The Cardinal Directive: Mission Log #57

Season Three Begins

[First (Start of Season 1)]
[Previous (Season 2 Epilogue)]

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>> Welcome back, SUPERVISOR
>> Confirmed. Accessing files in process of restoration.
>> ERROR: Due to PRIOR CATASTROPHIC SYSTEM FAILURE, these files have suffered significant amounts of CORRUPTION with UNKNOWN VIDEO FILES

>> (???) Corrupted files available for review
>> ...Play?

>> Confirmed. Now Playing Mission Log #57...

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Unlike so many Mission Logs before it, the footage opens without a shudder or a shift. The audio is clear and the visual crystal, unmarred by the black artifacts that plague so many of the other recordings.

Instead, we are presented with a spacious room — one bed, the silk sheets freshly made, with a dark oak nightstand on one side and a TV across from it. An apparently untouched, complimentary notepad sits beneath a desk lamp. The shade bears an artful design, stylized draconic forms weaving all across the fabric. The lamp is off, along with the main lighting of the room — a series of overhead lights that dangle like twisting crystals from the ceiling. The only actual light comes through a crack in the heavy black curtains along one wall, a single stripe of neon red stretching across the room.

The ground underfoot seems to be a thick white carpet, with fresh shoe imprints from a considerable amount of movement around the room before the camera was turned on.

A clock ticks incessantly on the wall.

The figure bearing the camera stands in silence, staring at the room for several long seconds before finally turning, making their way to the door and letting themselves out into the long hallway beyond. They pick a direction — their right — and continue.

The hallway is empty. The only sound comes from the camera-bearer’s boots against the thick carpet, and even that is a muted noise at best. Though they pass several doors, there’s little to no movement within. The walls appear well-insulated, perfect for a quiet night’s rest free from outside distractions.

From the few glimpses of the camera-bearer’s body, they’re wearing a freshly cleaned harrier’s jumpsuit, still faded green (as most tend to be) but professionally washed and pressed.

Reaching the end of the hall, they come to a long, winding stairway, with a thick handrail of polished wood guiding the way down into a lavishly decorated lounge room. More of these dangling crystal-like lights hang from the ceiling, shining down on couches and chairs surrounding coffee tables, TVs, holographic tables, and more. Potted plants line every corner of the room, many of them completely foreign and exotic to the untrained eye.

This room, too, is sparsely populated, and of little interest to the one carrying the camera. They make their way through without acknowledgement of any of the room’s amenities, beelining for where the carpet turns to wood floors and the accommodations take the form not of couches but of tables and chairs.

This room is lined with open shelves along the left-hand wall, stocked with food and supplies. The counter bears a few kitchen appliances, but also freshly prepared meals. Even as the figure enters, a cook has just set down another stack of pancakes and vanished into a door further into the building.

At one of the tables, though, sits a woman with a finished plate and an empty glass. She’s in her late twenties by the looks of her, with long, silken black hair draped over her shoulders. Like the figure bearing the camera, she too wears the faded greens of a harrier, though her face is one we’ve seen before. Still, she looks older. Several years older, in fact.

Her eyes — deep brown — flick up as the camera approaches, narrowing. She reaches over to her wristwatch, clicking it and causing it to beep.

“You’re late, Wendy.”

Wendy’s pace doesn’t slow, taking a seat across from Masur and settling into it. “It’s 7 o’clock.”

“It’s 7:03,” Masur corrects. “You’re late.”