Chapter 3: The Handler's First Move
Five felt the disturbance before he saw it. It was a subtle shiver in the air, a microscopic ripple in the constant flow of time. He was in the library, as usual, trying to make sense of Reginald's cryptic notes, when a faint, metallic scent of temporal flux hit him. It was a signature he knew well. It was the Commission.
He looked up from his book, his gaze fixed on a shimmering distortion in the air near the library's vault. The air around it hummed with a low, alien energy, a discordant note in the mansion's usual oppressive silence.
Pogo, who had been meticulously dusting a row of books, stopped his work, his ears twitching. "A disturbance, Master Five. It is not an accident."
"This isn't a coincidence," Five said, his voice sharp with a cold, strategic fury. "Reginald always had an escape plan, but this is a variable even he couldn't have accounted for. Something is coming. And it's looking for the boy."
I knew it. I knew he was a problem. Reginald's journal, the chrono-flickers, the fact that he just appeared out of nowhere. It all adds up to one thing: a temporal anomaly. And temporal anomalies always attract the attention of the Commission.
Five's mind raced, calculating trajectories, probabilities, and outcomes. The Commission didn't send agents for no reason. They were a celestial extermination service. A living anomaly like Adam was a five-star target.
The message pulsed in Adam's mind, an insistent beat of alarm. He was in his room, trying to make sense of Reginald's journal, but the system's warning was a shrill, insistent siren in his head. The air in his room felt suddenly heavy, thick with unseen energy. He had a profound, visceral feeling of being watched, of being hunted.
Meanwhile, a thousand miles away, in the cold, sterile hallways of the Commission, The Handler stood before a massive temporal clock, its hands spinning at a dizzying pace. She adjusted her monocle, a faint smile playing on her lips.
"Reginald, you sly old bastard," she said to no one in particular. "A system? I want it. This Adam Stiels is merely a means to an end. The ultimate asset for the right price."
A system that can summon creatures? It's like having a magical toolbox. I could use it to rewrite the timeline, to bend it to my will. The apocalypse? A minor setback. This 'Adam' is a golden ticket.
She activated a temporal communication device, a small, disc-shaped object that glowed with a faint blue light. The air around it shimmered. "Hazel. Cha-Cha," she said, her voice smooth, condescending, and laced with a hint of menace. "The anomaly has been located. He's at the Academy. Acquire the host. By any means necessary."
"But, boss, what about the family?" Hazel's voice crackled through the comms. "They're... a bit much."
The Handler's smile widened. "Don't be a coward, darling. They're a minor inconvenience. This is an acquisition. Not a negotiation."
"But what if we have to, you know… use force?" Cha-Cha's voice was a low growl.
"Then by all means," The Handler purred. "I expect you to be… thorough."
Hazel and Cha-Cha arrived near the mansion a few hours later, the chill of a 2019 night biting at them. The distant sound of sirens and the faint, oppressive stillness of the mansion's exterior were a strange backdrop to their casual cruelty. Hazel, ever the sensible one, was complaining about the uncomfortable masks they had to wear.
"This thing is chafing," Hazel said, adjusting the oversized, garish mask. "We look like a couple of clowns."
"Clowns who get paid," Cha-Cha shot back, her voice muffled by her own mask. She was already obsessing over the target, her hands twitching with an impatient bloodlust. "So, what, we just ask nicely for the kid's powers?"
"No, we don't 'ask nicely,' Cha-Cha," Hazel said, his voice flat. "We do our job. We get in, get the kid, and get out. Easy."
"Nothing's ever easy with these people," Cha-Cha replied, her eyes scanning the imposing facade of the mansion. A faint sound of a dog barking from a neighbor's yard added a touch of normalcy that clashed with their menacing presence. It was a bizarre, mundane sound that only served to highlight their bizarre, brutal reality.
They walked slowly down the sidewalk, two human-shaped thunderclouds of bad intentions, their presence a silent promise of violence.
Adam was in the hidden chamber again, the hum of the artifact a familiar rhythm in the quiet. He was poring over Reginald's journal, trying to make sense of the cryptic scrawl and diagrams. The system's earlier warning had left him feeling jumpy, his mind a constant, buzzing static of anxiety.
He ran a hand over the page, feeling the raised texture of the ink, and a small, folded note, almost imperceptible against the faded parchment, fell from the spine of the book. He picked it up, his heart pounding in his chest. It was a note, written in Reginald's spidery handwriting.
"He who wields the beasts shall unlock the truth."
The message appeared suddenly, a pop-up ad in his mind. Find the source. The source of what? The system? The anomaly? The apocalypse? He looked at the journal, at the mysterious artifact on the pedestal. It was all a puzzle, a game designed by a madman.
This isn't a gift. It's a key. A key to something he locked away.
He was no longer just a passive participant in this story. He was a player. He was a variable. He was a puzzle piece that was slowly being slotted into a larger, more terrifying picture. The note was a confirmation of his fears. The system wasn't an accident. It was a trap. A deliberate choice by Reginald Hargreeves.
And if Reginald put a lock on something, he must have known there were people who would try to break in. He looked at the mansion, at the empty, silent hallways. He was alone. And the hunters were already at the door.
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