It was a regular Tuesday. Main Street was bustling with its share of morning traffic and baffled tourists. The stores headlining the street were busy with customers and the gigantic digital billboards were blaring with obnoxious advertisements and announcements.
In all this bustling heat, a man in a black trench coat coupled with a stuffy hat, quietly rushed through the streets while ignoring the confused crowd who momentarily stopped to look at him for his odd dressing choice during this summer. The man breezed through the crowd completely oblivious of those stares, before finding a small corner turn and disappearing into the alleyway. Those bystanders who had paused to stare at the man now held confused expressions coupled with the mild anxiety of feeling like they just forgot something. Soon after, the fact that this odd man had turned up on the street was like a drop of water falling into the lake. It was like the incident had never occurred at all.
The man impatiently found the door to a small store within this alleyway, which was surprisingly clean for how narrowly it straddled between two rather dirty buildings. Any rather curious observer would immediately notice the oddity of this small lane, where a metal placard hung by the wall - with the name "Turncoat Alley" emblazoned in a stylish brown font.
The man navigated into the small store, which chimed a welcome bell the moment he opened the door. It was a tiny antique store filled with all kinds of cheap metallic trinkets. Mostly clocks and bells of some kinds. The entire store beat in an esoteric rhythm of noises that would make an ordinary person dizzy. However, the most curious part about this store was not this oblique rhythm that thumped according to a visitor's heartbeat, but the fact that the store had no owner or registration. The man passed a contrite gaze towards the storekeeper's empty chair, shook his head in irritation and made his way to the backdoor of the shop without invitation or permission.
His gaze was steady, suggesting any lack of remorse for this breach of privacy of the store. It was like this was a regular matter for the man, a habitual behavioral pattern that was ingrained by the regularities of his job. He sighed in a long breath before rotating the old sweaty brass knob of the backdoor and pulling back the door.
Behind the door, was an entirely different world. The ancient pawn shop aesthetic suddenly gave away to a long, wide and straight corridor of regal looking, red brick layered walls. The floor was layered in obsidian black granite polished to complete perfection. The man walked into this new environment as the sound of the door behind him shutting, but anyone who would be theoretically gazing at the man would see the door behind him disappear in a black vortex that shrunk away like an evaporating black hole. The man struggled to maintain steady ground as a momentary pang of dizziness overtook him, but habit allowed him to gain back control and steady himself.
The man walked through the long corridor, his black shows making regularized tapping sounds over the granite. After what felt like an eternity, the brick walled corridor blended away and a gigantic hall appeared in its place. The silence of the corridor had faded away as well and was replaced by the return of the sights and sounds of a crowd. Only this crowd appeared to be remarkably different in its appearance and behavior to the one on Main Street.
The man in the trench coat ignored a kid crying and panicking that her hand was suddenly aflame. He was an agoraphobic man who hated crowds. His immediate craving was to get back into his office as fast as possible. However, even for such a curious man, dreams are only meant to remain dreams. A voice soon called out to the man. That of his coworker, a lady in a suave office suit staring at the man with slight disdain and pity.
"Trevor, you look more like shit with each passing day." The lady shook her head. "Well, at least you are on time today."
"Morning Wynn. You're acerbic as usual." Trevor nodded, as the two of them made their way to one of the giant elevators which were facilitating a stream of crowds both entering and leaving.
The both of them got out of the elevator at the fifth level under the ground. The department of anomalies. The place looked less like a fantastical department and more like a bureaucratic police station. Both Trevor and Wynn flashed their badges at the door and were promptly admitted in when the red lights turned green.
The moment they walked in, however, they encountered an old man who was balding from the center of his head. "Morning, Wynn, Trevor. Can you take off that trench coat please? You are making me sweaty just looking at you."
Trevor shrugged. "You know the quirks of my darkness ability, old Bull. I can't stand the goddamned sun."
Old Bull shrugged back in response. "You two came in at the right time. The kid you guys detained yesterday? We need someone to give him a little initiation."
Wynn groaned. "Not again! I didn't sign up for this shit old man."
Trevor nodded in response. "I'm tired of trying to explain to new manifestations that they aren't the chosen ones. However, regardless of their misgivings about the matter, fifteen minutes later the duo were sitting in an isolated room, coffees in hand and staring at the boy who looked at them with an arrogant gaze. The two looked at each other and sighed.
Growing up in the naïve outside world, individuals who manifest abilities would often be influenced by the media they consumed and grew up on. They started to act like vigilantes or start misusing their abilities. The problem was even more acute when the manifestation occurred in kids. The awakened ability was often accompanied by an excessive dose of narcissism. These types were the most likely anomaly offenders who threatened to break the thin balance between the naïve outer society and the hidden inner one. It was the job of people like Trevor and Wynn to address individuals as the kid sitting in front of them, in cuffs.