Reliant ~ [John Soap MacTavish]

VI. Reunited

The wind outside howls like a vengeful spirit as I push open the heavy door and step inside the towering industrial building. Its mournful cry echoes through the desolation of the night, amplifying the unease that gnaws at my senses.

I didn't come to this base, usually. This was more of his domain, as he sent me away three years ago. It was because of my stubbornness, and my lack of will to help him, I had reasoned. He had never said the words, though. He simply ordered me to be moved, without any explanation whatsoever.

My footsteps reverberate in the vast, dimly lit corridor, and I find myself enveloped in a shroud of eerie silence. The wind's chilling whispers are occasionally joined by the distant hum of generators and the creak of metal straining against the elements.

It still looks the exact fucking same since I was last here.

Cold. Dark. Unwelcoming.

The oppressive darkness clings to the walls, casting long, haunting shadows that seem to stretch out to me.

With each step, the temperature drops, and my breaths become visible puffs, forming a fleeting trail in the frigid air. The dim, grungy surroundings lend the place an aura of desolation, of secrets hidden away in the darkness. It's a place that feels far removed from the world I've briefly tasted freedom in.

As I approach the door I know all too well, it swings open with a faint groan, revealing the figure that waits beyond—Canmoore. His presence hasn't changed since I last saw him, but there's an unmistakable chill in the air, something off, something that sets my nerves on edge.

His cold, polished desk sits at the center, an imposing structure that feels like a throne. The man behind it regards me with a calculating gaze. It sends a shiver down my spine, not out of fear but pure, unbridled loathing.

His sharp, calculating eyes fix on me as I enter, and I can feel their weight, their scrutiny, though his expression remains unreadable, save for a subtle tension around the corners of his mouth.

"Alex... You're back," he remarks, his voice distant, almost detached. His practiced demeanor does little to mask the darkness that seems to seep from his very pores.

I swallow, fighting to maintain my composure despite the palpable sense of foreboding in the room. "Yes, sir. I apologize for my absence."

Canmoore leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "I trust you had a good reason for your little excursion."

Carefully choosing my words, I respond, aware that every utterance must be a piece of a puzzle that fits seamlessly. "On the day of the attack, I got caught in the chaos—the storm, the fires. My GPS was rendered useless. It took me a while to find my bearings and make my way back here. I lost my worker's card during the explosions."

There's something in Canmoore's eyes, a flicker too subtle to define, as if he's weighing my words against some hidden truth. "Lost in the chaos," he muses, his tone oddly calm. "A plausible explanation, I suppose."

Relief courses through me, though I'm far from letting my guard down. "I appreciate your understanding, sir."

His gaze, piercing and enigmatic, bores into mine, an uncomfortable silence stretching between us. Then, with a slow, calculated tone, he speaks again. "We'll have a new worker's card made for you. In the meantime, what do you think about our current predicament?"

This is my chance to delve deeper, to probe the heart of the matter. "With two of our production facilities destroyed, we need to reassess our strategy. The weapon production has been severely impacted, and we need to decide whether it's worth the risk to continue operations in different locations."