Sorry, it wasn’t meant to be like this. I was just walking innocently in the streets without any previous wrongdoings. Ok, maybe I might’ve shouted at my grandnephew for breaking my cane last week, but... not anything enough to bring me to this state. I accidentally stepped on a manhole cover for too long. Just a bit too long. Then it wobbled and spun and rocked around like garbage bin lid. The next thing I know I was descending into deep, deep darkness with obnoxious sneering from the spinning daylight above.

Sirens buzz and bells screech as I further plunges into the eternity of blackness under.

People smaller than children waddle around the dim cavity. Silvery shafts of glimmer ricochet off the curiously pentagonal walls, trailing hints of brilliance. Plethora of shocking colours and myriads of splendid glow whizzes and leaps. Clear-cut geometric entities bounce and jiggle, bubbles rolling on the floor with kiddy ecstasy. A track of dumbbells lead to a child-human with a bright orange hi-viz suit, gliding up and down metre-high blocks, sweat reflecting against his dark complexion. Another child-human, in the corner, scrutinizes clinking vials of flowing rainbow and squeaking ampules of swirling metallic vapour. Bottled puffs of sparkling dust hides itself bashfully behind aurated flasks of valiant concoctions, spewing gas rings in rhythm.

Oh. I get it. I always thought that these only exist in fantasies. But as it turns out, secret agencies do exist. The closest monstrosity was nothing but a restful closet for disguise, home of thousands of suits, glasses, dyes, wigs, shoes, anything. The clothing twirl around their hushed owners, wrapping up those child-humans seamlessly and packaging them into anything but themselves. Not far away is the buzzing dexterity and adeptness center, comprising of the nimblest humans darting around makeshift corners and flying above obstacle paths. Further into the cavity, the weaponry station is the one to be awed at, where roaring flamethrowers, aerating pistols, and snoring tasers meet maximum adroitness and skill.

An unanticipated frigidity caresses my back. Another child-human, all cupcake-like fluffed and puffed up, pirouettes in front of a mirror with incredulous speed and agility. The baby-pink faux Sherpa on her exudes aromas of glittered marshmallows as she halts swiftly, eyeing me with kittenish blinks and an innocuous tilt of the head.

“Great grandma disguise! Good use of the phlegm and drool and the gait is flawless,” she giggles. “ooh, teach me that stance. I might become a golden-ager next mission, those work better with aged suspects.”

“Sorry?” our differences obviously doesn’t come clear to her, but nevertheless, that was definitely too insulting.

“Wow, spot on croak.” She winks in a way that ninja stars literally ping out of her. “You got to teach me that.”

Then I was left staring into the barrel of her firearm for what felt like a century.