A Drop in the Bucket

For a being a wanted fugitive, Agent #344979 is mysteriously easy to find. Agent #902743 almost finds it suspicious when the watch gives off a friendly ping in the middle of the early twenty-first century less than half a revolution after she got her hands on the case file. It couldn’t have looked more like a trap than if it had appeared with a large flashing sign with the letters T-R-A-P spelled out.

It wouldn’t be the first time something similar had happened; it wouldn’t even be the first time it had happened to her. Barely a revolution ago, she’d been tracking down a criminal who’d caught on to the fact that a Tracking Agent was looking for them and had lured her to the mid-nineteenth century where a crew of locals had been arranged to throw Agent #902743 overboard a three-masted cargo ship. They’d nearly been successful, too, but ultimately the rage from the encounter had fueled her from the moment she’d been fished back out of the sea by another merchant ship until she’d caught the fugitive and received an ‘Exemplary' on her report.

There’s nothing particularly remarkable set to happen this chosen year or the next couple. The Council of Time Management and Protection declared that this was the beginning of a recovery period after a pruning, and thus Active Agents are far and few in this decade. Those that will be here for jobs would be for simple trivial exercises that had no real bearing on the TimeLine, and even less in the way of managing criminals.

It makes sense for a fugitive to hide here. The living conditions are decent enough depending on what land mass one chose to reside in, and as long as they didn’t intentionally change events to attract attention, they could live out a life here.

An incredibly boring, meaningless life.

Just thinking of it left Agent #902743 with an uncomfortable itch in her chest and a strong desire to be less of an outstanding Tracking Agent so she’d stop receiving assignments for criminals like this one.

The longer she stands on the street, the more stares she’s gathering: the locals peering out from their medieval cars just to watch them stand on the red brick sidewalk outside a bar that appears misplaced among thematic architecture of the rest of the street, several cross the street to walk around them sharing whispers and snickers behind unsubtle hands, and even more stop and turn around rather than tread between Agent #902743 and the front door. But the ping has resolutely stayed inside and the odds of this strange building in this unassuming year being a trap continue to rise.

Agent #902743 considers radioing for back up, mentally imagining the process by which she go could about gathering other agents (three would be an appropriate amount to watch all the exits and detain the possibly erratic criminal inside), but it’s an arduous and tedious procedure and quite frankly she’d rather be caught in trap crafted with the archaic chemicals found in the twenty first century than have to go through it.

She sighs. Then with a straightened spine worthy of a prestigious Tracking Agent, she marches into the bar and braces for an attack.

As far as traps go, this one doesn’t activate immediately. Agent #902743 doesn’t face any explosion, or gas leak, or launched weapon. There are no locals rushing her, just as there are no fleeing criminals. In fact, her entrance had no effect at all: time moves right along, taking Agent #902743 with it, and the various locals continue their experiences as if nothing had happened at all.

Inside the building is dimly lit, as if the lack of light would hide the floor stains and dirt. The walls are decorated with sport team jerseys, photos, and newspaper clippings of locals that Agent #902743 suspects even the staff don’t know. The dining floor has a dozen tables more than the room should hold comfortably, but most are empty and the locals that are there are more wrapped up in their own conversations than her entrance. Even the hostess was chatting at the far end of the bar counter instead of trying to greet Agent #902743.

It’s there that she catches sight of her target: they’re dressed as a local, but Agent #902743 had studied their profile too much to be fooled by that. Even with their back to her, laxly lounging at the bar counter with an ink-colored drink, she would be hard pressed to not recognize the poorly concealed line of numbers on their neck.

A trap, Agent #902743 thinks. But it hardly matters.

“Agent #344979,” she says, “by the authority of the Council of Time Management and Protection, you are under arrest—”

“Do you think they’re going to break up?”

Agent #902743 stutters to a stop. The fugitive doesn’t even look at her, comfortable with their eyes set off across the room, as if the dilapidated wall memorials of insignificant locals are far more interesting than the fact that they are being arrested for crimes so heinous that most other Tracking Agents wouldn’t touch their case file.

She expected a fight, or perhaps a thrilling chase that would allow them an outlet for the bout of nerves that had been clustering in her gut as they approached, but the fugitive doesn’t seem inclined to even blink. The barstool creaks under their weight as they lean forward, a finger decorated with scrappily applied polish tracing idly along the rim of their glass.

It might be part of a ploy; an attempt to distract her or catch her off guard, but Agent #902743 has caught more criminals than this fugitive has likely ever heard of.

“Agent #344979, you are under arrest—”

“I prefer the name Salem.”

“Agent #3449—“

“Salem.” They wave their hand in a circle before propping it against the countertop again and settling their chin in their palm. “Sit down. I want to hear what you think about this. See that girl?”

On instinct, Agent #902743 glances towards the corner of the room where the fugitive has been focused. Much like the rest of the bar, it is not particularly inspiring: the lighting is a bit dimmer on account of a dead lightbulb overhead, although there in the corner is a pair of locals, completely invested in an argument involving a dramatic amount of unnecessary hand waving and tear-stained cheeks. The feminine figure is red in the face, her make up starting to drip and melt, but they do not let it distract them from an impassioned speech. The masculine figure is more reserved, blinking red rimmed eyes as he listens and waits for an opening as though they are the only two people to exist currently and will be the only two people to ever exist in the future.

“He only started dating her on a dare from his friend,” Agent #344979 says, even though they have no way of knowing that Agent #902743 had decided to follow their gaze at all. “She found out because she saw a text on his phone from his friend while he was in the restroom.”

Part of Agent #902743 feels a flash of irritation; some strange amalgamation of anger and anxiety that washes over her as though she had lifted the lid off a pot of boiling water. This was what a fugitive from the Council of Time Management and Protection spent their life doing? Watching primitive locals perform mating rituals?

“Agent #344979—”

“Salem.”

“—you are under arrest for your crimes against the TimeLine, including but not limited to: desertion from duty, theft of technology, murder of another Agent—”

“I don’t think that qualifies as murder,” the criminal says, tapping their lip. “Oh yikes, her best friend knew about the dare? Not a good look, buddy.”

“Any attempts to flee or take action against me will be negated by the presence of a Timelooper activated the moment I entered this time period.”

“What a coincidence,” Agent #344979 says fishing a small contraption out of their pocket and placing it on the counter next to themself. It’s cobbled together in a shameful, shoddy body, nearly expelling its guts if it weren’t for the off-white tape wrapped liberally around it. There’s a red light on the top, blinking slowly like an eye struggling to stay awake. Agent #902743 has to squint at it for a whole second to recognize the knobs and buttons enough to place it as a crude version of her own Timelooper, and a cold flush of fear swamps her.

“I rigged it to activate the moment it senses another in effect,” Agent #344979 says casually, as if they hadn’t developed extremely dangerous, nearly impossible technology in a year that couldn’t even provide cell phone service reliably to everyone. “If either of us attempt to leave this time without both devices deactivating, then both of us will be pulled back to the start of the loop. While in effect no other Time Skipping technology will be able to activate, including other Time Skippers set to arrive in or around this time…. Blah, blah, blah.”

“Are you insane?!”

They glance at Agent #902743 out of the corner of their eyes, the twitch of a smile on their face.

“Sit down, Fi. Grab a drink. There’s no escape for me and no back up arriving for you. It’ll be just us, enjoying a drink and a conversation at a twenty first century bar.”

It’s not entirely true: Agent #902743 could snatch the monstrous TimeLooper and turn it off herself, possibly triggering a secondary effect of resetting them both back to the moment that they entered this year. And then what? It would be a simple task for the criminal to switch it on again, and they would be at another, identical, standstill. Wash and Repeat, endlessly.

“Just what do you think you will achieve by delaying your arrest?” Agent #902743 says.

Agent #344979 taps their glass on the counter twice. “Another drink at the very least—oh shit, is her best friend trying to break them up? Is she crushing on him? I bet she is!”

“Why are you so interested in them?!” Agent #902743 snaps. “They’re not even Significant!”

There’s a moment of silence, akin to a pause or a breath that the entire TimeLine takes. Agent #902743 thinks for a moment that they’ve gotten through to the criminal, but when they look away from the locals finally, there’s an irritated look in their eyes.

“You don’t even know their names. How could you know that?”

“The Council of—”

“What? The Council does what, Fi? They decide who gets to make a difference in the TimeLine? They decide who is Significant and who dies forgotten? Why? What makes the people the Council chooses so much better than the two right over there?”

“There is extensive testing that the Council of Time Management and Protection has put each local through,” Agent #902743 says through gritted teeth. “Did you not learn about this at the academic with the rest of your batch?”

Agent #344979 brings their glass to their lips and takes a sip. “Do you really believe that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because there are so many.”

“What?”

Agent #344979 flicks towards the couple, and then towards the bartender and server and then towards the door where the faded shapes of more locals pass by without ever entertaining the idea of entering the bar.

“Think about it, Fi,” they say. “There are billions of people on this planet in this one year alone. Even if any of them remembered taking a test, how would The Council have managed to keep all of that straight? Where would those tests have been stored? Where is the proof that there’s a better scientist to cure cancer than that boy right over there arguing with his girlfriend?”

“You said he only dated her on a dare!”

“Does that make him any less worthy of being Significant?” Agent #344979 asks. “What about happy? Does it make either of them less worthy of being happy?”

Agent #902734 grinds her teeth together. “Fine! Since you care so much about them, when I scrub the loop of our presence, I will make sure the boy takes his phone with him to the restroom! She will never see the texts and they will never fight, and they will continue their happy romance until they die!”

But instead of looking satisfied and deactivating their looper, Agent #344979 clicks their tongue. “You don’t get it, Fi.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Why? It fits you, Fi,” Agent #344979 says. “Fida, Fidaan, Fidel…. Fido.”

“My name is Agent #90274—”

“That is not a name,” they say sharply. “That is a number.”

“What does it matter?” Agent #902743 says. “It’s mine!”

Agent #344979 stares at her, dark eyes searching her face as though they could find some miraculous answer to the universe if they could just see under Agent #902743’s faceless blank mask.

“I guess it doesn’t,” they say, finally.

But Agent #902743 has the impression that she dodged through some sort of nonverbal test. There’s a swell of satisfaction in her stomach at the glimpse of her opponent’s frustration, but there’s a creeping sense of something sour in the back of her throat from another emotion she can’t name.

Agent #344979 finishes the last of their drink but makes no move to wave down the bartender. Instead, they wear a crease in their lips as they turn once again back towards the arguing couple.

“What did you mean when you said it wasn’t murder?” Agent #902743 asks.

“Huh? Oh.” They lean forward on the counter. “I was a Maintenance Agent. Maintain the TimeLine by any means, you know? My partner thought it was easier to cull locals than it was to set a TimeLooper and then scrub.”

“So, you killed him.”

“He thought that just because a local wasn’t Significant, it was okay if we killed them,” they say.

Agent #902743 feels a shiver go down her back, her breath catching in her throat almost as if there was a hand right over her windpipe threatening to squeeze. She’d always used TimeLoopers, but it had been more for the trapping ability than it was for the scrubbing feature; it wasn’t a requirement and she’d known plenty of Agents that scoffed at the idea of one.

They say, “Look around us! If we can’t say any of these people are Significant, what does that say about us?  What’s to stop another Maintenance Agent from an even more distant future from making a pitstop to our years and deciding to cull us?”

“I’m an Agent—”

“So was I!” They say. “And you know what? When I got between my partner and a local, he’d just attacked me! And I kept thinking…I kept thinking The Council would send another agent to help me subdue him! But they didn’t!”

They laugh bitterly, and Agent #902743 wants to argue that they’re lying, that they’re making things up, that this ploy of theirs won’t work because she is a Tracking Agent and the Council of Time Management and Protection needs her—

But then she remembers cold waters washing over her head from a trap she only survived because a merchant boat had been sailing a similar path three days later. Why hadn’t they sent an Agent to help her then? She’d thought it was a statement on how ‘exemplary’ they knew she was, but… what if it wasn’t?

“W-we can become Significant?” Agent #902743 says weakly.

“What is Significance?” Agen—Salem asks.

Agent #902743 swallows hard. Salem’s eyes train on her, waiting for an answer, pleading for an answer, and she suddenly feels as though the mask over her face is suffocating her.

“I don’t know,” she says in a small voice.

Salem sighs out a heavy breath. They rest back in their barstool, rubbing a hand over their face.

“Me neither,” They admit, sorrowfully. “Come on and sit down. Between the two of us, we can figure it out, I bet. After all—” they tap their TimeLooper, pointedly, “—we have all the time in the world.”