What Color am I wearing?

3

We stopped half past 4 in the afternoon. The black honda civic slides its wheels at the teeth of the yellow-painted stopper. We got out one-by-one, first Morgan and lastly me.

"Sure brings back a lot of memories isn't it?" Morgan pats me on my shoulders as I look up the 3 storey building covered with red bricks and a motion-sensing glass door, glazed black to make sure of the privacy within the premises. A man stood on guard by the entrance, with him is a small pistol, a 45 i pressume.

"It sure does" i smiled.
I took a deep breath, still looking up and admiring the facility I once walked in carelessly. Though I wasn't an official field agent, I was respected among the elites that whenever I was called for an outside consultation, I dont need to flash an identification or get a visitor's badge to enter.

"Thompson will be in his office as usual" Morgan spoke as he glanced at me.
"So its him huh? No wonder you can't go elsewhere with this" I tried to hide my smile.
"Well, he is still the scumbag he used to be 10 years ago"
"What a surprise that is!" I let out a cry of laughter.

We proceed to the entrance, Special Agent Morgan and Special Agent Anna (at least thats what he calls her) flashed their badge at the security. Morgan got me a visitor's badge and after a lot of frisking we finally got the go signal to enter the headquarters.

Nothing has changed that much since I last strolled here. Same partitions and carpet, though; the frames, covers and furnitures were rearranged, the pathways were the same. Paints were changed from lavender to a sky blue one to probably make it more appealing and let the room have that extension illusion. This takes me back days when I used to push myself backwards using both of my feet, riding the office chair to transfer from one, to another, like a child playing with his newly found balikbayan package. Sometimes before I get into my thinking box, I'll visit my co-workers to greet them a happy morning or hand them some brochures I made containing the funniest meme I saw the other day, just to brighten up their moods. After all, we have one of the most stressful, if not THE MOST stressful job on earth.

I stopped at a certain spot, 2nd floor, H-4. I gazed at the newly varnished wall and a painting of "the scream" by Van Gogh. A woman wearing a blue shirt and a black jeans looked at me as I was staring blankly at the painting.

"May I help you?" She asked.
"Oh no.. No.. I was just admiring the painting and your office"
"Thank you" she smiled back at me.

"Let it go" Dowson suddenly appeared behind me, comforting me with his small pats on my back.
"It was never your fault that Mi-"
"Stop it Dowson" I interrupted, looking at him in the process.
"I know its been years, I know it more than you do" I added, with a tint of vain in my words.
"Okay, okay... Just dont dwell on it too much.."

I looked on the painting one last time. Everything sure is different, but I am thankful that the area of the office and that masterpiece she used to make fun with was retained and well taken care of.

"Brooks, lets meet him now" Morgan uttered.
"Thompson is waiting, Carmen just confirmed it to me" Anna batted an eye to Morgan.
"Get your shields up, you and I both know this won't be good" Morgan warned before we took the stairs.
I smiled a little but the stinging pain of the memories I rekindled awhile ago left me scarred for a moment. Still, I took another deep breath as we ascend the stairs.

"They're here" a woman punched in on a wired phone connected to Thompson's office. Her name is Carmen, according to her name tag. Apparently shes new and I can see how perfect she is for the prick that we will be meeting. Shes silent, looks like she'll never complain even if she was burnt to crisp alive, and those eyes looked like she had been staring in the abyss all her life.

The glass panel opened, we entered Thompson's office cautiously.
"Be careful, there might be bombs there, or a tripwire... He hates you so much brooks" Dowson jokes.

At the 4x4 glass-covered office, a rectangular wooden table welcomed us along with office chairs neatly arranged almost 12 inches away from each other. On the other side was Head Director "Fritz" Thompson, gazing at us like a wild wolf ready to pounce at any given time. His elbows, connected to the table, his hands clasped together, probably saying "alright, we got meat here folks" and anything within that field of speech. Beside him were two research analyst, pens ready, notes open.

Thompson laid back a little and gestures his hand to let us take a seat, he then said in a sarcastic manner "How long has it been since the long gone director's favorite son, stepped in here?"

The prick grinned.