Sunday, January 19th, 2014 - 3:32 PM PST - Secret Underground Bunker Thing - Secret Town, Mexico

Am I really being forced to wear the fucking mask and get up right now? When I'm in the presence of two people who likely oversaw my entire revival and know more about me on hand than I could hope to gain through dedicated years of trying to put the pieces together myself? Oh well, whatever. Whatever gets their fuckin' dicks hard so long as I don't have to jack them off. I pull the mask over my face and march with the Organizer down the sterile hallways of the bunker. I would surely be lost if I wasn't having my fucking hand held as we made our way though the utterly linear pathways that split this level into nice, neat little squares on this fucking grid layout.

I shake my hand until it falls out of his grip and take a couple steps away from him, turning my head to shoot him a pissed off look but then I feel the material of the mask pressing against my forehead, along with the rest of my face. Right, he can't see the look. Fuck it, I'm doing it anyway. He dismissively shakes his head and turns back to look where he's going, before realizing that he's about to run into one of the nameless employees seeming to spontaneously generate from behind corners; some brunette, early twenties, in a skirt about two inches too short to meet regulations, but I ain't about to be filing a complaint. I start to trudge behind, not paying attention to where I'm going (ogling the chick was way more important. Besides, even if she caught me, it wasn't like I was likely to see her again).

He then tugs on the fabric covering my shoulder to get me to speed up as we round a corner, which I hesitantly do as the chick leaves my line of sight.

"I need you to focus."

"I was focused."

"On the mission, smart alack."

Whatever. I roll my eyes as we continue on down the hall in complete silence for the remaining moments before reaching the door leading into the ever so familiar office of my supervisor. The ever present AI controlled scanner hanging above the thick metal door stared down at us, shooting its lasers at us for a few seconds before the cold, robotic voice spoke, thus breaking the silence:

"Access granted. Have a nice day!"

I would respond, but remembering the last time I did that, I decide instead to keep my mouth shut and shuffle quietly into the office.

As always, my Supervisor was seated, facing away from us. A trail of smoke floated above his head, and the room smelled heavily of a mix between tobacco and a dollar store air freshener that almost made me vomit up the flavorless grey block that The Organizer damn near forced down my throat on the way here. Swallowing hard, I manage to keep the chunk down while he taps the ashes of his cigar into a lightly used ashtray on his right.

"You're late." The first and only words out of his mouth, spoken in the same gravelly, vaguely synthetic voice that never ceased to unnerve me. Fussing with his tie, the Organizer stammers for a second, trying to form the most perfectly articulated response to the flat toned observation.

"We encountered-"

"I didn't ask why, did I?" he asked, raising one finger up into the air to cut his colleague off. "I was merely stating that you two are late."

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, before literally biting my tongue.

"Right sir, just thought some clarity would help-"

"You thought wrong."

"Very well, sir."

"This lovers' quarrel shit is entertaining alright, but I'm more concerned as to why you want me here than hearing you two go back and forth over what is and isn't important when it comes to why we weren't here two minutes ago when you expected us."

My Supervisor laughs, slapping his left hand against the arm of his chair. "Oh, so you're calling the shots now?"

"If I were, we'd be moving a lot faster, wouldn't we?"

"Why are you in such a hurry? I was under the impression that you weren't too fond of your current position."

"Yeah, well when I have a job to do, I fucking do it." That sentence felt weird coming out of my mouth. "Wait, how did you know that?"

His gloved fingers tighten their grip around the armrest. Finishing the drag of his cigar, he discards the ashes once more and blows another trail of smoke from his mouth.

"Oh, you know: black helicopters, (e)motion trackers hidden under your skin, maybe the fact that you called one of our agents to complain about your assignment."

"How do you know about that?" I stammer out, my body tensing up. My fingers tap spastically against my thigh as my heart pounds in my chest like a hammer hitting the Berlin Wall.

"I know everything, boy. And as it turns out, I'm not a fan of someone questioning my judgment."

"It won't happen again sir-"

"Cut the act. If you don't enjoy doing your job, you can always go back in your cell."

"Shit sir, I got it!" Not really, but I wasn't about to go back into that shit again.

"We'll see about that, now won't we? Take him away. Dismissed." The Organizer's hand falls on my shoulder as he leads me out of the office, down the same hallway we came from on our way back to the helipad on the surface. Once we're out of sight of the office however, he stops me and says simply:

"This is an important job you're doing." He's scowling; I assume being an asshole wasn't what I used to be, seeing as though he's seemingly shocked at my behavior. Hell, he knows me better than I do.

"So I've been told."

"Then start acting like it."

He takes his hand off my shoulder and we proceed down the hall. For some odd reason however, I can't shake the feeling that this situation won't be resolved so easily.

There's more to this, that I'm just not seeing now.