A Mission and a Purpose

As the sun finally showed the first fleeting seconds of its face, one new day began… lost among the haze of uncountable more, both before and after. The girl with only a barcode for a name sat on the warming tiles of a suburban rooftop and smoked a stolen cigarette. She was pretty sure the box it had been stolen from had itself been pinched from the boy’s parents in some petty act of rebellion. He didn’t seem the type to actually enjoy smoking.

Still, the crumpled box beside his computer would be another little sign. Always best to leave a few crumbs of evidence, as instructed, to keep them coming back to the certainty that it couldn’t have all been just a dream. It was for that reason she was sitting here bare-assed, dribbling semen onto the ceramics. ‘Leave your panties behind’ was basically rule 1: a calling card for her and all her fellow ‘agents’. Of course, the hoses would deal with any messes left inside her… the girl shuddered in anticipation.

She glanced at the watch-like device on her wrist. The one that read: ‘We Give Our Bodies To Time, That It May Do Some Good.’ The display was still green; mission complete and stable. Young Daniel would wake up in a few hours and, presumably, still flunk that test… Yet it wouldn’t seem like such a big deal anymore. Last night would be a turning point. The first step out of whatever hole he’d dug himself into and towards making something of himself. Not a perfect example of humanity, perhaps; but someone with the confidence to find a path and walk it. All for just the price of a little injection of physical love when it was needed most… At least that was what the Foundation’s brochures claimed. It really gave you hope.

Of course… 53 was always claiming the Execs would send them out just to give their own past selves a little treat. ‘Bonus Perks of the position’ and all that. A young lady who’d been up all night screwing around in a timeline that was not her own couldn’t be bothered to work out whether that made any sense paradox-wise. She fucked who they told her to fuck; it made life easier that way. Slip in through the back door, flirt outrageously, let whoever it was slip in through her back door, then disappear again before they built up any real attachment.

She’d been through prohibition dives in the ‘roaring 20’s’. Elaborate balls in the court of Versaille, overflowing with plots and intrigue. Rutted in the mud of medieval sieges and stared at the ceilings of an uncountable number of repressed, depressed or otherwise unfulfilled men and women throughout history. She didn’t know who did the math of how all those little bumps in the night altered courses, changed decisions, put people in just a slightly better mood or gave them a sense of more clarity about themselves and their desires. Didn’t know and didn’t care. She only existed for one reason, and therein could escape the need to worry about any of that stuff. That was a gift in itself… really.

The display on her wrist began flashing and vibrating: an incoming call from the Operator. It connected automatically, presumably having established no ‘clients’ were currently present.

“Agent 69-DD//3, is your mission fully complete?” Came the thoroughly bored-sounding voice of her direct superior.

“Do you mean: Has the target ploughed all my furrows with a suitable quantity of man-butter?”

‘Agent 69’ was quite proud of that one… she had made a game out of always trying to get just that little bit more imaginatively distasteful with her descriptions. No luck getting a rise out of the long-suffering Operator so far though.

The voice on the end of the line sighed. “Yes.”

Quick as a whip, the girl aimed the lenses of the two-way communicator down toward her bare nether regions. Offering a full view of the slow trickle of mixed bodily fluids still leaking from both her holes.

“There you go! Proof in the pudding!” She announced, with teasingly wicked glee.

There was nothing but the disinterested sound of typing on the other end. Boxes being ticked, electronic forms being submitted.

“Yes. I’ve seen them before, Agent 69. Return for deep cleansing then… Your next target is a 1930’s German school teacher. Research indicates she would like to tie you up in her basement.”

Great. Thought the wayward time-traveller, standing up and stretching out her limbs. A repressed lesbian proto-nazi with a list of kinks to work through… That could take days…

She gave the quiet suburban morning of 2000-and-something one last look, before activating the return switch. Time to face the hoses… and start then start this process all over again.