I came in to my office an hour earlier than usual, to prepare, meditate, and fire-proof the building.
My first Clew that something was wrong was the noise of glass breaking that I heard just as I was turning the key in the outside lock.
It came, I fancied, from my office. I raced up the stairs, eschewing the teleporter. I do not, as some foolish persons apparently do, believe that the teleporter is cursed, soul-stealing, or inherently evil; nor do I subscribe to the Theory of the Gate, which posits a connection between Hugo Makewar’s first trip through time and the invention/inexplicable appearance of teleporting technology, and further hypothesizes that someday Things would come screaming through the Teleporters, howling for the blood of Man.
I did feel, however, that our Teleporter was in Poor Repair, and the stairs were faster and more reliable.
Further disturbing noises lent wings to my feet, and I arrived, winded but Not Dead, at my office door.
It was as I had expected: Hugo Makewar was already there. He held a pistol in one hand and a sword, the strange sigils in the blade shining red, in the other. He was standing in the center of the room, watching with satisfaction as something sank, dissolving, into my carpet.
The whole room was Decidedly Sticky, and Hugo himself was covered in blood.
“Don’t worry Doc!” said Hugo, turning and (inadvertently, I choose to believe) pointing his arsenal at me. “It isn’t my blood.”
I knew then, as I had not, perhaps, fully realized before, that Hugo was going to be a challenging patient.