Ficly

The Chronomechs

Lucian sat back at his desk and slowly pulled off his glasses. It had been a slow day and no one had ventured into his shop for the past two hours.
Rising from his chair the young man walked over to the door and looked out at the snow filled, Moscow street. Men and women rushed past him, heads bent down against the howling wind. The wooden sign above the door, which read LUCIAN TREVELYANS SHOP OF THE WONDERFUL AND MYSTICAL, swayed above him hypnotically. Even though it was ten minutes before six, Lucian decided to close early. As he reached out to pull the shade, an old man suddenly materialized from the swirling snow. Pushing the door to the shop violently open, the intruder looked around with wild, haunted eyes.
“May I be of service,” Lucian said professionally.
The old man leaned close the young man, his face only inches from Lucian’s, “It is I who may be of service to you.”
Lucian leaned back, trying ignore the smell of vodka and onions which emanated from the man.

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