Caveship

16 || The Agency

The tiny cell Vincent had been relegated to was cold and grey, with no window out into the real world. The only luxuries afforded to him were a bed and a toilet; the former had a thin mattress that barely provided support against the springs of the bedframe, while the latter, though stainless steel, clearly hadn't been cleaned much since its installment. If one got too close, the smell of urine was obvious from it. A single light hung overhead, far out of reach even if he were to stand up on the bed and jump, an obvious precaution against ambitious prisoners.

The fact of the matter was that Vincent had no idea where he was. Not long after being incarcerated, he had been blindfolded and led to another place, likely somewhere he could be held and kept an eye on while the proper authorities investigated his actions. At least, that's what he assumed the case was. Since his arrival, it was tough to tell time. He could only judge how many days had passed by the meals he was given. Three square meals a day. So clearly, they hadn't intended to get rid of him. Someone wanted him alive. Even then, he still lost track of the days, because there was little to do but workout and sleep.

Then, one day, the door opened, awakening him from dozing off. At first, Vincent figured it was time to eat, and so he slowly sat up and waited to see what had been brought to him. Instead of the same person that came to give him food, another, stockier male entered the room. He was wearing a decorated military uniform, and his grizzled hair, crow's feet, and the bags under his eyes, showed proof of an experienced, though clearly exhausted military man. Whatever had been going on that Vincent had found himself involved in, it was clearly taking its toll on the oldtimer.

"Mr. Callahan," the man calls to him, a frown permanently plastered to his face. "Awake?"

"That was fast. I wasn't expecting the death penalty to clear so soon," Vincent quips, pushing his way to a stand, rubbing his eyes.

"They told me you were a wise guy," the man narrows his eyes, moving out of the doorway to allow Vincent to exit. "Come with me."

Deciding that the alternative is probably to be forced to go, Vincent stretches and slowly moves to leave the room. The man turns and motions for him to follow. Having been blindfolded for the entire trip there, all the way up to being shoved into his cell, this was all new to him. He quietly considers any hallways they pass, any doors that look unlocked. They only slow when they approach the opening to what looks like an empty community shower area.

"Go ahead and shower, give yourself a shave. All the things you'll require are in there," the man explains, thumbing toward the shower. "But we'll be watching you. Trust me when I say that you don't want to try anything. It won't reflect well on you."

Vincent glances into the showers, shrugs, and walks in. Disrobing from the generic clothing they'd given him instead of his hiking attire, he takes his time showering. The warm water is soothing, and with the soap and shampoo, he gradually starts to feel like a normal man than the greasy, dirty hobo they'd forced him to be over the past several days. Once he finishes, he crosses over to the one sink that had a razor and shaving cream set on it. Like the shower before it, he takes his time, though it's less because he's not eager to find out what happens next and more because the razor had only a single blade.

Once satisfied with the results in the mirror, he washes the shaving cream free of his face and sets the things down on the edge of the sink, moving back to the entrance to pick up a new set of clothes. Like the ones he'd discarded earlier to shower, they're just grey, nondescript. A generic suit of sorts for detainees. It was a struggle to even consider them clothes. The fabric they were made from was notably uncomfortable, and their only real use was simply to preserve his modesty.

Waiting patiently for him is the same man that had led him there. Wordlessly, he turns to continue to lead Vincent further down the winding hallways until they stop at a door. Much like the clothing, and the rest of the facilities for that matter, the door is nondescript and labeled only with the number '44'. The man digs out a key and unlocks it, allowing Vincent to enter. He pauses in the doorway, noting that the inside looks almost like a scene from a cop movie. The only things worth noting about the room are a metal table, a handful of chairs – one on one side, two on the other – a single light, and the dim red glow of an actively recording security camera in one of the corners barely lit by the room's one light.