Compared to the outside, the innards of the house hadn't faced the sort of decay its foundations had. Upon stepping through the maw which had opened up the eastern wall, both Smithson and Jess were faced with an environment they had onced tackled, but in a much organised fashion. The broken wall belonged to the dining area of the house, of which, during Operation Songbird, was completely devastated, covered in growths of black mould. These infected clumps gathered in groups around the corners of the room, where settlers of their civilization had dotted up and round the surrounding walls, tearing through the wallpaper. Now however, the dining room had a cleansing shine to it. Furniture once infested with termites showed no holes or scratching, instead, having been lined with some sort of oil, gave spotlight to every grain in its structure. The cracked floorboards were restored to a beautiful dark brown shade, and the wallpaper had been dipped in saturation, with beautiful red rose petals dotting the patterning.
Jess walks a few more steps, before a light crunch from beneath her causes her to stop and look down. Lifting her shoe, she notices a now broken piece of the destroyed wall, rotted. She takes a deep sigh, rubbing her arm before walking beside Smithson. She notices his expression. Deep. Lost in thought. No, she thought, memories, but not like her. She had mastered the waves that these memories created, creating nothing but ripples. But for Smithson, this sudden flood of information he had once lost, had begun to crash over him.
He never enjoyed admitting when he felt vulnerable, so he just stood, a stoic like expression, trying to swim against the sudden current.
Jess began to reach her hand out to him.
"Give me the Veritas reading Jess."
Her hand halted halfway from his shoulder, hovering in the air. She slowly pulled her hand away, flicking on the Veritas reader she held in the other.
"We've shot up to 12V." She states.
Smithson pinches at the bridge of his nose. Jess notices his hand, clenching and shaking, before slowly releasing whatever energy it held.
"To be expected, I mean look at this place. Pretty much brand new."
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Saying this, Smithson treads over towards the dining table. Though the floorboards looked brand new, each step gave the impression of an imminent collapse, as if the house was waiting, a predator, stalking its prey before opening up and engulfing them both.
The thought which occupied the front of Smithson's mind however, was the lone plate and cutlery idly waiting at the far end of the table.
"You two ok in there?" A sharp shot of static pierced the ears of Smithson. It rang out through his skull, and reverberated off the walls of the house. He stumbles, grabbing at his face, and placing his other hand upon the wooden table for stability. In that moment, the tip of his middle finger gently pressed against the metallic fork, producing a sudden shock through his system, bringing him to his knees. He winces through gritted teeth, clenching his eyes shut.
***
A man sits at the end of the table. Thin. His muscles protrude through his skin, which is pale white. His hands hold the knife and fork beside the plate, which has the remains of food upon it. His fingernails are grotesquely long, yellowed and cracked, and his hair is thinning. On his face is a bird-like mask.
In front of him, stands a taller man. Unlike the others, he is stocky and well built. Upon him is a camo long sleeved shirt, overtop a thick vestment of kevlar. An embroidered logo sits on the right sleeve, a darkened, bold 'B', entrapped within two squares, slightly overlapping.
This was the Bureau logo.
This was James.
He looks out towards the campsite, his face relaxed, periodically wrinkling as he places a lit cigarette in his mouth, pursing his lips and blowing the smoke out.
"And they can't see us here?" James turns towards the masked man, who looks up, shakes his head, and looks back down at his plate. James sighs, muttering "not much of a talker are you" to himself, before turning back towards the campsite, not focusing on any particular area, but just staring at the site as a whole.
He remembers the site during his last operation. The bustle of staff, the bundles of multi-coloured wires lining the site. And his quarters, right by Smithson and Jess. The Dynamic Duo. Back then anyways.
He would feel guilty about their marriage if he was truly at fault. Jess probably believes that his disappearance led to their sudden split. Smithson...He doesn't know what Smithson thinks. His brain must be frying under the sudden surge of memories.
A sudden choir begins to sing from the basement. The masked man stands, placing his knife and fork gently back down by the sides of the plate, and gestures towards the basement door.
James pauses, sighs out a cloud of smoke, and throws the cigarette bud under the table.
"And this will show me to him? No bullshit?"
The masked man nods.
From the other side of the table, another mask lay awaiting James. He reaches for it, placing it gently upon his head.
"Time for my little songbird to wake up."
***