Crum turned down a narrow side street, full of small, artisan shops, shuttered for the night. About halfway down the street the faint glow of a neon sign illuminated the shadows of a set of basement steps. As Crum approached close enough to make out the familiar looped lettering of the name, Krono’s, the bar’s door opened, belching out a brace of giggling young women, a tall man in a tweed coat, and a waft of electro-punk music with classical undertones.

The man in the tweed coat turned up his collar, as though against a nonexistent wind, while the women were dressed for a hot summer evening, in strappy dresses and sandals. The man nodded to Crum briefly, while the women glid past his as though he did not exist. 

No surprise there, Crum huffed and pulled the door open, breathing in the familiar scents of beer, coffee, bacon, and body odour. He paused, frowning, detecting an unaccustomed metallic, citrus scent that reminded Crum of the sensation of a 9-volt battery on the tongue.  

He shrugged off the sensation that something was off, and made a beeline for the bar, where his drink was waiting. 

“Crum,” the bartender nodded, accepting payment. His usual jovial smile was replaced with a tight-lipped acknowledgement.

Assuming the kid was having a bad day, Crum took his drink and made his way to a booth at the back of the room. He had always appreciated the way the bartenders at Krono’s all seemed to have an uncanny ability to know their patrons’ orders before they ever reached the bar. It went beyond simply memorising the patrons and their drinks orders. Crum didn’t have a regular drink, preferring to switch things up and try new tastes as the mood took him, yet they always seemed to know exactly what he was in the mood for and surprise him with something new and well suited to his tastes. He’d never been anything but delighted by it, yet tonight, he felt a pang of unease as he swigged at a deep, malty beer that seemed to offer comfort and grounding. Just what he needed. But how did they know that?

He plonked his beer on the table and dropped onto the bench, pulled out the booklet, and thumbed at it again. Before reading, he glanced around the bar, taking it in fully. How many times had he come here to unwind? Easily over a hundred. And yet, he had never noticed how ged and rustic the wallpaper looked. He could have sworn it was more an eighties retro vibe, geometric shapes in black, white, and primary colours. Hadn’t the clock been a giant faced monstrosity, with cheap pleather strap hung on the wall at jaunty angles? Now it looked more like the kind you’d find at a bus or train station. Maybe they had added the straps to go with the decor, and removed them when they changed the theme to this vintage setting. The dartboard was gone, too, replaced by an antique mirror, complete with rust spots in the corners. 

All in all, the effect wasn’t bad. Crum just wasn’t sure he would have gone to the trouble of aging the wallpaper and peeling some of the edges like that. Someone who wasn’t familiar with the place might just assume the place hadn’t been redecorated since Victorian times.

Sighing, Crum turned his attention back to the booklet, reading the introduction:


The New Recruit’s Guide to Time Travel in a Fluxive Universe

Introduction: Forget What You Think You Know.

Welcome, new recruit!

First of all, welcome to The Celestial Order of Temporal & Dimensional Retrieval & Enforcement (C.O.T.D.R.E.) and congratulations on your appointment as TIME Sensitive to the Chronological Agency for Neutralizing Anomalies Strategic Services (C.A.N.A.S.S.) Bureau of Retroactive Yield & Bounty Operation Nexus (B.R.Y.B.O.N.) Division for the Galactic Alliance Network Governing Temporal Operations within Omnidimensional Realms and Spectrum Hierarchies of Human Epoch & Milky-way Nexus (G.A.N.G.T.O.R.S.H.H.E.M.N.)  

You are now advised to discard your textbooks and unlearn any jargon you may have picked up from your high-school physics class. You may be familiar with Newton’s laws, thermodynamics, quantum string theory, and other established “laws” common in your temporodimensional region. However, comforting as these theories may be, they will not assist you in your C.O.T.D.R.E. C.A.N.A.S.S. B.R.Y.B.O.N. G.A.N.G.T.O.R.S.H.H.E.M.N. (CoCanBryGang) duties.

In fact, it is of the utmost importance that you disregard such theories. C.O.T.D.R.E. and its subsidiaries cannot be held liable for any temporodimensionsl discombobulation you may encounter in the pursuit of CoCanBryGang activities if you rely on such childish half-baked notions. Those are the crayons and doodles of the cosmic canvas; we’re painting with the real stuff here.

As a TIME Sensitive, you may already have noticed chronatological anomalies in your environs. You may have experienced strong sensations of “Deja-vu,” premonitions, and suffered bouts of intense regret and mourning over relatively minor incidents. You will be please to know that these skills will assist you enormously in your CoCanBryGang duties.

As you enter basic training, it is important to bear in mind that you should not rely on what you thought were immutable laws of physics. You may experience a period of disorientation as you begin to understand that things that you have been led to believe are universal constants, such as gravity, are in fact more localised and variable than you had hitherto imagined.

In fact, you will soon come to realise that the term “constant” is itself a variable, and that death and taxes, far from being inevitable are in fact entirely avoidable and unwelcome consequences of reality undergoing gargantuan haphazard twists. The only thing that is inevitable are the consequences for you as a CoCanBryGang agent should you be responsible for such gargantuan haphazard twists, since you are expected to follow the rules in this handbook and avoid at all costs any discombobulation of any chronotemporal dimensions not in line with then current and applicable CoCanBryGang policies, which cannot by definition cause gargantuan haphazard twists.

You are advised to read this handbook in its entirety before reporting for orientation, since failure to do so will not constitute a defence should you face disciplinary action as a result of improper application of then current and applicable policies.

In it, you will learn the basics of intergalactic transdimensional chronotemporal recombobulation, what to do in the event of reality undergoing gargantuan haphazard twists, how to avoid causing such gargantuan haphazard twists, and your role and responsibilities as a TIME Sensitive in the CoCanBryGang.

When you have read and fully understood this handbook, you should use your issued disrec card to report to orientation. Please note that should you lose or misplace your disrec card, you will face disciplinary action as a result, and may be reassigned to temporal janitorial duties in Prehistoric Siberia, and the cost of a replacement deducted from your salary. 


“What the?” Crum stared at the page. This nonsense gave even military bureaucracy a run for its money. Time sensitive? Chronatological anomalies? Disrec card? Crum pulled the business card out of his pocket and examined it, flipping it over repeatedly. The wire frame lotus flower appeared to be embossed in some kind of light refractive, prismatic ink. The phrase “To alter the past, embrace the present” was a much cheaper print, almost as though it had been run through a photocopier. None of which gave Crum any indication of what a disrec was, and what he was supposed to do with it. Or when he had become an employee of the stupendously self-important alphabet soup amalgamation of insanity that could unironically refer to itself as the CoCanBryGang.

A soft chuckle coming from the bench opposite him in the booth pulled Crum out of his thoughts. He looked up to see a woman with one of those familiar faces you just couldn’t place leaning back on the chair, smiling at him. A cascade of raven-black curls framed a delicate heart-shaped porcelain face, wine-red pouty lips, and high cheekbones. Pretty, if you liked China dolls. A black lace collar encircled her neck, ruched sleeves above a corseted bodice, with a modest panel of some flimsy material drawing attention to the parts it ostensibly aimed to hide. She would have fit right in anywhere from a wild west saloon to a Victorian vicar’s tea party, or from a medieval tavern to burlesque cabaret.

“Did you get to the part about not causing a ruckus yet?” she asked, her deep, knowing eyes filled with a glint of mischief.

“You mean the bit about reality undergoing gargantuan haphazard twists?” Crum said with a laugh.

“What?” the woman leaned forward, motioning from Crum to pass him the booklet.

Crum hesitated, trying to remember if he had seen any mention of its contents being top secret or sensitive information. But since the woman seemed to know more about it than him, and he didn’t recall any such warning, he handed it over.

The woman quickly scanned the page, pausing to read the phrase in question, before slapping the booklet against her thigh.

“Botheration,” she exclaimed, “They’ve changed it again. Last week it was Reality Undergoing Chronatological Unexplained Sprains. Ruckus. Now it’s Gargantuan Haphazard Twists. Rught. Doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it? Someone must have really dropped the ball. Still,” she smiled brightly, it wasn’t me and it can’t have been you, since you haven’t embraced the present, as it were, yet. So, you might as well buy a girl a drink and start a conversation.”

“I’m sorry,” Crum said, motioning to the bar for the bartender to bring the lady a drink. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Who, me?” She said in a fake innocent voice. “I just have one of those face, you know?”

“Riiight,” Crum said, a niggling suspicion scratching at the base of his skull.

“Elara,” she stuck a delicate hand out across the table, then leaned in behind it as he lightly touched her fingertips, “pleased to make your acquaintance.” She laugh-snorted, clearly finding this far more amusing than Crum could see any reason to.

The bartender placed her drink on the table, a fruit-laden concoction with a kitsch umbrella in it.

“Oh, thank you kindly,” she said, taking a ling sip through a plastic straw that half emptied the glass. “Hoof, I needed that. Any hoo, I just wanted to drop in and give you a heads up ith this thing.”

She slapped the booklet back on the table, “Don’t bother reading the whole thing, it’ll just fry your mind, and slow you down, and if we’re up to Rught from Rucus in one week, we don’t have that kind of time. Just read the disciplinary chapter, and make sure you use the Colophon, then embrace the present, and get your butt to orientation asap, soldier.” She slurped the other half of her drink and hoisted herself to her feet. “Oh, and one more thing. If you value your life, give your apartment a wide berth until at least ooh, two in the am.”

“Why?” Crum asked, latching on to a part of the conversation he felt on safe ground with.

“Oh, trust me. Any earlier, and you’re pet food. Every time.”

Crum nodded. The petfood part he understood. “Gotcha.”

“Good man,” she slapped him absently on the shoulder, already mentally somewhere else. “Toodle pip, then. See you in a week or so, or never.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Crum answered automatically, then wondered why, as he watched Elara sashay through the bar and out into the night.

Crum returned his focus to the booklet. He was surprised a few moments later when the bartender placed a cup of black coffee in front of him.

“I don’t…” he began.

“You do tonight,” the barkeep said, in a flat, almost hostile tone. “Time her is fluid. If you’re entering the flow, beware the currents. And may Kronos keep you in his sight. Now drink that and be on your way.”

Crum looked at his watch, Half past twelve. He had ninety minutes to kill, and nowhere to be.