Given the otherworldly riffraff circulating below the control room, it was understandable Featherstone had retracted the ladder leading up to his skewed safe haven. What was less understandable was his refusal to lower it again.
"I'm sorry, Agent Fields." The faint voice coming down through the broken windows was even more reedy than usual. "I simply can't, at the moment. You'll just have to climb up."
Fields stood blinking in disbelief—but not for long. He was too tired to be really, properly outraged. Restricting himself to a few choice obscenities, muttered under his breath, he wearily began the climb up to the control room. Again.
Arriving, several minutes and a few new abrasions later, to find a seated Featherstone huddled over one of the room's plethora of control panels. The scientist looked up, his face drawn and sickly in the green light flooding through the shattered windows.
"My apologies, Agent..."—evidently in pain, he winced and drew in a sharp intake of breath—"Fields. My attempts to shut down the portal are at a critical stage. I simply couldn't leave my instruments, even for a moment."
"Don't sweat it." Despite the scientist's obvious distress, and despite being fully aware the wounded man's day had no doubt been even worse than his own, Fields found it hard to feel much sympathy. Yes, Featherstone may have been motivated by nothing more sinister than loneliness and the desire to test his theories, but no matter how innocent his intentions, there was no escaping the absolute shitstorm of chaotic consequences the uber-nerd's actions had wrought. For a reminder, all it took was a look outside—or in the city morgue. "You just need to get it done. Now, what's this big problem?"
"As it turns out, I need a little help. And don't worry, agent—I'm determined to make this right."
"Help?" replied Fields, narrowing his eyes. "What kind of help?"
"Well, to effect a collapse in the probability waveform, the quantum-flux generator needs to be shut down at the precise moment the Heisenberg-suppressor is deactivated. With the damage the control room has suffered, I can't do both from here."
Fields didn't even bother trying to make sense of any of that. "Spare me the details, Featherstone. Just tell me what I need to do."
"You see, in order to interrupt the phase-shifting effect of the cultural-resonator, the amperage needs to be—"
"Frank?"
"Yes, Agent Fields?"
"What—do—I—need—to—do?"
"Oh, yes—sorry." Sheepishly, the scientist held out a pair of pliers. "There's a control console toward the back of the room—the black one over there. On its rear side, near the base, you'll find a panel. When I give the signal, you need to cut the cable located behind that panel. Do you understand?"
"Listen, brainbox—I may not have a PhD"—Fields snatched the pliers—"but I'm not an idiot." He stomped over to the console in question and after a brief inspection, located the panel. Crouching down, he prised it free, and was relieved to find that what it concealed was indeed a single, solitary cable. He really didn't think his nerves were up to any red-wire/blue-wire/oh-crap-we're-all-gonna-die shenanigans. "Okay, I'm ready," he called.
"Excellent work, agent—well done." It was becoming increasingly clear to Fields why Featherstone didn't have any friends. "Now, it's difficult for me to predict precisely when the crucial moment will arrive, but it's vital we act swiftly when it does. Please hold your position and be ready to cut the instant I give the signal."
"Fine. But let's try to make it quick, okay? It's been a long day."
"For you and me both, Agent Fields. For you and me both. Very well, sit tight."
From his current vantage point, Fields' view consisted of little more than the back of the control console, so he was in no position to judge the success—or otherwise—of Featherstone's endeavours. Although, if he was being honest, he knew he probably wouldn't be in any position to judge, even if he could see. In any case, safe in the knowledge his one and only task was well within his (he was increasingly realising) limited skill set, he settled down to wait, with his most immediate issue the challenge of finding a non-sore part to sit on. Failing completely, he finally settled for the less bruised of his buttocks.
The next issue, now that he was stationary, was staying awake. The soft humming of the equipment, the muted rustling of Featherstone working at his console—the subdued sounds blended into a subtle susurration, which lulled his weary mind almost to the point of insensibility.
Fighting the heaviness of his traitorous eyelids, Fields forced himself to stay awake, to think, to concentrate, to focus on something. In desperation, he fixated on the shimmering play of the portal-light across the ceiling, the waves of viridescence washing back and forth, back and forth—hypnotic, rhythmic—back and forth, back and forth...
"Oh my goodness—whatever have you been doing to yourself? You're a mess."
Astonished, Fields stared up at the woman standing over him. "Penny! How the hell did you get here?"
Looking down, indescribably lovely even in the green half-light, she smiled that infuriating smile of hers. The one with the dimple in the left cheek. The one he always found so hard to resist. "Well, I can leave, if you like."
He scrambled to his feet. "No! I mean, yes—you should. It's not safe here."
The smile became a pout. "I thought you'd be glad to see me. But you just want me to go away."
Fields had absolutely no chance against the pout. "I am! I don't! I mean, I do. But I am, and I don't really, but I do, even though I really am and actually don't. Um." Smooth-talking had never really been one of his strengths, but around Penny he found he frequently plumbed new and exciting depths of inarticulation.
Nevertheless—possibly from past experiences—she seemed to catch his meaning. "Oh, you big, silly, tongue-tied duffer." Stepping aside, she revealed a figure standing behind her. "That's good, because I've brought Daddy along with me, so we can make everything alright again—so we can make things how they used to be."
Fields gaped at the craggy-faced, black-suited man. "Director!" Reflexively, he made to straighten his tie, before realising it wasn't there anymore. He settled for standing at attention. "How nice to see you, sir. But you really shouldn't be...I'm afraid I must insist that you, er...that is, I have to ask, um...I'd like to request—"
"Shut up, Fields. This is no time for your blathering. Honestly, what my daughter sees in the likes of you, I have no idea. Nevertheless, despite all evidence to the contrary, she seems to feel you have some redeeming qualities." With a disdainful snort, he looked the bedraggled agent up and down. "Personally, I have my doubts.
"But I love my daughter, Fields. I respect her opinion. And I can't very well have her running around with an agent who spends his days chasing after fantasies or frisking fairy-tale felons or doing whatever ridiculous rubbish it is you weirdos in Section F claim to do. There's a spot for you back in vice, if you want it." The look on the director's face made it very clear to Fields he'd better bloody want it, if he knew what was good for him.
"Er...thank you, sir. I, ah..."
"Do spit it out, dear." Fields blinked in astonishment at the new figure who emerged from behind the director. "No-one likes a stammerer."
"Mum! What? How the hell—?"
"Ah-ah." The immaculately groomed, power-suited woman waggled an admonitory finger at him. "No cursing, dear. It's uncouth. Now, be a good boy and tell the director you accept his very generous offer. Enough with all this Section F nonsense. You don't want to be a nobody all your life, do you?"
"Yes, Mum. No, mum. Um. It's just—"
"Fields!" The beleaguered agent jumped as yet another figure stomped into the increasingly crowded little space. "Tuck in that shirt! Stand up straight! Pay attention to your mother! Stop being a slacker!"
Despite the years that had passed since Fields had last heard them, there was no mistaking the stentorian, ex-army tones of his 6th grade teacher. Or disobeying them. "Yes, Mr Harris," he yelped, trying with limited success to tuck in the tattered remains of his white button-down. "Right away, Mr Harris."
The moustachioed man leaned in close, close enough for Fields to catch a well-remembered whiff of Old Spice. "And there'll be no more wasting your time with all this Section F malarkey. Is that clear?"
"But, Mr Harris—"
"Is—that—clear?"
"Uh—"
"And another thing, Fields, you horrid, little vermin."
"Huh? I mean, yes, Mr Harris?"
The teacher's eyes narrowed, as he leaned in even closer. "Tell me something."
For no good reason he could think of, Fields suddenly felt guilty. "Yes, sir. Of course, sir."
Closer still. Close enough that a hint of menthol toothpaste blended in with the aftershave. The eyes narrowed to slits. "Tell me, you ghastly, worthless creature, you vile, wriggling worm—why aren't you wearing any pants?"
Fields blinked. "But—but I am wearing..."—glancing down, he was greeted by the sight of the slightly worse-for-wear lime-green Calvin Kleins that had been the last clean pair left in the drawer that morning—"pants," he finished faintly. He shook his head. "I could have sworn—"
"No swearing, dear," cautioned his mother.
"But I...just a second—Mum, where did you get that burrito?"
"No back-answering your mother!" snapped Mr Harris.
"I wasn't...hang on, is that a Harriet Styles T-shirt you're wearing?"
"A blatherer and a back-answerer," growled the director. "Typical."
"I'm not...um, sir—you seem to have some seaweed stuck in your teeth."
"Oh, honey," sighed Penny, with a sad shake of her head. "Why must you always cause trouble?"
"But I don't...hey, when did you get your hair cut? And aren't you usually taller?"
"I need an answer, Fields," demanded the director.
"Answer the man, dear," urged his mother.
"Do as you're told, Fields!" shouted Mr Harris.
"Come back to me, sweetie," coaxed Penny. "You know you want to. Ha!"
"But...but..." Looking wildly from one accusatory face to another, Fields took a step back, as the others advanced on him. "I—"
"Answer us, babycakes."
"Answer us, dear."
"Answer us, pillock."
"Answer us, Fields."
"Well—"
"Answer us, answer us, answer us, answer us," they chanted in unison.
"You see—"
"Babycakes, dear, pillock, Fields."
"If you'd just—"
"Babycakes, Eel, pillock, Fields."
"Can you please—"
"Babycakes, Eel, partner, Fields."
Please—"
"FIELDS!"
Blinking groggily, he gazed up at the dappled green light that still washed across the ceiling. A little surprised to find he was lying down, he cautiously sat up.
Gone. They were all gone. As the realisation sank in that the whole sorry spectacle had been nothing more than a dream, he barely had time to confirm he was wearing pants before Featherstone's urgent voice cut through his relief.
"Fields! Agent Fields! Now, now, now! Cut the cable now!"
For a stunned moment, he sat motionless. Right. So, I guess that part wasn't a dream. And then burst into action, scrabbling desperately for the pliers, suddenly all thumbs. Horribly conscious of the seconds ticking by, and even more so of the ones that must have passed while he slept, he made the cut. "Done!"
There was no reply. In fact, as far as he could tell, there was no effect at all. The instruments still hummed, the green light still flickered, and his body still ached in places he hadn't even known could ache. Wearily, but hopefully, he clambered to his feet and made his way back to Featherstone.
Who sat with his back to Fields, looking out through the windows at the colossal, towering form of the portal, still merrily portalling away. The agent's heart sank.
"It didn't work."
"On the contrary," replied Featherstone, turning his chair to face Fields. Thin lips set, expression determined, the scientist slowly raised the silver handgun he was holding, until it pointed directly at Fields' face. "It went exactly to plan."