absolute.

Agent Faulkner returns to his full height of six feet and a half and picks up his binoculars hung around his neck. “How is the crowd, Agent Bishop?” He asks his mission partner — correction, primary mission partner as of six months. It has been a month into their cooperation, and operations have never gone through any bumps. Not that Agent Faulkner has expected anything less from a veteran of the Bureau. Agent Bishop is an operative like Stein, one who has had a hand in the science behind time manipulation. Faulkner doesn’t consider himself any bit of an intellectual, so those with genius leadership will forever have his service.

(Weapons are only useful in talented hands, aren't they?)

“According to my watch, we have T-minus twenty-seven minutes before H-hour,” Faulkner states, “would you like to set up your system? In case our proposed plan requires a backup.”

In the United States military, these specialized marksmen are crew-served with a sniper cell of two. The primary weapon operator, the shooter has a support personnel or protective force, known as a spotter or a flanker. As expressed in the U.S. Army and Marine Corps Table of Organization and Equipment, the shooter does not operate alone. A qualified backup shooter is deployed to ensure mission success.

However, what Agents Bishop and Faulkner have in mind do not follow anti-personnel tactics or policy. Instead of assassinating the lone gunman, they are attempting to indirectly apprehend him. In Faulkner’s pre-mission research, he has dug through the gunman’s biography and has given Agent Bishop his report before their launch.

Malcolm Seward, thirty-three, a member of the extremist group the Brothers of Civic Freedom, properly established in late ‘98.

(All groups of terror would never appropriately call themselves as such. The fear they cause is a part of the cause. For justice, when boiled down to it, is to enact the fear of retribution.)

Seward is a poor and uneducated man let go at an Ohio automobile factory in the spring of ‘97 and radicalized through the scapegoating of immigrant workers. He and other disgruntled, disaffected, and deeply disturbed men will take to arms. He will kill senatorial candidate Vernon F. MacMillan and then cause mass havoc while he tries to escape.

In Faulkner’s report, he also notes MacMillan’s opponents, his replacements. Although the Republican nominee does not win the upcoming election in D.C., there must be a reason as to why the Bureau has chosen to spare MacMillan’s life. Further detailed within the pages of the report are all the locations of U.S. Secret Service members dispatched during the incident. The major players are highlighted. The obstacles delineated. All for an optimized run of events.

Agent Faulkner’s standard is nothing less than perfection in execution. However, what he is suggesting means no wriggle room for error. He and Agent Bishop will wound the gunman before he takes his shot, disorient and non-lethally incapacitate him, purposefully misfire Seward’s modified Armalite AR-50 to trigger a response from Secret Service who will triangulate the location of the bullet, and dissemble and depart before detection.

By setting up Seward and implicating he was betrayed by his group, Faulkner hopes that he will cooperate with the Secret Service, give up the names involved with the Brothers of Civic Freedom, and disintegrate the group without the loss of future lives.

He and Agent Bishop will be able to pull it off.

There is a tickle in his throat again, similar to the tiniest twinge of something dragging his words when he had first declared his plan to her in the privacy of his office. He doesn’t understand why he doesn’t feel quite right. He cannot commend Agent Bishop enough; they work smoothly, having gotten to the point of wordless communication during a mission.

(This Agent does not compute his pain toward silence and will suffer in silence.)

Therefore, Agent Faulkner clears his throat and says, “Would you like the shot or the spot? My system has been adjusted to a comfortable median between our MOA, and the scope is good to go.”

Faulkner lifts the binoculars and gazes at the other building. In less than nineteen minutes, their target will bust through the door, dressed in garish camouflage garb despite the environment. He will hastily set up his gun. And, fueled with rage, he will immediately fire when MacMillan stops in front of a stock exchange building just across their section of K Street.

“We will only have a small window of ten minutes to fire and detain Seward, enact the false assassination attempt, and then a smaller window of two minutes while we both dissemble our sniper rifles and evade Secret Services. This is to say, whoever is the primary shooter will have to communicate with the flanker during dismantling. Throat mics are on as we commence operations. I understand these are high-pressure conditions, so as mentioned, I am volunteering the flank position.” Faulkner explains, binoculars down and resting over his protective vest.

It almost rings of nostalgia, but this Agent will never hear it. The identity of selfish Ulysses, who has poured wax in his ears and confined Faulkner to row, remains elusive and unknown at large. Ignorance is bliss, and isn’t Innocence and Justice always depicted as blind? Is it right to rob a man of insanity of his own choice? Or an act of noble protection?

God may know, and machines should be unaware.

Besides, that past is best left unmentioned. The Bureau’s revolving doors are clockwork. Figures and their shades enter and exit, pushing through for passage. What is of importance is the constant turn, like time, like a spiral forever running to its center. The never-ending motion, always in the present of being.

Now.

Codenamed Chopin, the newest agent, completed his training at forty-eight, customarily regarded as prime retirement age. With a sizeable height, a lively voice, long and flowy salt-and-pepper hair matched with an impressive beard, Agent Faulkner would be remiss to not keep an eye on the newest recruit. Frankly speaking, this agent has snuck a glance or two at the bullpen from his office window and often finds his sight landing on Chopin’s unique build.

(He assumes it is the curiosity of a new face on the floor.)

When Faulkner approached the other agent last night at his desk in the bullpen, their talk was nothing longer than deemed perfunctory. Exchanging pager numbers, setting up a schedule, and a concluding handshake. And what a handshake it was.

From their first meeting at Agent Chopin’s official introduction to the team, the man’s handshake has been a simile to static electricity. It’s a zap-like connection, noticeably tight and a beat too quick on the upswing. Faulkner jittered then, jolted again last night, caught in the tempo of Agent Chopin’s full-body shake.

No matter the invisible appearance of neutrality, something within them resides in opposite polarities. Also called triboelectric charging, static electricity occurs when two materials touch and separate. Electrons cling, and the object becomes electrified. Then, from an imbalance of positive and negative charges in their atoms, the buildup of tension discharges via second contact. Hence, the spark.

This simile extends.

It is discomfiting. That’s what has been the conclusion; Faulkner is aware he is making the other person uneasy— even someone like him can parse the physiology of reluctance after years of witnessing it, causing it. But he doesn’t understand what he has done. Not yet.

(When he does, Faulkner will correct his conduct. Be a complete being.)

Faulkner straightens his stance and reaches for his two-way pager clipped at his waist. Rapidly, his fingers press the keys, typing up:

Good morning, Agent Chopin. This is Agent Faulkner. This is a reminder to ignore the listed hours on my office door. It is open for you.

Although he is sure the other agent might know, it doesn’t hurt to give a gentle nudge.

Additionally, we are needed for launch at eight hundred and thirty hours at Terminal A. Therefore, please arrive by seven hundred and fifteen hours if you are running tardy. If we cannot convene for our pre-briefing, I will be sure to meet you at Terminal A for the official brief. Thank you, Agent.

After finishing his task, Faulkner reviews the extra documents he’s got on hand. These are new, not part of the briefing package he passed along last night to Agent Chopin. On his desk, two stapled copies of a ten-page report sit next to the Tupperboxes, typed in 10-point Pica Typeface on his Underwood-Remington Noiseless 77, a result of his own research into the era with the help of the Coordinate Analysts and History Researchers. A web of family trees, historical events, mini-biographies of the people involved, and anything else that had a connection or tie to the case that Faulkner felt was significant fill the pages. There is even a title page and a table of contents.

One of the copies has a brightly colored staple. It is a festive green. Old habits die hard.

That idiom is of unknown origin. However, the earliest citation of its existence is from 1758, penned by Benjamin Franklin, and has survived and endured to 1996, a span of 238 years. There aren’t other quotes that can boast their long lives because to have kept stagnant in the face of evolution negates the effects of nature itself.

Languages change. Words alter their appearance and their meaning. Significance. And some tongues even die.

Anything that has lived this long is timeless. Or is a specter haunting when it should have passed.

Agent Faulkner blinks, thinking he hears the click of his doorknob turning. He confronts the noise and politely acknowledges the source.

“Good morning, Agent. How are you today? Please, take a seat.” Agent Faulkner instructs, hand outstretched to the guest chair in front of his tidy desk. He also takes his own seat, tending to his suit’s button so that his posture doesn’t crease his suit (it never does).

Agent Faulkner parts his lips no more significant than a millimeter apart and inhales. It's soundless, like how they taught in boot camp. But basic training hasn't covered the skills required for this Herculean feat. This is the only time he has experienced a physical ailment close to sickness that clams up his hands and dampens the crisp white collar of his dress shirt, spiteful of the handkerchief Agent Faulkner carries to keep his indecorousness at bay.

Then, if his background fails him, Faulkner can only fall back on the lessons from his best tutor. However, that dearly venerated man no longer extends visits. He last saw Faulkner a long time ago.

The ding of the seatbelt sign signals their plane's descent. Feeling his partner would enjoy the view, Agent Faulkner gently nudges the man at his left and whispers, "Agent, please wake up. I believe you would like to see Nice."

Their contact meets them when the two agents exit Aéroport Nice Côte d'Azur, leading them to a parking lot and passing them the keys to a partridge-gray Citroën GSA. The thin, bearded man gives them a once-over before he tuts. Crossing his arms, the contact inquires with an arched brow, « Savez-vous tous où aller? »

Having studied the maps and trekked through the French coastline in his youth, Faulkner nods. The other man cocks his head with a frown, and a small puff of air is forced from his wrinkled lips. Seeing that the man is unconvinced, Agent Faulkner says in pleasantly accented Niçard, « Òc, n’ai una foura, monsieur. Mercés a ouf. »

The Frenchman does a double-take, muttering to himself, « Porca petan. Que lenga a, a Paris va. »

Agent Faulkner opens the door for Agent Dickinson in the front passenger seat — to which he receives a grin and a softly whispered thanks — and goes to place their luggage in the trunk — to which Dickinson jolts up in his seat and says, “No, let me help.” But Faulkner declines, heading to the back of the car as the man is clearly going through his first bout of jetlag.

Giving their contact another professional smile after getting their luggage in order, Agent Faulkner climbs into the driver’s seat to the lively tune of a French pop song. It is his mission partner’s doing, already establishing musical accompaniment in their drive along the coastal mountainside. It’s only been a year of teaming together, but they have found their respective roles.

According to the brief, the drive from the airport to the Alpes-Maritimes commune Sainte-Agnès will take roughly two hours. Agent Dickinson has the map open to call out directions to the streets, his face in a slight frown while turning back and forth between the English and French sides of the road map. On a gray-blue September morning at ten hundred hours, the two Temporal Agents drive out of the parking lot.

Faulkner keeps his eyes on the road, two hands on the wheel, focusing on the drive while his mission partner looks out the window and whistles at the view of the slate-blue sea. The Mediterranean Sea, which hugs the Southern French coastline, is connected to the more immense Atlantic Ocean but is almost entirely enclosed by land. At the north are Southern Europe and Anatolia, opposite at the south are the Northern countries of Africa, and its east is bordered by the West Asian Levant.

In the Mediterranean Sea’s grand history, the Roman Empire is the only state ever to control its coasts in a nautical hegemony. The sea’s name comes from the Romans. The 3rd-century Latin grammarian and geographer Gaius Julius Solinus, better known simply as Solinus, called it Mare Mediterrāneum, which means the sea ‘in the middle of land,’ or inland; the term a compound of the Latin words ‘middle’ medius, ‘land’ terra, and ‘qualitative nature’ -āneus.

Agent Dickinson stirs in his seat, sticking his head slightly out of the open window.

“Agent, be careful,” Faulkner warns but keeps his eyes on the road. Through his periphery, he glimpses Dickinson’s deep umber curls rippling by the sea breeze like waves.

“Is this place known for its fisheries, by chance, FK? I know you can’t look, but there are nets all over the water over there. I’ve never seen anything like it. Hey, the French like clams, right? Maybe they’re clam farms... Wait. There aren't any boats.”

Ah, what his partner is describing must be a cross sea. The autumnal squalls generating the square waves have Dickinson confuse them for a wide-cast fishing net, as the skies above them show no sign of a tremendous gale. These squared seas are due to two weather systems meeting at the precipices of their systems, far from their sources. Despite their innocent and novelty appearance, this sea state is the typical perpetrator of shipwrecks, as the vessel cannot sail into one set of waves without sailing parallel to the other. In short, it is a perilous sign.

Explaining it as such to his partner and reminding his partner that his codename is Faulkner, not FK, the other agent replies, “Ay, n’ombre… Y’know, that fact is almost as comforting as the thing you said about us dying instantly if our plane crashed in the ocean last night, Faulk.”

Faulkner smiles, and his partner laughs out loud.

It takes them half an hour to drive ten kilometers inland from Menton to an outcrop of rocky cliffsides. Their hatchback ascends the ever-winding and steepening slope, as Sainte-Agnès (or Sant Anha in the local dialect) sits at the highest point in the Alpes-Maritimes department in the Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur region, 800 meters above the level of the Mediterranean Sea. Home to less than 455 people by 1982, the small town’s precarious road showcases the dazzling sights of the Provençal hilltops and the vast sea.

The rural town hasn’t changed much from the past. The jagged peak of the commune creeps into sight. Beyond that would be the Fort Maginot de Sainte-Agnès. A part of the Maginot Defense Line in 1932 to defend the area against possible Italian and German invasion, it has now been remodified into a museum. It’ll find more use as a cultural heritage site than a war front, as the invaders went around and never sieged the fort.

If they had more time, Faulkner would’ve loved to tour around with Agent Dickinson to highlight the ancient churches, castle ruins, religious pilgrimages, and legends surrounding this coastal commune. Southern France is famous for their cuisine, and many terraced restaurants in the region offer an unrivaled view of the French Riviera that only their mountain town can provide. However, Faulkner is efficient, and they have arrived at their destination at the crossroads of the three roads that lead into the city: Chapelle Saint-Sébastien.

The stout, one-storied chapel has a large wooden cross at the front of its cobblestoned entrance. A metal gate is in place, signaling to any congregation that service is unavailable until later. A tall, lone man sweeps the steps with a wooden broom. As the car slows to a stop on the gravel lot, Faulkner checks his watch. Eleven hundred hours and forty-two minutes. C’est l’heure du déjeuner. Or, in English, lunch-time.

He opens the door, and a bit of moisture meets his hand. The skies above have gathered the flock of sheep-puff clouds. They mingle; the air is fresh and cool. Mist and light drizzle dampen the coarse earth. Faulkner looks to the backseat of the car, takes his briefcase, and tells his partner, “Agent, I regret to inform you it is raining. Have you packed your raincoat? I can get it for you.”

“I don’t mind getting a little wet, but I know you'll insist. It should be on my suitcase’s left side inner pocket, but don’t open the other side ‘cause that’s where my unmentionables are.” Dickinson says.

Faulkner quirks an eyebrow and says, “But you mentioned it, so they aren’t ‘unmentionable,’ Agent.” But he nods and does just that to the pleasant sound of his partner's loud chuckles, quickly fetching their raincoats from the trunk while Agent Dickinson also exits the vehicle.

The light sprinkle wets his gelled hair, and a few strands fall out of place when he brushes them back. However, Agent Faulkner doesn’t mind the rain. It is necessary to the ecosystem and a refreshing conclusion to extended heat waves; he even finds the sound relaxing while reading a book. But he doesn’t want to ruin his suit or wet his files. Picking up an umbrella in case the mizzle explodes into a cloudburst, he closes the trunk and hands the raincoat to his partner.

Together, they climb the cobblestone steps, approaching their target: the man sweeping the church front.

Agent Faulkner calms himself with another breath. He has yet to fail a single mission — assassinations, cover-ups, codebreaking the Soviets during the brink of Cold War Armageddon, all these high-risk assignments a mainstay in his resume. But this recruitment task is so out of his depth.

The Temporal Bureau has had this individual on their radar since his early days in the United States Army. The Bureau has given Agent Faulkner the unique mission usually offered to a designated and experienced recruiter. Although he wishes to ask, why me, Faulkner knows their organization does not make mistakes. And so mustn’t he.

He is someone who knows how to rally the troops, Agent Faulkner. He is good with his words. Someone who will know his brothers-in-arms like the back of his hand. A person we must be able to rely on and trust. With your help, we’ll bring him into the Temporal Bureau.

Faulkner remembers how he reacted to the picture his superiors slid to him across the briefing room table. He shook, no different from a dead leaf on a branch.

Make certain you will not fail him or us, Agent.

There is a tug on his sleeve. Faulkner reacts, snapping his head to — Agent Dickinson, who gives Faulkner the tiniest crease of his rosy, full lips, pinched at the corners. “Hey, if it makes you feel any better, this is my first time too. When I was with the old man—uh, I mean when I was with my old partner, we didn’t take any noncombat missions, so I’m out of my element as well. But the bureau wouldn’t have sent you—us out here if they didn’t think we could do this. So let’s just, y’know, stick to the script we came up on the plane, and if it feels like he’s not biting, then… I don’t know, we can talk from the heart?”

Faulkner cannot speak. So he nods, confused by the tenseness in his chest disappearing. His face feels a little hot.

“That’s him over there, isn’t it? Damn, I thought someone fudged the numbers when I saw that six-foot-four… What are they feeding you guys in the army that we’re not getting in the other branches?” Agent Dickinson whispers.

Faulkner also wonders about present-day rations but keeps it private from his partner. There is no place for his mind to wander now. It is mission time.

« Bonjour monsieur. Parlez-vous anglais? » Faulkner calls out to the tall man, mustering as much warmth as he can into his greeting, as taught by his tutor. If it works, it’d be all thanks to that man. If it fails, it is Faulkner’s shortcoming. As the two agents advance until they are only a meter from the target, Faulkner’s features dissolve into content placidity.