A few days prior

Mr Smith turned over to look at the man snoring next to him as he sat down. He had always wondered how people were able to sleep on planes. Probably the sense of safety he broods, that when one flies in a metal tube so far up in the sky they were basically untouchable.

"Hah tell that to the passengers of United flight 175." Mr. Smith chuckles to himself before sinking deep into his seat.

Human psychology had always been a keen interest of Mr Smith since young. Maybe it was a byproduct of living on a farm in the Midwest where, the rarity of meeting people had, ironically enough, made him even more interested in them. Or maybe he was always an analytical son of a bitch and his upbringing only exacerbated it.

Typical Chicken and the egg problem. Whichever comes first, ponders Mr Smith, briefly, before quickly shaking aside these though. While thoughts like these were beneficial in jogging one's mental faculties, it could very easily trap one in an endless cycle of questioning and self doubt. A cycle has been plaguing Mr Smith's mental landscape as of late and wished not to perpetuate. As such, he quickly shifted his focus to the item at hand, a paper bag given to him by Interpol B, the very same bag he, without even batting an eye, tore open to reveal an hourglass.

At first glance, the hourglass itself didn't seem very special, in fact, it seemed rather cheap. An assumption confirmed by the dull thud Mr Smith heard on tapping the transparent material. The insides too did little to dispel this impression of normalcy, containing what one would expect from an hourglass. Sand.

It was only when he turned it over did his first impression proves to be erroneous. On the base of the hourglass, there were the words property of CERN written neatly in bold letters. Furthermore, when flipped over, it also revealed a small touch screen embedded into the top. Displayed on it were various numbers reading different variations of the word null and a large space in the middle stating ENERGY LOST UNDETERMINED.

When placed upright by a curious Mr Smith, the numbers immediately came to life, rapidly shifting around before finally stopping on one single value just as the last bead of sand dropped into the bottom half of the hourglass. In the display, it reads ENERGY LOST MINIMAL.

Mr Smith smirked. So this is what all the fuss is about, lost energy? Management must be losing their mind. It was only when he read the transcript did the smirk on his slowly fade to one of grim realization. He should have known that lost energy wasn't really the only reason for his trip. After all, Interpol B wouldn't have sent their best, or at least was, to some far-off country Asian country if there wasn't a lot at stake. But then again, it might just be him getting ahead of himself.

Interpol B was the name of the organisation he worked for. Officially, it was supposed to just another Interpol subdivision. An inevitable byproduct of the bloated bureaucratic mess that was itself. In reality, it was a section created specifically to leverage on the wealth of contacts that Interpol had accumulated over the years. Their purpose, to perform Interpol could never get officially authorise for good reasons. Their mission, to actively push forward the social boundaries of humanity to bring about the society of tomorrow, supposedly, or if that justification wasn't available, whatever the bigwigs at the EU wanted.

Operators assigned to this unit were bounded by secrecy and trained to be the creme of the crop. They were meant to be phantoms by day and demons by night, striking hard on whatever Interpol deemed warranted and leaving an equally big impact in its wake before disappearing without a trace.

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Mr Smith was one such operative trained for such missions, and he was good, very good.

In his 15 year of service for Interpol B he has yet to fail the agency even once, suceeding despite the odds time and time again. Actions like this eventually cemented Mr Smith as one of the agency's finest leading him to be personally lauded by his superiors and even head of states many times over, ableit unofficially.

Yet he knew, as much as he didn't want to admit it, that he was getting old. He wasn't some spring chicken ready to hunt drug lords in Bolivia or fight bush wars in the Congo at the drop of the hat. He was an aging agent. A liability. There was no chance in hell Interpol B would send an agent like him that got weaker by the day when they had a whole pools of agents that faster stronger younger.

Mr Smith let out a frustrated sigh. He had always wondered how different life would have been if he had just stayed on his farm, tilling away on his 40-acres farmyard till his hair grew white and his hands grew course. Maybe even with a wife and a few kids by his side. He always did hold feelings towards the barmaid's daughter, however fleeting.

But alas, the young and hot blooded him took one look at a stray Interpol poster and resolved that he needed to join it to see the world as the poster promised to escape his mundane farming life! And so young, young Mr Smith unfortunately decided to ,fresh out of college, travel to New York City to sign up to Interpol in person to sign up for Interpol much to the chagrin of his parents.

He didn't care though, this was but a means to an end. Once he joined, he knew he would be finally free from the shackles of tedious farm life and ready to experience the world as he rightfully should have! In hindsight it seemed he did get what he wished for, he did get to see the world, all sides of it, regrettably.

A regret that he will be, in some bitter irony, able to soon resolve. He knew with age, the days of his freedom were now numbered. Soon he would be pushed out of active duty and 'recommended' for desk jobs in some obscure Interpol branch, living the rest of his life endlessly doing boring tedious paperwork not too similar to work which he had once sought to escape from.

As he immersed himself in his thoughts, he subconsciously turned to look at the window, his eyes looking out of it forlornly. To the untrained eye, he may look like just another mid 40s man admiring the city below as the plane starts its slow descent. Possibly even reminiscing some old flame that he once had. But for Mr Smith, all he could see was a haggard old man staring back at him, dark eye circles and wrinkled face. A shadow of his younger self.

These negative thoughts were thankfully punctured by a loud thump and a sharp skid as the plane ground to a halt. Over the softening whir of the plane's engine, the intercom sprouted to life. A young lady in her early 20s then says in clear perfect English, " Welcome to Singapore ladies and gentlemen....thank you for flying onboard SQ115, we hope you enjoy your stay in Singapore!"

While the stewardess was talking, Mr Smith mind went to work. If this was going to be his last hurrah, he might as well end it with a bang and not a whimper like many of his colleagues have. Mentally he had already laid out a rough plan on how he was to accomplish his task and had even begun compiling a mental list of people he needed to visit, things he needed to do etcetera.

Who knows? Maybe the agency would be so impressed by his work that they'd put off desk work for a couple more years. He smiled at the thought and for that split second, he could feel the old him come back to him. The one driven by a passion, by yearning and most importantly by passion, passion for his job. Charged up by these yesteryear emotions , Mr. Smith grabbed his things and agilely leapt out of his seat and swiftly headed towards the exit, eager to start his mission. All the while ignoring the cries of his fellow passengers as he casually shoved them out of the way.

In his mind, he knew he had long past the point of no return. He was all in now and whatever obstacles the mission threw at him, he was ready to take them head on.

No matter the cost.