03-08-2024, 11:56 PM
(This post was last modified: 03-09-2024, 05:28 PM by xenosthelegend. Edited 1 time in total.)
Time makes fools of us all, but the biggest fools are those who choose to believe that things will stay the same. Where once I had been a simple cop in the far future, making sure that the mean streets of 3Cago were safe for the average person trying to carve out a life for themselves; now I find myself dealing with the headaches of three jobs at once.
When I had first arrived I had planned to just play in the football league and prevent the reality ending singularity of Thor Dangerson sacking Thor Bǫllrsveifla, but as happens with anyone, I somehow managed to put down roots despite my best efforts to the contrary. What had begun as a simple mission to play football and protect the universe had spiraled into a web of connections and criminality that has earned me the moniker of Windy City Detective.
In a new office in Chicago, the Windy City in this time before it was obliterated in the laser raptor invasion of 2122, I sit and look over a plethora of spreadsheets. When I had bought the slightly dingy but ultimately comfortable office at the end of last season, I had expected to just do some basic private investigator work for the city as a side hustle to fund my gambling habit. The rookies need to be mentored, the league's waivers need to processed in a timely manner, and somehow Zenzeroni has managed to lose close to half a billion dollars in gambling debt.
Alas, nothing can be done about that.
With so much information to work through and organize, and none of it as engaging and interesting as private investigator work, I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't notice the man standing my office doorway for some unknowable amount of time. A taller than average man in a navy blue pinstripe suit with red Converse sneakers and spiky brown hair. He's leaning against the door frame with a smile as if he there's a joke that he's in on that I haven't quite grasped that.
"Hello Triceracop. I'm the Doctor. And I need your help." The lanky stranger walks forward and plops himself into one of the chairs that are usually reserved for clients, rocking it back onto its back to legs and setting his feet on top of a pile of draft reports. "The multiverse is starting to fall apart, and you're the only one who can help."
"Doctor who?" I ask, glancing to the desk drawer that has a half empty bottle of whiskey, a key ring, a box of thumbtacks, and my snub nosed .38 special revolver.
"Exactly." He starts to say something, but I raise my hand to forestall him. I know his type, and I know if they get started they'll never stop talking.
With a sigh I close a folder of collected information about the latest case I had been contracted to work on, digging into a group that was trying to get the ball rolling on an ISFL expansion team in Memphis. Of all the cities to receive a team, another one in North America doesn't exactly make sense, but sometimes things happen. "I know who you are, Gallifreyan. Say your piece, and I will decide if I really need to get involved."
The Doctor makes a face as though he's upset I've robbed him of the punchline to a great joke. "Fine, fine, I'll make it quick. You're going to get a contract in the mail that you need to accept. Or, of course, you could let reality to fall apart at the seams until everything collapses in on itself forming a singularity where we all die all at once for a seeming eternity."
"A contract?" As if on the cue from some unseen conductor, a rattling comes from the mail slot on my office door and a thick orange envelope falls onto the floor. Rising from the scuffed and creaky leather chair I had secured from a Tanksgiving sale in Honolulu, I move over to the door and begin to open the envelope. The return address and seal indicate it is from, all too predictably, the International Sporting Football League head office in Toronto.
Opening it reveals a contract to become the new General Manager of the Bondi Beach Buccaneers, with a blank spot in which to name a partner as the other GM slot will also be vacant soon. My eyebrows rise progressively further as I flip through the pages of dense legalese that only the nerdiest of London Royals could even begin to comprehend. The important things are there, of course. Salary, accommodations near Emu War Memorial Stadium, the ability to run the team how I wanted...but it is also an incredible responsibility.
Being in the developmental league, Bondi Beach and teams like it are incredibly important to the ISFL ecosystem as a whole, helping to prepare raw athletes for the ultra competitive nature of the ISFL as a whole. Players moving up to the higher league tend to uncap some reserve of physical and mental ability, and I've always believed that the DSFL was a crucial part of that growth in the players.
I can feel the Time Lord's eyes on me as I look over the fine print of the contract. I had never met any of his kind in my time on the 3Cago police force, but the legends of Gallifreyan influence on the world were well worn after the laser raptor invasion and the third Great Emu War had split Australia in half. To hear some of my contacts in the military tell it, the Emu War would've gone much worse if a certain Time Lord hadn't stepped in and negotiated a peace between the belligerents.
"Doctor I must confess that I'm not sure how becoming the general manager of a football team could possibly help stop the world from falling apart." Excepting of course for the Thorpocalypse, the consequences of football games rarely have the ability to sway and distort the natural flow of events. Though, a Time Lord being present in my office leads me to believe that there more be at play here than one would initially believe.
"I'm far from a priest, no one should confess to me." The alien quips as he examines his finger nails with a kind of breezy impertinence that probably riles up despots and leave people in desperate situations confident that everything will be alright. "If you need to convinced to become the leader of the team you love, then I could show you a few possibilities of what could come to pass."
With a light toss I let the contract scatter around the vaguely organized chaos that is my working desk. "I don't dance if I don't hear music, and I won't sign a contract with just vague allusions to a horrific future that may be. If you have the ability to show me, then show me. Or leave this office."
Rather than look indignant or intimidated as a normal human might at having a massive dinosaur-human hybrid loom over them. I've pulled that same trick on dozens of hard cases through my career as a detective and a private investigator, but the Gallifreyan seems immune to intimidation tactics. Perhaps he has faced down fearsome foes of a different caliber.
"Very well, Mr. Triceracop. Allons-y!" Without any further ado, The Doctor leads the way out of the office and into the hallway where at the far end stands a blue Police Box. If I hadn't been expecting some unusual, my eyes could have just as easily slid past it as another part of the wall even though I've been coming in and out of this office for months.
It would seem that the stories of Gallifreyan technology are far from exaggerated.
Retrieving a piece of metal approximately the size of a screwdriver from his trench coat, The Doctor points it at the box's door and a blue light as well as a high pitched noise briefly emanate before the door swings open and he leads the way inside.
The interior of the box, rather than being simple wood and glass, is more like the bridge of a starship from a science fiction epic. A singular console in the middle of a multi-story ring with what looks like trees growing up into a stamped metal dome roof. Some of the technology looks familiar, such as a fluctuation modulator and what appears to be an honest to God flip cell phone.
"What is this? How is it so..."
"Bigger on the inside? Hear that a lot, dino-bobby. This here is my TARDIS! Time And Relative Dimension in Space, a localized dimension that I can pilot across time, space, and even other dimensions with enough juice. But luckily we'll just be bouncing around timelines so I can prove to you that it is in your best interest to be the new manager of the ol' Bondi Bucs!"
Seemingly invigorated by having someone to show off to, the man starts moving around the small platform around the TARDIS' central pillar, flipping levers and fiddling with dials as he goes. There isn't a discernable method to his madness, at least not that I can tell, but there is definitively a purpose to each motion. "A time machine, then? Considering I ended up naked in an alley when I time traveled, this seems like a much more elegant solution."
"Have no fear, my new Cretaceous companion, this is the only way to fly." The Time Lord turns with a dramatic flourish. "What is it pirates say again? Ah, right. Anchors away!" A last lever flips and the floor shifts dramatically as the TARDIS presumably begins to fly through the currents of space and time that snake across reality itself. "You know, people think of time as a linear progress from A to B. But it's really quite entangled when you think about it."
I nod as though I understand and attempt to give some witty rejoinder about parallel worlds theory, but before I'm able the floor goes back to a neutral position and pitches me sideways almost into one of the trees coming out of the TARDIS' central console. Before I can get my bearings, The Doctor has grabbed me by the arm and begun to pull me towards the doorway we had entered the enormous chamber through.
"Do you make a habit of taking people across time for adventures, Doctor? Or is this a special occasion?" I stop short of the door's threshold, pulling my arm back so that the Time Lord has to actually answer me before we continue on with whatever hare brained adventure he's pursuing. "I mean it. Why are you doing this? Time and cosmos are infinite, there are other worlds and timelines worth saving."
For the first time since I've met the Gallifreyan, his expression becomes serious. A tension builds in the space between us, the dissonance between an unstoppable force and an immovable object. This man has an incredible force of personality, and he is obviously used to people following along and being caught up in the thrill of adventure. But I am a detective, a professional. Someone who needs to hear the facts and context before coming to a decision.
"It is quite simple, Triceracop. I think the world will be a better place if you lead the Buccaneers. Not just for the people you interact with, the players you develop, the people who work for the organization. But the cascading nature of the human existence means those positive relationships will cascade out. Like a stone breaking the surface tension of a still lake, you leading Bondi will cause ripples that touch many people in many walks of life. So in this case, trust me."
The words have a gravity to them, not of rehearsal or great oration, but of conviction. Though I have nothing to base it on, I can tell that this Time Lord has been many places and times, done many and more things. I nod in response and gesture to the door, which he opens out onto a rooftop in Chicago that has one of the best views of the skyline.
The beautiful city of Chicago, that I have called home for most of my time drawing breath, is in flames. Thick black smoke rolls and plumes from the ruins of buildings and streets that I have seen daily in the past months. Huge banners of a red and black crocodile are held by mechanized soldiers swarming across the city wielding weapons of war that look utterly alien to me. Spewing fire and lightning as if harnessing the powers of ancient malevolent Gods to visit their wrath upon a populace that is woefully unprepared.
"What is this, Doctor? What has happened to Chicago?!" The sounds of fighting and dying float up to us from the battle raging around the somehow still standing skyscraper.
"This, Triceracop, is the world if Thomas Passarelli becomes the General Manager of the Bondi Beach Buccaneers."
When I had first arrived I had planned to just play in the football league and prevent the reality ending singularity of Thor Dangerson sacking Thor Bǫllrsveifla, but as happens with anyone, I somehow managed to put down roots despite my best efforts to the contrary. What had begun as a simple mission to play football and protect the universe had spiraled into a web of connections and criminality that has earned me the moniker of Windy City Detective.
In a new office in Chicago, the Windy City in this time before it was obliterated in the laser raptor invasion of 2122, I sit and look over a plethora of spreadsheets. When I had bought the slightly dingy but ultimately comfortable office at the end of last season, I had expected to just do some basic private investigator work for the city as a side hustle to fund my gambling habit. The rookies need to be mentored, the league's waivers need to processed in a timely manner, and somehow Zenzeroni has managed to lose close to half a billion dollars in gambling debt.
Alas, nothing can be done about that.
With so much information to work through and organize, and none of it as engaging and interesting as private investigator work, I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't notice the man standing my office doorway for some unknowable amount of time. A taller than average man in a navy blue pinstripe suit with red Converse sneakers and spiky brown hair. He's leaning against the door frame with a smile as if he there's a joke that he's in on that I haven't quite grasped that.
"Hello Triceracop. I'm the Doctor. And I need your help." The lanky stranger walks forward and plops himself into one of the chairs that are usually reserved for clients, rocking it back onto its back to legs and setting his feet on top of a pile of draft reports. "The multiverse is starting to fall apart, and you're the only one who can help."
"Doctor who?" I ask, glancing to the desk drawer that has a half empty bottle of whiskey, a key ring, a box of thumbtacks, and my snub nosed .38 special revolver.
"Exactly." He starts to say something, but I raise my hand to forestall him. I know his type, and I know if they get started they'll never stop talking.
With a sigh I close a folder of collected information about the latest case I had been contracted to work on, digging into a group that was trying to get the ball rolling on an ISFL expansion team in Memphis. Of all the cities to receive a team, another one in North America doesn't exactly make sense, but sometimes things happen. "I know who you are, Gallifreyan. Say your piece, and I will decide if I really need to get involved."
The Doctor makes a face as though he's upset I've robbed him of the punchline to a great joke. "Fine, fine, I'll make it quick. You're going to get a contract in the mail that you need to accept. Or, of course, you could let reality to fall apart at the seams until everything collapses in on itself forming a singularity where we all die all at once for a seeming eternity."
"A contract?" As if on the cue from some unseen conductor, a rattling comes from the mail slot on my office door and a thick orange envelope falls onto the floor. Rising from the scuffed and creaky leather chair I had secured from a Tanksgiving sale in Honolulu, I move over to the door and begin to open the envelope. The return address and seal indicate it is from, all too predictably, the International Sporting Football League head office in Toronto.
Opening it reveals a contract to become the new General Manager of the Bondi Beach Buccaneers, with a blank spot in which to name a partner as the other GM slot will also be vacant soon. My eyebrows rise progressively further as I flip through the pages of dense legalese that only the nerdiest of London Royals could even begin to comprehend. The important things are there, of course. Salary, accommodations near Emu War Memorial Stadium, the ability to run the team how I wanted...but it is also an incredible responsibility.
Being in the developmental league, Bondi Beach and teams like it are incredibly important to the ISFL ecosystem as a whole, helping to prepare raw athletes for the ultra competitive nature of the ISFL as a whole. Players moving up to the higher league tend to uncap some reserve of physical and mental ability, and I've always believed that the DSFL was a crucial part of that growth in the players.
I can feel the Time Lord's eyes on me as I look over the fine print of the contract. I had never met any of his kind in my time on the 3Cago police force, but the legends of Gallifreyan influence on the world were well worn after the laser raptor invasion and the third Great Emu War had split Australia in half. To hear some of my contacts in the military tell it, the Emu War would've gone much worse if a certain Time Lord hadn't stepped in and negotiated a peace between the belligerents.
"Doctor I must confess that I'm not sure how becoming the general manager of a football team could possibly help stop the world from falling apart." Excepting of course for the Thorpocalypse, the consequences of football games rarely have the ability to sway and distort the natural flow of events. Though, a Time Lord being present in my office leads me to believe that there more be at play here than one would initially believe.
"I'm far from a priest, no one should confess to me." The alien quips as he examines his finger nails with a kind of breezy impertinence that probably riles up despots and leave people in desperate situations confident that everything will be alright. "If you need to convinced to become the leader of the team you love, then I could show you a few possibilities of what could come to pass."
With a light toss I let the contract scatter around the vaguely organized chaos that is my working desk. "I don't dance if I don't hear music, and I won't sign a contract with just vague allusions to a horrific future that may be. If you have the ability to show me, then show me. Or leave this office."
Rather than look indignant or intimidated as a normal human might at having a massive dinosaur-human hybrid loom over them. I've pulled that same trick on dozens of hard cases through my career as a detective and a private investigator, but the Gallifreyan seems immune to intimidation tactics. Perhaps he has faced down fearsome foes of a different caliber.
"Very well, Mr. Triceracop. Allons-y!" Without any further ado, The Doctor leads the way out of the office and into the hallway where at the far end stands a blue Police Box. If I hadn't been expecting some unusual, my eyes could have just as easily slid past it as another part of the wall even though I've been coming in and out of this office for months.
It would seem that the stories of Gallifreyan technology are far from exaggerated.
Retrieving a piece of metal approximately the size of a screwdriver from his trench coat, The Doctor points it at the box's door and a blue light as well as a high pitched noise briefly emanate before the door swings open and he leads the way inside.
The interior of the box, rather than being simple wood and glass, is more like the bridge of a starship from a science fiction epic. A singular console in the middle of a multi-story ring with what looks like trees growing up into a stamped metal dome roof. Some of the technology looks familiar, such as a fluctuation modulator and what appears to be an honest to God flip cell phone.
"What is this? How is it so..."
"Bigger on the inside? Hear that a lot, dino-bobby. This here is my TARDIS! Time And Relative Dimension in Space, a localized dimension that I can pilot across time, space, and even other dimensions with enough juice. But luckily we'll just be bouncing around timelines so I can prove to you that it is in your best interest to be the new manager of the ol' Bondi Bucs!"
Seemingly invigorated by having someone to show off to, the man starts moving around the small platform around the TARDIS' central pillar, flipping levers and fiddling with dials as he goes. There isn't a discernable method to his madness, at least not that I can tell, but there is definitively a purpose to each motion. "A time machine, then? Considering I ended up naked in an alley when I time traveled, this seems like a much more elegant solution."
"Have no fear, my new Cretaceous companion, this is the only way to fly." The Time Lord turns with a dramatic flourish. "What is it pirates say again? Ah, right. Anchors away!" A last lever flips and the floor shifts dramatically as the TARDIS presumably begins to fly through the currents of space and time that snake across reality itself. "You know, people think of time as a linear progress from A to B. But it's really quite entangled when you think about it."
I nod as though I understand and attempt to give some witty rejoinder about parallel worlds theory, but before I'm able the floor goes back to a neutral position and pitches me sideways almost into one of the trees coming out of the TARDIS' central console. Before I can get my bearings, The Doctor has grabbed me by the arm and begun to pull me towards the doorway we had entered the enormous chamber through.
"Do you make a habit of taking people across time for adventures, Doctor? Or is this a special occasion?" I stop short of the door's threshold, pulling my arm back so that the Time Lord has to actually answer me before we continue on with whatever hare brained adventure he's pursuing. "I mean it. Why are you doing this? Time and cosmos are infinite, there are other worlds and timelines worth saving."
For the first time since I've met the Gallifreyan, his expression becomes serious. A tension builds in the space between us, the dissonance between an unstoppable force and an immovable object. This man has an incredible force of personality, and he is obviously used to people following along and being caught up in the thrill of adventure. But I am a detective, a professional. Someone who needs to hear the facts and context before coming to a decision.
"It is quite simple, Triceracop. I think the world will be a better place if you lead the Buccaneers. Not just for the people you interact with, the players you develop, the people who work for the organization. But the cascading nature of the human existence means those positive relationships will cascade out. Like a stone breaking the surface tension of a still lake, you leading Bondi will cause ripples that touch many people in many walks of life. So in this case, trust me."
The words have a gravity to them, not of rehearsal or great oration, but of conviction. Though I have nothing to base it on, I can tell that this Time Lord has been many places and times, done many and more things. I nod in response and gesture to the door, which he opens out onto a rooftop in Chicago that has one of the best views of the skyline.
The beautiful city of Chicago, that I have called home for most of my time drawing breath, is in flames. Thick black smoke rolls and plumes from the ruins of buildings and streets that I have seen daily in the past months. Huge banners of a red and black crocodile are held by mechanized soldiers swarming across the city wielding weapons of war that look utterly alien to me. Spewing fire and lightning as if harnessing the powers of ancient malevolent Gods to visit their wrath upon a populace that is woefully unprepared.
"What is this, Doctor? What has happened to Chicago?!" The sounds of fighting and dying float up to us from the battle raging around the somehow still standing skyscraper.
"This, Triceracop, is the world if Thomas Passarelli becomes the General Manager of the Bondi Beach Buccaneers."