Hunting Wolfe

Mini

Caydon's hand turns the doorknob with a quiet click, allowing us entry into yet another corridor that seems to echo our earlier paths. Beneath our feet, the polished floors gleam, mirroring the harsh, unyielding fluorescence that dangles overhead, its light sterile and unwelcoming. Door after identical door lines the expanse, each adorned with names that flicker past us, none revealing Darlona's presence. Doubt creeps in with silent steps, whispering of an eternal maze within these walls. Just as the thought tightens its grip, a door swings wide in the near distance, its sudden motion halting us.

The door creaks gently on its hinges, a soft introduction to the imposing human figure outlined against the dim light of the corridor. Shadows embrace the creases of his camouflage uniform, murmuring stories of rigid discipline and meticulous steps with each deliberate shuffle. The harsh fluorescent lights toy with the strands of his perfectly groomed hair, highlighting a defiant streak of gray that snakes through his dark hair like a silvery stream—each strand a mute testament to his rich history. His eyes, keen and perceptive, momentarily reveal a flicker of astonishment as they scan the hallway, swiftly concealed by a veil of stoic calm that settles on his face with ease.

"What are you doing here? This place is strictly of limits to civilians!" He thunders.

I jump, unnerved by this musclebound man. "I... uh... we... were just..."

"Out with it already!"

"I just..." Ugh! I'm so frustrated and annoyed that I can't even form a complete sentence.

"Do you work here?" the man asks.

"Well... uh..."

"Then leave!"

"My name is Caydon." Caydon says, stepping forward. "I'm a member of the Prophets of Al-Jean. Perhaps you've heard of us?"

"No, I haven't heard of you, and quite frankly I could care less. This corridor is off limits to civilians, and that includes the prophets of whosy whatsy. Now turn back around, take the twentieth door to your left, turn right, and head straight for the elevator!" the man barks.

Aceon steps forward, this time. "My name is Aceon, member of the Copaie International Armed Services." Recognition briefly flutters across the man's face. "I'm with the 175th regiment. This woman here," he motions behind himself, to me. "is looking for her brother. He went MIA three years ago, and she just now got the finances to go looking for him." The man stands still with his arms folded, listening intently. "We were hoping to find the planet he was sent to after leaving here."

The man rubs his clean-shaven chin. "Hm. Ordinarily I wouldn't pass such information on to civilians, due to the dangerous nature of most postings. But, for a member of the CIAS, I would be honored."

Relief floods my veins. We are going to finally get information about Wolfe!

"I'm familiar with most of the recruits who've departed from this station; my memory is exceptionally long. What's his name?"

"Wolfe Johnson."

"Johnson... Johnson... Wolfe... tall fellow, about this high?"

He gestures with his hand to indicate shoulder height.

"That's right."

"Dark hair and eyes?"

"Correct."

"Ah, yes, I recall him. You're looking for Darlona. She's just five doors down on your right," he says, thumbing over his shoulder. "She's the one with the details you need." We turn and make our way in that direction. "654631!" he shouts after us.

What does that mean? I stop and turn back to the man, but he's already disappeared back through one of the doors. He's definitely a strange one. Of course, the whole day has been odd.