Special Agent | ✓

Fifty-Two

a/n: early update time! 

Fifty-Two

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There was something off about the archives of the Agency. After the entire organization had moved online, there was little to no activity in and around the rows upon rows of dusty books and files on one of the subterranean floors of the Knightsbridge HQ.

Simply calling it 'the basement' never sufficed, considering the basement was a behemoth structure in itself. Aside from the level housing the holding cells and interrogation offices, there were multiple levels beneath that which housed the outdated information from missions completed before the Agency had gotten eons better at storing things through their computers.

Vahid had been instrumental in that process, and almost symbolically chose to avoid the huge storage of files on account of being the one to put them there.

Lightly tracing the edge of the gun she'd brought along with her, a shiver ran along Vahid's back.

If O'Reilly could get away from her desk and survive, so can I.

As a direct result of the terrible lighting, Vahid was forced to squint at the metallic plaques declaring the numbers of each row. The rows, in turn, were divided into subsections which were numbered in accordance to the number of the overall row itself.

No wonder this was outdated, Vahid thought, stepping closer to the nearest metallic plaque. The carved numbers gleamed in the dim light: 120A-G. Row 120, sections A-G.

Vahid knew what she was looking for. The file in question, Op HLR, was supposed to be in Row 74, section C. Swivelling around, Vahid crept along the empty space between rows, anxiously shifting around to peer over her shoulder whenever she felt a ripple of unease drag its claws down her back. It was easy to imagine someone following you down here, a shape skulking around the tall rows of files, quiet enough so that you wouldn't suspect a thing.

Calm it, Eylem. You're the only one down here, at least for now.

Vahid glanced at her watch again, read the numbers. Her pace quickened, though she tried her best to keep her steps soft and quiet as she passed a dozen more rows, their edges lined with dust and untouched since what was probably the turn of the millenia.

Nose wrinkling at the heavy note of dust and grime in the air, Vahid continued along the row. The lights above seemed to grow dimmer at this part of the room, their yellow-ish light barely enough to make the metal plaques of each row legible. Vahid had to step even closer to each row, attempting to glean its number.

78F-X.

Vahid continued forward, counted four more rows, before she once more squinted at the plaque.

74D-Y.

Turning around, Vahid strode over to the opposite side of the empty aisle. Her heart stuttered, just once, as she read the plaque: 74A-C.

Most of the rows were unevenly split because the files related to each mission differed wildly. Some required thousands of hours of background research, which resulted in veritable piles of paperwork. Thus, the rows were split up into different parts, denoted by the letters beside the number declaring the row itself.

Time to prove myself, Vahid thought. Swallowing heavily, she squared her shoulders and tightened her grip on the gun before moving into the dark passage.

*

It was true.

The information given to them by Sarraf was true.