Laverna
Goddess of thieves
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- Known Aliases
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Ferret
Brat
Bonnie Parker
Bon park
The sixteen-year-old ACME detective, Anya White, skated gracefully across the ice. Her long, whitish-blonde hair swirled around her as she practiced complicated spins and athletic leaps.
She was honing her figure skating talent with the help of her private instructor, Nikolai Kozlov. He was a stern man with a sharp eye for imperfections. Anya hated to admit that ever since she had hired him to help her achieve her goal of competing in the Olympics, she had begun to change in ways she didn't fully understand.
The long, silver blades of her ivory-colored skates cut swiftly through the ice as she turned to face her instructor, who was yelling that she’d messed up again.
Still, Anya didn’t falter in her practice as she slowly skated over.
"You were too slow on the spin. Gained too much weight," he scolded sharply. Any other teenager would’ve stormed off, ready to cry.
Anya kept her head down. "Yes, sir," she muttered as he continued berating her.
Suddenly, her smartwatch beeped. Anya took the chance and skated to the far end of the rink to answer the call.
"Hey, Chief, what's the brief?" she chuckled, trying to fight back the tears gathering in her sky-blue eyes.
"Annie, are you okay? Would you tell us that you're okay?" Chief joked, trying to mask his concern, a crease forming on his digital blonde brow.
"Yes, I'm okay. It's just Olympic training for the tryouts," Anya replied. But Chief’s face turned red as Mr. Kozlov’s voice thundered across the rink, sharp and biting.
"Pathetic! Lazy American half-breed!" he shouted, his tone full of disdain. "You think this is enough for the Olympics? You disgrace yourself with every clumsy step!"
Chief’s image flickered out, making Anya cringe. Her brow furrowed as she bit her bottom lip, sensing what was coming.
Suddenly, he reappeared, his voice booming around the rink. "Hey! Pick on someone your size! What gives you the right to bully her? Is that your job—a professional bully?" Chief barked, his digital figure circling Mr. Kozlov.
Anya skated over, fuming—not at Mr. Kozlov, but at Chief. "Chief, you’re not helping me. Why did you call? Do I have a case?" she said, gliding in smooth backward circles around the two.
Chief’s digital eyes softened as Anya balanced on one leg, circling like a hawk.
“Yes, Miss White. Why don’t we skate away from Mr. Grumpy Pants and discuss the case in private?” Chief replied cheerfully, attempting to mimic one of Anya’s spins.
But his floating head spun violently on the hot pink screen and crashed into a wall, cartoon stars spiraling around him.
“You kids make it look easy,” he grumbled, shaking off the daze.
The C5 corridor opened instantly, and Anya struggled to conceal her smile as she snuck away from her harsh instructor, who was hurling even more insults her way. The holographic portal glittered and shimmered around her as she stepped inside, momentarily escaping the harsh reality of the rink.
.
“Anya, before we discuss what case you’ve been assigned—part of the, hmm, reason you exist, making me a paternal unit—I hate to ask, but why are you paying someone to harass you? Your parents would be worried sick if they heard that. Especially your father,” Chief exclaimed, his digital eyes narrowing with concern as he hovered in front of her, his voice laced with a stern, fatherly tone.
Anya gracefully landed on her skates but struggled to maintain her balance on the slick cement floor. With a quick grab of the nearby table for support, she slid herself effortlessly into a chair, feeling a mix of frustration and embarrassment wash over her.
“Can someone fetch me some boots meant for walking?” Chief joked as his holographic face wore a playful smirk as he floated around her. His head spun slightly as he searched for a suitable pair of footwear, the faint whirring of his digital presence.
Anya bent down to untie the ribbon-like, silvery shoelaces that adorned her skates. Her long, slender fingers fumbled with the triple knots she had secured before her lesson, each pulls feeling more stubborn than the last.
Her fingernails sparkled with shiny holographic pink polish, glimmering in the light as she worked. As she finally loosened the last knot, a small sense of relief washed over her. The skates clattered softly to the ground,
.
She didn’t carefully place her well-used skates on the cold cement floor next to her; instead, she kicked them aside. Anya pointed her feet, snug in mint green and cream-striped wool socks that came up her calves.
As she sat back in her chair, she began to massage her legs and feet, easing the tension from the long day. The soft wool felt comforting against her skin as she waited for Chief to return with some proper footwear.
She fought the urge to whistle as she waited; it was bad luck to do so indoors, and she didn’t need any bad luck with tryouts coming up in the next few months. Anya avoided black cats and was careful around mirrors, never daring to open an umbrella inside. She made sure to keep her lucky penny in the pocket of her purse,
She didn’t know how to explain to Chief her dream of winning her Olympic gold medal. Traditionally, she was more of a prima ballerina or a computer genius—a top detective at the Acme agency. She doubted the floating head would understand that this goal was hers alone.
And yet, she was mastering figure skating effortlessly, each practice bringing her closer. She continued massaging her thigh, fingers working on a stubborn knot as she lost herself in thought.
A pair of rubbery slip-on sandals appeared a few moments later, materializing on the long rectangular table in front of the unphased Anya White.
They were unmistakably prison shower shoes—cheap and rubbery, an unintentional insult handed to the agency’s top detective. But the third-generation teenage detective accepted them gracefully, slipping them onto her tired, yet delicate feet without a hint of complaint.
“Sorry, Miss White, that’s all we had in stock at this headquarters. Please don’t be offended or insulted,” Chief nervously rambled on. “I couldn’t live with my digital existence if this starts a butterfly effect and you pull a Sandiego on us.”
He continued, explaining how there was nothing else he could provide his top detective, who the agency affectionately dubbed the Ice Queen. The digital head floated anxiously, clearly worried about the implications of the shoes and their effect on Anya’s mood.
“These are fine. They’re clean and walkable, and they aren’t worn in by anyone either. Once we discuss this case, we’ll go back to my home in Moscow, and I can grab my favorite sneakers, da?” Anya replied maturely, showing she wasn’t about to cause a fuss over shoes or the instructor’s harsh verbal lashing. It wasn’t in her nature to rebel or create.
“Buddy, you’re ignoring my question about why you’re spending your hard-earned cash on such a lousy instructor,” Chief redirected, his emotional programming marking this as the most pressing issue to solve.
After a few detectives had turned rogue, Acme’s higher-ups were rightly concerned. They’d implemented numerous measures in the 21st century to prevent insanity from claiming their young agents, and the Chief wanted to ensure Anya was on solid ground.
“He’s the best one. Sure, he’s brutal, but he promised me I would get that medal if I followed his every command,” Anya explained, not seeing any issue with it. But Chief’s processor lit up with a million red flags.
“Ah, young girls falling into the hands of predatory instructors. I knew something was off about you these past few weeks; I just couldn’t place it. Has he ever done anything to make you uncomfortable? What’s his name? I’m going to search Crimenet,” Chief scolded, sounding like a concerned father.
Many Russian Olympic trainers had a history of seriously injuring their athletes, and Chief felt a rush of worry. Chief couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being groomed. She hadn’t felt like herself since the one-on-one training began, and that troubled him even more.
“Anya, sweetheart, I noticed he was chewing you out and spitting you out like chewing tobacco. He had your normally inexpressive face threatened with salty tears,” Chief explained as he floated over and nuzzled against Anya’s soft cheek.
“I need to be the best. I want that medal, Chief. I will do anything to get my hands on one,” she snapped, making Chief jump backward.
He recognized that look in her eyes and shuddered. He could warn her about Carmen being like that all day long, but it wouldn’t stop her from chasing her ambitious dreams.
“Anya, please talk to your parents before we have a repeat of Elena Vyacheslavovna Mukhina in history,” he instructed, his digital brow furrowing with concern. “You know how that turned out—a broken neck because her instructor pushed her too hard. You have to take care of yourself.” He switched gears, diving into the details of the case she’d been assigned, hoping to distract her from the potential dangers of her training.
“There seems to be Very strange V I L E activity radio waves have been picked up by our time pilots. One of Carmen's little lackeys managed to steal a time machine. I’m not sure which agent of hers is behind the meddling with history,” Chief explained dramatically, his digital voice exaggerated as the scene around his holographic head transformed into a chaotic Twilight Zone landscape.
Colors twisted into bizarre shades of purple and green, swirling like a malfunctioning kaleidoscope, while warped sounds echoed—distant laughter mixed with glitchy static that buzzed like a fly trapped in a jar. Images of warped clocks floated by, each ticking backward as if time itself was trying to escape. A ghostly figure flickered in the background, waving like it was caught in a windstorm.
Anya couldn’t help but smirk at the absurdity. “When am I going?” she asked, tapping her smartwatch to pull up the Chromoskimmer app.
“May 21, 1934!” Chief exclaimed, his digital eyes wide with faux urgency, as if he were announcing the start of a chaotic game show.
"Let’s get my shoes and detective gear, then we can do the time warp, ya?" she exclaimed, setting the time on her watch before moving through the C5-corridor she'd personally upgraded to land exactly where she needed.
She tumbled through the portal, landing in a plushy pile of stuffed animals. Scattered around were her high-tech gadgets, neatly organized next to her makeup and the small knick-knacks she’d collected over the years. Despite the room being packed with every interest she'd gathered, there wasn’t a single thing out of place.
Anya slipped into her lavender sneakers, secured with elastic straps, and reached for her light gray, over-the-shoulder backpack. It was packed with everything a detective could need—first aid kit, survival essentials, and her trusty gadgets.
“Alright then. Let’s see what kind of trouble I can find in 1934,” Anya replied, rolling her eyes but smiling at Chief’s over-the-top demeanor. With a quick motion, she activated the device, and just like that, she vanished from the swirling chaos of the Twilight Zone, leaving Chief to bob awkwardly in mid-air, still trying to make sense of the disarray.
Her feet landed gracefully in fifth position in ballet. Her traditional Russian ballet training made her jerky journeys through portals like the C5 corridor and the Chromoskimmer's time portals quite enjoyable. She wistfully thought nobody was nearby; she needed to get down from the single-story roof she found herself standing upon.
She decided it was the perfect time to practice a spinning leap into the air. She wasn't normally so reckless as to jump off a roof, but this roof was short in stature.
She leaped and spun, and as she expected, she landed gracefully on the ball of her feet. She curtseyed. As she quickly straightened up, she noticed two little kids—a boy and a girl—staring at her as they sat on a bench, drinking a Coke from the pharmacy.
“June, I think she’s an angel,” the younger boy whispered to his slightly older sister, who protectively put her arm across her brother.
“Angels don’t dress so indecently. Ma told me that angels dress respectfully,” June complained, her blonde curly hair bouncing with her expressive words.
Anya raised an eyebrow at June. “Romans 2:1: You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgment on someone else, for at whatever point you judge another, you are condemning yourself, because you who pass judgment do the same things.”
With that, she put her hands in a prayer position and quickly danced on her toes away from the baffled children, leaving them in stunned silence.
Anya understood the kids' imagination all too well. With her almost white hair and extremely light blue eyes, she looked like she had stepped right out of a fairy tale. The cream-colored skating practice dress she wore hugged her figure gracefully, its soft fabric flowing as she moved. Beneath it, her barely pink tights blended seamlessly into the pale hue of her skin, while her socks provided the only splash of color, a delicate contrast that caught the eye.
As she turned to leave, her hair tumbled down to the swell of her spine in super shiny waves, catching the light and sparkling like a halo around her. Anya couldn’t help but smile at the children’s awe; she remembered what it felt like to be enchanted by the extraordinary. With a lightness in her step, she danced away, the gentle breeze tugging at her dress, leaving the two kids marveling at the vision of grace and elegance they had just witnessed.
“Please, Lord, allow them to stay innocent and full of wonder,” she thought in a silent prayer as she began scanning for anything or anyone suspicious. Anya realized she was in an extremely small town near a highway, the accents distinctly southern, and the sound of cicadas filling the air with a steady buzz.
its dusty roads lined by wooden storefronts, their paint peeling and signs creaking gently in the warm breeze. A few townsfolk in straw hats and sun dresses strolled by, their laughter mingling with the chirping of cicadas. Children played hopscotch on the cracked pavement, their carefree shouts echoing in the humid air.
She could ask Chief where she was, but that wouldn’t make sense and would only make her stand out more. So, logically, she decided to search for a newspaper. Spotting a small general store up ahead, its weathered sign swinging on rusted chains, she adjusted her dress and made her way toward it,
“Hmm,” Anya thought as she read the sign: “Gibsland, Louisiana.” Nothing about the name seemed familiar or significant.
She glanced around the small town, taking in the dusty streets and sun-bleached storefronts. Everything felt like a scene out of an old photograph, charming yet unsettling. As a half-Russian girl who had seen more of the world than most in her brief years, she felt out of place in this simpler time.
Locals strolled by, laughing and chatting with each other, but she hesitated to approach anyone. They would surely notice her odd clothing and unfamiliar accent. How could you understand what was happening here if you couldn’t ask questions?
Anya took a deep breath and pushed through the store’s creaky door. The bell above jingled, breaking the stillness inside. Dust motes floated in the sunlight, illuminating shelves packed with canned goods and jars of colorful candies. Her eyes darted around, searching for a newspaper or anything that could help her make sense of where she was and what was going on. She needed answers without drawing too much attention to herself.
For a moment, Anya felt a swell of gratitude for her American heritage. She understood the harsh realities her Russian family faced during this tumultuous time. The thought made her shake her head in disgust—her mother had been raised under that oppressive red hammer. Anya often took her American freedom for granted, but standing in America in the 1930s, far from the grips of the Soviet Union, filled her with relief.
She picked up a newspaper and began to skim through the birth announcements, death notices, and advertisements. The pages were cluttered with tales of dying stores and the mundane details of small-town life, nothing out of the ordinary for a publication like this.
.
She left the store empty-handed, realizing she didn't have any American money on her. Well, that wasn't entirely true. She did have twenty-five dollars and ninety-nine cents, but in the year she found herself in, that amount was worth a staggering $611.54.
“That’s just asking to be robbed,” she thought, glancing around the quiet street, suddenly acutely aware of how out of place she felt.
Anya tucked herself into a small corner away from most passersby and rifled through her backpack. She had about 30 Russian rubles with her—leftover change from a shopping trip with Katrina and Victoria before her last skating session. But it was just 31 cents back home, practically pocket change. Here, though, it amounted to eight dollars. She rolled her eyes, thinking, *Not that it’d help me; they don’t expect rubles around here. And the last thing I need is someone calling me a communist.*
Finally, she pulled out a sleek silver device, a digital timeline database the tech wizards at ACME’s lab had dreamed up. It glowed softly as she flipped open the screen. The device functioned by listing historical events from up to four days from wherever she found herself in time.
Anya smirked as the first alert scrolled across the screen: Oskaloosa, Iowa, had just become the first municipality in the U.S. to fingerprint all of its citizens. She flipped forward. The next day? Nothing. But on the third day, at 5:50 AM, the text flashed: *Ambush in Gibsland, Louisiana.* She frowned, not recognizing the significance.
“Chief, who’s Bonnie and who’s Clyde?” Anya asked aloud, her curiosity piqued as Chief appeared floating beside her.
He transformed into a caricature of a bank robber, complete with a fedora, his floating rifle aimed at a cartoonish bank teller in a playful retelling of the events.
“Their infamous criminal lovebirds, cop killers, bank robbers, Robin Hoods!” Chief exclaimed enthusiastically, gesturing dramatically.
Anya raised an eyebrow, intrigued but wary. “Sounds like quite the story. So, what’s the deal with them?”
“Ah, they’ve been on the run for years, capturing the public’s imagination,” Chief replied, his tone shifting to a mock-seriousness. “But in two days, they’ll meet their end in a little town called Gibsland. It’s gonna be a spectacle!”
Anya frowned, considering the implications. “We are in Gibsland.”
Chief's eyes widened. “Yikes. I don’t want to see that.”
Anya glanced around, the cheerful atmosphere of the small town now feeling strangely tense. “So, what should I do? Just pretend I didn’t hear anything?”
“Exactly! Just enjoy your time here,” Chief said, his tone lightening again. “You’re not involved in their story, so stay out of it. Focus on your ice skating and detective work. Leave the drama to them!”
“Right,” Anya replied, trying to shake off the unsettling thought. “Just another day in the life of a time-traveling detective.”
Meanwhile, deep in the woods along Highway 154, Laverna and Devlin crouched low, their hearts pounding with a mix of excitement and anxiety. They had crafted a daring plan to save Bonnie and Clyde, believing that, in return, the legendary outlaws might take them under their wing.
Laverna glanced at Devlin, her eyes bright with determination. “It’s simple,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We run out of the woods screaming, we need to shoot back as if trying to escape something. We need to be really bloody. When they stop, I’ll act like a girl on the run. Clyde won’t be able to resist helping us. He’s been hunted by the cops since he was our age.”
Devlin shifted nervously. “You really think he’ll see us as just kids?”
“Of course,” Laverna replied, confidence pouring from her. “I might not look much older than twelve. When Clyde sees me, he’ll see a vulnerable kid, and he’ll remember his own past. He has this instinct to protect anyone who reminds him of himself. Just like him, we’re caught in a world that doesn’t understand us.”
The sun dipped lower, casting shadows across their makeshift hideout, and Laverna felt a thrill at the thought of what was to come. They were more than just teenagers lost in time; they were about to turn the tide of their own stories by reaching out to legends. If Clyde chose to help them, it would be a ticket into a life of adventure and defiance against the very forces that pursued them.
She kept hanging up her communicator, knowing her godmother was absolutely furious. If Carmen wanted to punish them, she needed to come to ambush day herself. Laverna doubted that would happen; Carmen hated guns and everything that came with them.
“Just a heads up, you’re gonna have to shoot me,” Laverna sighed, making Devlin raise an eyebrow.
“What? No!” he protested.
“Bonnie and Clyde won’t believe police are firing ahead, unless one of us is shot,” she hissed, her green eyes narrowing. She was tougher when it came to pain; she knew being shot wasn’t fun.
“Fine, but where?” he asked reluctantly.
“My arm or leg—just avoid my torso and head. The shoulder's iffy,” she replied, making Devlin wonder if Laverna was a trained assassin. But she was only sixteen, so he doubted it.
“I’m only doing this because I love you,” Devlin sighed as he and Laverna strolled through the town of Gibsland. They needed to grab lunch and find a motel for the night, planning to finish setting up their scheme the following evening. They knew they had to be up before 5 a.m. on the 23rd, ready for the ambush that would change everything.
Anya sighed, “Nothing is picking up on the time abnormality scanner—well, outside of us.” She wondered if this was all a bust when the device lit up, showing two glowing humanoid figures walking into a cozy diner.
“I spoke too soon,” Anya said as she slipped her device into her backpack. She sneaked toward the pair, and Chief turned his screen invisible.
The diner’s bell rang loudly as Anya swung the door open a few minutes after her targets had entered.
She was honing her figure skating talent with the help of her private instructor, Nikolai Kozlov. He was a stern man with a sharp eye for imperfections. Anya hated to admit that ever since she had hired him to help her achieve her goal of competing in the Olympics, she had begun to change in ways she didn't fully understand.
The long, silver blades of her ivory-colored skates cut swiftly through the ice as she turned to face her instructor, who was yelling that she’d messed up again.
Still, Anya didn’t falter in her practice as she slowly skated over.
"You were too slow on the spin. Gained too much weight," he scolded sharply. Any other teenager would’ve stormed off, ready to cry.
Anya kept her head down. "Yes, sir," she muttered as he continued berating her.
Suddenly, her smartwatch beeped. Anya took the chance and skated to the far end of the rink to answer the call.
"Hey, Chief, what's the brief?" she chuckled, trying to fight back the tears gathering in her sky-blue eyes.
"Annie, are you okay? Would you tell us that you're okay?" Chief joked, trying to mask his concern, a crease forming on his digital blonde brow.
"Yes, I'm okay. It's just Olympic training for the tryouts," Anya replied. But Chief’s face turned red as Mr. Kozlov’s voice thundered across the rink, sharp and biting.
"Pathetic! Lazy American half-breed!" he shouted, his tone full of disdain. "You think this is enough for the Olympics? You disgrace yourself with every clumsy step!"
Chief’s image flickered out, making Anya cringe. Her brow furrowed as she bit her bottom lip, sensing what was coming.
Suddenly, he reappeared, his voice booming around the rink. "Hey! Pick on someone your size! What gives you the right to bully her? Is that your job—a professional bully?" Chief barked, his digital figure circling Mr. Kozlov.
Anya skated over, fuming—not at Mr. Kozlov, but at Chief. "Chief, you’re not helping me. Why did you call? Do I have a case?" she said, gliding in smooth backward circles around the two.
Chief’s digital eyes softened as Anya balanced on one leg, circling like a hawk.
“Yes, Miss White. Why don’t we skate away from Mr. Grumpy Pants and discuss the case in private?” Chief replied cheerfully, attempting to mimic one of Anya’s spins.
But his floating head spun violently on the hot pink screen and crashed into a wall, cartoon stars spiraling around him.
“You kids make it look easy,” he grumbled, shaking off the daze.
The C5 corridor opened instantly, and Anya struggled to conceal her smile as she snuck away from her harsh instructor, who was hurling even more insults her way. The holographic portal glittered and shimmered around her as she stepped inside, momentarily escaping the harsh reality of the rink.
.
“Anya, before we discuss what case you’ve been assigned—part of the, hmm, reason you exist, making me a paternal unit—I hate to ask, but why are you paying someone to harass you? Your parents would be worried sick if they heard that. Especially your father,” Chief exclaimed, his digital eyes narrowing with concern as he hovered in front of her, his voice laced with a stern, fatherly tone.
Anya gracefully landed on her skates but struggled to maintain her balance on the slick cement floor. With a quick grab of the nearby table for support, she slid herself effortlessly into a chair, feeling a mix of frustration and embarrassment wash over her.
“Can someone fetch me some boots meant for walking?” Chief joked as his holographic face wore a playful smirk as he floated around her. His head spun slightly as he searched for a suitable pair of footwear, the faint whirring of his digital presence.
Anya bent down to untie the ribbon-like, silvery shoelaces that adorned her skates. Her long, slender fingers fumbled with the triple knots she had secured before her lesson, each pulls feeling more stubborn than the last.
Her fingernails sparkled with shiny holographic pink polish, glimmering in the light as she worked. As she finally loosened the last knot, a small sense of relief washed over her. The skates clattered softly to the ground,
.
She didn’t carefully place her well-used skates on the cold cement floor next to her; instead, she kicked them aside. Anya pointed her feet, snug in mint green and cream-striped wool socks that came up her calves.
As she sat back in her chair, she began to massage her legs and feet, easing the tension from the long day. The soft wool felt comforting against her skin as she waited for Chief to return with some proper footwear.
She fought the urge to whistle as she waited; it was bad luck to do so indoors, and she didn’t need any bad luck with tryouts coming up in the next few months. Anya avoided black cats and was careful around mirrors, never daring to open an umbrella inside. She made sure to keep her lucky penny in the pocket of her purse,
She didn’t know how to explain to Chief her dream of winning her Olympic gold medal. Traditionally, she was more of a prima ballerina or a computer genius—a top detective at the Acme agency. She doubted the floating head would understand that this goal was hers alone.
And yet, she was mastering figure skating effortlessly, each practice bringing her closer. She continued massaging her thigh, fingers working on a stubborn knot as she lost herself in thought.
A pair of rubbery slip-on sandals appeared a few moments later, materializing on the long rectangular table in front of the unphased Anya White.
They were unmistakably prison shower shoes—cheap and rubbery, an unintentional insult handed to the agency’s top detective. But the third-generation teenage detective accepted them gracefully, slipping them onto her tired, yet delicate feet without a hint of complaint.
“Sorry, Miss White, that’s all we had in stock at this headquarters. Please don’t be offended or insulted,” Chief nervously rambled on. “I couldn’t live with my digital existence if this starts a butterfly effect and you pull a Sandiego on us.”
He continued, explaining how there was nothing else he could provide his top detective, who the agency affectionately dubbed the Ice Queen. The digital head floated anxiously, clearly worried about the implications of the shoes and their effect on Anya’s mood.
“These are fine. They’re clean and walkable, and they aren’t worn in by anyone either. Once we discuss this case, we’ll go back to my home in Moscow, and I can grab my favorite sneakers, da?” Anya replied maturely, showing she wasn’t about to cause a fuss over shoes or the instructor’s harsh verbal lashing. It wasn’t in her nature to rebel or create.
“Buddy, you’re ignoring my question about why you’re spending your hard-earned cash on such a lousy instructor,” Chief redirected, his emotional programming marking this as the most pressing issue to solve.
After a few detectives had turned rogue, Acme’s higher-ups were rightly concerned. They’d implemented numerous measures in the 21st century to prevent insanity from claiming their young agents, and the Chief wanted to ensure Anya was on solid ground.
“He’s the best one. Sure, he’s brutal, but he promised me I would get that medal if I followed his every command,” Anya explained, not seeing any issue with it. But Chief’s processor lit up with a million red flags.
“Ah, young girls falling into the hands of predatory instructors. I knew something was off about you these past few weeks; I just couldn’t place it. Has he ever done anything to make you uncomfortable? What’s his name? I’m going to search Crimenet,” Chief scolded, sounding like a concerned father.
Many Russian Olympic trainers had a history of seriously injuring their athletes, and Chief felt a rush of worry. Chief couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being groomed. She hadn’t felt like herself since the one-on-one training began, and that troubled him even more.
“Anya, sweetheart, I noticed he was chewing you out and spitting you out like chewing tobacco. He had your normally inexpressive face threatened with salty tears,” Chief explained as he floated over and nuzzled against Anya’s soft cheek.
“I need to be the best. I want that medal, Chief. I will do anything to get my hands on one,” she snapped, making Chief jump backward.
He recognized that look in her eyes and shuddered. He could warn her about Carmen being like that all day long, but it wouldn’t stop her from chasing her ambitious dreams.
“Anya, please talk to your parents before we have a repeat of Elena Vyacheslavovna Mukhina in history,” he instructed, his digital brow furrowing with concern. “You know how that turned out—a broken neck because her instructor pushed her too hard. You have to take care of yourself.” He switched gears, diving into the details of the case she’d been assigned, hoping to distract her from the potential dangers of her training.
“There seems to be Very strange V I L E activity radio waves have been picked up by our time pilots. One of Carmen's little lackeys managed to steal a time machine. I’m not sure which agent of hers is behind the meddling with history,” Chief explained dramatically, his digital voice exaggerated as the scene around his holographic head transformed into a chaotic Twilight Zone landscape.
Colors twisted into bizarre shades of purple and green, swirling like a malfunctioning kaleidoscope, while warped sounds echoed—distant laughter mixed with glitchy static that buzzed like a fly trapped in a jar. Images of warped clocks floated by, each ticking backward as if time itself was trying to escape. A ghostly figure flickered in the background, waving like it was caught in a windstorm.
Anya couldn’t help but smirk at the absurdity. “When am I going?” she asked, tapping her smartwatch to pull up the Chromoskimmer app.
“May 21, 1934!” Chief exclaimed, his digital eyes wide with faux urgency, as if he were announcing the start of a chaotic game show.
"Let’s get my shoes and detective gear, then we can do the time warp, ya?" she exclaimed, setting the time on her watch before moving through the C5-corridor she'd personally upgraded to land exactly where she needed.
She tumbled through the portal, landing in a plushy pile of stuffed animals. Scattered around were her high-tech gadgets, neatly organized next to her makeup and the small knick-knacks she’d collected over the years. Despite the room being packed with every interest she'd gathered, there wasn’t a single thing out of place.
Anya slipped into her lavender sneakers, secured with elastic straps, and reached for her light gray, over-the-shoulder backpack. It was packed with everything a detective could need—first aid kit, survival essentials, and her trusty gadgets.
“Alright then. Let’s see what kind of trouble I can find in 1934,” Anya replied, rolling her eyes but smiling at Chief’s over-the-top demeanor. With a quick motion, she activated the device, and just like that, she vanished from the swirling chaos of the Twilight Zone, leaving Chief to bob awkwardly in mid-air, still trying to make sense of the disarray.
Her feet landed gracefully in fifth position in ballet. Her traditional Russian ballet training made her jerky journeys through portals like the C5 corridor and the Chromoskimmer's time portals quite enjoyable. She wistfully thought nobody was nearby; she needed to get down from the single-story roof she found herself standing upon.
She decided it was the perfect time to practice a spinning leap into the air. She wasn't normally so reckless as to jump off a roof, but this roof was short in stature.
She leaped and spun, and as she expected, she landed gracefully on the ball of her feet. She curtseyed. As she quickly straightened up, she noticed two little kids—a boy and a girl—staring at her as they sat on a bench, drinking a Coke from the pharmacy.
“June, I think she’s an angel,” the younger boy whispered to his slightly older sister, who protectively put her arm across her brother.
“Angels don’t dress so indecently. Ma told me that angels dress respectfully,” June complained, her blonde curly hair bouncing with her expressive words.
Anya raised an eyebrow at June. “Romans 2:1: You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgment on someone else, for at whatever point you judge another, you are condemning yourself, because you who pass judgment do the same things.”
With that, she put her hands in a prayer position and quickly danced on her toes away from the baffled children, leaving them in stunned silence.
Anya understood the kids' imagination all too well. With her almost white hair and extremely light blue eyes, she looked like she had stepped right out of a fairy tale. The cream-colored skating practice dress she wore hugged her figure gracefully, its soft fabric flowing as she moved. Beneath it, her barely pink tights blended seamlessly into the pale hue of her skin, while her socks provided the only splash of color, a delicate contrast that caught the eye.
As she turned to leave, her hair tumbled down to the swell of her spine in super shiny waves, catching the light and sparkling like a halo around her. Anya couldn’t help but smile at the children’s awe; she remembered what it felt like to be enchanted by the extraordinary. With a lightness in her step, she danced away, the gentle breeze tugging at her dress, leaving the two kids marveling at the vision of grace and elegance they had just witnessed.
“Please, Lord, allow them to stay innocent and full of wonder,” she thought in a silent prayer as she began scanning for anything or anyone suspicious. Anya realized she was in an extremely small town near a highway, the accents distinctly southern, and the sound of cicadas filling the air with a steady buzz.
its dusty roads lined by wooden storefronts, their paint peeling and signs creaking gently in the warm breeze. A few townsfolk in straw hats and sun dresses strolled by, their laughter mingling with the chirping of cicadas. Children played hopscotch on the cracked pavement, their carefree shouts echoing in the humid air.
She could ask Chief where she was, but that wouldn’t make sense and would only make her stand out more. So, logically, she decided to search for a newspaper. Spotting a small general store up ahead, its weathered sign swinging on rusted chains, she adjusted her dress and made her way toward it,
“Hmm,” Anya thought as she read the sign: “Gibsland, Louisiana.” Nothing about the name seemed familiar or significant.
She glanced around the small town, taking in the dusty streets and sun-bleached storefronts. Everything felt like a scene out of an old photograph, charming yet unsettling. As a half-Russian girl who had seen more of the world than most in her brief years, she felt out of place in this simpler time.
Locals strolled by, laughing and chatting with each other, but she hesitated to approach anyone. They would surely notice her odd clothing and unfamiliar accent. How could you understand what was happening here if you couldn’t ask questions?
Anya took a deep breath and pushed through the store’s creaky door. The bell above jingled, breaking the stillness inside. Dust motes floated in the sunlight, illuminating shelves packed with canned goods and jars of colorful candies. Her eyes darted around, searching for a newspaper or anything that could help her make sense of where she was and what was going on. She needed answers without drawing too much attention to herself.
For a moment, Anya felt a swell of gratitude for her American heritage. She understood the harsh realities her Russian family faced during this tumultuous time. The thought made her shake her head in disgust—her mother had been raised under that oppressive red hammer. Anya often took her American freedom for granted, but standing in America in the 1930s, far from the grips of the Soviet Union, filled her with relief.
She picked up a newspaper and began to skim through the birth announcements, death notices, and advertisements. The pages were cluttered with tales of dying stores and the mundane details of small-town life, nothing out of the ordinary for a publication like this.
.
She left the store empty-handed, realizing she didn't have any American money on her. Well, that wasn't entirely true. She did have twenty-five dollars and ninety-nine cents, but in the year she found herself in, that amount was worth a staggering $611.54.
“That’s just asking to be robbed,” she thought, glancing around the quiet street, suddenly acutely aware of how out of place she felt.
Anya tucked herself into a small corner away from most passersby and rifled through her backpack. She had about 30 Russian rubles with her—leftover change from a shopping trip with Katrina and Victoria before her last skating session. But it was just 31 cents back home, practically pocket change. Here, though, it amounted to eight dollars. She rolled her eyes, thinking, *Not that it’d help me; they don’t expect rubles around here. And the last thing I need is someone calling me a communist.*
Finally, she pulled out a sleek silver device, a digital timeline database the tech wizards at ACME’s lab had dreamed up. It glowed softly as she flipped open the screen. The device functioned by listing historical events from up to four days from wherever she found herself in time.
Anya smirked as the first alert scrolled across the screen: Oskaloosa, Iowa, had just become the first municipality in the U.S. to fingerprint all of its citizens. She flipped forward. The next day? Nothing. But on the third day, at 5:50 AM, the text flashed: *Ambush in Gibsland, Louisiana.* She frowned, not recognizing the significance.
“Chief, who’s Bonnie and who’s Clyde?” Anya asked aloud, her curiosity piqued as Chief appeared floating beside her.
He transformed into a caricature of a bank robber, complete with a fedora, his floating rifle aimed at a cartoonish bank teller in a playful retelling of the events.
“Their infamous criminal lovebirds, cop killers, bank robbers, Robin Hoods!” Chief exclaimed enthusiastically, gesturing dramatically.
Anya raised an eyebrow, intrigued but wary. “Sounds like quite the story. So, what’s the deal with them?”
“Ah, they’ve been on the run for years, capturing the public’s imagination,” Chief replied, his tone shifting to a mock-seriousness. “But in two days, they’ll meet their end in a little town called Gibsland. It’s gonna be a spectacle!”
Anya frowned, considering the implications. “We are in Gibsland.”
Chief's eyes widened. “Yikes. I don’t want to see that.”
Anya glanced around, the cheerful atmosphere of the small town now feeling strangely tense. “So, what should I do? Just pretend I didn’t hear anything?”
“Exactly! Just enjoy your time here,” Chief said, his tone lightening again. “You’re not involved in their story, so stay out of it. Focus on your ice skating and detective work. Leave the drama to them!”
“Right,” Anya replied, trying to shake off the unsettling thought. “Just another day in the life of a time-traveling detective.”
Meanwhile, deep in the woods along Highway 154, Laverna and Devlin crouched low, their hearts pounding with a mix of excitement and anxiety. They had crafted a daring plan to save Bonnie and Clyde, believing that, in return, the legendary outlaws might take them under their wing.
Laverna glanced at Devlin, her eyes bright with determination. “It’s simple,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We run out of the woods screaming, we need to shoot back as if trying to escape something. We need to be really bloody. When they stop, I’ll act like a girl on the run. Clyde won’t be able to resist helping us. He’s been hunted by the cops since he was our age.”
Devlin shifted nervously. “You really think he’ll see us as just kids?”
“Of course,” Laverna replied, confidence pouring from her. “I might not look much older than twelve. When Clyde sees me, he’ll see a vulnerable kid, and he’ll remember his own past. He has this instinct to protect anyone who reminds him of himself. Just like him, we’re caught in a world that doesn’t understand us.”
The sun dipped lower, casting shadows across their makeshift hideout, and Laverna felt a thrill at the thought of what was to come. They were more than just teenagers lost in time; they were about to turn the tide of their own stories by reaching out to legends. If Clyde chose to help them, it would be a ticket into a life of adventure and defiance against the very forces that pursued them.
She kept hanging up her communicator, knowing her godmother was absolutely furious. If Carmen wanted to punish them, she needed to come to ambush day herself. Laverna doubted that would happen; Carmen hated guns and everything that came with them.
“Just a heads up, you’re gonna have to shoot me,” Laverna sighed, making Devlin raise an eyebrow.
“What? No!” he protested.
“Bonnie and Clyde won’t believe police are firing ahead, unless one of us is shot,” she hissed, her green eyes narrowing. She was tougher when it came to pain; she knew being shot wasn’t fun.
“Fine, but where?” he asked reluctantly.
“My arm or leg—just avoid my torso and head. The shoulder's iffy,” she replied, making Devlin wonder if Laverna was a trained assassin. But she was only sixteen, so he doubted it.
“I’m only doing this because I love you,” Devlin sighed as he and Laverna strolled through the town of Gibsland. They needed to grab lunch and find a motel for the night, planning to finish setting up their scheme the following evening. They knew they had to be up before 5 a.m. on the 23rd, ready for the ambush that would change everything.
Anya sighed, “Nothing is picking up on the time abnormality scanner—well, outside of us.” She wondered if this was all a bust when the device lit up, showing two glowing humanoid figures walking into a cozy diner.
“I spoke too soon,” Anya said as she slipped her device into her backpack. She sneaked toward the pair, and Chief turned his screen invisible.
The diner’s bell rang loudly as Anya swung the door open a few minutes after her targets had entered.
