Rainy Days

Chapter Twenty-Four: Vanya, Vanya-Eat The Pie!

[the commission–time unknown]

"SERIOUSLY? YOU didn't even kill one?" Park glared. The Handler was going to be pissed.

"Look, we tried! I didn't expect either of them to be so...strong," the red-eyed woman spat the word out like it was poison, burning in her mouth. Her hands where clutching the table, knuckles white.

"You killed thirteen innocents, got four of the Commission men killed, and it was absolutely worthless!" Park roared; they threw the file at the wall, papers exploding out like a flurry of photographs and typed words. "How am I supposed to get her back, if you don't stop fuckin' around and get serious! She's going to die, and it'll be all your fau—"

She moved like a viper, standing at the table one second and then ramming Park into the wall, hand squeezing his throat. They choked as her hand tightened, feet scraping the ground as she lifted them farther up. Papers slid out from under their sneakers.

"Don't you dare say I don't want Fiona back," she snarled, red eyes glinting like rubies. Her unusually sharp canine teeth, normally unnerving, now where downright frightening. "Don't you dare."

She released Park and they collapsed to the ground, rubbing their throat and gasping. The red-eyed woman retreated back to her spot at the table, petting the small butterfly calmly. Like she hadn't just tried to kill Park.

Park got to their feet, breathing hard; they took the butterfly away from the red-eyed woman and whispered to it in a language she didn't speak. After he finished, its eyes turned from orange to black and it fluttered out the window.

"What ones where there?" They said, voice hoarse.

"Five. And James—no, Jordan."

Park went to the pile of papers and picked through until they found those two profiles. Carefully, they laid them out side by side.

"What do we know about Jordan Reel?" Park tapped the picture and sat, waiting for the red-eyed woman to speak.

"At the moment, he is Jordan Arthur Reel: thirteen, black curly hair, brown eyes, freckles. He was born October first, 1989, and his mom's a druggie. Doesn't know his dad. Mom dies in 2007, when Jordan is eighteen, because she got into a bad shit with some dude; he let her overdose on cocaine. Jordan's got a younger brother—transgender, changed name from Veronica to Ron—who kills himself in 2010, when Jordan is twenty-one. They couldn't afford anti-depressants, and Ron insisted he'd be okay until the next paycheck; stepped in front of a car two nights later. Jordan became a habitual smoker, which he hated, and eventually moved across the country. He lived in an apartment building until 2019, where he died in the apocalypse. Had on-and-off boyfriends, some of which where abusive. Worked with LGBTQ+ kids that needed to be fostered or adopted." She threw the paper down and crossed her arms. "Why? Jordan's virtually unimportant. He never did anything before they time-traveled."

"You said one man drowned, right?" Park looked up at her, their eyes pitch black. Sometimes it unnerved her, how dark his eyes where. No pupil, no iris, just two pools of soulless black.

"Yeah. It was Duncan, though. He was an idiot anyways."

Park leaned forwards and tapped the snapshot of Jordan Arthur Reel. "Born October first, 1989."