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Living Room / Studio (Shown)

Like other working class homes in the surrounding area, the living room features the barest luxuries qualifying it as such: An OLED television, redwood table, loveseat, and couch occupy the central portion of the room. Towards the back, a twin bed sandwiched by two redwood end tables provides sleeping space for one individual, while a dresser not far from the bed stores the occupant's clothes. Judging from the furniture's mismatch with the navy-blue carpet, one might conclude the dweller has little income, no interior design sense, or a combination of the two.

Restroom (Not shown)

Past the western door, a basic sink, shower, and shitter are present. A medicine cabinet containing the occupant's anti-depressants, toothpaste, toothbrushes, and razor heads sits above the sink. No fewer than three rolls of TP are present in the restroom, and the room itself is kept spotless by its sole user.

A small chunk of ice shattered into multiple shards as a black sedan rolled over one awful stretch of icy road. This time, FBI Agent Baker sat in the driver seat, not a chauffeur, and only dread could describe his feelings for the drive. This particular car had snow tires installed, but even they struggled to adhere against the pavement, and the local forecast suggested icy roads throughout the day, if not the week. But, it was not today’s weather which kept Roland uneasy; yesterday’s incident with “Smokey” resulted in a flurry of phone calls, a visit by the local detective, and a sit-down meeting with an SSBI agent. The conclusion of that meeting, along with an authorized peek at a Top Secret file, was not to be forgotten anytime soon by the agent.

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Flashback

”Agent Baker, how familiar are you with what society calls the ‘Occult?’ Of magic?”

”Casually, but I imagine some elements of popular lore have a sliver of truth,” Roland’s low voice responded, confusion present in its tone. The Agent looked up from the tabletop: His interrogator, Investigator Muller, did not even make eye contact. A nearby sentry watched both men like a hawk. Roland closed his eyes, his thin lips barely moving. ”I am aware of the serious nature of today’s incident and must apologize. I have already seized the footage-“

”Agent Baker,” Muller raised a veiny palm, fingers splayed apart. Tucked underneath his free arm ”You have done your part given the circumstances; this is not a disciplinary meeting, but rather a knowledge transfer. We’ll need you to sign an NDA and other documents as usual, then we will leave for the Skiff.”

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The black sedan slowly made a right turn onto the driveway feeding into Roland’s home, a tract house identical to its neighbors in character and material. Leasing for six hundred dollars per month, the Agent secured a mundane home in an insipid neighborhood. Across the street, a nondescript man bundled in a heavy jacket was busy shoveling snow aside from his driveway. Through the alcove windows, a sick-looking boy layered underneath blankets appeared to be napping before the TV in the living room, his clammy skin and aching body showing signs of the flu. Beyond Roland’s immediate surroundings and those of the family, the street was ominously quiet: No doubt, countless kids were staying home during the winter break while their parents were telecommuting or holing up elsewhere downtown for their shifts.

Stepping from his car, Roland locked the door behind him and shuffled towards the front door leading into his living room, key in hand. I need some rest, he thought, inserting and twisting the key when he stopped: Did he leave the television on? No. If he did, the TV’s settings were configured so it would shut off after 10 AM to save power. This left one terrible feeling in his stomach as Roland turned the doorknob and pushed the door open: Someone was inside. Hopefully, it was just a squatter looking for room and board… Or maybe not. Agent Baker’s jaw dropped open as he saw “Smokey” plopped in his couch, watching some program on TLC or whatever describing the details of a murder case.

”WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE?”



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Mood: Tired | Apprehensive | Shocked
Company: "Smokey"
Outfit: Black leather shoes & matching slacks, white tucked-in dress shirt
Armaments: None

For a long moment, the only noise in the apartment besides the TV was the solid door creaking behind Roland, closing under the pressure differential. No, this had to be a nightmare... Except, Roland was no lucid dreamer, and he disdainfully recognized that juvenile voice. His dark eyes hardened. "'Smokey,' isn't it? You're either the bravest son of a b***h or the dumbest junkie ever to find my home. No- make that breaking and entry, but I assume you already know that." Undoing the remaining button on his winter coat, Roland casually tossed the heavy garment aside to the floor. Now he was unmistakably the same officer who discovered Smokey that disturbing day, down to the dress shirt and slacks worn on his person. Well, Roland's service pistol was with an FBI-affiliated gunsmith undergoing maintenance, and there was not a single pistol available that day, so he was without his weapon. Again. However, judging from Roland’s height, musculature, and stance, one might conclude he was ready to pounce with the skill of a former US Infantryman befitting his physique.

For now, Roland chose to ignore Smokey's remarks regarding the state of his apartment. Now was not the time to mention the pain in the a** it was to lug a king-sized bed frame when his twin would do. And, so what if Roland’s warm-hued oriental rug did not match the navy blue carpet? Admittedly, a bulging vein on his mid-neck did break Roland’s otherwise composed expression; whether it bulged naturally or due to rage was likely indeterminate. ”Why does my damn personal space matter to you? Like I’ve said before, kid: You have guts to try this s**t again. On my own turf nonetheless.” Roland’s eyes tracked Smokey’s every movement to the kitchenette and back. Two feet closer to the man, and Agent Baker would have already tackled his assailant to the ground, peppermint tea be damned. That moment had passed, but now there was an opening to Roland’s near-right, one which could take Baker closer to cover behind the loveseat at the expense of losing his sole exit. ”Now do tell me: Why did you come here?”

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Mood: Flabbergasted | Frustrated
Company: "Smokey"
Outfit: Black leather shoes & matching slacks, white tucked-in dress shirt
Armaments: None

"Don't play coy with me, kid. You are trespassing on my property, drinking my tea, and lounging on MY couch!" Roland spat, circling around Smokey's couchbound path until he stopped in front of the prep area just as Smokey retook "his" seat. The off-duty Investigator clenched his fist, taking a step onto the living room’s navy-blue carpet. A pump-action hunting shotgun would be a better fit for this situation, but alas. Even with a shotgun, would the FBI agent be able to take this punk’s life when he could (somehow) dissipate into a smoke cloud? Just what was that particular haze he had observed in the hospital, if not chemical vapors?

Roland scowled, watching as “Smokey” typed something on his mobile device. Smoke or not, at least the punk’s cellular metadata would be available to law enforcement if needed. ”Friends? Friends? Wipe that smile off your face, kid, and give up the child act. You already have an open rap sheet on file, and the next cop who matches you to the description will see to your arrest.” Roland stepped closer to the couch, tilting his head as his eyes bore upon the disturbingly comfortable teenager on his crash couch. The older man snorted, cracking his index finger once he stood no closer than five feet from the couch. ”Itching to fight? It would be a damn shame if it comes down to that, but I will say: Letting you escape the hospital was a grave miscalculation on my part. The FBI, contrary to what you might think, does not collaborate nor negotiate with criminals or their enterprises. Now, do as I order: Get off the couch and lie on your chest. You are under arrest for trespassing and assaulting a Federal agent. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be used against you. You also have the right to consult with your attorney. If you are unable to afford an attorney, a court-appointed public defender will be provided for you.” Agent Baker’s curled fingers formed proper fists, his toned arms ready to react and protect his face against a possible lunge from the couch... and perhaps grapple this fool to the ground, depending on whether he chose to give himself up.

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Mood: Pissed | Alert
Company: "Smokey"
Outfit: Black leather shoes & matching slacks, white tucked-in dress shirt
Armaments: None

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