8.3
From the outside, the Department of Paranormal Research looks like an abandoned textile mill, close to the edge of town. A large wire fence with a NO TRESSPASSING sign encircles it, and a special code is required to get through the gatehouse, which stands empty, any previous guards replaced by a simple keypad of numbers. Austin knows there’s a parking structure cleverly tucked inside one of the old buildings on the DPR campus, but August pulls his car up to the front doors instead, throwing it into park.
“Good luck,” he says, not insincerely.
Austin grunts a response and undoes his seatbelt, sliding out of the car.
The interior of the DPR is a stark contrast to the crumbling brick of its exterior, with white walls and seamless, white vinyl floors that reflect the ceiling’s strips of fluorescent lights. The lobby is vast, with the Department’s logo embossed into the floor, and a large display on one wall that holds a plaque for every agent lost in the field. Austin knows that Richard’s name is on there somewhere, but he doesn’t stop to look for it, moving with purpose towards the secretarial desk at the far end of the room.
The secretarial desk is flanked by a large, open archway and a staircase, one leading back into the cafeteria, and the other leading up to the offices. Austin remembers that much, at least, from the times he’s been here before. The secretary at the desk, a woman with bright orange hair, looks up at the sound of Austin’s boots stomping their way across the lobby. Her name tag reads JANE, the letters just barely legible underneath the stickers plastered to it.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“Yeah,” Austin says, “I’m here to see Cillian.”
“Oh!” Jane looks surprised. Austin gets the feeling that he doesn’t exactly fit the usual demographic of people Cillian has meetings with. She glances over at the computer monitor sitting slightly off to her side, clicking her mouse a few times. “Are you his two o’clock appointment?”
Austin shrugs. “Probably?”
Jane seems satisfied with the answer, somehow, and picks up the phone behind the desk, pressing a four-digit number into the keypad. She cradles the receiver between her shoulder and her ear, her jaw working in small, repetitive motions. Austin can’t quite comprehend the action until Jane winks at him and blows the biggest bubblegum bubble he’s ever witnessed, popping it quickly between her teeth.
“Director Hume?” she says into the phone. “Your two o’clock is here. Should I send him up?”
She waits a few seconds for an answer, then nods at Austin and gestures towards the stairs.
“He’s straight back and to the left,” she calls after him.
Austin ascends to find himself on a floor that could have been cut-and-pasted from any office building in the world - or any movie set facsimile of one, even. Rows of cubicles, each staffed by an agent, interns rushing back and forth with paperwork and coffee. Straight back, as Jane directed, are a line of conference rooms and private offices, each with windows that look out onto the main floor. The blinds of most are drawn, save for the one to the far left, in which Austin can see Cillian behind a large desk, typing furiously at a computer.
Well, someone’s got to run the place while Jacob’s away. Austin places a hand on the office door, and lingers for a second before opening it. It feels surreal to be back here, at the DPR. He’s never entered the building as an agent before - he ran away before that could happen. What if they try to convince me to stay?
He shakes the thought off - he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it - and pushes the door open. Cillian looks up, running a hand through his hair and pushing it back from his forehead.
“How was Jacob?”
“Feeling better,” Austin says. There’s a chair directly across from Cillian’s desk, but he opts to throw himself down on the leather couch pushed against one wall, sitting with his legs spread and his back sunk down into the cushions.
Cillian makes a noise of dissent, but moves on without commenting. “And your father?”
“Oh, he was there.” Austin tips his head back, resting it on the back of the couch and staring up at the ceiling. “He said Abbott was fired for unethical experiments on children. He killed a bunch of them, and lied to the Department about it. They didn’t find out until Abbott wanted to mind wipe the survivors.”
“Jesus,” Cillian says, hoarse and horrified. “And then he went and became a teacher?”
“He used the underground labs for some drug test for a while,” Austin says. “After the DPR sealed them up. I guess whatever he was trying to do fell through, because he left. Jacob says the labs got turned into the Underground after that.”
Cillian doesn’t reply for some time, but he begins to type again, the sound of clicking keys filling the room. Austin picks up his head to watch, wondering if he should interrupt, but deciding against it. Eventually, Cillian glances up, over the frames of his glasses, as if just remembering that Austin is still in the room with him.
“You said Abbott was involved with a drug test? In the Underground?”
“I think it was before the Underground was a thing, but…yeah.” Austin frowns. Where is he going with this?
“It’s entirely probable that Abbott would choose to seek sanctuary there, given his history with it,” Cillian says. “Especially considering the fact that some of the people who worked on the drug trial with him still live there.”
“What?” Austin sits up much straighter, his heart thudding in his chest. Can it really be that easy? “How do you know?”
“While you were gone, Jacob found some notes of your father’s, detailing a criminal rehabilitation program that the DPR never put into practice after his death.” Cillian stands from his desk, straightening his tie. “We thought it would be worth testing out, offering the people we have in detainment the option to work as an agent in exchange for more privileges, proper wages, sometimes a reduced sentence.”
“Does it work?” Austin asks, also getting to his feet.
“Surprisingly well.” Cillian pushes his chair in and picks up the phone next to his desk, punching a number in and waiting only a few seconds before speaking into the receiver. “Agent Warcrest? I need you to meet me on Sub-level One.”
Cillian hangs up the phone without giving Agent Warcrest an opportunity to answer, and breezes out of the office. Austin catches up with him in the hall, struggling to match his brisk pace as he leaves the room of cubicles and closes in on a bank of elevators in the hall outside.
“Wait,” Austin says, catching his breath as Cillian calls up the elevator. “You think one of these criminals knows something about Abbott?”
“I’m almost certain of it,” Cillian says. The elevator doors slide open, and he stands aside, letting Austin enter first. “Only one of the agents in the rehabilitation program is a former member of the Underground. I remembered reading something about involvement in a drug trial while looking over the interviews for potential candidates for rehabilitation - same agent.” He steps inside the elevator, swiping his badge on a scanner mounted near the doors, and pressing a button for a floor marked S1. “Agent 013. We classify the names of the criminals in the rehabilitation program - I’m sure you could imagine the PR disaster it would be otherwise. And they’re all assigned handlers from within a pool of regular agents who volunteer. Agent Warcrest is one of those.”
“So you think this…Agent 013 worked under Abbott?” Austin asks. The elevator rattles around them as they descend, and he clutches the cool, metal bar protruding from the walls. “Shouldn’t they have told you that in the first place?”
“Yes.” Cillian’s voice is steely. “It almost certainly should have come up.”
So whoever this is lied to the DPR, and knows Abbott. Maybe they’re some kind of co-conspirator. Austin swallows, finding his throat dry. There’s still no telling why Abbott stabbed Jacob. Jacob didn’t say, and Cillian hasn’t, either. Maybe neither of them actually knows. And why did Abbott pay to have me brought back to Havenwood? None of this makes sense - there has to be something bigger going on.
The elevator chimes, opening on a long hallway full of doors, each labelled with a number. It looks significantly more dilapidated than the rest of the DPR, the lights on the ceiling flickering, the linoleum floor stained with dirt and scuff marks.
“This is where you keep the rehab agents?” Austin asks.
“Some of them,” Cillian says, disembarking the elevator. “But it’s mostly where we keep the criminals.”
Someone roughly Austin’s height is waiting outside of one of the doors, a person with dark skin and dark, wavy hair pulled back into a short ponytail at the back of their head. They’re wearing a flannel shirt over a black dress and leggings, and magnified behind their glasses are a pair of eyes that are the strangest color Austin’s ever seen. They’re a gradient of purple and bright blue, blending in the middle before fading out to each respective color at the bottom and top.
“Cool contacts,” Austin says.
“They’re not contacts,” the stranger replies, grinning wide enough to show off a pair of fangs. “But thanks!”
Oh. Vampire, then. Austin kicks himself for assuming anything different. Vampires almost always have oddly colored eyes, but it’s been a long time since he’s run into one - there don’t seem to be very many in the Southwest.
“Austin, this is Agent Warcrest,” Cillian says, by way of introduction. “You’ll be working with them, if we determine it’s safe to enlist Agent 013’s help.”
“Rainer, please. Agent Warcrest is so stuffy.” Agent Warcrest - Rainer - nods at Austin, still grinning. “I guess we should get this show on the road, huh?”
“Please,” Cillian says stiffly. It’s clear that he has some choice words for Agent 013, whoever they are.
Rainer laughs, taking their badge out of the pocket of their flannel shirt, and scanning it on a panel next to the door in front of them. The locking mechanism buzzes, and Rainer holds the door open, ushering everyone inside.
The lights pop on once the door shuts again, and Austin blinks, finding himself in a room that’s really more of a small, cramped observation space. There’s just enough room for him, Cillian, and Rainer to spread out, and a few feet of walking space from the wall behind him to the wall in front. Though the wall in front isn’t really a wall at all - it’s a huge, Plexiglass window that stretches from floor to ceiling, separating the observation space from a larger room. A cell, really, given that it has no visible doors or windows.
The cell is furnished like a basic dorm room, with a twin-sized bed crammed into one corner, a dresser, desk, and chair in the other. At the desk, feet propped up, chair tipped back onto two precarious legs, is a man. He’s turned largely away from the agents in the observation room, reading a book, but Austin can hear, clear as day, that he’s whistling.
“Agent 013,” Cillian says, his voice cold enough to make even Austin feel like he’s in trouble. “You haven’t been entirely honest with us.”
Agent 013 turns his head just the barest amount, his lips stretching into a genuinely affable smile. The overhead light catches on his black hair, a few errant strands and locks struggling to escape the pompadour it’s styled into.
“Please,” he says, turning his book over and setting it down on the dresser. “I told you, you can call me Dallas. We’re all friends here, Director Hume.”