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At 11:57 pm, Sage turns off the light and closes her eyes. They hurt and she’s fatigued from the day. It’s a relief to have Brimstone back—a weight off her shoulders—but now she’s feeling the effects of those intense, stressful days.
Breach has taken the VULTURE to pick up the Protocol’s newest agent and Sage wanted to greet him when he arrived. She thought they would have been back much, much earlier. She’s just about to call it a night and go get some rest before a headache develops when she hears the rumble of the hanger doors opening.
“Finally,” she murmurs and straightens in her seat.
Time passes, and then the door opens. She sees, framed in the white light of the hanger beyond, the figure of a man, a duffel bag thrown over one shoulder. She wants to speak, but realizes she’ll scare him, so she waits for him to turn on the light. He doesn’t. His hand slips along the wall for a moment as if searching for a switch, but then he simply steps inside and the door hisses closed behind him. She can hear his clothes rustling as he moves through the room, the thump of his bag as it hits the floor and he shuffles about for a bit, then the sofa creaks as he stretches full length on it.
Sage turns on the light.
In his defense, he doesn’t jump. He goes completely still.
“Hello,” she says.
“Ah.” He relaxes; a gold-traced arm swings over the top of the sofa, followed by a pair of glittering glasses. “Bonjour! Pardon me, Mademoiselle, but I did not know anyone was here. I was waiting for my pilot to disembark.”
“Breach? Oh, you’ll be waiting for him all night. Come with me, I’ll show you to your room.”
He rises to his feet and grabs his duffel back before trailing after her. “Pardon me, mademoiselle, but what is your name?”
“Call me Sage.”
He smirks a little. “Ah yes, the callsigns. Mine is Chamber.”
“Welcome to the Protocol, Chamber.”
“Merci. I know we can do good work together.”
Sage hums, a soft sound that could easily be taken for agreement or confirmation. Whether Chamber does or not, she does not bother to look over her shoulder. He moves lightly, only the occasional squeak of his rubber soles on the tiled floor telling her he is still behind her.
“Here we are,” she says at last, standing in front of the blank metal door of an empty room. The card beside it reads “17”.
“Merci."
She opens the door—the biolock has not yet been set to his specific physiology—and waits until he steps inside. Then she says, "Make yourself at home. Breakfast is served from six to eight, and Brimstone will want to talk with you at nine."
He chuckles. "I expect nothing less from such a formidable leader."
He's a flatterer, she realizes, a gift of honey with the sting in it. His face is masked in shadow, his body turned toward her. The scent of his cologne curls through the air.
"We're very prompt here, Chamber. Someday, our lives may depend on it."
He makes that little hum of acquiescence in his throat and tilts forward in a slight bow. "Madamoiselle Sage, it is a pleasure to meet you and I am sure an even greater pleasure to work with you."
He'll need watching, just like every other agent who came before him. It's protocol, it's necessary. She keeps her thoughts to herself, lets her voice be gentle, kind, welcoming:
"Goodnight, Chamber."
As she walks down the dark hallway, she hears his voice call softly, "Bonjour à vous aussi, mademoiselle."
He's not wrong, she thinks. Good morning indeed. It's after midnight and today is going to be a good day.