The Time Turner Society { Undergoing Edits! }

Chapter 1:

All is silent.

I watch as the world around me morphs. Blurry image after blurry image rushes past me, until finally the Society's back room comes into focus. The scene shifts, moving both agonizingly slow and impossibly fast, through all the different years of the Society. Finally, with a Pulse so strong it pushes me back onto the floor, I arrive back in the 2091 Society.

"Welcome back, Evaline. How was Brazil?" Iyya, the Turner in charge of my mission, smiles politely. I nod gruffly.

"Mission accomplished." I reply simply. "How long was I gone?"

"It's September thirteenth," she says. Not too bad; only seven months gone this time. Some of our missions are quick; if we have enough information about the target, we're able to get in and get out in less than a week. But, after America fell, the Dominion sealed away all of the remaining records that were worth saving. This makes it incredibly difficult for the Society to get their hands on them. On most missions, you go in virtually blind; you know a name, an event, and a deadline. Sometimes you don't get a picture, or you only get a picture and no name. This makes it even harder to complete the mission by the deadline.

Us higher level Turners don't really have the option to not meet a deadline, though. When we miss a deadline, people die.

I pull the case files out of my backpack and approach Ai's office.

"I suppose it'd kill you to knock," Ai says, not even turning her chair. I toss the files on her desk.

"Yeah. It would." I say. Ai turns around, smiling politely at me.

"You really are one of our best Turners, Evaline. I just wish you were more polite,"

"I am. Just not towards murderers," I spit. Ai just makes her smile even more fake as she reaches forward and picks up the thick Manila folder I had thrown so carelessly on her desktop. She casually thumbs through the papers, reading through a few ever so leisurely. She stops on one and quirks an inquisitive eyebrow.

"You lost a Hound?" she asks, tone accusing. I clench my jaw.

"Yeah. He got himself shot," I lie. It isn't the first time I've covered for a Hound; and it probably won't be the last. Most run-away Hounds choose to stay in the past so they won't have to be slaves anymore.

Marcus was different. I can still remember the day he came to me.

I was sitting on the floor in our small apartment, papers spread out all around me. I was getting close to the target, now; I had more information than the Society could ever have collected on their own. I knew his habits, his quirks. I knew what type of underwear he wore.

The door had opened, but I didn't pay it any mind.

"Evaline?" Marcus called. I raised my hand and flicked open the door.

"In here." Marcus was quiet for a moment.

"I brought some company," he called finally. Frowning, I quickly sent the papers into a pile and wandered out into the front room. Marcus was standing in the small dining area, smiling with and nuzzling the girl he had met at the market three months before.

"This is Mya," he said, beaming up at me. I reached out and shook Mya's hand.

"Mya, this is my friend Evaline."

"It's nice to meet you. Marcus talks about you all the time," Mya said, smiling brilliantly. She had a kind of radiant, simplistic beauty to her - I could see why Marcus was drawn to her.

"All bad things, I'm sure." I teased, smiling crookedly. They both laughed, even though it wasn't very funny.

"Mya knows about our work," Marcus said. My heart stopped beating for a moment, but I kept a neutral, easy-going expression glued to my face. He couldn't have told her. There was no way he would have told her.

"About how it takes us far away." he added pointedly. I mentally calmed. "And she was willing to go long distance, but... I want to stay here, Evaline. With her,"

So I'm not really lying. Marcus was fifteen years old when I left him in the past. A past where murder is common, where disease has not been eradicated, and where he most likely would have died by his sixties or seventies. If he is alive now, it's a miracle, and he's most likely on his death bed.

"It's a shame, really. Marcus was very good. Have you arranged for any funeral services?" Ai looks up from the file, which she closes and hands to her Hound, Vera.

"I just got back," I say defensively. "I'll make arrangements after I sleep off my Haze." Hazes suck. It's almost like jet-lag, only it messes with your head more. Images of the past and the present morph together at random times - example; as I'm looking at Ai, I don't just see her now, but her as a teenager, before she got that ugly scar on her cheek - and it gives you killer headaches. Usually a few pills from the Society's necromancers and a good night's sleep takes care of it, but some people stay sick for days.

"Of course," Ai says. "I should let you rest. I'll review the file and send your and Iyya's payments in the morning."

"And Marcus'," I say.

"Pardon?"

"Marcus'. All Hounds receive payment for their final mission," I try to keep my voice from rising. "Marcus had a family; they need this payment until they can figure out something else." Ai stares at me blankly for a moment, then blinks.

"Okay. Marcus' payment too, then."

"Thank you."


~ ~ ~ ~


I splash cold water on my face and stare down at the stainless steel sink. Marda, the Hound the Society had hired to keep up my apartment while I was away, calls her goodbye from the front room. I don't say anything. I had payed her extra, told her thank you, and dismissed her nearly an hour ago; she was the one who insisted on finishing her final day.

I like Marda, I just don't understand her.

A small basketball, about the size of a dime, hangs down from the long chain at my neck. I stare at it, squeeze it in my fist. Then I slam the bathroom door and throw my cell phone at the window. The window, of course, is Plexiglas, and the phone bounces off of it and hits the floor with a slap. Sighing, I step onto the raised section of floor and pick up the phone. It's not broken; these things are nearly indestructible.

I lean against the window I threw my phone at, one of four that takes up the entire wall of my dining room.

I own a penthouse loft in the big city of Ward One. It's all just one room, really; you enter, and are immediately greeted to the right by a spiral staircase. You step down, and you're in the living room. Keep walking into the living room, and to the right is my secluded office space. To the left is the dining room, bathroom, and kitchen. All of this is on the "second" floor: the perimeter of the living room that's raised about six inches from the living room floor.

You head up the spiral staircase, and you're in my room. Complete with walk-in closet, master bathroom, and a kick-ass stereo system my friend Kilo custom made for me.

The whole place is a modern paradise, but it's home to me. As much as any place can be, I guess, with me only being here for a couple months out of the year.

I shake my head, done staring out at my empty apartment. I would get a dog, but I'm not around enough to enjoy the animal's company. I could try a roommate, but they would have to be a member of the Society, and so they'd be gone just as much as I am. Plus, I'd have to split my room in half.

I pull a water bottle out of the fridge and reach into my jeans pocket for the bottle of pills Rain the necromancer had given me for my Haze. She'd told me adamantly to read the instructions, but she's new and doesn't know how many times I've taken the exact same pills. I know the instructions by heart; two every six to eight hours while Haze persists, do not take with alcohol or any other narcotics, sleep as much as possible for the first twenty-four hours. If I experience any hallucinations after the first twenty-four hours,

I should consult back with the Society's medical staff.

I head upstairs, flicking off the lights as I go. Soon, the only light is coming from the glow-in-the-dark yellow stars above my bed. I swallow three of the little orange pills and fall back against my mattress, trying not to think of Brazil or basketball.