the long stretch of hall above the hanger.
“It’s called the Syncopate,” Rhett answered. “It’s interesting enough, but try not to ask too many questions.”
“Ah?” Burns murmured.
“You don’t want to know the cost I’ve had to bear for the answers,” Rhett warned, a sudden ominous tone entering his already deep voice. Burns caught the hint, and the rest of the walk was done in silence. A mysterious facility was exactly the sort of place he was trying to avoid. He could already feel the strings of an Intelligence plot being wrapped around him.
The long hall then ended as Rhett and Burns turned a corner and entered another section of purely-white walls and flat, closed doors. Only, these doors had a single, red number inscribed on them. Those numbers were the only discrepancy in the otherwise total uniformity of the hall.
The two walked for a short stint down this corridor before stopping at a door with a red number “15” inscribed onto it.
Rhett pushed a key code into the panel, and the door came hissing open. He then put his hand out to the side, kindly offering Burns to enter first. Burns bowed his head reluctantly and proceeded forward into the room. He didn’t like entering first when he was in company he didn’t trust, but he was still trying to be diplomatic.
A lone man sat at a table in this otherwise empty room, and he seemed to be passing the time by reading a book. He was of thin build and average height, his skin seemed pale, and he had immaculately styled short, blond hair. He put the book down as he heard the men enter. It was then that Burns noticed this man was young, about mid-twenties. He looked to be a part of Intelligence. Burns then became even more confused—they went through all the trouble transporting him from Altias, only to stuff him in a closet with a bookish agent?
Rhett stepped up from behind. “If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to another matter,” he interjected, giving a slight bow before he departed.
As the door hissed shut, Burns was left alone with the agent. He still felt horrible, so against his better judgment, he hobbled forward and sat across the table from the man.
The headache was really getting to him now, so he rubbed his head lightly. If one thing was for sure, he’d definitely made a mistake. He was supposed to stay strong, but he had folded and went along with Control’s plot. They got him when he was the weakest. He should have known better.
He thought the mission would make him feel better, but this facility was actively making him feel worse. It was massive and confusing. He decided the best solution would be to not think about it at all. Instead, he looked over at the man sitting across from him. He was quiet, unobtrusive. He simply sat, read his book, and didn’t ask for anyone to pay attention to him. Burns lightly smiled—this kid reminded him of himself when he was that young.
“Do you have a name?” Burns asked, interrupting the silence. The kid looked up from the page, putting the book down once more.
“It’s David Brosi,” he informed him. Burns was glad this wasn’t one of those antisocial agents.
“Pleasure to meet you, Brosi,” he returned. “I’m Ben Burns…although, I’m sure you already knew that,” Burns stammered, remembering that he was dealing with Intelligence here.
“You’re the Colonel, right?” Brosi asked, leaving Burns confused.
“The Colonel?” he restated. “I’ve never been a colonel.” It was true. The highest rank Burns had ever achieved was corporal.
“No, it’s propaganda,” Brosi informed him. “It’s not a real rank, just a title. Were you not fully briefed?” he asked.
Burns slightly tilted his head. “The most briefed I got was a half-bottle of wine,” he told him, feeling the effects of the alcohol surge as he said the words. “To be a colonel, wouldn’t that mean I need a team?” he asked.
Brosi gave a nod. “That’s me.
“It’s called the Syncopate,” Rhett answered. “It’s interesting enough, but try not to ask too many questions.”
“Ah?” Burns murmured.
“You don’t want to know the cost I’ve had to bear for the answers,” Rhett warned, a sudden ominous tone entering his already deep voice. Burns caught the hint, and the rest of the walk was done in silence. A mysterious facility was exactly the sort of place he was trying to avoid. He could already feel the strings of an Intelligence plot being wrapped around him.
The long hall then ended as Rhett and Burns turned a corner and entered another section of purely-white walls and flat, closed doors. Only, these doors had a single, red number inscribed on them. Those numbers were the only discrepancy in the otherwise total uniformity of the hall.
The two walked for a short stint down this corridor before stopping at a door with a red number “15” inscribed onto it.
Rhett pushed a key code into the panel, and the door came hissing open. He then put his hand out to the side, kindly offering Burns to enter first. Burns bowed his head reluctantly and proceeded forward into the room. He didn’t like entering first when he was in company he didn’t trust, but he was still trying to be diplomatic.
A lone man sat at a table in this otherwise empty room, and he seemed to be passing the time by reading a book. He was of thin build and average height, his skin seemed pale, and he had immaculately styled short, blond hair. He put the book down as he heard the men enter. It was then that Burns noticed this man was young, about mid-twenties. He looked to be a part of Intelligence. Burns then became even more confused—they went through all the trouble transporting him from Altias, only to stuff him in a closet with a bookish agent?
Rhett stepped up from behind. “If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to another matter,” he interjected, giving a slight bow before he departed.
As the door hissed shut, Burns was left alone with the agent. He still felt horrible, so against his better judgment, he hobbled forward and sat across the table from the man.
The headache was really getting to him now, so he rubbed his head lightly. If one thing was for sure, he’d definitely made a mistake. He was supposed to stay strong, but he had folded and went along with Control’s plot. They got him when he was the weakest. He should have known better.
He thought the mission would make him feel better, but this facility was actively making him feel worse. It was massive and confusing. He decided the best solution would be to not think about it at all. Instead, he looked over at the man sitting across from him. He was quiet, unobtrusive. He simply sat, read his book, and didn’t ask for anyone to pay attention to him. Burns lightly smiled—this kid reminded him of himself when he was that young.
“Do you have a name?” Burns asked, interrupting the silence. The kid looked up from the page, putting the book down once more.
“It’s David Brosi,” he informed him. Burns was glad this wasn’t one of those antisocial agents.
“Pleasure to meet you, Brosi,” he returned. “I’m Ben Burns…although, I’m sure you already knew that,” Burns stammered, remembering that he was dealing with Intelligence here.
“You’re the Colonel, right?” Brosi asked, leaving Burns confused.
“The Colonel?” he restated. “I’ve never been a colonel.” It was true. The highest rank Burns had ever achieved was corporal.
“No, it’s propaganda,” Brosi informed him. “It’s not a real rank, just a title. Were you not fully briefed?” he asked.
Burns slightly tilted his head. “The most briefed I got was a half-bottle of wine,” he told him, feeling the effects of the alcohol surge as he said the words. “To be a colonel, wouldn’t that mean I need a team?” he asked.
Brosi gave a nod. “That’s me.
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