P. Stormcrow

New place, new life. Finley stared around at all the boxes littering the tiny space that was her apartment. At least, she no longer had to spare that asshole another thought. 

I love you, but I’m just not in love with you anymore.

Fuck off.

It was a good thing she prioritized unpacking the coffeemaker. She stood leaning against the counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the living space, mug in hand. 

If you loved me, you wouldn’t have cheated on me, dickhead.

That was how it started, wasn’t it? Her life came tumbling down like blocks after he left her and accused her of cheating. Oh, never outright, just in private to all their friends and his family. She thought the whispers and looks were because of the divorce. Yeah, no.

And then this damn transfer. A promotion, they called it, from desk jockey to field agent. Promotion my ass.

She took another sip and eyed the rum, mid-shelf stuff. 

Ah, fuck it.

She set her mug down, grabbed the bottle, unscrewed it, and poured a healthy amount into her cup, watching the black swallow the caramel. 

“So you’re going to be a Stranger?”

“I’ll come back to visit.”

“I know, kiddo. I mean the department they’re transferring you to. That’s their nickname.”

“Oh.”

As a retired federal agent, Dad still had his finger on the pulse of the community, which meant this new organization had a reputation. Great. at least stranger was better than weirdo. Nonetheless, it was a far cry from her desk job as an intelligent analyst. When she asked for fieldwork after acing all her training, this was not what she had in mind.

Just because she had called her boss’ boss out for being a sleazy scumbag after he got too handsy at the Christmas party.

Her gaze strayed to the ugly ass clock on the wall the previous owner had left behind. “Oh shit.”

She downed her alcohol-infused coffee in one go, grabbed her jacket and things, and ran out. 

The building was old and the tenants questionable, but she couldn’t take any risk with her new salary. It didn’t stop her though from swearing under her breath as she flew down the three flights of stairs and out the back exit to her car, a nondescript two-door hatchback that had seen better days. She had traded her beautiful, gleaming Tesla for it.

How high could someone fucking fall?

The gloom stayed with her as she drove to her new office. No fancy building. Instead, she pulled into the half-abandoned warehouse district and slowed, keeping an eye out until she found it.

A tall wired fence surrounded the compound, but nothing gave any hint to it being government property. An empty security booth stood beside the gate, and she drove up to it, surprised that it was unmanned. But as she lowered her window, she spied a speakerphone with what looked like a camera lens with a film of the grease on top. Below, a button set next to a keypad winked at her beneath layers of dirt, so she pressed it and waited.

Nothing.

“Three two six six Productive Ave,” Finn muttered under her breath. Did she get the address wrong somehow? Who the hell leaves their base of operations wide open? What was she missing? Silence answered her question, and she swore a tumbleweed rolled in front of her car. The air grew still and heavy as storm clouds threatened rain.

A crackle had her jump out of her skin. She slapped the steering wheel. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Name and business,” a robotic voice demanded, ignoring her outburst.

Finn took a deep breath to rein back her temper. “Agent Finley Reed, reporting in.” She grabbed the badge she had tossed onto the passenger seat and held it up, though she doubted if anyone could see through the layers of build-up on the camera lens.

Again, silence. Then the air before her seemed to shimmer before the speaker burst into life with a bout of static. The barricade lifted. “Park behind the building.”

That was all. Finn let out a breath and pulled the car forward. The drive was short — going just shy of the street limit… for a regular road. But no one was looking, and judging by the old junkers that littered the so-called parking lot, no one would look for a while. At least the tiny hatchback she was driving would fit right in.

By the time she stood in front of the building’s back door — a clean yet scarred flimsy metal door with a worn keypad — any shred of hope she clung to dissipate. Not just because this was such a far cry to the shiny state-of-the-art building she used to work in, but that no one had ever given her a code. How the fuck was she going to get in?

But she wasn’t an agent for nothing. Unfazed, she peered at the pad closer. Dust covered every part except for the key with six on it. It couldn’t be that easy.

 Can it?

She exhaled once more and extended her forefinger to hit six. One more time. Then again.

The door cracked open with a click. 

She shook her head. “O… kay…” She straightened her jacket. “Okay. Here we go.” She grabbed the handle and entered.

Into an empty, abandoned warehouse. 

This has got to be a joke. A newbie initiation. Finn pursed her lips in a thin line and set her hands on her hips.

“Wait, hold on.” Someone spoke out of nowhere.

She put both fists in the air on pure instinct and spun around, searching for the source, but found nothing.

“Okay, go outside, close it and try again.”

What?

Fine didn’t reply but did as the voice asked, closing the door behind her. She leaned her back against it, rubbed her face, and let out a long sigh before she reached for the keypad.

“Oh, don’t worry about the three sixes. Doesn’t actually work. Just open it,” the ghostly female instructed again.

Of course, it didn’t. She grabbed the handle and yanked on the door.

No wondrous sight greeted her eyes, not even a cubical farm. It was the same warehouse space but this time, filled with mismatched folding tables and chairs, boxes piled high, and filing cabinets, vintage only by the age they were showing. Typewriters shared spaces with other equipment she didn’t recognize while people, bustling about. Wait, was that a rotary telephone?

She must have poured way more rum into her coffee than she thought.

“Agent Reed.” It was that same voice from before, minus the distortions, and Finn turned to face the speaker in the flesh.

“Hi, I’m Olivia. Olivia Ainsworth.” A girl around sixteen, with pink hair in pigtails, stuck her hand out at her. Clad in a floral sundress, flats, and a leather jacket, she looked as though she belonged more at high school than any federal agency.

This girl’s works here? Finn smoothed her expression over to something more professional and took the head. “Good morning.”

Agent Ainsworth grinned and shook her hand with such enthusiasm Finn wasn’t sure if she was ever going to let go. Her doubts must have shown on her face though as the girl stared down and released her with haste.

“Sorry. It’s just we don’t get a lot of newbies.”

“Olivia!” someone yelled from the other side of the cavernous room.

“Whoops. Got to run. Agent Jackson, your new partner is over there. The tall one. You can’t miss him. Oh, and briefing’s in fifteen.” Ainsworth caught her breath and beamed at her. “Welcome to the Aberrant Control Division.”

“What does aberrant even mean?” Finn muttered, but Agent Ainsworth already left. Stifling another sigh, she swept her gaze across until it met her new partner’s. Because he was tall — a head higher than everyone else with a lazy, charming smile on his pouty lips framed by a five o’clock shadow, paired with sparkling baby blues. But his trimmed figure sporting shirt not tucked in and an upturned collar along his casual but graceful stance made him look more like a model than an agent. The other woman chatting with him patted him on the arm and walked away.

Finn cleared her throat and strode over to him.

“Agent Reed,” he greeted, his grin widening.

“Agent Jackson.” She gave a firm nod.

He studied her for a moment, then motioned her over as he stepped back. “Come along then. Let’s show you to your desk.” The faint patronizing tone grated on her nerves, but she kept her tongue in check. For now.

“This one’s yours. And this is your standard-issued typewriter. You’ll need it for your reports. Ms. Callaghan’s a stickler for those things.”

Right. Agent Callaghan, their SSA or special supervisory agent. No one she asked knew much about her. Hold on. Finn stared at him. A typewriter?

“Oh and here are our case files.” Jackson turned to grab a teetering pile of file folders, each one inches thick, and shoved them against her. On instinct, Finn accepted them into her arms.

“And—”

“Wait!” When Agent Jackson raised a raised brow at her, rage boiled over. “What is going on? Is this some kind of joke?” Anger loosened her tongue at last.

A look of pity crossed his face, and he sighed, pushing back a lock of his dark and way-too-stylish hair. “You were an IA that transferred from Cyber, weren’t you? How much has anyone told you?”

Yes, she was an intelligence analyst before, but she had passed every single test she needed with flying colors for fieldwork. “I know I am here to work cases out there just like any other agent from any other branch.” Finn set the files down then pulled herself to full height. Not that it made much difference next to the giant that was her new partner.

Agent Jackson shook his head as she spoke and held up one hand. “No. Nothing here is like any other branch. We’re the department that deals with off cases. The ones that don’t quite add up.”

Finn narrowed her eyes. What he was saying sounded dangerously close to—

He barged on ahead without waiting for her full reaction. “Have you figured out what the word Aberrant in our division’s name actually means?”

“I—” Finn started.

“Weird, Agent Reed. It means the weird stuff. The paranormal and the strange shit that no one else wants to deal with because there’s no explanation that doesn’t sound insane. Why do you think they call us the Strangers?” 

There was a candid camera somewhere here. The transfer was a joke, a test. That must have been it. What he was saying made sense. The illusion earlier. The typewriters, the file cabinets…

“You’re shitting me.” Finn gave him the most unamused expression she could muster.

“Jackson.” Another agent in a full business pantsuit with dark curls pulled back in a severe bun approached them, her peaceful demeanor at odds with the way she just barked out his name. “We have a one-o-one at a Hancock high school on West 3rd. Please do go check it out. The local authorities have escalated this to the agency, and the file landed on my desk.” She handed a thinner folder to him, then studied Finn.

It was as if something was rooting in her brain, digging into nooks and crannies even she was not aware of. But Finn found herself unable to look away until the other woman dipped her head in acknowledgment.

“Agent Reed, welcome.”

That quiet blanket of authority. There was no doubt who she was. “Ma’am.”

“Jackson, take Agent Reed with you. It would do her some good to get in the field, see some action. Gain some context.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Jackson saluted her with two fingers and as if satisfied, Ms. Callaghan walked away.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Finn turned to Jackson. “What’s a one-o-one?”

Jackson grinned and winked at her. “Basic haunting. Come on, let’s go.”