Times Square
Times Square was on fire. Little embers of car headlights swooped through the parallel streets, creating a blur of heat. A smoky colored crowd pulsed across the sidewalk, swirling and churning in whirls of motion. The ashen sky above burned with the lights of brilliantly lit advertisements that popped out from every inch of the tall buildings. Everywhere, fumes of intoxicating noise filled the city, honking horns, catcalls and tires tearing through wet concrete—though the cars themselves could not be seen.
Times Square was often called the center of the Modern Era, as it was smack dab in the middle of the twentieth century. 1904 was the earliest date, stamped with a gleaming metallic plate onto the NY Times building. Radiating outwards, the block ascended through time, all the way to Broadway, 1998. Newspapers of over 34,00 days lined the streets, imprinted on the concrete by rain and torn against muddy gutters, their text leaking through the murky water.
The two agents moved down towards the bottom of Times Square as they walked through the friction of the crowd. They passed by a closed down shop with boarded windows of rotten wet wood. The sign read 1930s. Somewhere between there and the great 1904 NY Times Building was a bar-restaurant called Moonshine. Of course, the real 20s Era was well hidden, and you could only get to it by dealing with the Cats of some forgotten back alley Wednesday. This was merely a beacon of that rebellious Era.
Cooper and Steele pushed through the front doors, and a bell chimed above their heads. The noise was hardly audible over the ruckus coming from the people in the bar. Roaring, indeed. The brightly lit speakeasy was filled with patrons, men dressed in tight vests swinging glasses of rum through the air, and bootleggin’ babes hiking their frilly skirts up at pool tables. Behind the bar, an assortment of bottles gleamed in the warm light, standing proud and polished like a row of trophies.
“This is your kind of Era,” Cooper said with a sneering smirk.
“I hope you’re talking about the booze.” Steele glanced around the room quickly. A young waiter with a black bow tie and a fedora hat sped past the two assassins with a tray of drinks in his hand. Steele caught him by the arm, and spun him towards her.
“Hey!” The waiter steadied the tray of drinks, and shot Steele a seething glare. “I’m a little busy here, wait your turn!”
Steele raised an eyebrow, momentarily stunned by his high, sweet voice. “Oh. You’re a girl.”
“Yeah, you ain’t too pretty yourself!” The waitress made to jerk her arm away, but Steele drove her thumb sharply into the inside of her elbow. The waitress crumpled with a cry of pain, somehow managing to keep the drinks afloat.
“Okay, what do you want?” she muttered, hiding her face under the shadow of her fedora.
“A kid. Jack. Have you seen him at work lately?” Steele held her arm steady.
“Not in a few days, the little punk.”
Cooper stepped forward, and Steele had to resist the urge to glare at him. He hooked his hands in the belt loop of his jeans, pushing back the edges of his trench coat, and revealing the butt of a gun. “Think very carefully about how you respond,” he said coolly.
The waitress didn’t seem to be impressed. She looked Cooper up and down and sneered. “I. Haven’t. Seen. Him.” She twisted her arm out of Steels grip, and gave the two of them a smug look. “But if you do, tell him that he’s fired.”
She stalked away towards one of the tables, and neither of the agents saw the distraught look on her face.
“Well that was a waste of time,” Steel said with a resolute sigh. She lifted her eyes to Cooper, twisting her lips slightly as she pushed out the words. “Wanna get a drink?”
Cooper shrugged, but stepped over to the bar somewhat reluctantly. “Should we giver her a real questioning later?” he muttered, signaling the bartender for two drinks.
“No. Let’s harass his boss. Somehow I don’t think this kid has a lot of friends who could point us in the right direction.” Steele sniffed. “Besides, it’s not our job to hunt the kid down.”
“And yet, here we are.”
“Do you want to go back to Mr. March empty handed?”
“Only as much as you do.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Awfully convenient time for Jack to drop off the face of the city.” Cooper sneered at his drink.
“What… you don’t think he knows we’re looking for him!”
“I don’t know.” Cooper swirled his glass, and took a sip. “There’s no way that he could. But if we don’t find him soon…”
“We still––” Steel snatched her drink up and drowned the whole glass. “Ahh… have the radio.” She pulled the static-spewing device out of her pocket, and set it on the counter. She spun its dials absentmindedly, and the howling static shifted and churned. Her cheeks flushed with the aftermath of the liquor, and a grin spiraled through her lips.
“When do you think the blacksmith opens shop?”
Times Square was on fire. Little embers of car headlights swooped through the parallel streets, creating a blur of heat. A smoky colored crowd pulsed across the sidewalk, swirling and churning in whirls of motion. The ashen sky above burned with the lights of brilliantly lit advertisements that popped out from every inch of the tall buildings. Everywhere, fumes of intoxicating noise filled the city, honking horns, catcalls and tires tearing through wet concrete—though the cars themselves could not be seen.
Times Square was often called the center of the Modern Era, as it was smack dab in the middle of the twentieth century. 1904 was the earliest date, stamped with a gleaming metallic plate onto the NY Times building. Radiating outwards, the block ascended through time, all the way to Broadway, 1998. Newspapers of over 34,00 days lined the streets, imprinted on the concrete by rain and torn against muddy gutters, their text leaking through the murky water.
The two agents moved down towards the bottom of Times Square as they walked through the friction of the crowd. They passed by a closed down shop with boarded windows of rotten wet wood. The sign read 1930s. Somewhere between there and the great 1904 NY Times Building was a bar-restaurant called Moonshine. Of course, the real 20s Era was well hidden, and you could only get to it by dealing with the Cats of some forgotten back alley Wednesday. This was merely a beacon of that rebellious Era.
Cooper and Steele pushed through the front doors, and a bell chimed above their heads. The noise was hardly audible over the ruckus coming from the people in the bar. Roaring, indeed. The brightly lit speakeasy was filled with patrons, men dressed in tight vests swinging glasses of rum through the air, and bootleggin’ babes hiking their frilly skirts up at pool tables. Behind the bar, an assortment of bottles gleamed in the warm light, standing proud and polished like a row of trophies.
“This is your kind of Era,” Cooper said with a sneering smirk.
“I hope you’re talking about the booze.” Steele glanced around the room quickly. A young waiter with a black bow tie and a fedora hat sped past the two assassins with a tray of drinks in his hand. Steele caught him by the arm, and spun him towards her.
“Hey!” The waiter steadied the tray of drinks, and shot Steele a seething glare. “I’m a little busy here, wait your turn!”
Steele raised an eyebrow, momentarily stunned by his high, sweet voice. “Oh. You’re a girl.”
“Yeah, you ain’t too pretty yourself!” The waitress made to jerk her arm away, but Steele drove her thumb sharply into the inside of her elbow. The waitress crumpled with a cry of pain, somehow managing to keep the drinks afloat.
“Okay, what do you want?” she muttered, hiding her face under the shadow of her fedora.
“A kid. Jack. Have you seen him at work lately?” Steele held her arm steady.
“Not in a few days, the little punk.”
Cooper stepped forward, and Steele had to resist the urge to glare at him. He hooked his hands in the belt loop of his jeans, pushing back the edges of his trench coat, and revealing the butt of a gun. “Think very carefully about how you respond,” he said coolly.
The waitress didn’t seem to be impressed. She looked Cooper up and down and sneered. “I. Haven’t. Seen. Him.” She twisted her arm out of Steels grip, and gave the two of them a smug look. “But if you do, tell him that he’s fired.”
She stalked away towards one of the tables, and neither of the agents saw the distraught look on her face.
“Well that was a waste of time,” Steel said with a resolute sigh. She lifted her eyes to Cooper, twisting her lips slightly as she pushed out the words. “Wanna get a drink?”
Cooper shrugged, but stepped over to the bar somewhat reluctantly. “Should we giver her a real questioning later?” he muttered, signaling the bartender for two drinks.
“No. Let’s harass his boss. Somehow I don’t think this kid has a lot of friends who could point us in the right direction.” Steele sniffed. “Besides, it’s not our job to hunt the kid down.”
“And yet, here we are.”
“Do you want to go back to Mr. March empty handed?”
“Only as much as you do.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Awfully convenient time for Jack to drop off the face of the city.” Cooper sneered at his drink.
“What… you don’t think he knows we’re looking for him!”
“I don’t know.” Cooper swirled his glass, and took a sip. “There’s no way that he could. But if we don’t find him soon…”
“We still––” Steel snatched her drink up and drowned the whole glass. “Ahh… have the radio.” She pulled the static-spewing device out of her pocket, and set it on the counter. She spun its dials absentmindedly, and the howling static shifted and churned. Her cheeks flushed with the aftermath of the liquor, and a grin spiraled through her lips.
“When do you think the blacksmith opens shop?”