Breaking Change
Officer Stukel expected a building of illegal activity to be so inconspicuous that her shouts could break the silence within it. She was expecting a dramatic entry, where the light would be just bright enough to bounce off her shiny FBI badge and shock the eyes of any civilians. Entering the Durbin Residence Hall would be the highlight of her week.
Over the past several months, Stukel had tracked a collection of counterfeit currency to a boarding high school in North Texas. Her best guess was that some liberal anarchist teacher had decided to take advantage of the school supplies by night, leaving a horribly easy trail to track. She planned to come late at night to invoke less of a stir, but nevertheless, she came dressed with the awareness that this could easily become a poor reenactment of a scene from Breaking Bad. Thus, it would be important for her to scan the perimeter and enter swiftly.
This awareness is why Stukel second-guessed her watch when her car pulled up; was it really 1 am? Nearly all of the windows were still allowing strips of light to peep through their blinds. She could almost feel the damp heat emanating from the buildings’ activity: a dance party on the third floor, a steaming rice cooker on the second. The stench of sweat made her heart rate creep up as she placed her fingers on the door handle.
If an officer slams a door open to make a dramatic entrance and no one notices, did she ever really enter? Stukel scratched the back of her ear and watched the teenage activity buzz around her. The overwhelming stench of msg from a ramen cup echoed from her left and brought back unappetizing memories of her early 20s. A computer lab to her right remained rife with the sounds of a videogame showdown, with the clicking of controllers replacing any indicators of human dialogue. Stukel had no choice but to stand there in the milieu, wishing that at least one of these children would be ready to cower, spill, and let her start her job.
The closest thing to an adult Stukel seemed to find at such an hour was an overworked undergraduate working front desk. A stack of books took responsibility for her panda eyes as she mindlessly tapped a screen. “Excuse me, ma’am,” Stukel decided to make a polite impression.
“If you’re here about the fire alarm, a kid just forgot to put water in the Maruchan again. We’re fine.” Panda-eyes barely snatched a glance at Stukel’s shiny insignia before returning to her screen’s demands.
“Ma’am, I’m officer Stukel with the FBI. Do you mind if I take a look around the building?” THIS seemed to perk the panda eyes up, or maybe it angered her.
“What did you idiots do this time?” Her voice crescendoed towards a group of boys who were screwing away at a robot arm on an adjacent bench.
“This one won’t explode anymore, we promise!” A tall and thin boy approached the desk; he looked confused as to where his arms should go now that they weren’t cradling an android. The wisp of smoke trailing his sneakers made Stukel doubt that the robot wasn’t a fire hazard.
He immediately whisked his hand out to Stukel’s and shook it enthusiastically. “Hiya, name’s Aditya. I know there was a concern that our last prototype could be used as a weapon, but I promise that this one is completely safe!” His sinusoidal handshake seemed to go on forever as Stukel struggled to gain her bearings. Why wasn’t any of this information on the Internet? Even so, the steaming robot seemed serendipitous; it could prove a discrete way to investigate. Especially if this underpaid undergrad could be the counterfeiter after all; she wouldn’t want to give herself away.
Stukel straightened up, trying to fight off her mounting sense of disorientation. “Yes sir, I’m afraid I will have to search uh.. your … closet.”
“You mean the robotics closet? It’s normally locked at night” Equipment and isolation.
“Uh… yes.” Stukel’s nodding head nearly detached from its body. Panda-eyes fumbled for a key and sent the officer with Aditya as her guide. At this point, Stukel began to rev herself up again, hoping to become alert enough in the case of a dramatic exchange. Aditya’s confused glance at her badge-fingering assured her that she was being way too obvious.
Aditya tapped the door open, allowing a pierce of unnatural 1 am light to flash on a sticky greenish Lincoln drying over scratchy carpet. The light expanded, peering into a platoon of Washingtons and even a small minority of Jeffersons. To Stukel’s confusion, it seemed that Benjamin Franklin was not invited to this party.
“Simon, what are you doing here?” Stukel’s heart raced as she punched the lightbulb to identify her potential assailant. In front of her sat an even younger boy, entrenched in focus; he couldn’t have been over sixteen. Behind him, a Leviathan printer made low spats as it dispensed more sheets of Washingtons like watermelon seeds. Aditya’s voice was enough to make the kid glance up to Stukel’s burly frame, her snug blue uniform, and her shiny badge. His eyes widened in apprehension, but his body stayed absolutely still; it seemed to know there was nowhere to go.
Stukel didn’t bother with handcuffs.
