I stared down at the groups of people scattered around in the underground lair. People were in their own little groups, one sections was occupied by a group crowded around a whiteboard; another group were lined up at the splintered, shabby wooden table that had been carved from a block of wood, with one of the cruel, crude carved knives which were hanging above the table, all in different sizes.
I took a deep breath before descending the lumpy steps that had been made out of clumps of rock and mud. I wove my way through the crowds of people until I got to the other end of the large hole-room. There was a small door that was made using an old, wide plank of rotting wood.
I didn’t bother knocking; I swung the door open and walked in.
The inside of the large alcove was much like a captain’s room on a ship. It was lined with wooden paneling, and there was a misshapen wooden table in the centre of the room. Upon that table were pieces of paper scattered around randomly.
I glanced around, staring at the framed pictures of landscapes and seas. Nothing of much interest. I waited for what seemed like hours, until the make-shift door swung open, revealing a short, large man with round red cheeks and a cigar hanging loosely from the side of his mouth. He looked me up and down before taking a seat at the desk.
“I trust the mission has been fulfilled, Martin?” he said, picking up a stack of papers, and shuffling them before placing them back down. I nodded, an expressionless face, and a soldier’s stance.
“Relax, Martin. You’re not on trial. We’re all in the same situation here,” he paused to take a drag of his cigar. He took a shaky breath before continuing. “Take a seat, Marty.” I did as I was told, and rushed to a small wooden chair that has been taken from an old skip. The man shook his head;
“My dear Marty. Sit here!” he ordered, pointing toward a luxurious red settee situated opposite his desk.
“B-but sir… we’re not to sit there un-”
“Unless permission is given. Here is your permission. Sit.” He interrupted, and I did so. “And call me Shaun.” He continued. I felt uncomfortable as I slowly sat on the sofa, sinking into its luxury. I tried to mask my delight as I stared at Shaun, my expression one of a Beefeater outside Buckingham Palace.
“Sir, the mission went well, but we hit a glitch that may cause us problems if we try again.” I informed him as he pushed his glasses further up the ridge of his nose.
“This glitch, is it dangerous?” he asked, raising his thick, black eyebrows.
“No sir, not dangerous just… problematic.” I stated. He shook his head. I took in a shaky breath, preparing myself for a scalding.
“I thought I told you to call me Shaun. What was this glitch?” he asked, looking back down at the papers on the desk.
“Well… Shaun… When we got into the dungeons, we used the route that we were given, but we were stopped by a huge stream. It was almost impossible to get over. We found another way around, but we were almost caught many times.” I said, twiddling my thumbs. He pondered for a moment.
“Who gave you the directions? He may be a spy, and we need to get into the dungeons. You of all people should know that-- she was your wife after all.”
“Is. She still is my wife. Sorry sir- I mean Shaun- but I refuse to believe that she has died. She knows how to take care of herself. I thought she’d die in the great fire, but she didn’t. She can handle it sir, I know she can.”
“As do I, Martin. As do I.”