Deep within the Experimental Wing of the CIA's Headquarters in New, New York City, alarms blared and smoke bellowed out of a room marked, "Operation To Break Time". Scientists coughed and wheezed as they clambered out of the room as fire crews extinguished the fires. Once the fires had been fully put out, CIA Director Gresson made his way into the room. His freshly starched black suit with a red tie was something impressive. However, much to the blonde-haired man's surprise, the room wasn't empty. Standing, but hunched over in the center of the steaming, metal ring was someone. He had on a tan fedora, a faded tan trench coat, and a milk chocolate skin complexion that seemed to cut through the hazy room.
As Director Gresson made his way over, he called out to the man. "Hey, are you alright? Where's your badge?"
The man looked up at him and slapped a leather badge holder on his chest. "I'm about to have an Ing-Bing if someone doesn't open a window in here. Someone will mistake me for a sorry lunger if not."
Director Gresson looked down at the badge as medical teams rushed in and helped the man out of the room. He immediately chased after them and had them blindfold him. Once they were gone, the project chief waltzed over. "The hell's with the blindfold?" asked the chief. Director Gresson looked up and had the project chief follow him. "The fuck was that project?" He asked sternly as they walked.
"Well, we were attempting to splice into space-time. Why do you?" The Director opened the brown leather badge holder. "That guy's Badge reads, Private Eye Flat Flanagan, New York City, New York."
"So he'd an employee cosplaying. Nothing to be concerned about." The Project Chief said in an uncaring manner. "Right... EXCEPT THE BADGE IS STAMPED NEW YORK CITY POLICING COMMISSION, 1921."
The Project Chief looked at the badge thoroughly. He kept muttering the words "no, no, no" over and over again as they punched his name into the database. After a moment a file popped up, and the two read over it. "Name: Flat Flanagan, occupation: NYC Private pre and post WW1. Born 1892, Death- Unknown."
"Unknown? Click the redacted file." Said the Project Chief. As the Director opened it, it read, "Private Eye Flanagan was working a case when he seemingly vanished off of the face of the planet. Investigators searched for years but found nothing. The case went cold and was closed, ruled a mafia-related kidnapping and death."
The Director took off his glass and placed his face in his hands. "Now I have to explain how a 1920s private eye ended up in the 21st Century, an entire wing of the building is completely unusable... all during the most turbulent election of the FUCKING YEAR!!"
"Well look on the bright side, sir."
"A bright side? In all of this? I don't see it, Alverson."
"Look at his record. This, uh, gumshoe, yeah! This gumshoe busted up more mafia gangs solo than the entire CIA. Right now, the leading candidate for the Lib-US Party is known to have some kind of mafia/gang ties. Why not use what has been dropped into our laps?"
"Alve, he's from the 1920s. He sticks out like a sore thumb and has never seen a computer let alone a smartphone. How is he gonna help us?"
"Think of it boss, this guy knows how to follow trails, leads not from the internet. Just good old-fashioned looking for clues on foot, hitting the roads, and getting dirty! Face it, we haven't found a fucking clue in the three years of us looking for one. This private eye is exactly what we have been missing."
The Director sighed and got up. "I'll smooth it over with the Brass in D.C. but don't expect me to cover for your ass."
The Director went into his office and called over to Washington D.C. In the meanwhile, the Alverson went to check up on their new friend.
"Yo, they are treating you well... Uh.."
"Flat Flanagan, Private Eye. The best there is this in New York City. I've been telling these flat tires I'm working a case. I have a huge lead on a Patsy but these bruno-guards haven't budged! I gotta canary that's got a song to sing! Is there any way you can speed this process up?"
"Once Director Gresson gets here, he'll tell you everything and see if we can't get shit straightened out."
"You kiss your mouth with that mouth? Goodness man."
Alverson laughed along with the nurses as Gresson arrived. "Nurse, how's our patient?"
"All of his vitals check out, nothing seems to be wrong with him."
"It's like I told the dame, I feel like the cat's pajamas. Now will someone explain to me what in the world is going on in this looney bin?"
"Of course. Please, follow me." Said Director Gresson. Flat grabbed his trench coat and hat and followed the Director.
"I never did catch your name." Said Flat as they stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed, the Director turned to look at him. "I'm Director Alex Gresson of the Central Intelligence Agency." He extended his hand and the two shook hands. "It's a shame I gotta dust out on ya, but it's a pleasure to meet you!"
Director Gresson let out a soft sigh as the elevator arrived at the preselected floor. As the doors opened, the two walked out onto the roof.
"Woah now, why are we on the roof?" Asked Flat, turning back to Director Gresson. Gresson looked into the Gumshoe's soft, gray eyes. Gresson sighed and stepped onto the roof.
"I'm not sure how to tell you this, Mr. Flanagan..."
"Just, call me Flat, please. Now spit it out, you're making me pill over here."
Gresson walked to the fenced portion of the roof and nodded his head motioning to the city. "Flat, this isn't the year 1921. This is 2091, some of our scientists were trying an experiment, and as a result... you got sucked into our time."
"See, now I know you're razzing me. C'mon, who put you up to this? Was it Mickey? Or was those Edson Brothers?"
"Flat... I'm not "razzing you", as you said. I'm serious." Said Gresson as he pulled out his smartphone. Flat watched as a holographic keyboard appeared from it. Frantically, his gray eyes scanned the skyline of the city, listening to the sounds, and watching the people below driving strange-looking automobiles. He backed away from the edge and fell on his butt. The Private Eye stared straight ahead as Gresson sat down beside him.
"I... What..." Flat couldn't even process the information. The world he'd known was gone, replaced by this strange one... "Can't you send me back?"
Gresson shook his head. "No, my bosses ordered the project never be reopened. I'm sorry, Flat."
"Then what am I gonna do? I can't... Christ I could throw a joe, right about now."
"Throw a joe?" Asked the Director curiously. Flat sighed as he found his cigarette case empty.
"Means I could pass out." Said Flat as Gresson handed him a cigarette.
"Well, I suppose I should tell you, the top brass has ordered me to set you up with the equivalent amount of cash you had back in the bank you used and help you pick out a place to live."
"Yeah? How many clams are we talking about?"
"About $100,000 worth according to our records."
"That's a lot of Century clams." Flat grabbed his Fedora and stood up. "What about work?"
"Well, I am to offer you a job with us, the CIA, I mean."
Flat's curly hair waved slightly in the breeze. "Let me, uh, let me flop on it. Sleep on it, I mean.
"Sure, I'll have one of our agents take you to your hotel." Gresson pressed the elevator call button, then looked back at Flat. "Not put additional pressure on it, but we could really use someone like you. Someone with your skills."
Flat smiled and stepped into the elevator. "Then when do I start?"