In an enclosed, cubicle-like accommodation, Smithson sat at a fold out metal table, of which he had made use of as a desk. The tapping of his pen against the metallic surface rang out through the quiet space. He had made a habit out of tapping and twitching when deep in thought, an action which he detested, but put up with over the years. It was a reflex, a reaction to when he delved too deep in information and memories, such as now. In front of him lay the briefing which Jess had read out to the staff, including him. He had stood in the doorway, nodding and listening as each point was crossed, with breaks in sentences for Jess to confer with the crowd of Techies and miscellaneous employees, in case they had any questions. No one did.

But he did.

He kept these questions to himself. They served no purpose to ask in front of the crowd. Jess would understand them of course. The probability that she was inside one of these metallic cabins mulling over the same information was practically one hundred percent. But the reason why for both of them deviated slightly, but both started in the same place.

Smithson swiftly moved the briefing to the side, grabbing his laptop from the other side of the desk. After a few moments of booting up, encrypting, and searching, Smithson lay his eyes upon the BDoA file for Operation Songbird. Upon looking, a small but present pain crept up and nestled within the base of his forehead, causing him to wince slightly, reaching his hand to his face and rubbing gently. Within him was a small amount of hesitation, a mental block in the form of doubt. He began to question his actions. What exactly was he searching for here? He had made a vow to himself to never touch this document, but why? And why now does he have a small hint of curiosity to pursue past this block?

A deep sigh, followed by a quick clench of his hands, led him to the post operation interview. He listened to the log. Then he did it again. And again. The small pain in his forehead had quickly spread to cover his entire head, as if a jackhammer had begun to dig a crater into his skull. He listened again. Every subtle cadence, each fidget, the outrage.

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Then it hit him. It had been redacted from the log, but the relevance of what must have been said can’t be understated. He knew who was interviewing him. He knew a member of the Bureau.

This couldn’t be. A mathematical impossibility. The members are covered in layers of encryption, lies and deceit. It's known among EX agents that each member had been an EX beforehand, but no amount of digging into the database will uncover any amount of information regarding this. They knew the company, in and out, and also knew how to evade detection. But Smithson found out.

So why can’t he remember?

Smithson jolts in pure agony as he collapses from his chair onto the flooring. The pain grew into a splitting sensation, and he could taste blood entering his mouth from his now running nose.

Shit shit shit, the time.

His arms now heavy, he swung them onto the desk, and scurried for his phone. He grabbed it tightly, and lifted the glowing screen to his eyes.

3:32AM.

What?

Another wave of pain, unbearable to withstand. Smithson grasped onto his phone tightly, the screen itself beginning to show cracks. His hands shaking, he used his strength to open up his contacts, and called on-staff emergency services.

“Its Smithson..I, fuck, not good…need help.”

His phone fell out of his hands as he began to seize up. This was beyond pain. Clenching his eyes closed, he was approached by sudden on-set hallucinations.

A choir.

An outstretched arm.

A strange man in a black suit.

A lab.

And James, his mouth moving.

Wake up, my little songbird.

Smithson passed out.