October 5th. Five days since his initial reconnaissance. And cold, bitterly so. Smithson’s hands shake as he fits them into some Bureau mandated gloves. They had a leather exterior, with the interior housing a soft white fluff which instantly warmed up his hands. Even so, Smithson’s hands remain shaking. He reaches down to his belt line and tightens the holster on his side, which now housed a spare storage space, which a Veritas Reader sat in. He takes it out, and switches it on, the 90s like green radar appearing on screen, with a numerical indicator on the bottom.

5V. Expected. Some techies set up some Veritas Stabilisers around the vicinity of the house, which helps bring the distortion down. But like all anomalies, it never hits zero, not at first anyways. He sighs, switches it off, and stores it back on his side. Then he stands. Waiting. Tapping his hands against his side, and looking. The house looked back, as if the windows blinked and the open maw in the wall where he stood was an open mouth. He felt like Jonah, about to be swallowed whole by the whale. Since when was he so…philosophical?

He thinks back to that night. The visions. The pain. Something within it all bothered him the most though. Weakness. A sudden vulnerability, out of his control. As if he was playing a video game, and the controller disconnected during a boss fight. A childish metaphor, he thought. It was that weakness that brought about the events of Songbird. What happened to James, to Jess. All of a sudden, through this flood of emotion, he realised that, after all these years, he had only started to think critically of all these events recently. They were somehow caged in his mind, and something triggered the door to be unlocked. No, he thought, the door has been fully blown from the hinges.

Not that it matters now, he thought. Right now, he stood before what could be the answer. The answer to it all.

Jess had woken him this morning. After last night's events, he imagined it would be some sort of notification of termination. He was a risk after all. Not even the meds could keep the episodes away anymore, one sudden seizure and that's it.

Vulnerability. Weakness.

He wasn’t an asset anymore. He was a liability.

Jess however, thought different:

Smithson,

Below you’ll see an updated briefing document. These changes are now permanent, and have been sent around to all staff employed on this operation.

That was it, a simple message. Below, an encrypted link for the new briefing. Upon scanning it, Smithson chuckled, setting his phone down, taking his pills, and arriving where he is now. Waiting.

“Hey.”

Behind him, walking at a quickened pace towards the maw in the wall, was Jess. She had donned her old EX uniform, a military-like vestment, with matching camouflage trousers, fitted with an obscene amount of pockets. On her side was a fitted holster, with a mandated colt .45, and Veritas reader. She looked tired, as did he, with her hair tied in a messy ponytail, and tinted glasses, which she placed upon her nose after arriving.

“Hey.” Smithson replied.

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The two stood for a few minutes, taking in the scene before them, both being either too nervous to speak, or letting the environment speak for them. Smithson breaks the silence.

“Took me up on my offer then?” He queries, putting on a faint smile.

“You made quite the compelling argument.” Jess replies. They both share a small laugh, before returning to silence.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? Just us two?” Smithson turns his head to face Jess, who stays staring stoically into the house. “I mean, maybe just one more person in case I, you know.”

“They put us here. You surely have figured that out?” Jess mentions, to which Smithson nodded

“I mean they didn’t make it not obvious, yeah.”

“So,” Jess continues, “we’re just giving the members the entertainment they wanted.”

Jess doesn’t move her gaze from the house. Fixated on the opening. She rubs her right arm.

“I still feel it, you know?” She states, “it was…effortless, like pulling a Christmas cracker. He just…pulled.”

“I know.” Smithson replies, “but that wasn’t James. Mentally anyway.”

“And if it was?” Jess’s voice quivers slightly, “I know what these fucking things are capable of doing to the mind but, but what if he just, accepted it? Fully mentally sound.”

Smithson pondered this question, but shook his head.

“No, not James. He was always too goddamn humble to accept any sort of…well, anything.”

Jess smiles.

“Yeah, true.”

Silence.

“Did you ever forget?” Smithson asks. “Like, one day you just woke up, ate, wrote documents and then realised that it's already 8:00PM and you haven’t thought about it all?”

Jess shakes her head.

“You don’t forget something like that. Not fully.”

Silence.

“I did.” Smithson said, laughing out of the pure insanity of it all. “I forgot. I forgot about James, about how he ripped your fucking arm off. How he almost killed me, How I lost my best friend to a group of singing children in some dingy fucking basement in the middle of Kent.”

Smithson continues, his ranting becoming more expressive, “and then suddenly, the same goddamn house appears, years later, and it all comes back. All of it. Not like some sort of traumatic memory that's buried, but as if, in my sleep, they were injected into me, and I woke up with it all in my head. How do you forget that? How do you forget about the one moment where your own weakness fucke-”

Smithson stops at the sight of Jess’s face, wrinkles of worry sprouting upon her face. He clears his throat.

“Sorry. This is all just…” He trails off.

“Insane.” Jess finishes.

Moments pass.

“We will get our answers, Smithson.” She encourages. “We both will.”

Smithson smiles, about to reply, before a sharp static hits both of their ears.

This is comms checking in. Green light, I repeat green light. Good luck agent, director.

Both reply with a stern copy, Smithson equipping his revolver, and Jess grabbing both the Colt .45 and Veritas Reader, flicking it on, and clicking the safety off.

This was it.

“You really think James is still in there?” Jess queried. Smithson didn’t know if she meant in the literal sense, or mentally.

He smiled, cocking his revolver and taking the first step.

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, or a Hell of Heaven.”