Inconsistent Reality?

Peter mopped his brow again and squinted in the torchlight. He was supposed to be on the A303 , on his beautiful bike and probably exceeding the speed limit if the truth be known. Instead he was holding a drill, and sitting next to an unexploded bomb from the Second World War.

Even as far as he was concerned, the job he did was a job for a madman. In the same way that only firemen run into burning buildings, only bomb disposal experts crouch in cramped spaces next to a thing that could level a whole block, and then fiddle with it. Most people just get as far away from the damn things as they can; why did he get into this? He pushed away the recriminations and tried to concentrate; his team would be back with better lights soon, and they would want to know his thoughts.

He ran his hands along the cold metal looking, or rather feeling, for a casting seam that might give away which type of device it was or where it was made. There was none to be found; was it his imagination or did the casing feel too smooth?

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