We were sitting, hidden by the shadows, watching that dark, lonely house on the side of the abandoned road.
The moon was waning that night, and the stars were out in full bloom. The wind blew between the branches of the trees around us. The rustling of the leaves hid any sounds we made.
Waiting. Watching. Knowing.
We weren’t allowed to do a damn thing beyond that.
My partner looked at his watch, popped a piece of gum in his mouth, and pulled out the receiver P.A.D.
“It’s time, Darren,” he said, flipping it on.
We watched.
It was brutal. Bloody.
There were screams—God, the screams. For someone, anyone, to help…
I emptied everything from my stomach.
My hand reached for my gun—non-lethal rounds, but better than nothing. Before my fingers even grazed the grip, I heard a crackle of static before pain exploded at the base of my neck. Darkness swallowed me.
Ten minutes later, I awoke to my partner kicking my leg.
“Come on, kid. Still got a job to do.”
He turns and walks towards the house. I sit there scratching at the burning sensation on the back of my neck. Feeling the skin blistering underneath my fingertips.
I thought I was ready. Thought I could handle it.
Told myself I wouldn’t feel real.
It was history, already written.
I was wrong. Dead wrong.
Nothing prepares you for watching your first murder. Worse, nothing prepares you for the knowledge that you could have saved someone, but weren’t allowed to by the powers that be.
***
It was my first day at the agency. I drove up, greeting the security guard at the checkpoint, bright-eyed and cheery for this new chapter in my life, for this job beyond what I had ever dreamed I could land.
I was always fascinated by history, but after pursuing it, it was clear I should have gone into archaeology or anthropology. The only realistic path with a bachelor’s in history is to work towards a master’s and become a teacher.
“Haven’t seen you before, part of the new recruits?” he asked.
“Yep, first day on the job, Special Agent Darren Grant reporting for duty.” I give a mock salute, and we both chuckle.
“Well, nice to meet you, Darren. I’m Frank; you’ll be seeing me every time you come on site. Hope you keep that energy past today. We could use more of it around here. Enjoy your first day, mate.” I shake his hand, and he waves me through, and then he’s on to the next car in line.
I find a parking space within a semi-reasonable walking distance from the front door. Stepping out of the car, I take in the view of the building. It looks like any fictionalized government agency building from the early 2000s dramas I used to watch with my grandparents. Beige, rectangular, very few windows; it looks as soul-sucking as the shows portrayed these agencies as being. And the steady flow of people walking from their cars to the entrance, other than the bright-eyed new recruits like myself, all look dead on the inside. One passes in front of me and I catch a glimpse of his eyes.
Those eyes know despair.
What did I sign up for?
I begin to follow the flow of people and find myself at the reception desk.
“Good morning, I’m Darren Grant,” I say, handing over my badge, “a new recruit. Can you please tell me which way I should go?”
The receptionist looks up at me and back down at my badge, making sure my face matches the picture I would wager.
“Thank you, Darren. If you follow the hall behind me and to the left, you will reach room 107J, where they are gathering all the newcomers.” You still have about 15 minutes before they start, so feel free to grab a coffee or drink from one of the machines on your way. This brochure has a map that marks the cafeteria, bathrooms, and room numbers.”
Her face turns serious and she looks me dead in the eyes as she says, “Promise me you won’t go into any bathrooms that aren’t marked on the map.”
I give a quiet chuckle, put my hand over my heart, “I promise. And thank you, this will be handy.”
She lets out a breath, and relief spreads over her face after I give my word, “Thank you, we don’t need any accidents on your first day. Well, you better be off. Enjoy your first day and welcome to the TRAB.”
I start making my way down the hallway the receptionist indicated; as I walk, I stop and grab a black tea at the vending machine and think back on all I know about the agency and how I got here.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
T.R.A.B., or Temporal Reconnaissance and Analysis Bureau, at this point I’m still unsure of what we do. Or what my job will entail. Other than the agency’s name, all I know is that my job title is Historical Reconnaissance Analyst.
It took two years to get all the necessary security clearances and interviews out of the way. My old buddy from high school, who went into the FBI, recommended I apply for this job, sending me a sketchy link with next to no information. But as a history major with piling student debt and no job prospects, I was desperate.
I didn’t even learn the name of the agency until I had accepted the job. At a few points, I was pretty sure he’d sold me to organ harvesters, but I pushed through those doubts trying to be optimistic, and here we are.
Looking down the hallway, I start feeling like I’m in one of those optical illusions where the hallway goes on forever. This ugly carpet covers the floor, reeking of mildew and looking like it’s from a previous century. Dark red with a light green floral pattern. The lights flicker and have an insistent humming that could drive a person insane.
The walls are barren other than the doors, vending machines, and the only doors numbered at all are those with prime numbers and consonant combinations – 97K, 101P, 107J – 103E on the map; the door is there but it’s not indicated by any plaque.
Outside of 107J, I see a few other recruits gathering at the door and chatting among themselves. I excuse myself as I pass by them, making my way into the room. Inside, the room has auditorium-style seating. I pick out a seat a few rows back from the front and near the middle of the row to make sure I’m able to see and hear everything. As more people start to flood in and fill the seats in the room, I kill the rest of the time before orientation begins by nursing my tea.
As soon as the clock changes to nine a.m., on my P.A.D., a chime rings from an intercom somewhere, and three people walk in and start making their way to the front of the room. A burly man leads the trio; he wears the standard suit that everyone in the agency wears, but it appears to be straining against his broad shoulders, suggesting that someone should have recommended a larger size for him. He’s not obese or anything, just a huge commanding guy. He appears to be in his late 50s to early 60s, with dark hair and eyes, and some light gray peppering on the sides of his head. Behind him are one female and one male, both in suits as well, but they feel more like they’re here for the spectacle of the thing.
When the too-small-suit guy reaches the podium, he messes around on his P.A.D., turning down the lights in the room and throwing a presentation on behind him.
“Welcome, new recruits, to the Temporal Reconnaissance and Analysis Bureau, or T.R.A.B. for short; we chose each of you because we have faith that you can bring something vital to our mission.”
He moves to the next slide that displays the faces, job titles, and names of the two agents behind him and himself.
“I am the Director of this agency, William Lenox. Behind me are two of our most seasoned and accomplished agents, Agent Ford Chambers and Agent Elizabeth Hawkins. Chambers and Hawkins have each chosen one of you new recruits to be their partners while you get used to life and your assignments here at T.R.A.B. The rest of you will receive your partner assignments later in the day.”
“Now, I’m sure many of you are probably wondering what we do here.” He pauses for effect. “Welcome to the part of this job that, according to the law, never happened.” You could hear a chorus of gulps from the new recruits as they hung there waiting for his next words.
“About 15 years ago, scientists in our government finally discovered a way for man to travel back in time.”
As he continues on, explaining the mechanics behind the discovery and flipping through various slides, I’m lost in my own thoughts.
There is no way this is real right?
This is exactly what I’ve always dreamed of…
A way to save her…
“One of these scientists went back to try and ‘fix’ something he deemed wrong in his life, and erased his existence. Another of these men went back and tried to kill Hitler before he could commit any of his crimes against humanity, and the universe almost tore itself apart. Twelve years ago, a day arrived when sudden earthquakes and tsunamis racked the earth, and on that same day, a solar flare took out a handful of satellites, knocking out global communications for a week. We have reason to believe that this was because of that man’s failed actions; we can only theorize what might have happened had he succeeded.”
“Seven years later, our government was still studying this new technology that had the possibility of changing everything. I mean time travel; this is the wet dream of nearly every scientist, the subject of countless daydreams, movies, books, shows, and video games; it was within our reach, and we had witnessed numerous attempts to use it result in calamity.”
So there’s no way to stop it?
My teeth grind and my fist clenches while I mentally chastise myself for getting my hopes up.
“Then, five years ago, the president was facing widespread public criticism for the failure of the police and FBI to apprehend a suspect in a brutal sextuple homicide. He made a decision behind closed doors, ordering the use of time travel technology.”
“The mission leaders provided the agents with strict guidelines and objectives. Use the technology to go back in time, before the murders, infiltrate the crime scene, and set up surveillance equipment; if the surveillance doesn’t provide an ID, follow the perp until you can make an ID. Do not change anything else, remove all traces you were ever there, and most of all find out who killed six people and was getting away with it.”
“The mission was a success, and the scientists studying time travel confirmed that the risk of anything catastrophic was within acceptable limits, no more than normal everyday life. The president and his cabinet moved fast after this, and they started devising other ways that we could use this technology. Can anyone guess how we at T.R.A.B. use time travel?”
A handful of us raise our hands; he calls on people, and they give answers from preventing murders to solving recent crimes, like he described, to exiling dangerous criminals to other time periods. Then he calls on the woman a few seats down from me.
“Well, sir, based on what you’ve described, I’m guessing we use time travel to solve unsolved mysteries we haven’t found the answers to. Based on the information you’ve provided, I’m assuming that we could go back to 1937 and observe what happened to Amelia Earhart’s plane and subsequent disappearance while facing little risk.”
“Spot on…” he trails off, searching for her name.
“Emily Wess, sir.”
“Spot on, Probationary Agent Wess.”
“Yes, we use time travel to comb through history’s unsolved mysteries searching for answers.”
“Other than that first case, we never go back to a time within 20 years of the present. The scientists studying this technology have decided this buffer gives us the widest margin of error to work with. Using this technology, we search for answers regarding unsolved murders, disappearances, the timing and reasons behind events, the builders of X, the purpose of Y, and most commonly, we seek to identify the entity responsible for Z’s death.”
“From this day forth, you will become history’s silent observers.”
“You will be assigned your first cases within the coming week. Agent Grant…” he calls out, searching the room for my face.
“Here, Sir,” I call out, raising my hand.
“You will work with Agent Chambers and Agent Wess,” he nods in her direction, “you’re with Hawkins; report to them after we finish up here.” Now we have about 10 minutes for any questions.”
