by TheTimeTrust
Mandelovia City, Mandelovia, January 1, 2002:
Kristofer Schanz stepped out of the taxicab and found himself in the heart of the city. The plane ride had been more difficult than usual, of course, as since September 11th the security measures had been noticeably upgraded, and understandably so. It was difficult to explain the vial of Chance he had with him, since he kept it in an unmarked bottle that they at first assumed was alcohol. It was fortunate for him, he thought as he paid the taxi driver, that Dr. Quantos had written up all the paperwork for it beforehand and allowed it to be brought onto the plane with no further questions asked.
Schanz had attended several of Dr. Henry Quantos' lectures while in high school and university (when the esteemed scientist was still lecturing, that is) and had always found them not only valuable for information and insight, but uplifting as well. And when Schanz spoke with the good doctor after a couple of those lectures, he found the old Canadian-turned-Mandelovian to be very pleasant and helpful. Kristofer Schanz was also very pleasantly surprised to receive a note of congratulations from Dr. Quantos upon his appointment to his post at Lundgren Chemicals, one of the most prestigious chemical companies in Europe. He had only met the doctor twice, but Quantos had remembered his name!
Schanz knew Quantos had been working on some clandestine project for Malvan-X Corporation now, but he also knew that Quantos was one of the few men he could trust with the secret of his new serum, Chance. He needed advice on how to go about using it best for mankind (rather than for his own personal interest or for the betterment of one particular corporation), and Dr. Henry Quantos' name had popped into his mind immediately.
"'Ere, pal, could ya spare a dime?" some little drunken man said as he stepped into Schanz's path, "I been jinxed, b'y! Dem aliens 're lookin' fer me agin. Oh me nerves, de got me drove."
"Er, of course," Schanz replied, searching in his coat pocket around the flask of Chance for a few small bills. "All I have is a few Euros, would that be all right?" Mandelovia had been one of the few nations to keep its own currency upon the advent of this new year, 2002.
"Where you 'longs to?" the short man said, grabbing the bill.
"Uh... I'm from Sveri--er, Sweden," Schanz replied. "We don't use Euros either, but I don't suppose you have any use for Kronor?"
The diminutive drunk grunted and presented Schanz with a toothy grin. As Schanz walked away from him with a smile, the man grumbled under his breath, "Chucklehead..."
Kristofer Schanz continued to walk through the heart of Old Mandelovia, toward the Malvan-X building, enjoying the sights, sounds and smells. He had vacationed in Southern France and Italy and elsewhere on the southern coasts a few times while growing up, but somehow he had never made it here to Mandelovia. It was a beautiful, small country, despite its recent troubles. He hoped it would never change.
"Look out!"
Schanz turned around at the shout of the voice, only to see the headlights of a sports car head directly toward him at an extremely high rate of speed through this narrow, cobblestoned street. He was in the middle of the road. As the car bore down on him, Kristofer Schanz's last thoughts were, Shit! Why didn't I take a drop of Chance this morning?
The car struck him at a speed of ninety kilometres per hour, flinging him forward into the brick wall of a small restaurant, and then the car itself careened into a lamp post and spun completely over.
A small crowd of people rushed over to the sight of the accident; the two teenagers in the sports car were miraculously unharmed, but Kristofer Schanz's head and limbs were badly mangled; he was most assuredly dead.
"Shockin' dat is, shockin' b'y," a little, scruffy man said, feeling around for a pulse (or at least that's what people assumed). "Yer gone, me son."
The little man slipped away from the crowd with what appeared to be a flask of whiskey in his hand.