@troubleforhire:
Apparently, in 2051 he had a job to go to. A job that included a badge with security clearance and an office shared with who was meant to be last week’s client. Last week’s client who somehow flagged as a priority number on his phone with a caller ID photo of an intensely choice fighter jet. Lachlan had taken the twins - their twins - to the park while he followed up on this lead. Or what he hoped would be a lead at the end of the utter maze that was C.A.R.M.A. HQ. It felt strange without Stig at his side, but hopefully Agent Ortega would have more information than he di - Ah.
Brows arched at the recap, he bit down on the inside of a chuckle, “Oh ja, in private military ops clean language is priority, along with minding your fokkin’ manners on comm during tea time with whatever shit-for-brains is getting trained in handling that week. I think I’ll recover, bru, but I’m assuming in the past you sweetened the pot with better food than queso to balance that out.”
Stepping closer he surveyed the room before his eyes flicked back to the other man, relaxing slightly at least in solidarity, somehow easy around the agent, “Fok..I didn’t even think to look for weed. Alright, I see your surprise spouse and raise you: Try waking up with three year old twins calling you ‘daddy’. Absolutely bosbefok. ” With a sigh he rubbed the fatigue of this endless day away, “What intel do we have access to?” A pause customary of spies, C’mon, “Assuming we’re sharing an office with..beanbags that we also share intel.”
He liked the Danish guy. Liked him enough to get pissed off on his behalf and take his case to Ellie, then to her mancandy in the Legal department, but if this future was anything close to reality he had clearly pulled the whole thing off with aplomb. Which was excellent, though he was so scattered at the moment he was being reactive, not proactive. Sighing loudly and rolling his eyes, he forced himself back a step from the edge mentally. “Alright, smartass. I get it. Half the people here are afraid of big scary Agent Ortega, it was worth saying just in case. But you apparently can put up with substantially more of my shit than most given we’re sharing an office space.” Guillermo said, standing and stepping away from his desk. They had commandeered what he assumed was a conference room, which was impressive. A whiteboard in the corner had magnets shaped like chili peppers on it and handwriting he didn’t recognize, presumably Kaspar’s. At the word twins he looked at Kas directly and snort laughed a little, then shook his head at the very idea.
“You don’t seem too upset about it, or who you woke up in bed with. I’ll assume you know that person pretty well. But three year old girls? Been down that road before. Mazel tov and good luck, hermano.” Intel? He had some, conveyed via text message from Ellie, and hell, what was the harm in sharing it? This guy had clearance in this future, he liked him, and he didn’t seem squirrely enough to go telling the press. So he gestured towards the sofa and beanbag chair area in the office, taking a seat himself on the sofa rather than try to dig himself out of the beanbag later. “So Director Sinclair, we’re very close. She’s like my little sister. I love her to death. But apparently this was scientific preternatural recon that research and development didn’t realize would punt us all into the future.” Guillermo explained, looking dubious about the very concept and more than a little put out. “Supposedly it’s like a slingshot thing, we’ll go back. Eventually. Localized to just Pansaw. Like, my niece isn’t here, because Ellie sent her out of town.” The only thing to do was roll with these punches, in Mo’s opinion. Maybe not everyone could, but he believed in Ellie enough to assume they would go back to normal. “You still want this? Because I think you can handle what we go up against, but you want out, you just tell me. Won’t think anything less of you.”
“Recruitment falling down on the job again, all of my previous experience is in charming fake texans with time travel problems.” He liked this one, Ortega - his co-worker? - the guy who scoffed at fake queso and complained about weed in his bathroom cabinet like they’d known each other for years. And the ridiculous bit was it did feel that way, as though they’d known each other in the trenches and could shorthand ‘this fucking shit’ without reprisals.
Not too upset? He supposed he wasn’t. No, well. It was like falling down the rabbit hole. Everything he’d wanted years ago only now with odd thorny pieces and blank spaces twisted through it. Lachlan was...complicated. Twins with the best friend he thought had abandoned him in some shithole hospital in Johannesburg? Not easy to explain. Well. “Ja, you could say that. Saw him for the first time in five years and he thought I was a fokkin’ ghost come to haunt him for...his atrocious dancing, probably. Leaving me for dead, dressing like a gigolo for the past five years, the usual shite.” And the rub was except for one of those things, he couldn’t help but be fond, more than fond, of all the somewhat ridiculous qualities that his former love best friend contained. Openness came easy with ‘scary Agent Ortega’ whose words and posture clearly said ‘don’t bullshit me and I won’t bullshit you’. A relief considering the number of shitheels and wouldbe con artists he had to deal with in his day to day.
Grey eyes flicked to the whiteboard and he couldn’t help but reach to fiddle with some of the more creative magnets - that was future Kaspar’s problem if the scores didn’t make sense. Petty? Sure, but he doubted it was sensitive information - most tallies that followed ‘ass or legs’ typically weren’t. He missed the familiar weight at his side, the option to scratch through his companion dog’s fur in situations like these, restless moments. Skepticism was tempered by the response he’d gotten earlier, “R&D usually take such a hakuna matata approach to time travel, do they? We on call to stand around intimidatingly or...we get to dig into this today?” Gesturing to the board of...what he knew was likely his own future bullshit muddled with a surprising amount of immaculate cursive snark. Nothing else for it, but he couldn’t stand to be idle, and here was someone who seemed willing to make lemonade out of a gift horse rather than...fuck it or however that expression worked here. Long fingers were halfway to tracing a map in one corner of the board before stilling, tilting his head curiously at the out before the offer drew a surprised laugh out of him, warm and genuine. There was a reason he his future self had chosen to work with the brunette this long and it was already becoming apparent. It wasn’t a chance casually offered, wasn’t one he’d heard in his old - current - line of work until he couldn’t work.
An easier sigh left him as he took the opposite end of the sofa, “What? This isn’t a casual tuesday? Time travel aside I was worried you were trying to bore me, bru, when there’s clearly a much more interesting case to solve.” Grin quirking slightly at the other’s arched brow he retrieved his phone to flip through his future self’s photos to find one of himself, Stig, and Agent Ortega in a hangar, tapping the fighter jet in the background, “Where do we find this absolute beauty?”
