Chapter 1

Chapter 1: 

I always believed holidays were a waste of time. Everyone cares about each other for one day a year, skips work, and expects everything to be fine. 

An old lady smiles at me when I glance at her. Her chipper attitude does not match the fate that will occur in 7 hours. I wish that 7 hours was mine.

Two men wearing brown suits are staring beside a hotdog stand across the street. The exact same brown suit, clearly tailored for them; their eyes are hiding behind identical black glasses and both their heads are on swivels. 

“Cold day… officers,” I say walking slowly towards them. 

“Officers?” The younger man responds while checking if anybody heard me.

“Goddamn feds,” the older officer whispers under his breath.

“Yep, S.E.A agent David McRea," I say, challenging him.

“S.E.A?” The younger one blurts out, “is that some kind of joke.”

“What do you want?”

“You’re taking him seriously sir?”

“I am taking him seriously,” The young one throws his hands up and stomps away like a child.

“I would like to have a chat with the suspect, according to the data I pulled from homeland records he should be somewhere around here,” I say.

Green text hangs like fate over the older man. 20 years, death by natural causes. Orange text fills the dead space above the younger one. 5 years, death by gunshot.

“He’s sitting in that restaurant,” he points towards a small 50s diner 2 blocks east, “we have the place crawling with agents in plain clothes. The waitress, Agent Violet Garcia, is the lead on the investigation.”

“Easier than I had anticipated then.”

I skip like a schoolgirl down the bleak Harlem street, announcing my presence to the world. A small bell rings when I walk in. Every eye in the diner darts to me like moths to a flame. 

I learned from the files that the suspect is Uveula Becanane, he killed three Homeland Security agents in cold blood and he’s an Atlantean patriot who lives and dies for his country. Uveula is a basic Atlantean; he’s disgusting.

The small diner rests on the corner of an alley; a good getaway if Uveula wants to run. Frank Sinatra plays from a restored juke box in the far left corner. There are rows of booths on the right and left side of the diner; the rest of the place is filled with tables and chairs with no discernible pattern at first glance. 

A man sits at a central table, his waffle is cold and hasn’t been touched — he’s wearing glasses, they have a small black dot above the right lens, a camera. I sit next to him, “where is he?” I say as quietly as I can

“Where is who?”

“The target.”

“Who do you work for? I know you aren’t Homeland,” he taps the table four times while staring at the waitress.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my tattered wallet, “Special Founding Agent of S.E.A. Is that enough for you?”

“Far right corner.”

My head spins and I lean back, “I see him.”

I stand up and begin creeping toward him, “don’t do anything,” the agent calls out.

“Anything stupid,” I laugh at him.

A small girl is sitting in the booth just ahead of him, she’s fodder if he gets up; I don’t care how well trained these homeland agents are. If he decides it. She’s dead. Unlike most, I can’t tell if she will die yet. Her death timer hasn't calibrated itself, she’s too young to have her fate decided. And if I can help it, she will live long enough for her fate to be decided.

I make uncomfortable eye contact with him. Without breaking eye contact, I sit down across from him. Red letters stretch above his head — 1 minute left on his death timer, gunshot. 

“Good morning Uveula. How are you? I hope I pronounced your name correctly. I haven’t been to Atlantis for ages.”

“Why would you say Atlantis? I am from Pacifica.”

“Really? You have extra fat on your arms which tells me you live in cold water, and you have small fins on you thumbs. Those things only come from Atlantis.”

“My mother migrated from Atlantis. My father is Pacifian.”

“Atlantis didn’t allow migration out of the nation until 2008. I read a file that said you were born in 1983. In Atlantis.”

“Are you going to take me to the big American prison?” He says in the Nordic-based Atlantean accent.

“No,” I pick up a tattered menu, “we’ve got worse.”

His arm drops from the table. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I say, placing my gun on the table, pointing directly at him. My finger lays on the trigger and his eyes are locked on mine. His expression is a mix of anger and fear.

He glances down at his waist. I tighten my grip.

“What are you going to do? Shoot me? In front of all of these people?” 

“Maybe.” 

“So what, are you a homeland agent or something?”

Garcia’s eyes flicker a faint purple. She knows.

“Nope. Not homeland. Someone you should be much more concerned about.” I flash a worn S.E.A badge at him.

“S.E.A!? You work for S.E.A!? I gotta go!” 

His death timer hits 10. He grabs the gun from his belt and jumps to his feet. 

5 seconds left. He spins and pulls the trigger on his weapon. Click.

4. He tries again, another click. 

3. I stand next to the booth staring at him. I could change it. Not shoot… No, somebody else will. Fate doesn’t miss.

2. My arm lifts, brandishing my custom handgun. His head spins and his eyes, the horror. 

1. The terror on his face fades as my three of my blue blood splatters as bullets burst his bulbous chest. He’s dead before he slams on the ground.

The diner is silent. 

The little girl has blood splattered on her face. She is the first to scream, followed by chairs scraping and cutlery clattering. People scramble, run, and cry. The little girl stops screaming, she is just staring — staring at me. Maybe fate should miss; especially if it causes a little girl to be traumatised.

Agent Garcia moves away from the dirty counter. She unholsters her gun, faster than I thought she would. “On your knees,” she screams. 

Her hands are shaking. Good, she cares. She’d be an amazing S.E.A officer. 

Around us, the room is in chaos. Civilians screaming. Agents unsure and unmoving. Nobody’s in control. Except me, and her. “Search him!” She shouts at the other plain-clothed agents trying to gain their attention. 

An agent's hand reaches into my back pocket. My S.E.A badge shines in the daylight. “Ma’am, you might want to see this,” a young agent shows Garcia the worn wallet. She doesn’t lower her gun. “Read,” he demands. Her grip loosens, just slight enough to get a reaction out of other agents.

“Uncuff him,” the agents glance at her and dismiss her demands, “UNCUFF HIM NOW!” Her theatrics are well worth it and the agents comply. “Good work today sir!” She salutes me and opens the door

“You did a good job restraining me. If you ever want a pay raise and a harder job, call me. ” I hand her my sleek white business card and turn my back to her.

“What’s your name?” Garcia asks. 

I pause. “Agent Atlas Adams.” 

 I step out back onto the cold street. The shanties have stopped, replaced by sirens and screams.