Trace Tanner sidestepped a group of people who were obviously not paying attention to where they were going. It was a fairly busy day at the Law Enforcement Officer’s Expo and there was lots to see. Trace had been on the offending end of the trampling more than once today. Especially that time with the booth babe from the Taser company had smiled and winked at him. He’d nearly walked straight through a booth that snuck up in front of him. That had been a bit embarrassing.


He walked along, browsing the booths and inspecting the fares. He stopped by the Smith & Wesson booth and looked at their wares. He decided that he’d requisition an M&P 9 the next time he was back at HQ. The weapon just seemed to be a good fit for him and he figured it might make his life easier in the future. Plus, it didn’t have a safety, which was good for a fast reaction situation. A government agent like himself might end up in a situation such as that.


After leaving the booth, Trace stopped and nearly fell to the ground. He staggered and caught himself on a nearby table, placing a hand down to keep himself upright. The source of his disorientation was a massive (and sudden) splitting headache that overtook him very quickly. This was the second time today that this had happened. It was starting to become alarming. He wasn’t overly used to pain such as this, but it had happened one other time, when he’d tried to make 30 time bubbles in a row. That hadn’t been a great day. He’d ruined his favorite pair of Converse by vomiting on them. That was unfortunate.

Steadying himself, Trace stood back up and looked at the girl who had been sitting at the table. She’d jumped up when she’d seen a man stagger over and look like he was going to vomit all over the place, a good move by anyone’s estimation. ”Sorry about that. Horrible headache… he explained, as if that made the situation any better. He slowly walked away, looking for a water fountain.

This day was going to be a doozy for some reason, and Trace wasn’t quite sure why.

The Brooklyn Expo Center hosted many events including a wonderful Coffee and Tea expo that Trace had been given passes to. He’d taken a date and shortly realized that there really was only so much you could talk about at a place boasting hundreds different kinds of coffee and teas. Plus, after that many samples of coffee, he was practically vibrating through the walls of the building. But, at least he knew his way around the place a bit and was able to locate a drinking fountain nearby.

With heavy feeling limbs, Trace staggered over to the fountain and depressed the push bar, bringing water forth from the spout. He leaned down to drink, the cool water splashing more on his face than getting into his mouth. I may need to go see a doctor… he thought to himself as the water washed away some of his fatigue. He was in a pretty interesting position at the moment and it would be unfortunate for someone to stumble upon him.

The Law Enforcement Officer's Expo in Brooklyn, Rianne had managed to swing getting her ESU to get her in while not having her sit at a booth all day. She was free to move about the Expo Center and see if there was anything worth bringing back with her.

This meant no uniform. Instead she wore a lacy empire style tank top with some loose pleats a wide leather belt, slim cut jeans tucked into her Tony Lama boots, and a jacket since she'd been down this road before and knew they keep this convention cold inside.

A stop by the Axon booth. Tasers were still the same, Axon was all about body cams and cloud storage now. She checked out a few firearm manufacturers' booths. Smith and Wesson were showing off their new M&P M2.0s. They had the classic M&P line and the M&P Shield line, but were really wanting to talk about the M2.0. She still preferred her SIG, sure the grip was big, but there was just something about the weight of metal in your hand and a hammer you can see moving. This led her to the SIG booth, the new P320 or as the military now called it, the M17 was prominently placed alongside their Legion series guns.

There were other booths too. Some of the larger departments from across the country were there showing off new tactics they had come up with for various situations. NYPD of course had a booth, LAPD, APD from Austin PD, Chicago PD, etc. Rianne stopped by several of those and spoke to the officers there. Most of them seemed to be squared away, she'd have to come back again later.

For now she was making her way to a ware fountain. All morning moving around makes a girl thirsty. Who she found at the water fountain was interesting. Trace, the butt-fairy from SUPER. He was leaning over the water fountain splashing water in his face.

Strolling up behind Trace she wound up and slapped him on his rump. She then didn't want him to be confused and think it was just anyone slapping him there, she announced herself,  "Howdy, butt-fairy!" She didn't say it loud, just excitedly.

Thankfully for him, no one else was around to hear Rianne.

Trace was starting to feel completely better—AND WHO THE HELL JUST SLAPPED HIS BUTT?!

In that somewhat Texan twang he heard a female voice say “Howdy, butt-fairy!” as he nearly put his head through the wall in front of him. Well, at least he didn’t have to worry about his headache anymore. The slap on the hindquarters snapped him out of that one quickly. Adrenaline was a heck of a drug.

Spinning, he noticed that he had pushed up a time-bubble the moment that he’d taken the hit to the derriere. Sighing, he eased his power back and allowed the bubble to collapse, the somewhat fuzzy quality of the outside world drifting away.

“Barbie, you just about killed me right there. Were you raised in a barn?!” he asked, half scolding. He really wasn’t all that angry, but riding the sort of high from the surprise rear assault, his tone may have gotten a bit out of hand. He reached up and wiped some residual water from his face and sighed again. “You here on work business? Have they changed the uniform that much?” he asked, noticing she wasn’t wearing police attire.

The reaction to the greeting was all Rianne could have hoped for. A time bubble snapped into place and he spun around with murder in his eyes. Only to face Rianne smiling sweetly at him.

He asked if she was raised in a barn. "I certainly was. I slept in the loft above the horse I rode to school each mornin'." Which was in no way true, but she held a poker face as she said it. And a comment about what she was wearing? "Yes and no. I'm here scouting out the booths for ESU, and what's wrong with what I'm wearing?" She smiled as she said it. She was well aware that if nothing else her boots were well out of the ordinary.

"Here looking for more recruits?" She asked. "I've set up a meeting."

((This post has been narrated))

Trace’s mouth dropped open. What the hell was it with this woman? Did he ALWAYS have to put his foot straight into his mouth when he talked to her? Texas was a pretty rural place, but what were the odds that she actually grew up practically in a barn? I mean seriously, who actually gets rais-

The self-satisfied look on Constable Barbie’s face (which, she was trying to hide unsuccessfully) was proof enough that Trace was being a gullible idiot. Again. Hadn’t that happened the last time too? She may have been on a farm in her lifetime, but Trace would be willing to be a significant amount of his paltry government salary that the bit about riding the horse to school every day was about as accurate as the horse’s leavings.

She informed him that her presence was more business-casual than business, which made sense. Departments liked to send people to these things but it wasn’t always super advantageous to advertise who you were and what exactly you were doing there. Hence Trace’s incognito street clothes, a graphic tee, a pair of jeans, a hoodie and the replacement pair of Converse that he had not, in fact, vomited on. His attire still didn’t have anything on Constable Barbie’s cowgirl accessory pack (sold separately) but what a person wore in their free time was their own business. Well, their semi-free time.

“Well, I’m just glad to see Constable Barbie finally got that real Dream Horse she’d been wanting for all those years…” Trace said, dryly. He grinned to show that he wasn’t all that angry at her, just taking a good-natured jab. She wasn’t the only one that got to take shots!

She then asked him if he was recruiting and informed him that she’d set up a meeting with SUPER secret HR. He nodded and said “They asked me to review your record. I must say, it’s pretty impressive.” he added. “And to answer your question, no, I’m not recruiting. My presence here is somewhat work related, but I like to keep tabs on where things are going. Never a bad idea to know your field.” Trace said with a shrug. That sounded better than I have no social life and like to hang out at work conferences for fun.

“Seen anything good so far?” he asked, nodding back towards the core of the Expo.

Rianne's poker face must have been on point. There was a moment where she could tell Trace had thought he'd stepped in it. Of course her face had broken giving him the chance to know his leg had been thoroughly yanked. He cracked a joke and threw in a smile. This was good, it meant he wasn't mad and could take a little good natured fun. It was good because otherwise this would not be a fun day for him.

"Constable Barbie competed in barrel racing on her Dream Horse. I come by my boots honestly." She said proudly placing her hands on her hips. Unlike some who wear boots in this city, Rianne was a real cowgirl. "Did you not get your Dream Horse?"

So Trace had looked at her record, and he thought it was impressive. She smiled. If the Butt-Fairy was tasked with digging into her record and was impressed than that could mean things would go well. Though, if she started working ofr SUPER would he be Butt-Fairy, Sir? As an agent with more seniority. No sense wondering now, she'd find out eventually.

Not recruiting. He was here on an industry day. Close enough to her own reasons to be here. "Yes, but I bet you say that to all the girls who were top of their sniper class." She tossed her hair back as she said it, making an attempt to look cute and like Trace had been flirting with her. She then changed her tone to a more conversational one to add, "So you're loafing like me."

Had she seen anything good so far? There were a few things she had seen that were nice. Many that were just more of the standard fare. "A few of the other major metros are showing off some of their new tactics. Dallas is still doing everything dangerously different." Rianne shrugged. "Same sidearms on display as last year. The good ones at least. A few new rifles though." It was plain that she cared much for for the rifles on display than anything else going on. "You?"

Oh GOOD, Barbie was a horse girl. That could make future interactions interesting. He’d file that mental note aside for when he might need it later. “You know, I actually grew up in the city. Chicago, in fact.” he said, in an explanatory manner. “Not many horses around there. There were plenty of bicycles. I’m good at those.” he said, nodding.

Barbie then did a thing that women seemed to think was funny and acted as though he’d been flirting with her over a random comment. That was fun. Her statement highlighted the fact that she was a top-class sniper. Trace didn’t really take the bait on that one. “I typically try NOT to tell women that can kill me from over a kilometer away the same thing. It’s better for one’s health.” he said, contemplating the disastrous consequences of that course of action.

She then hit the nail directly on the head and predicted that he was, in fact, loafing around at the conference. Welp, so much for that one. “Yeah, pretty much just wandering. Except for when you found me there.” he indicated the drinking fountain. “I’ve seen some tactics that were pretty interesting. I’ve seen a couple of rifles that were interesting and I’m going to requisition a new sidearm from HQ. he said informatively.

At about that time, another wave of whatever was trying to kill him through head pain hit. He pitched forward a bit, ending up leaning against Rianne to keep himself from falling on his face. That was a pretty great move, situation considered. The pain increased until Trace nearly passed out. What the hell was going on here?

Trace was from Chicago. No horses in Chicago. Just… bicycles. ”I was twelve once too. I’m not too bad on one either.” She actually hadn’t ridden a bike in a while, but as the saying goes it’s like riding a bike.

And he didn’t bite. So she could say things that didn’t get him stumbling. ”Smart, that. We all want to hear the same thing like you would want another hole in the head.” She joked. Though, the ‘hole in the head’ line might have been a little too on the nose.

She’d mostly been joking about him loafing, but if he was going to admitted to it. Made sense the Fed was not doing anything important. Nevermind that she also was not doing anything important. She had an interview with a Federal agency, she had to get practiced up now. Maybe her feelings for the FBI were bleeding over to other agencies unfairly? Trace was at least semi useful in helping with the fire mutant. If nothing else he knew how to run a shotgun.

He was requisitioning a new sidearm? ”Which pistol? Ditching the widow maker?” A common big city law enforcement term for manual safeties.

Then Trace was no longer standing. Instead he was leaning against Rianne. She was about to say something in protest when she realized he was in pain… From something. Rianne grabbed hold of him so he wouldn’t just roll off her to the floor. ”You alright?” Dumb question, he clearly wasn’t. What else was there to say when someone just collapses onto you?

The pain Trace was experiencing felt akin to someone putting a really large firecracker in a trash can. But the trash can was his head and the firecracker was more like a quarter stick of dynamite. It was the worst, blinding pain that Trace had felt in his entire life and it was so intense that Trace nearly lost consciousness. And then it was over.

The pain subsiding, Trace managed to awkwardly get his feet back under him. It was not a pretty or graceful maneuver, and he stumbled a few times in the effort, but he was able to get back up on his feet. Drawing deep breaths, almost like he had been running, Trace made a concerted effort to steady himself and the room finally stopped spinning. What the hell was going on here?

“Uhhhh… I guess I’m okay…” he said, a bit unsteadily. “I think something big is going on. I’m not sure. These ‘episodes’ are feeling an awful lot like when I overuse my power.” he explained, trying to shake of the fatigue and disorientation. Something about the area wasn’t agreeing with him and he wasn’t really sure what it was.

He took another second and said “I’m going with the M&P 9 by the way. You had asked before.” He looked around, trying to figure out the source of his issue. This wasn’t something a federal agent really wanted to get out. It might cause him to be declared unfit for duty.

After a short while Trace seemed to recover his ability to stand on his own. Rianne released him so he could steady himself. What had just happened there? An episode? This sounded like the kind of thing that could cost Trace his job. And she likely had a polygraph impending.

She watched him for a moment. He seemed steady enough now and even returned to their prior conversation. He was requisitioning an M&P9, a nice polymer gun that was striker fired. Basically a Glock, but American... and made for normal human hands. And that didn't look ugly. Rianne had strong opinions about duty weapons.

"Not a bad choice. A little less refined than a SIG, but I know not everyone likes Cadillacs." Or the weight of a metal gun all day when polymer was available.

He'd said he thought something bad was happening. "What do you think is happening? I thought you just made bubbles where time moved fast." Was he maybe feeling the weird time disturbances that were popping up and flooding NYPD with calls?

"Yeah, I'm not much of a Cadillac kinda guy. More of a Mustang or a Camaro type." he said, hoping he was following along with her metaphor appropriately. Trace was good with guns and good at his job, but he didn't always words too good. It was a major flaw. Nobody's perfect.

Rianne's next question was much, much harder to answer.if he was being honest, Trace didn't really have a clue what was happening. His powers were always fairly natural to him; he didn't spend a ton of time thinking about how they worked. He had discussed his ability with a college professor one time (he hadn't told the professor he'd had the power, it had been a bunch of hypotheticals), but had left the conversation with a headache to rival the ones he was experiencing now.

Trace had heard reports of time disturbances happening all over the world. Shadowy government agencies generally kept tabs on those sorts of things. They seemed to be more frequent in the New York area, but Trace hadn't encountered one yet. Was this some kind of feedback due to his power?

"I am not exactly sure what's going on. I'm kind of worried that it has something to do with my ability. I've been hearing..." he looked around for observers standing close by. He didn't see anyone that was trying to listen, but then again, if they knew what they were doing, he probably wouldn't see them. " ... lots of reports of strange things happening, time disruptions. Half a city block was suddenly 12 hours ahead last week. 9 am to 9 pm. In the blink of an eye. That might have something to do with it." He said with a shrug.

"Besides, what's the worst that can happen? This could just end my career." he said, somewhat miserably.

More of a mustang or Camaro guy… Well call up Agency Arms. They can get you hooked up for a couple grand with a Camaro of a Glock. I’ll stick to a smooth and reliable ride over something that just runs fast.” Rianne preferred her sidearm to be left in factory condition. Her precision rifles on the other hand, almost nothing is factory on those.

When Trace answered her question he was quick to look for someone attempting to overhear them. He was worried that it had something to do with his power. And, he had also heard about the time disruptions across the city. It only made sense, she knew about them from the large call load, he knew about them because fancy government agency intel.

Worst that could happen was him losing his career? If nothing else the city could always use more meter maids. Probably best not to say that.

”I don’t think you’re causing it. Though you might just be having a bad reaction when they’re close. If you could push a city block ahead twelve hours stopping Mr. Heatmiser would have required a little less running on my part. Or were you just trying to see me running around?” She said the last part as a joke.

Trace smiled at the Glock comment. He'd thought about using a Glock as his service weapon, but Smith and Wesson was American made. Thoughts like that always seemed like they needed to be accompanied by a majestic bald eagle and the national anthem to Trace. And besides, he hadn't liked the feel of the Glock any better than the Shield. "That would make it a Volkswagen. They're German made." he quipped.

He relaxed a bit with her next comment. Sure, it didn't really mean anything. Neither one of them were theoretical physicists. They couldn't know for sure. But sometimes, just the idea that someone else wanted to be reassuring was, well, reassuring. "Thanks. That actually makes me feel better. I guess my body is just jealous that someone else is getting to mess with time." he said lightly. "And only a bit of it was wanting to see you running around. I've never seen a Barbie doll hauling ass at like 70 miles per hour before. It was entertaining." He said, as he started to notice a chill in the air.

As he looked towards the glass ceiling of the convention center, he noticed he could see clouds. And not far off. Like up close. Great! Now you're hallucinating! he thought to himself, wondering if the tumor was a golf ball or a grapefruit. His worries were laid to rest, however, when an errant snowflake drifted down. The convention hall HVAC system groaned and died as it tried to switch from A/C to heat in a matter of moments. "Guess winter came early...?" he said, reaching out a hand to catch a snowflake. Could this day get any weirder?[/font]

Glocks. German? Trace had stepped in it now. ”Austrian” Rianne corrected ”Glocks are from Austria.. The German’s make a more refined product. They're firearm design wizards.” She could have gone on but no sense in getting worked up. Firearm snobbery was never appreciated. Though she was unable to stop herself from adding, ”And SIG produces all theirs here in the States now. American made with a German design.” Both her duty and off duty sidearms were SIG Sauer pistols.

Trace thanked her before going and calling her a Barbie doll. . Again she considered getting one the hats she wore as part of her tactical uniform embroidered with ‘Constable Barbie’. Maybe even in that font they used for Barbie. It would be perfect to wear when she ran into him, if he was so insistent on calling her Barbie she’d need to see how he acted when she wore it like a badge of honor. ”Body can’t handle not being a snowflake?” She said it as she felt a chill roll in. She was already wearing a jacket so it wasn’t too bad, but why would they set the AC that low? ”And I’m glad you enjoyed the show. Next time I’ll just fastball you to the fire extinguishers.”

While Rianne had been talking Trace looked up at the ceiling. She followed suit and saw very close clouds. And they were snowing. Indoors. The universe had an interesting sense of humor, the man who was dealing with no longer being a snowflake caught one. Winter coming early? ”I miss Texas. We didn’t have Winter.” She said watching more snow fall.

She looked to Trace, ”My friend Occam thinks this is what you’ve been feeling.” She pulled her jacket tighter around herself. The temperature had dropped a lot and fast. And fro mthe sound of it the heater had thrown in the towel.

Whoops. Trace had gotten himself into a bit of hot water with the ‘German’ comment. Apparently, that was a sore subject with Rianne? Who knew with women these days. Rianne’s thing was firearms. He’d dated a girl whose thing was shoes. He’d dated a girl whose thing was artsy pencils. It would not surprise him if Rianne’s thing was firearms. Apparently German firearms. If she’d been in an anime, she’d have grown kewpie eyes when she was talking about them. Texans…

He probably should be more worried about the encroaching snow storm. Right. Rianne made some kind of comment about his body not being a snowflake. That was ironic. “Sometime I have to wonder if there’s someone out there waiting for moments like this.” he said, surveying the conference hall. A lot of the vendors had pushed their wares back to the tents set up around the hall, trying to protect them from the snow.

“Yeah… we might want to move. as the snow started to pick up. He hadn’t ever been in a situation where the temperature had changed so rapidly. In fact, he’d have bet a significant amount of money that NOONE had been in this kind of situation. That included the windows. A sudden drop in temperature inside lead to a massive pressure unbalance. The safety-grade glass in the windows was not prepared for the shift and it began to bow inward. The groaning noise itself was becoming overwhelming.

Some other people in the hall had started panicking. The worst part of this was that there were large quantities of firearms in the room. Shouting and shoving ensued. People rushed for the doors.

“Any ideas here?” he asked, looking around.