“I want it done again.”

  A voice booms, reverberating across the near empty room.

  A timid Professor quakes in his boot, his rumpled lab coat clutched tight against him, like an armor against the verbal gunfire.

  “Sir, I strongly advise against that, we are down to our last F-15.” He adjusts his glasses, pushing it deeper against the ridge of his nose, psyching himself up to proceed. “I don't know where the hell that thing came from, but I can assure you, it was never meant to be merged with human technology.”

  By some miracle, the General only spares him an indifferent glance, before repeating–

  “Again.”

  “That thing has blown up every last piece of technology it came in contact with.” The Professor erupts, “I have tried my very best–”

  He is cut short by The General seizing him by the collar of his lab coat, his legs very nearly lifting off the ground.

  “You're not being paid to try. You're being paid to give us results.” The General grounds out low, directly into his ear. “And we have been here for 6 months, yet we still haven't gotten any.”

  The Professor struggles against the General’s grip. “I-- I'm trying–”

  “My patience constantly wears thin as the seconds go by, Professor. And when I'm all out of patience, I am a very ugly man.” He huffs out, eyes dilating in pure, unrefined anger.

  A sergeant approaches the general warily, sheet of paper in hand. She sounds unsure even as she salutes.

  “Sir.”

  The General inhales and exhales, crazed look abating from his eyes as soon as he blinks his eyes open. He begrudgingly puts down the shaking Professor, making an effort to straighten the rumpled fabric of the man’s lab coat before turning to the sergeant.

  “At ease.”

  The sergeant visibly relaxes. “The reports you asked for, sir.”

  She hands the General the sheet, who accepts it with some leftover venom. “Update?”

  “It took some extra digging sir, but it was a perfect match.” She relays excitedly.

  The General grunts. “I wish I could be surprised.”

  “We've acquired the item you requested. It's en route as we speak.” She adds.

  “Would you look at that?” The man drawls with a pointed look at the Professor. “It's good news all round.”

  The Professor cranes his neck to get a better view of the sheet in the General's grasp, eyes first widening before narrowing in skepticism.

  “That's impossible.” He declares, eyes still fixed on the paper. “I know it's been a while since first year Biology, but this is–”

  “Turns out nothing is actually impossible, Professor.” He places his hand on the Professor's shoulder. “On that note, I look forward to nothing from you but good news this time.” He squeezes the shoulder, indicating his thinly-veiled threat, before leaving abruptly.

  The General makes an immature face at the General’s retreating back, before belatedly remembering the sergeant beside him. He clears his throat. “Where exactly was this asset spotted?”

  “Surprising enough, at a coffee shop, in California.” She shoots him a knowing smile, before taking her leave as well.

  Alex screeches to a halt beside Chris, doubled over and panting for breath. She inhales deeply one last time before straightening to catch the look he is giving her. Perfunctory and astute.

  She in turn observes the bags under his eyes, the goatee he has refused to shave off despite her incessant prodding. Mid-life crisis, Akio had called it. Except Chris was in fact not in his midlife, and was instead a 65 year old man.

  “It's 3:32.” he says nonchalantly, after a surreptitious glance at his watch.

  Alex drops the wheezing and panting act. Shoulders straightening in the acceptance of being caught. “I know.”

  “You were supposed to get here at 3:20, that was 12 minutes ago.” Chris scolds lightly.

  She produces an almost crumpled bunch of flowers from somewhere, offering it to Chris in penance. “I had to stop for flowers. And park the car.”

  He raises a brow at the flowers. “Why are you breathing like you ran a marathon?”

  “Because you threatened me, Chris.”

  He turns away from her, still not accepting the flowers. “It's not my fault your cardio's shit.”

  “You're gonna cuss in front of Lilian?” Alex huffs out, gesturing with the flowers to the tombstone they are stood in front off. LILIAN JORDAN. WIFE, MOTHER, FRIEND.

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  Alex lays the flowers on it.

  “She would make an exception if she were here.”

  Alex cracks a smile, a secret thing.

  “You okay?” She asks, eyes still on the tombstone in front.

  “I'm fine.” He doesn’t sound as convincing as he thinks he does. And Alex scrutinizes him for a moment, not buying his bullshit.

  “Want a hug?” She says finally, and he scoffs.

  “If you want a hug Alex, all you gotta do is ask.”

  Alex nods, interpreting the words only she knows how. “I'd like one then.”

  They embrace, a lone tear Alex pretends not to see slipping down Chris' eye.

  Sometime before the Present …

  Alex walks into the kitchen–headphones over her ears–to find Lilian rummaging through the cabinets. She rips the contraption off her ear and rushes to her side, sensing the impending doom.

  “What are you doing?” She puffs after snatching a pot that would have smacked Lilian square in the head away, mid-fall.

  “Pots. I can't find the pots.” Lilian grumbles sweetly. And Alex eyes the lone one in her grasp, before informing her.

  “Bottom left cupboard.”

  Lilian reaches for the cupboard, eyes lighting up at the substantial amount of her quarry. “Oh. You are a lifesaver Alexandria.”

  “Mm-hm.” Alex intones. “What exactly do you need them for?”

  “For the dinner I'm making.” Lilian answers, proceeding to fill the large pot she retrieved with a considerable amount of water.

  Alex tenses. Lilian cooking was a bad idea. Zero stars, did not recommend. Your small and large intestines would appreciate the omission.

  “Um, Gideon makes dinner. She emphasizes. Strongly. “Where's Gideon?” her head whips to and fro, as if Gideon were a frightened animal hiding in the cupboards.

  “Gideon called in sick, so we have to make do with the next best thing. Me.” Lilian lugs the half-full pot of water to the stove, and Alex winces at the mere thought of whatever would brew in it.

  How did one put this lightly? “Yea but, you can't cook.”

  “I know. That's why I have the YouTube on my phone over there, telling me what to do.” She waves a ladle at her phone, buried under a small mountain of spoons, and Alex seizes.

  “Okay” she plucks the ladle from Lilian's grasp, and turn the stove off. “Perhaps I should cook dinner. It’s been a while anyway.”

  “Do you know how?” Lilian asks, eyes wide.

  “Um, Fran?ois Massialot and I once served a spread Philippe I, Duke of Orléans couldn't resist.” Alex boasts, rolling up her sleeves ostentatiously.

  Beat.

  “I don't know what that means.” Lilian says.

  “Yea, you wouldn't.”

  She chuckles. “Is there anything you don't know?”

  “Actually.” Alex peeks her head out of the fridge to consider. “Emojis.”

  Lilian’s chuckles mutate into a full belly laughter.

  “Do you need any help?”

  “No, I think I'll be fine.” Alex replies, dropping an armful of vegetables straight from the fridge into the kitchen sink.

  “I'll leave you to it then.” Lilian turns to leave. “Do yell if you need any stew advice or anything at all.”

  “I promise.” Alex says, turning to the spoon landmark and remembering in the nick of time. “Lilian? Don’t forget ‘the YouTube’.”

  Chris breaks the hug, hand still on Alex's shoulder, he scrutinizes her thoroughly. She rolls her eyes.

  “I'm good.” She insists, and Chris grins widely, giving her shoulder a firm squeeze.

  “I know, I will never not be excited about this.” He says, frowning when he notices the General stood under the shade of an oak tree, from the corner of his eye. He is in stood in parade rest, glint in his eye and a squeamish man by his side.

  “What?” Alex asks, noting the discomfort in his eyes.

  “We've got company.” He inclines his head at the men under the tree. Alex turns to look.

  She squints. “I didn't know you invited friends.”

  “I didn't. Stay here.” He instructs.

  “I'm not a child, Chris.”

  “Alex.” Chris looks peeved. “Please, just give me a minute.”

  “That's 60 seconds, and I'm counting!” She yells at his retreating figure.

  As Chris walks toward the unwanted guests, he recognizes the squeamish man as a Professor the army poached from his prospective hires a couple of years ago. He’d been impressed by the young man’s theses and overachieving accomplishments, hardly getting a chance to meet him before he was whisked away by the army. The man is clutching a very pretentious bouquet of flowers in hand, colors and arrangement exceptionally wrong for the occasion.

  He stops right in front of them, hands tucked into the pockets of his black pants.

  “Let me see if I understand this.” He starts. “You followed me to the damn cemetery?”

  The General shrugs in what Chris suspects is poorly hidden elation. “You are a hard man to reach.”

  “What is it you want?” Chris asks sternly.

  “You know what we want.” The General replies, and Chris frowns.

  “I told you, I'm retired. Not that I'd help you even if I wasn't. But, sadly, I am.”

  The General hums inattentively, eyes trained on Alex in the far distance. “You know, your children seem to be talented in some of the most extraordinary ways.” his voice takes on a wistful tone, and Chris’ jaw tightens. The man immediately turning to leave.

  “I think we're done here.”

  “That's a shame. And here I was hoping we'd have a civil discussion. “ The General interrupts, his smug tone halting Chris’ strut. He nods at the Professor, who pulls out a sheet of paper from his briefcase and hands it to Chris.

  “What is this?”

  “Something you definitely need to look at. “

  Chris narrows his eyes at them, before begrudgingly accepting the paper. Patting his pockets unsuccessfully for his reading glasses, he resolves to snatch the one off the Professor's face.

  He squeaks. “That's mine ... okay.”

  Chris skims through the paper for a bit, plastering on a bitter smile before taking the glasses off.

  “Really now?”

  “You know, I had hoped it wouldn't come to this. But we really need your help.” The General says, faux sincerity dripping from his lips.

  “So what, blackmail as a last resort?” Chris sneers

  “This is happening one way or another Mr Jordan. Personally, I'd suggest you choose the path of least resistance.” The man turns once again to Alex at the far end of the field

  Chris grimaces at the silent but blatant threat. One last menacing look at the heinous man before him, he turns to leave--

  “We'll see you bright and early Monday morning.” The General calls to Chris’ retreating figure.

  “Uh, My ... glasses.” The smaller man stammers, wincing as Chris tosses both the letter and his spectacles in the trashcan nearby. “It's alright I have a spare.“

  A black SUV with tinted windows rolls in front of them, The General practically manhandling the Professor into the car. Before entering himself with a self-satisfied smirk. The car drives off, Chris stalling for a while, before walking back to join Alex.

  “That was a whole lot more than 60 seconds.” She scrutinizes him as he approaches, clocking the general silence and furrowed brows. “Are you alright?” She cranes her neck at where he last was. “Where are your friends?”

  “I'm alright. They couldn't stay.” Chris says, shaking off his despondent demeanor. “By the way, I'm going to need a lift home.”

  Alex scrunches her nose in disapproval. “Where's your car?” She looks about the place for the second time in two minutes, and her eyebrows furrow. “How the hell did you even get here?”

  Chris purses his lips, never one to turn down

  an opportunity to mystify Alex. “You know, now that I think about it, I have no idea.” He turns on his heels, heading towards Alex’s car, Alex trailing behind him, a fed up look on her face.