6 - Quarrel

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The laboratory, 23:46

Dan takes the shift almost in stride. With flexed knees and closed eyes, she holds onto the tabletop solidifying in her grip and waits for disorientation and nausea to pass. Compared to her messed-up, self-doubting persona of mere minutes ago, she feels calm and relaxed: Now it is clear she is not crazy—and the last hour was not a dream.

Or did I imagine the infamous night drive in the rain? Determined to avoid going down that lane, she pushes the scary thought aside and opens her eyes to locate Ric.

Her accidental partner stands by the door, one eye pressed against the crack to peer into the adjacent room. Dan's reappearance must have slipped unregistered. She clears her throat to gain his attention. "Ric? What's the plan?"

He turns around on his heel and closes the door with an audible click. A deep frown mars his forehead. "Which rabbit hole did you hide in, lady?" He leans his back against the door and crosses his arms. "What's the secret game going on here?"

This last one is a valid question, one that sits on top of Dan's list of priorities too. So far, a halfway reasonable answer eludes her, though. She musters all her poise and shrugs. Three long strides bring Ric to her side where he grabs her left hand, his fingers warm on her clammy skin. In a single, ruthless motion, he turns her palm upwards while his other hand yanks back the sleeve of her pullover.

The angles of his face sharpen as his frown deepens. He studies the inside of her wrist, his grip like a vice. "I was right. You aren't even a member of Chronos. How did you make me fall for such a primitive trick?"

His dark eyes flash, and his stance reminds Dan of a venomous cobra, fixing its prey and about to strike. Absorbed by the vivid picture, she almost misses Ric's next words. "High time you tell me who you are, how you sneaked in, and why you pretend to be Sandrine's replacement."

She pulls on her wrist in a feeble attempt to free herself. The pain in her misused arm ferments her former insecurity into boiling anger. "Let go. You hurt my arm. I never pretended to be a member of your gang. It's your mistake you took me for one." She squints in an attempt to match his snake stare.

For a few moments, their eyes remain locked in a duel of wills. Lips pressed tight, Dan ignores the pain and wishes she could make her eyes send bolts of lightning. As long as he holds onto her arm, giving up is not a viable option. But Ric seems to be as stubborn as herself. After a small eternity, she has to breath. "This is awkward. A classic stalemate."

"You play chess?"

"Used to." Why do I bother answering his questions?

Fighting the urge to scream, Dan decides to change her strategy. "Listen, Ric. I've had a shit day and have no idea where I am. I only want to get back into my car, or better, my own four walls, enjoy a hot bath, and spend eight solid hours in my comfy bed." A deep, shaky breath helps to steady her voice. "Instead, I'm stranded in a stupid lab with a psycho who talks gibberish and has zero manners. Why can't you leave me alone and do your chronic yourself?"

Ric's eyes narrow. "Chronos. What do you know about it? And what's your birthday?"

"Chronos, if you insist. He is, or was, the Greek god of time." Aware the fact is as irrelevant to the current situation as the name of her cousin's pet cat, Dan almost wishes herself back to Mister Bowler's office. Why do I have to stumble into another asshole?

The stranger shows no sign of backing down. "Ric, I fail to see the connection between a mythological guy and my birthday." Another attempt to free herself heightens the pain. "Ow, that hurts! The 17th of May, next Wednesday, is my birthday."

"Not the day, the day is irrelevant. I want to know the year you were born."

"Why don't we chat about my zodiac and the maiden name of grandma?" How could I ever think the guy was attractive?

"Let me go before you break my—ouch. Eighty-one. I was born on the 17th of May in the year 1981."

Ric releases his grip without a forewarning. Taken by surprise, Dan stumbles back against a rack filled with jingling glassware. It takes her a moment to regain her balance and breath. Ric steps back and examines her, the vertical crease above his nose deepening.

Dan massages her mangled wrist, avoiding his gaze. The feeling of being scrutinised like a specimen before dissection grows uncomfortable. "Hey, stop assessing me. I'm not growing green feathers, am I? Something wrong with my birth-year?"

"The century." Dan can almost hear the suspicion in his words. "You said 1981 instead of 2081."

"Have you lost your marbles? Amongst the five things I'm sure about right now, my birthday ranks in the top three. I said 1981, and I meant it." Despite her flaring temper, Dan fights to level her voice. She's not keen to suffer his manhandling again. "Besides, you owe me an explanation. I answered more than my share of questions, and in exchange, you bruised my arm. It's my turn now. With the questions, not the bruising. I'm civilised." Is he smiling? No, must have imagined that.

The hint of Ric's lips twitching is gone before she can voice her next question. Dan loathes swearing under normal circumstances, but the occurrences of this night call for verbal ventilation. "What the effing hell do you want?"

Ric leans against a row of shelves, his hands pushed into the back pockets of his jeans. Dan fears for the complicated looking instruments lined up behind him. Despite having worked in labs for a dozen years, she cannot imagine their use. Ric runs the tip of his tongue along his lower lip and opens and closes his mouth twice before he finds words. "Give me an honest answer first." Gone is the arrogance—this new version of Ric appears to be insecure, even humble. "Were you effectively born in 1981? Can you prove it?"

"If you think I bring my birth certificate to a business meeting, you might as well believe Santa has a crush on the Easter Bunny." She shakes her head, trying to clear it in vain. "It's not my style to lie about my age, I'm an old-fashioned girl. Besides, can you name one single reason I should trust you?"

"From your point of view, I can't." He stares at the floor for a moment before he lifts his head and rolls back his left sleeve. "Have you ever seen something similar?" He shows her the inner side of his own, remarkably unblemished wrist. Fine, elegant lines form a symbol she recognises, shimmering on dark tan skin.

Dan leans forward to study the tiny silver drawing. "An hourglass? I've never seen it before, not as a tattoo of this quality. Looks pretty, especially the silver sheen."

"It's not a tattoo. Are you sure? Maybe another picture in the same style?" He pulls down his sleeve.

Dan shrugs. "Yes, I'm sure, and no, I haven't. They attributed the hourglass to the god Chronos in mediaeval times, as far as I remember."

His eyebrows rise. "Exactly. You have your history act together, kudos. Now, what about a proof for your birth-year?"

Dan sighs and sifts through her wallet, searching for her identity card, while her mind wanders back to her student days. Sometimes she wishes she would have pulled through with her first choice of subject and finished her degree in art history instead of switching to materials science. My life might be more fun, and the financial outlook couldn't be much worse.

She finds her driving licence first. "Here, my licence. It states my birthday. Happy now?"

Ric takes the offered plastic card. His frown deepens while he studies it at length. Dan suppresses a deft curse when the ceiling lights flicker into oblivion.

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