After Ava was taken away so that she could pass out (but considering that it wasn't technically alcohol, I didn't know if she actually would), Agents Anne, Olivia, Brighton, V, and Escucharia had finished reporting, the agents were split up into groups based on our role in the Custodes. I was with the frontline agents of C.D.A.D.U.O.

We were led outside, down the ramp, and around the corner. The right side of Brighton's Bar was tucked under the shade--figuratively, at least, given that it was currently around midnight--of a balcony. The shimmering dark water sent light flying into the dark night. A flock of pigeons was getting comfy for the night on the steel cable railing lining the edge of the concrete street.

C.D.A. Duo's frontlines agents were the first group of agents to leave, so I didn't get a chance to see where the other groups were going. The other frontlines agents gave me quick, pitiful glances as I was one of the few members of the Custodes to retire at such a young age and one of the few members to come back less than two years later. I kept my head down and mouth shut so I didn't have to face their judgment. And to hide by most-likely-obvious blush, of course. 

The frontline's head agent leads us around the corner and to the right side tucked under the balcony. A couple of makeshift homeless camps were set up. Trash and belongings were clustered together around the sleeping bag and tent. The tent was drawn closed, so whoever was inside wasn't visible. The sleeping bag, however, was occupied.

A wrinkly, old woman leaned against the brick wall. Her frizzy, thinning grey hair curtained the left side of her face. Her eyes were sunken, sweater and ripped jeans soiled. When she ever-so-slowly turned her head to us...nothing happened. I didn't know why I was expecting something to happen, I was just glad nothing did. It must have been the way she glared at us, with a slight sneer on her face, as if she knew we were heading to our doom. Maybe we were with the next masquerade ball, or with confronting AFJ, but C.D.A.D.U.O had it taken care of...

The head front lines agent held his hand out expectantly at the old woman. She slipped a bony hand into her sock and pulled out a plastic credit card-like rectangle, except for the fact that it was blank white, sliding it into the agent's hand.

The frontlines' head then pressed the card flat against a bulging brick in the wall. A few seconds later, he did the same against another loose brick. And another. Diagon Alley vibes, anyone?

Three more presses later and a large rectangular outline in the wall popped back like dough being cut out with a cookie cutter, and slid into the wall. 

A door, I realized. Clever.

~~~~~~~

One year ago: (Random flashback, I know. You'll get it later~~Andra)

I had just set down a stack of three cardboard boxes next to the door of our empty apartment. walked into the other rooms hoping for one more decent than the last, but they were all the same; stale-white walls, dusty concrete floor, ripped out sections in various corners. There were holes in the walls where pictures might have hung. The paint was peeling, the rooms were dusty and bare, and the whole place was a mess without having anything to be messy.

I smoothed the stray strands of hair out of my face and sighed. My new roommate was supposed to be here, but I hadn't seen her on my self-lead tour.

Well, I might as well do what I can to get started.

With that, I exited the apartment and took the elevator to the parking lot outside.

There were only a few cars parked outside, all old and well-used. Mine was parked closest to the entrance because--who wants to walk across the parking lot?

I unloaded as many boxes as I could carry, stacking them up as neatly as possible. As I placed the last box at a precarious angle, a voice behind me said casually, "Nice pick."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, not wanting to face the man behind me. "Wasn't mine. My roommate-to-be found it." I was having trouble keeping my cool; the man's gaze was like a scanning probe, running up and down, searching for weaknesses or cracks in the armor.

I couldn't take it anymore. Bluntly, I asked, "What do you want?"

I turned around and saw him slowly walking towards me. One foot in front of the other again, and again. I don't know why it bothered me, but I had always found something unsettling about this man. Was it is too-cool demeanor, his slicked-back blond hair, or his smug grin? The way he hung his undone tie around his collar or the fact that his matching tan vest, pants, and shoes were impeccably clean.

"Oh, come on, Lora. Can't even stand a good friend coming to make sure you're alright...I take that as a no." He put on his pouting face.

I crossed my arms and gave him my cold shoulder side. "One: don't call me Lora. Two: who are you calling my 'good friend'?"

Now he was standing a few inches away from me, right there, too close for comfort. He smelled like charred toast.

Oh, good gosh, I thought. Now you're judging too much of him. Unneeded info, Loretta.

Despite the squirming of my stomach, I stood my ground and continued. "Agent, Michaels, I'm not in need of any of your 'assistance', so if you'll be on your way..."

Michaels raised his hands as if surrendering and backed away. "Alright, Mills. Be that way."

As he pivoted on his heel and walked away, Agent Michaels called over his shoulder, "Dabria wasn't your fault. She's still fighting somewhere else."

That hit me hard, right in the chest. I felt the wind leave me as if I had actually been hit when my guard was dropped.

"Dabria...your fault...still fighting...somewhere."

What had he meant? How dare he tell me Dabria wasn't my fault! But where else would she be that she was still fighting? I know what I saw that night.

Before I could ask anything else, Agent Michaels was gone.

Later that night, when I had finished hauling all the boxes in with my new roommate (Athena), we shared a glass of cider on top of the dust-covered counter island.

My mind had been pretty occupied that night. Athena asked what was on my mind, so I had answered with words an agent would use to train another on reading, for example, coded messages: "To see clearly, you gotta blur your vision."

I found this set of instructions fairly applicable to everyday life. In my current predicament, I was trying to see if it would help understand what Agent Michaels had told me about Dabria.

Dabria. Why did you do it? What have you done to us?

For a fraction of a second, Athena had an almost mischevious glint in her eyes. I fell silent as the tingling sensation of regret crept up my spine. Why had I told her one of the most valuable pieces of information? If she was an enemy spy, I would have jeopardized the whole security of the Custodes and everything we do. Luckily, Athena seemed like a trustworthy, unsuspecting civilian who has no suspicion of what I did. 

The light that had made her eyes sparkle disappeared when she said, "You know, one thing I've learned about you so far is that you only talk metaphorically. I like that about you. It's better than the kids these days with their slang."

I managed a relieved smile. "Well, it's not every day you meet someone who can understand you. And reads all the books I do," I added.

The rest of the night was a blur of cider and stories. The cider was my favorite.