him, his gaze instead roaming over the rooms he could see before he zeroed in on the coffee pot. "Is that fresh?" he questioned the man. Without waiting for an answer, he blinked over to the table as the man gave another scream, panting against the doorframe.

"What. . ."

The boy calmly poured himself a cup into one of the mugs, watching the other man with light interest. As he made his way into the den, he took a sip and was slightly surprised by the taste. "Hmm, is this Colombian?"

"It's my own blend," the man answered.

He gave a nod of approval as he continued to examine his surroundings, noting the variety of newspaper clippings pinned to the walls. The common subject among them had to do with UFOs and strange lights. More homemade (and some store bought) equipment was scattered around the space and he quickly understood the type of person he was dealing with. (The boy thought that his wife would be proud of this fact. She had always been the people-person, after all.)