Back in the office everything seemed fine despite the few days that passed, but there was a difference. Thompson's desk was not empty like before, it was filled with folders stacked up so high I could barely see him.
"I'm back." I said.
"You're drunk," Thompson noted then continued. "what kind of world was it?"
"A fun one!" I reply as I close the distance and lean closer. Thompson remained calm and adjusted his glasses.
"This is inappropriate. I never thought you would drink during office hours." His voice was filled with disappointment and contempt.
"It was mandatory." I shrug and go freshen myself before clocking out. Explanations can wait until we fill the reports, the only thing I want now is to go home. Thompson waited outside the office and offered to drive me home which was great since I was in no condition to drive after the banquet.
I didn't gain any new skill during my training, though I was able to learn how to use the slash skill I picked up from my first case. At first it was difficult to activate it, but I got the chance to use it plenty of times to the point where It comes naturally and I also learned about its strengths and weaknesses.
The slash skill is very powerful not because of its destructive power, but because it is precise. There's also the advantage that opponents don't expect an attack that can reach further than the tip of a blade which makes it very useful when they block. Not only that, it can even pierce through armor. It sounds too good to be true and unfortunately that is the case.
The one big downside is it can only be used with blade weapons. I'm not much into them because they're meant for killing rather than subduing. There's also the fact that the longer the blade, the easier it is to activate the slash skill and I doubt I can walk around the city carrying a sword without people thinking I'm weird. As an FBI agent that is my first concern. Agents need to be as discreet as possible, that is the reason why the dress code exists in the first place.
"How could you do this to me!?" Patrick greeted me with teary eyes the moment I entered my apartment.
"I was on a mission," I had enough time on the way home to think what I would say to Patrick. "thanks for feeding Bob."
"Don't change the subject. I'm not buying your 'mission' lie. You reek of alcohol!"
"I..." This is something I didn't think through.
"Do you even know what you did to me? Tasha had more free time than usual and Maggie insisted on staying with her and I wasn't invited. I've been bored to death these days!"
"Maybe you should get a job." I shrug.
"A... job...," Patrick dropped on the couch with a look of betrayal. "look, Bob. The only reason why people work is to get money. I have money so I don't need to work."
"You sound like a kid complaining that the grownups go to work. No, you don't just sound like a kid, you are one. You have your own place but you always freeload here. You always drag me along on whatever new thing you're into and I always go because we're friends. Even after a long day at work, but I've had enough. Why don't you get a life or something?" Contrary to the usual Patrick, he didn't act offended or dramatic in any way. He just looked at me with a look I couldn't recognize and left the apartment.
Next day at the office I had a ton of paperwork to fill and even with Thompson's help we were overburdened. It turns out I had to account for each opponent I defeated in Valhalla as if I killed them even though they didn't really die. It was mostly fine since I acted in self defense, but justifying me chasing after them was a hassle and we barely made it before clocking out time.
Throughout the day I noticed Thompson was incredibly efficient. The thought of him being an android popped into mind making me chuckle. I don't have anything against efficiency, but he did not make any conversation whatsoever. I was bored.
That night, Patrick didn't come home.
"It's just you and me," I say to fish Bob enjoying the silence for exactly five seconds. Maybe I was too harsh with Patrick.
The rest of the week I got to enjoy some good old office work, dull and understimulating just the way I like it. Everything was fine until the time of the week I dreaded came, the weekend. After deep cleaning the apartment I was left with nothing to do but to listen to my own thoughts.
Monday morning came with a surprise, I don't like surprises.
"I finished compiling the data." Thompson ambushed me with a thick folder. He did overtime on the weekend to finish the work on his own and I took it as a personal offense. I feel betrayed, but more than that I wonder why didn't it occur to me to do the same.
The first assignment was a routine check up on a returnee that lived a completely normal life on earth. In the other world he became a legendary hero that defeated all evil and saved the world after which he was allowed to return in his own body.
Those cases are rare and not just because achieving it is difficult. The problem lies in the fact that most people that do it want to return with riches, items or even people. The FBI doesn't mind when people who are supposed to be dead return, there's plenty of ways to cover that up, but items from other worlds could wreak havoc by just existing in our world.
That is why the customs department exists. They thoroughly search the subject before letting them in. Unfortunately, the spells they learned and the power they acquired throughout their adventures cannot be unlearned or taken away just like that. And that is where I come in.
"How often do you get the urge to use a spell?" I ask the subject in question in a neutral tone. It's not curiosity, just a form to fill.
"At first it was difficult, but now it doesn't happen anymore."
"Can you elaborate?"
"I'll put it this way. When I wanted something out of reach, like the remote, I extended my hand trying to use telekinesis out of habit. Then I became conscious about it. Now I barely remember I used to have magic."
"I see... do you miss people from the other world?"
"Not really." The man shrugged.
"Do you live a happy life?"
"No, but I can now appreciate the good things in life. Magic is cool and all, but it doesn't compare to having internet."
I finish with the questions and fill the form at the same time. It may not sound exciting, but it's solid work. Checking up on returnees from time to time is necessary to keep them in order. This time it was a stand up guy who enjoyed the commodities of modern life more than the perks of having magic but the system had warned me it's not always the same. They're just as capable of committing crimes as anybody else, the difference is that most of them had become numb to killing.
Adventures on other worlds vary in difficulty according to the world, but they also vary depending on the experience of the person. Just the thought of someone like Olafsson returning to this world made me shiver. Even during my short stay in that world I started seeing the allure in violence, despite me never being too interested in it. A world ruled by 'kill or be killed' can change a person.
The day carried on with a few other check ups. It's a nice change of pace. I could complain about driving all day, but the only thing filling my mind was that at least I wasn't sent out to another world.
I returned home once more, only to Bob swimming around in his fish tank. Then a knock on the door took me away from contemplating existential dread.
"I was just thinking about you." I said thinking it was Patrick.
"Really?" Peter looked startled.
"What are you doing here?"
"My girlfriend sent me to the doghouse." He entered my apartment with a pillow, a blanket and a backpack.
"And this is the doghouse?" My apartment is as good as any other government employee and I felt offended. At least until I remembered that my friend Peter lives in an actual mansion, so this place really isn't much for him.
"I just need a place to crash, but if it's too much I can go to Patrick's." Peter said, but his actions spoke otherwise. He spread the blanket on my couch and patted the pillow a couple times. Before I could ask a question he was fast asleep.