WooFDriver

As much as Mr. Reciprocity doesn’t want to admit it, his brother is correct. Clues will help them get back home, and this paper is most certainly a clue.

It’s completely white and very modern looking. A picture has been printed out on it, but the image is fractured and difficult to make out. The colors are mostly monochrome. There’s a single line of text beneath it.

Mr. Reciprocity squints at it. “My vision’s too poor, brother. Can you tell what that says?”

Mr. Protection squints, too. After a moment, he announces, “I believe I can, brother. I believe this here piece of paper is telling us that we’re in the same time as Old George.”

“Washington?”

“The one and only,” answers Mr. Protection. He plants a clawed paw on the piece of paper. “That’s what this is talking about. And that means we have a list of right suspects!”

“Missing pets,” corrects Mr. Reciprocity. And then, “but you’re right, brother. Old George had a right slew of pets, but it’s a smaller slew than every pet.”

“We can cross out the horses,” says Mr. Protection. “On account’a that collar we found.”

Mr. Reciprocity nods. “Cross out the parrot, too.”

“And the donkey! A shame, Royal Gift’s a right sweet thing.”

“We aren’t here for sweet things,” says Mr. Reciprocity. He shakes himself off, crawling out from under the desk. It doesn’t look like the room’s changed at all. “We’re here for work. Now, brother, who does that leave?”

“The foxhounds,” says Mr. Protection, following his brother back into the room proper. “Sweetlips, Scentwell, and Vulcan.”

Mr. Reciprocity nods. He starts the very long trek towards the door. “Leaves the coonhounds, too. Four of them, aren’t there?”

Mr. Protection lists off, “Drunkard, Taster, Tipler, and Tipsy!”

“And then it’s just Cornwallis,” says Mr. Reciprocity. He makes it three steps before freezing. The two opossum brothers come to the same answer at the same time.

Together, they exclaim, “Cornwallis!”

Mr. Reciprocity shakes his head, hard. “It can’t be!”

But Mr. Protection is already waddling, fast as he can, towards the door. “Leather collar, and we should’ve known! Hurry, brother! We haven’t a moment left to lose on resting! Not if it’s Cornwallis at stake! Without him, oh, what a mess! What a mess!”

Mr. Reciprocity hurries too, because he knows his brother is right.

Cornwallis is one of the founding members of the Presidential Pets.

Without him around, who knows what will happen? And so they rush, rush, rush across the room. This time, when they get to the door, Mr. Reciprocity loudly demands, “you take us to Cornwallis.”

There’s no verbal answer, of course, because it’s just a door.

Still, when they squeeze through to the other side, it’s finally, finally taken them somewhere different.

 

Katelynn E Koontz – Author

Mr. Reciprocity is tired. In fact, he’s very tired.

It’s not a natural sort of feeling. It’s the sort of exhaustion that comes on fast and sudden, threatening to swamp his very existence. His ears droop. Then his steps start to slow.

Mr. Protection gives him a worried look. “Are you okay, brother?”

“Fine, fine.” Mr. Reciprocity makes a dismissive sound. “I think that I’m a might too old for jobs like this.”

Mr. Protection nods. “I feel the same way. But look! We’ve made it to the door! And it’s open!”

“That it is,” says Mr. Reciprocity, relieved. Eagerly, the two opossum’s squeeze through the slightly ajar door and into the next room.

It slams shut behind them.

Mr. Reciprocity growls and stomps his paws. “What in tarnation is this?”

They’re back in the room-hall. It looks exactly the same.

Mr. Protection gives a world weary sigh. “I suppose we keep walking, brother.”

Twice, they go through the door only to be brought back into the same room.

By the time they enter the room-hall for a third trip, Mr. Reciprocity is so exhausted that his bones are burning. “That’s it,” he announces, catching his brother’s attention. “I need to rest.”

Mr. Protection doesn’t argue. Instead, he leads the way over to the desk. There are piles and piles of paperwork on it. The pages spill over the edge, onto the floor.

“Help me pile these up, brother.” Mr. Protection starts using tooth and claw to scrape the pages into a large pile. “We’ll make up a bed right quick, and then go figure out what’s causing all of this madness.”

Together, the two opossum brothers pull the loose papers into a pile. They waddle and twist and scramble their way into it, uncoordinated but determined. With a sigh, Mr. Reciprocity rests his head on the papers. “Thank you, brother.”

Mr. Protection hums. “Never a problem, brother.”

They rest for what seems like hours, but Mr. Reciprocity never feels any better. Eventually, restless, Mr. Protection begins to look over the pages they are laying on. While most of them appear to have been taken from the White House staff, there’s one paper that’s been pulled from the newspaper instead.

Not wanting to mess it up, Mr. Protection uses his nose to push it from the pile. “Look, brother. This isn’t like the others. Maybe it’s a clue?”

“Clues won’t help us get out of this room,” says Mr. Reciprocity, without looking. “And they won’t make me any less tired, brother.”

Mr. Protection gives his brother a weird look. “That is the truth, brother. But they’ll help us get back home, and getting back home will make everything alright again.”

 

Katelynn E Koontz – Author

The problem with small starts, of course, is that they make it difficult to find a larger start. Mr. Reciprocity doesn’t say as much, but he’s really hoping to find something that might point them in a better direction. The amount of Presidential Pets who wear collars is absolutely staggering.

His brother doesn’t seem very concerned, though. Even as they walk through the twisted, broken, and seemingly endless halls, Mr. Protection never breaks stride. His ears never flick back. He pauses, eventually, outside of a very large, closed door. “This is it.”

“What’s it, brother?” Mr. Reciprocity stops beside Mr. Protection.

Mr. Protection says, “this door. We need in this room. I’m sure of that like I’ve never been sure of anything.”

“A feeling?”

“A strong feeling.”

“Then we need to find a way in,” says Mr. Reciprocity. He learned a very long time ago never to doubt his brother’s feelings. “Maybe the next room will have a hole.”

Mr. Protection says, “if it doesn’t have a hole, perhaps we can make one.”

Mr. Reciprocity says, “it’s certainly worth a try, brother.”

The problem, as the two opossum’s quickly learn, is that the broken, distorted White House has very long halls. It takes what feels like hours before they find the next door, which is held open with a large wooden crate. White signs have been plastered on all four sides of the crate.

Mr. Protection asks, “can you read what they say?”

Mr. Reciprocity squints. Opossums have very poor eyesight. They tend to have very poor hearing, as well, which is part of why the two brothers are always seemingly shouting. It makes tasks like this very difficult.

You can’t smell out letters, after all.

“I think,” starts Mr. Reciprocity, only to pause and shuffle a little closer to the crate. “I think it must be some sort of pet food, brother. Cat or dog, but I can’t tell for sure.”

“Another clue, then,” says Mr. Protection. “We’re looking for a cat or a dog. Probably an old one, like us.”

“I think you must be right,” says Mr. Reciprocity. “Now, let’s get into this room, why don’t we?”

Together, Mr. Reciprocity and Mr. Protection push the crate out of the way. They manage to scurry into the room right before the door swings shut behind them, sealing them inside.

The room is large, impossibly so. It seems to take up the same length as the hall that they just walked through, with very sparse bits of furniture. A desk rests against one far wall, and another door rests at the far end of the room-hall.

“I think we found our way in,” says Mr. Reciprocity.

Mr. Protection gives a heavy sigh. “I suppose this means we’d best start walking, brother. Again.”

 

Katelynn E Koontz – Author

“Alright, brother. I suppose there’s nothing to it now.” Mr. Reciprocity gives a rattling sigh.

His brother mimics the sound. Mr. Protection slaps his tail against the ground. “Got to figure this out on our own, I do suppose. The Room isn’t being helpful at all, is she?”

“I think the Room is hurting,” says Mr. Reciprocity, mournfully. And, true, there is an empty space in Mr. Reciprocity’s head where the information on this White House should be. It’s a strange feeling, like the cotton has sapped away all of his thoughts. “She’s usually right more help than this.”

The two opossum brothers start down the hall of the broken White House. The doors change in size, and the halls bleed together, like the building can’t decide on a shape. Despite the fact that Mr. Reciprocity and Mr. Protection have been around for a very long time, this isn’t something they’ve ever had to deal with.

Over the years, the White House has gone under several renovations. Sometimes, it’s reflected in the time zone they land in. It’s mimicked by the ladders and paint buckets set up in the halls when Mr. Reciprocity and Mr. Protection pop in to help out. But it’s never been like this before. It’s never been broken, and fractured, and pieced together wrong.

Mr. Reciprocity pauses outside of one of the doors. It’s sitting partially propped open. Pale golden-brown light streams out of it. “Brother, I think we’ve found out first clue.”

“You’re right, brother,” says Mr. Protection. He steps forward, using his nose to push the door open wider. “I’m a gentleman at heart, don’t you know. It would be rude of me to go first. Age before beauty, as they say.”

“We’re the same age,” huffs Mr. Reciprocity. “And you’re hardly the beauty in this group.”

Still, Mr. Reciprocity steps into the room first. It appears to be an office of some sort. An impossibly large desk sits against one wall, and plush chairs litter the front of it. Papers have been spread out on the floor, as though someone knocked them off the desk in their rush to get outside.

Mr. Protection says, “this doesn’t look good.”

Mr. Reciprocity says, “no, brother, it sure does not. Do you see anything that might tell us who’s around these parts?”

“I don’t see much of anything,” admits Mr. Protection. “Everything’s the same color around these parts!”

“You don’t have to see color to find a clue,” says Mr. Reciprocity. “I’ve already found one, brother. Look at this. A collar. Can’t read the words on it.”

The brass is smooth. It doesn’t look like there are words on it. Mr. Protection hums. “So it’s something with a collar. Alright, brother. That’s a start, at least.”

Mr. Reciprocity nods, agrees, “can’t go wrong with a start, even if it’s small.”

 

Katelynn E Koontz – Author

Mr. Reciprocity is tired.

He’s tired when the Room calls them, and he’s even more tired when he steps into the tunnel that connects the two timelines. Just like the doggie door in the Room, there’s something ominous about the tunnel. Beneath them stretches out a floor made from cobbled, scrapped pieces. Around them, the blackness undulates. It comes in close enough that it brushes against the tips of their ears and then pulls away, so far that it seems to be endless distance between them.

Mr. Protection says, “we’re going to an old place.”

“Yep,” says Mr. Reciprocity. They can tell, because the tunnel is very long. The longer the tunnel, the older the timeline. “Not a good sign.”

“None’a this has been a good sign,” says Mr. Protection. The two opossums waddle down the tunnel for a very, very long time. When they do get to the door at the other end, it’s just as strange as the first. The wood trim is old, weathered, and cracked. The green light ringing it is very dull. Right at the center of the door, there’s a large black spot.

“Never seen nothing like that before,” says Mr. Reciprocity.

Mr. Protection says, “me neither.”

“Guess this is gonna be a long one.”

“Haven’t had a long one in a while.”

Mr. Reciprocity asks, “think the Room knows what it’s doing?”

“Does it matter?” Mr. Protection gives a full body sigh. “We’ve got to do what the Room wants. She won’t let us be otherwise.”

That’s true, of course. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that these two opossums are both very old, and very tired.

Mr. Reciprocity sighs, too. “Might as well go on and get it over with, I s’ppose.”

“Might as well,” echoes Mr. Protection. With another sigh, the two opossum brothers step through the doggie door and into – nothing.

For a split, terrifying second, there is nothing.

No floor. No lights. No presence or sense of time.

It’s just sheer, utter black.

Mr. Protection curses. “Brother – “

There’s a shrill chime, like an alarm going off. A bright light, and suddenly Mr. Protection and Mr. Reciprocity are standing in the hallway for one of the many, many White House’s that litter the timelines.

Except that there is something very, very wrong about it. Just like the tunnel that the opossum brothers just came out of, the White House appears to be held together by seams and strength alone. It’s a patch work creation. Bits and bobs from various timelines have been plastered over top of each other, until the building is both deeply rooted in the past and clearly from the present. The lights give off a sepia tone, washing the entire world in varying shades of brown, tan, and a color that’s not quite right.

“Well,” says Mr. Protection. “Maybe we should’ve told the pup what was happening.”

“Never share secrets,” says Mr. Reciprocity. And then, because it seems worthy of stating, “I don’t think this is going to be an easy job, brother.”

Mr. Protection laughs. “No, brother. I don’t suppose it will be.”

 

Katelynn E Koontz – Author

Two animals greet Fala in the Room, and not ones that he’s seen for a very long while. Mr. Protection and Mr. Reciprocity were standing in the center of the room, their hairless tails wrapped tight ‘round each other.

Now, even though these opossums were fellow members of the Presidential Pets, the sight of them still made Fala feel all fuzzy inside. He’s not meant to be friends with animals like that, after all, with pests pulled in from outside.

Mr. Protection gives him a smile that is all sharp, yellow teeth. “Well, if you wouldn’t look who it is!”

His brother, Mr. Reciprocity, speaks with a heavy Southern drawl. “Ain’t surprised to see you here. I heard a lot of us older pets are getting pulled into the field.”

“Don’t tell him what you heard,” hisses Mr. Reciprocity, slamming his side into Mr. Protection’s. “That’s suppose to be a secret, ya dummy!”

Fala sighs around his watch. He scans the area, but can’t find any of the Presidential Pets usually in charge of the area. “Where’s – “

“Don’t know,” interrupts Mr. Protection, quick enough in his response that it’s obviously a lie.

Mr. Reciprocity chimes in, “you should probably just go home!”

“Och, I’m going too!” Fala turns towards the doggie door that will take him back to his own time stream. “I don’t have the patience to be dealing with the likes of you.”

As soon as Fala vanishes into his doggie door, Mr. Protection lets out a weary sigh. The opossum is very, very old. Because he’s a Presidential Pet, his age is almost frozen. It means that he will always be very, very old.

“That was close,” says Mr. Protection.

“Sorry,” says Mr. Reciprocity.

Mr. Protection shakes his head. “S’fine, brother. It’s not like we were prepared for this. Should’ve been, the way things’ve been going.”

He means, of course, the surge in how frequently older Presidential Pets are being pulled from their homes. Just like Fala, the pets with the most experience are being pulled into the Room, sent on quests usually reserved for the younger Presidential Pets that have energy to burn.

Mr. Reciprocity hisses with unease. “Where should we look?”

“Through whatever Door this place lets us,” answers Mr. Protection. Like all opossums, he’s a short, squat creature. Rather than walk, he and his brother, Mr. Reciprocity, waddle towards the wall, where the doggie doors are installed. Most of them aren’t lit up, signaling that the passage is closed.

After what feels like forever, however, they come across one very, very strange looking doggie door. The wood trim is old, weathered, and cracked. The green light ringing it is very dull. Twice, while they stand there, it flickers.

Mr. Reciprocity hisses again. “I don’t like this!”

“Me neither,” says Mr. Protection. “But if there’s no one here to give us a job, we’re going to need to go.”

 

Katelynn E Koontz – Author