Arrival
1138 Words
The shift always tasted like copper and ozone.
One second, Nero was standing in the sterile, neon-lit subterranean hub of the Bureau’s Temporal Division.
The next, the smell of burnt electricity vanished.
It was replaced by freshly cut grass, asphalt baking beneath a late-August sun, and the faint, sweet aroma of a nearby fast-food joint.
Nero blinked.
His vision slowly adjusted to the blinding Colorado glare.
He was sitting on a low brick wall outside a public library.
The air was crisp. The Rocky Mountains cut a jagged blue line against the horizon.
For a few seconds, he simply sat there, listening.
Cars.
A lawnmower somewhere in the distance.
The faint rumble of an airplane overhead.
Normal sounds.
Almost painfully normal.
Nero looked down.
A shallow puddle had collected beside the pavement, offering him a warped reflection.
The albinism remained unchanged. His skin was pale as milk, dotted with a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones. His features were strikingly androgynous, soft yet sharp.
But his hair was different.
The Bureau's cover team had painstakingly dyed it a vibrant, fiery crimson, matching his eyebrows to the same vivid shade.
In 1998, it looked less like a genetic anomaly and more like an aggressively alternative fashion statement.
His hair fell all the way to his hips.
Nero grimaced.
"Subtle."
He was wearing baggy blue jeans, a slightly oversized flannel shirt over a plain white T-shirt, and a pair of scuffed skate shoes.
Nothing about him screamed federal agent.
That was precisely the point.
His hand slipped into his pocket.
He pulled out a heavy plastic wallet.
Inside was a student identification card.
COLUMBINE HIGH SCHOOL
His photograph stared back at him.
Beneath it, printed in block letters:
KONSTANTINO WELLOWMAN
GRADE 11
Nero closed the wallet.
For a moment, he simply breathed.
The paradox of his mission settled into his chest like a lead weight.
He knew the names.
He knew the dates.
He knew what this world was supposed to become.
In his mind, it was history.
Here?
It was just Tuesday.
A cassette player clipped to his waistband hummed softly.
Nero pressed play.
Instead of music, a digitized voice whispered through the foam headphones.
«"Agent Nero. Safe arrival confirmed."»
He lowered his gaze.
«"You have until April to prevent the anomaly."»
A pause.
«"Infiltrate. Observe. Intervene."»
The voice became quieter.
«"Remember the prime directive: you cannot simply arrest them. The butterfly effect in a fragile timeline requires surgical emotional realignment."»
Nero's jaw tightened.
«"You must change the path, not just block it."»
Another pause.
«"Good luck."»
Click.
Silence.
Only the low hiss of blank tape remained.
Nero removed the headphones.
"Yeah."
He looked toward the suburban streets ahead.
"Thanks for the pressure."
He stood.
His backpack settled heavily against his shoulder.
His long red hair swayed behind him as he started walking.
Tomorrow morning, the first bell would ring.
Tomorrow morning, Konstantino Wellowman would enter Columbine High School for the first time.
And nobody there would know that the strange transfer student with the red hair was carrying a secret that belonged to another universe.
---
4:37 P.M.
The apartment was smaller than Nero had expected.
Much smaller.
He stopped in the doorway and stared.
A tiny living room.
A kitchenette separated by a narrow counter.
One bedroom.
One bathroom.
A second-hand television.
A battered couch that looked like it had survived several decades of bad decisions.
There was a wooden dining table pushed against the wall, accompanied by a single chair.
One chair.
Nero slowly looked around.
"Wow."
He dropped his backpack onto the floor.
"Luxury."
The door clicked shut behind him.
For the first time since arriving, there were no Bureau agents watching him.
No technicians.
No temporal monitors.
No sterile corridors.
Just silence.
He walked toward the kitchen.
The refrigerator contained a carton of milk, some eggs, a few cans of soda, butter, and an assortment of things that appeared to have been purchased specifically because they were cheap.
He opened the freezer.
Nothing particularly useful.
He closed it.
His gaze landed on a folder sitting on the kitchen counter.
WELLOWMAN, KONSTANTINO — SOCIAL SERVICES
Nero picked it up.
The cover identity was disturbingly thorough.
Too thorough.
His new life wasn't merely a name and a fake student ID.
Konstantino had a history.
A messy one.
He had been moved between several foster families over the previous few years.
No stable home.
No lasting attachments.
Repeated disciplinary problems.
His previous school had eventually expelled him.
The official reasons were listed in clinical language:
Fighting.
Drug-related disciplinary violations.
Chronic absenteeism.
Nero slowly turned the page.
The file continued.
His latest placement had broken down months earlier.
Rather than sending him to another family, social services had arranged supervised independent living.
A tiny apartment.
Periodic welfare checks.
A monthly allowance.
A caseworker.
On paper, Konstantino was still a minor who had effectively been left to navigate adolescence almost entirely alone.
Nero stared at the photograph attached to the file.
It wasn't him.
Not really.
It was the version of himself the Bureau had manufactured.
A troubled teenager.
A kid nobody expected much from.
A kid whose sudden arrival at a new school wouldn't attract much attention.
Nero closed the folder.
"That's depressing."
He dropped onto the couch.
The springs complained beneath him.
For several minutes, he stared at the ceiling.
Then he laughed quietly.
Of all the identities the Bureau could have given him...
They had made him a dropout with anger issues.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
His eyes drifted toward the cardboard box sitting beside the television.
PERSONAL EFFECTS — K. WELLOWMAN
He opened it.
Inside were notebooks.
Old clothes.
A cheap alarm clock.
A few cassette tapes.
A battered pair of headphones.
Some school papers.
A paperback novel with the cover practically falling off.
And beneath everything else, a photograph.
A family.
Not his family.
Konstantino's family.
Or at least one of them.
Nero picked it up.
He studied the faces.
A mother.
A father.
Two children.
Everyone smiling.
Everyone looking as though they belonged together.
Nero felt something uncomfortable twist inside his chest.
The Bureau had given him a fictional childhood.
But that didn't make the emotions attached to it fictional.
He put the photograph back.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Then he noticed something else.
A handwritten note.
Welcome home, Konstantino.
Nero stared at it.
He hadn't expected that.
The Bureau had constructed an identity.
But someone had taken the time to make it feel real.
He folded the note and slipped it into his pocket.
Then his stomach growled.
Loudly.
Nero sighed.
"Agent of the FBI."
He looked around the tiny apartment.
"Interdimensional operative."
His stomach growled again.
"Apparently still needs dinner."
He stood.
Tomorrow could wait.
Tonight, he was Konstantino Wellowman.
And Konstantino had a life to start living.
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