â this is your bodyguard for the next little while, agent brendon urie. â
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â
ðððððððð ððððððð ðððððð.
ððð ðð ððð ððð, ððð-ðððð.
ðððð ððð ðð ððð...
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"MY GOD," BRENDON MURMURED AS HE LIFTED UP ONE OF THE PHOTOCOPIED BLUEPRINT PAGES, HIS EYES HUNGRILY SCANNING EVERY DETAIL ETCHED UPON IT. "Is this... I mean," he scoffed, not even knowing what to say, "are they actually planning on doing this?"
"Afraid so," The Director confirmed, rhythmically tapping his fingers against his glass desk.
"Fucking hell," Brendon shook his head disbelievingly, seemingly unapologetic in the language he used to display his astonishment, "When you told me that they were planning on using 'Snowflake' to produce weapons, I didn't think that meant..."
"I know."
"And I didn't think they'd..."
"I know," Fury repeated, a tiny chuckle escaping his lips, "Believe me, I know."
Brendon lifted his gaze from the paper to meet that of The Director's. He swallowed hard before asking his question.
"What do we do?"
"The only thing we can do. The thing we've been doing all along."
"Protecting her is all well and good, sir," came Brendon's response; he raised his brows and shook the page, "but we need to do something to prevent this."
Fury's one visible eye narrowed as he walked over to stand in front of Brendon. "I've been doing things to prevent this for the past twenty-two years, Agent," he jeered, voice as stern and hard as ever, "But there's only so much preventing that can be done before the shit inevitably hits the fan."
