We're All Mad Here

“Not much,” Sloth drawled, levitating chips into his mouth. As far as I could see, he didn’t even chew. They just seemed to disintegrate the moment they touched his tongue. “See all this?” A huge stack of papers floated over to us, swaying precariously.

“Yeah?” I muttered hesitantly. Frankly, just the thought of having to do all of that was giving me anxiety.

“Just let it build up,” Sloth said, shrugging. “That’s most of the job.”

Slowly, my eyebrow rose to my hairline. “That can’t be it.” This was the embodiment of one of the deadly sins, slumped on a couch that wasn’t there five minutes ago. Surely, given the big deal made of sin in general, his job had to involve more than that. “What about seducing great minds into abondoning their pursuits? Robbing the righteous of their zeal?”

Sloth let out a long, disgruntled groan. “Bro, that all sounds like a looooooot of work. Screw that.” He yawned and stretched. “The others make a big deal out of it, but humans do just fine at screwing themselves over without any help,” he said. “They don’t needed to be ‘tempted’ to do shit.” One of his eyes lazily opened and the embodiment of sin smirked at me. “I just show up now and then to claim credit.”

“Really?” I still wasn’t entirely convinced. I mean, this was supposedly a creature of pure evil I was dealing with. “What about all of this?” I gestured to the bottle of cider waiting for me to finish my glass and the pizza which seemed to be making itself.

To my suprise, the paperwork spontaneously caught fire. In an instant it was reduced to smouldering ashes and Sloth didn’t even bat an eye. “That’s about as much as I ever do, when the pile gets so tall it starts to bother me,” he said, before gesturing at some of the items performing menial tasks around the room. “I’m not even sure I’m doing any of that. It just kinda happens.”

I quietly sipped my drink for a while, letting the bottle refill my glas dutifully every time I put it down. “So, if you basically do nothing all day long, why are you asking me to take over?”

As expected, Sloth shrugged. “Meh, a few reasons, I suppose. I wanna do nothing without being associated with the forces of darkness for a while, ya know? Get away from the branding a bit.” He floated a few more chips into his mouth and added, “Also, Lust keeps trying to have sex with me. Do you have any idea what a hassle that is when one session can last about a century?”

“1450 italy? does it look like I have the time to dye you wool? nO. YOU’RE GOING TO THE 1980s”

“Upper middle class?!?!? You told me upper class! FUCK YEAH THERE’S A DIFFERENCE!!!”

“How about kimoNO.”

“Look me in the eyes. I do not care what you want. This is the 1500s. You absolutely cannot wear trousers.”

“Another court gown?? Here’s a novel idea: go as a peasant for once in your life. Why do you do this to me? You’re fucking sadists that’s why.”

“Don’t mind me, I’ll just be up all night hand painting silk.”

That wasn’t the thing making Agent Black sweat, though. No, that was the truly impressive level of hatred in the hazel eyes looking at him. Harriet, the department’s sole employee, was hammering away at a piece of glowing steel while making unflinching eye contact. He didn’t need his three years of psychological analysis courses to realize she was picturing it was his head she was bringing that hammer down on.

“No, the armour isn’t fucking done,” she snarled, punctuating the statement by dunking the piece she was working on in a nearby barrel. Steam rose in a massive cloud and the water hissed and bubbled as it spilled over the side. “Maybe you should have thought about that before you sent me an email at four pm yesterday, requesting a full set of plate mail armour with matching chainmail for the next day at noon, like the utter nob you are.” She tossed the piece of steel onto her workbench, next to a few matching pieces.

Agent Black, meanwhile, nervously toyed with his chronal accelerator. Accidentally pressing the button on the pocket watch that would send him back in time seemed like a safer option than speaking up right now, because Harriet was turning British. It was well known in the agency that Harriet’s accent only came out when she was drunk or beyond pissed off. Both were dangerous in their own ways.

Harriet was happy to ignore him as she turned back to her forge, muttering to herself. “It’s not enough that I had to deal with making Agent Rouge a passable corset she could actually squeeze those porn star boobs of hers into,” the seamstress muttered darkly before she suddenly adopted an almost offensively clichéd French accent. “Oh, ‘arriet. You can make moi a dress in 6 hours, non? Ah, zat is too tight. How you say, ze girls, they need air, oui?”

Agent Black tried not to laugh as Harriet used one hand to exaggeratedly mimic his already dramatic French colleague’s mannerisms. With the other she turned a piece of steel in the forge so it was heated evenly. “Yes, Eveline, that’s kind of the point of a fucking corset,” Harriet continued her one-sided conversation as she took the piece out and moved it to the anvil. “And sure, let’s show ‘ze girls’ off a bit more. It’s not like modesty was a big thing back then, right?”

She picked up the hammer again with a gleam in her eyes that made Agent Black take an involuntary step back. “And maybe shut up or have some work done if it bothers you so much, lovely, or accept the fact…” she brought the hammer down on the glowing steel with a resounding clang, “…that your tits…” once more the hammer rose and fell, “…are…” another swing and a final, deafening clang! “…lopsided!”

Agent Black couldn’t help it. A snort escaped him and he regretted it instantly when Harriet sent him a glare that could pierce diamonds. “You think this is funny?” she hissed.

Agent Black wisely said nothing. He was perfectly happy to taunt a bunch of temporal terrorists who were trying to shoot him. A hammer-wielding Harriet, however? No thanks, he rather enjoyed living.

The harried seamstress shoved the partially flattened piece of steel back into the forge and then spun back around and pointed at the agent threateningly with her tongs. “I did not major in fashion with minors in history and costume design to make a rush job of a dress for ‘Agent Rouge’,” she actually made air quotes, “and her lopsided tits. The fucking thing couldn’t have been less appropriate for the period if I’d tried.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Agent Black tried to interject.

Harriet ignored him completely. “Nor did I sign up to forfeit my sleep because I spent all night building a fucking forge.” She threw down her tools and pulled out a tape measure. For a moment, Agent Black was certain she was going to strangle him with it. Thankfully, however, she began taking his measurements while she rambled. “All because none of you wankers can manage a freaking schedule. And I’ve tried. Lord above have I tried, but none of you care.”

Agent Black felt rather thankful for his training, as it made hiding his guilty frown a whole lot easier. He had seen the memos, of course. Everything from ‘Hey lads, Harriet here, just letting you know that I’ll need at least a month’s notice for anything pre-1900s, okay? Cheers!’ to ‘Hey, you bunch of time traveling muppets! A month is 30 days, not 30 minutes! The next person to ask for a gown fit for court gets stabbed with a crotchet needle!’

If he was entirely honest, though, Agent Black had to admit that they simply didn’t understand. What could possibly require so much time? This whole situation was only raising more questions about her methods, but he wasn’t stupid enough to question them with Harriet within strangling distance. “It really is quite important, though,” he tried instead.

Bloodshot, hazel eyes gave him a disparaging look. “Luv, my last shit was spent on making a kimono with a symbol that held no meaning back then,” she said as the measuring tape tightened painfully around his bicep. “Right now, I couldn’t give a damn if space and time fold in on themselves so far that they take physical form and appear in my workshop to bugger me.” With a huff, Harriet stomped back over to her workbench. “You all think you’re these big heroes, but you’re just a bunch of sadistic twits who would show up in Da Vinci’s workshop in sneakers and sweatpants if I didn’t stop you.”

She fiddled with the forge a bit. “Maybe I should just quit. See how you get by without me,” she mused, staring into the flames. “Sure, Agent Green, wear a horned helmet around a bunch of vikings. They’ll think you’re a moron but, hey, they won’t be wrong.” She let out a slightly demented giggle. “Of course you can wear a kimono during the colonization of Indonesia, Becky. That’s Asian, right? Never mind that both the Dutch and the locals will wonder what the fuck you’re wearing, since it’s freaking Japanese.”

Agent Black found himself reflexively scanning the room for exits. “You know what? I don’t need a new set,” he muttered. “Do you have a spare set I can use?” Anything to leave this department right now.

“I did!” Harriet pulled the piece she was working on from the forge with a flourish, sending flecks of half-molten steel everywhere. “Of course it was made for the fifteenth century and you’re going to the start of the medieval era, but it’s fine if they think you’re some kinda smithing genius, right? Besides, you’d have to pick it up from a giant spike in Wallachia first, because Agent White thought it was a good idea to sass Vlad the freaking Impaler.”

“So no armour, then,” Agent Black muttered, shoulders slumping. He certainly wasn’t going to swing by the era of Vlad Tepes for some armour. “Harriet…”

“Nope,” Harriet chirped, having made the journey from livid to sarcastically perky. “That reminds me of another thing, actually.” She slammed the white-hot steel down on the anvil far harder than required. “Do you know how many ballgowns I’ve fixed last week, just because a few female agents decided they needed to run and figured the best way involved ripping a dress I spent hours on?”

Agent Black rolled his eyes. “Harriet…” He was running out of both time and patience.

Once more she ignored him, caught up in her rant. “And it’s not like we can reuse the fixed dresses, because god forbid any of you play a farmer or a merchant or something. Nope, noble or nothing. I swear-“

“Harriet!” Agent Black yelled. When she finally shut up, he ran a hand over his face. “Have you considered using the replicator?” he asked.

The room went eerily quiet as the emotion drained from the seamstress’ face. Even the crackling of the forge seemed muted. “Replicator?” she asked.

“The machines that have been around for ten years?” Black tried to clarify. “The ones that can make anything from food to weapons grade explosives as long as you give them a design and tell them which materials to use?” He pointed at the interface embedded in the far wall. It was barely noticeable, really. Quite a nice design touch, or so he had always felt.

Harriet followed his gaze with that same eery stare and when she noticed the panel, her eye began to twitch violently. “Replicator.” She repeated numbly.

It was only when he saw the realization followed by sheer hatred in her eyes that Agent Black realized what had happened and what he had just done. Frantically, he pulled out his pocket watch and began to fiddle with the settings. He had just managed to set the time and date when Harriet’s brain managed to reboot.

Harriet turned back to him, almost vibrating with rage. “Years,” she growled. “Three years I’ve worked here and NONE OF YOU ARSEHOLES THOUGHT TO TELL ME I HAD A REPLICATOR?!”