The Timeservers

Chapter 5

New York City, New York

The Spire

December 2, 227 P.F.E

0230 hours

The elevator doors slide open, revealing a brightly lit living room with a kitchenette and several people milling about. Being a specter, you become nocturnal. Most of the specters are here, enjoying a late-night get-together. There are nine of them, but it's rare for most to be at headquarters.
Wisp, the oldest and only retired member of the specters, greets Leo with a smile. She's kind of the grandma of the group, with short white hair and diminutive stature. Presently, she's pulling some of her famous soft pretzels with cheese sauce from the oven. "How was the mission?" she asks, setting up a plate for Leo. 
"Not great, or what I expected. The marks got away," Leo debriefs before trying to pick up the ridiculously hot pretzel.
Everyone stops at his announcement, with Sprite rushing forward to find out what's happening. "Whoa, you lost a mark?" His bright blue eyes widen, and his red hair falls in his eyes as he twitches. He's always moving, his fingers thrumming on the counter even now.
"Oh, the Historian specter failed to get his mark," Viper hisses, flopping on the sofa next to Wasp. They're two of the younger specters and both Southerners. Most of the specters suspect they're somehow related because they don't like anyone but each other. They don't like him most, not just because he's Historian. He dared to rise through the ranks faster than any other specter despite not being allowed on solo missions in Historian territory.
"The intel said Historian smuggler, whoever got that intel was either trying to be funny or needs to learn grammar."
"Sure, blame the mistake on an analyst," Wasp laughs. She has a very annoying laugh and makes the mistake of slapping Viper's knee while laughing. Because they're spies, Wasp ends up flat on her back after being flipped from the couch, allowing Viper to live up to his name. "Hey, what was that for?"
Wasp prepares to retaliate, clawing her brown hair from her face when Wisp throws a pretzel at her head.
"Both of you stop it. I've already had to replace the coffee table twice this month, and I'm sure this was just a quirk. Don't let it get you down."
Deathstalker strides over to Leo. He walks jauntily for a thirty-year-old, especially one whose blond hair is perpetually in a crew cut. "You should be worried. A Historian failing to apprehend a Historian. The commissioners will eat you alive."
"Oh, maybe you should just head up there now and save them the time," Wasp suggests.
"I'm going to my quarters. Goodnight all," Leo bids.
"Get a good night's sleep. You'll need it. If those commissioners mistreat you, I'll straighten them out," Wispprovides, tossing Leo one more pretzel for the road.
This is Leo's life, and it's not much. But it's more than what he knows he had. Leo steps into his quarters, which match that life almost perfectly. They're a dull, monochromatic place, with just a double bed, a desk, a couch, and a walk-in closet. There's a balcony from which he can see the cold water far below. Leo sighs and turns on the wall screen (What he still catches himself calling a TV sometimes), then walks over to his closet. He digs around the closet for the edge of the carpet, pulls it up with his nails, and pops the floorboard under it out.
He guesses it's his Historiansentimentality for the past, but Leo kept everything from his life before being specter. Especially the sweatshirt from the night they found him and later realized it must be a hand-me-down. The color faded from too many cycles in a laundry machine, stains on the cuffs, and the logo cracked. Leo thinks it must have been his dad's. If he'd known when Hound recruited him what it was, what it might have meant, he probably wouldn't be here.
He takes a quick whiff of the sweatshirt, trying to see if he can pick out what might be his dad's smell. It's faded to, and soon he probably won't be able to smell anything there but the musk of unworn clothing. He folds up the sweatshirt again then hides it back in the corner of the closet, under two shoeboxes he kept to try to throw people off the scent.
Galileo flops on the couch and quarter-watches whatever news is happening that they thought would be important enough to broadcast on the screen. Mostly it's about Historians, scandals, and technology. The same things it's always about. The Historian news is especially thick tonight since the borders have been being attacked more frequently and spies are being found in New America every few days.
Galileo absently rubs his pocketwatch, still on the chain around his neck. It fell out from under his shirt when he flopped on the couch. He always keeps it close. He wouldn't risk putting it in the corner with the rest of the stuff.
He closes his eyes for what seems like a few seconds before an unfamiliar tone forces him to open them again. He shoves the pocket watch back under his shirt and sits bolt-upright. The screen flashes and the news anchors are replaced by an analyst. "You're being summoned to the commissioner's conference room for 0900 hours. Don't be late." The screen returns to the news the minute the analyst is done speaking but Galileo doesn't switch back quite so easily.