The tiny cell Vincent had been relegated to was cold and grey, with no window out into the real world. The only luxuries afforded to him were a bed and a toilet; the former had a thin mattress that barely provided support against the springs of the bedframe, while the latter, though stainless steel, clearly hadn't been cleaned much since its installment. If one got too close, the smell of urine was obvious from it. A single light hung overhead, far out of reach even if he were to stand up on the bed and jump, an obvious precaution against ambitious prisoners.

The fact of the matter was that Vincent had no idea where he was. Not long after being incarcerated, he had been blindfolded and led to another place, likely somewhere he could be held and kept an eye on while the proper authorities investigated his actions. At least, that's what he assumed the case was. Since his arrival, it was tough to tell time. He could only judge how many days had passed by the meals he was given. Three square meals a day. So clearly, they hadn't intended to get rid of him. Someone wanted him alive. Even then, he still lost track of the days, because there was little to do but workout and sleep.

Then, one day, the door opened, awakening him from dozing off. At first, Vincent figured it was time to eat, and so he slowly sat up and waited to see what had been brought to him. Instead of the same person that came to give him food, another, stockier male entered the room. He was wearing a decorated military uniform, and his grizzled hair, crow's feet, and the bags under his eyes, showed proof of an experienced, though clearly exhausted military man. Whatever had been going on that Vincent had found himself involved in, it was clearly taking its toll on the oldtimer.

"Mr. Callahan," the man calls to him, a frown permanently plastered to his face. "Awake?"

"That was fast. I wasn't expecting the death penalty to clear so soon," Vincent quips, pushing his way to a stand, rubbing his eyes.

"They told me you were a wise guy," the man narrows his eyes, moving out of the doorway to allow Vincent to exit. "Come with me."

Deciding that the alternative is probably to be forced to go, Vincent stretches and slowly moves to leave the room. The man turns and motions for him to follow. Having been blindfolded for the entire trip there, all the way up to being shoved into his cell, this was all new to him. He quietly considers any hallways they pass, any doors that look unlocked. They only slow when they approach the opening to what looks like an empty community shower area.

"Go ahead and shower, give yourself a shave. All the things you'll require are in there," the man explains, thumbing toward the shower. "But we'll be watching you. Trust me when I say that you don't want to try anything. It won't reflect well on you."

Vincent glances into the showers, shrugs, and walks in. Disrobing from the generic clothing they'd given him instead of his hiking attire, he takes his time showering. The warm water is soothing, and with the soap and shampoo, he gradually starts to feel like a normal man than the greasy, dirty hobo they'd forced him to be over the past several days. Once he finishes, he crosses over to the one sink that had a razor and shaving cream set on it. Like the shower before it, he takes his time, though it's less because he's not eager to find out what happens next and more because the razor had only a single blade.

Once satisfied with the results in the mirror, he washes the shaving cream free of his face and sets the things down on the edge of the sink, moving back to the entrance to pick up a new set of clothes. Like the ones he'd discarded earlier to shower, they're just grey, nondescript. A generic suit of sorts for detainees. It was a struggle to even consider them clothes. The fabric they were made from was notably uncomfortable, and their only real use was simply to preserve his modesty.

Waiting patiently for him is the same man that had led him there. Wordlessly, he turns to continue to lead Vincent further down the winding hallways until they stop at a door. Much like the clothing, and the rest of the facilities for that matter, the door is nondescript and labeled only with the number '44'. The man digs out a key and unlocks it, allowing Vincent to enter. He pauses in the doorway, noting that the inside looks almost like a scene from a cop movie. The only things worth noting about the room are a metal table, a handful of chairs – one on one side, two on the other – a single light, and the dim red glow of an actively recording security camera in one of the corners barely lit by the room's one light.

"So which cop are you? The good cop or the bad cop?" Vincent teases, chuckling when he feels the man's hand press against his back and direct him into the room. Figuring the single seat on one side of the table was for him, he settles in, noting the one-way glass that people were no doubt observing him through.

"To you, I'm the good cop," the man states, settling into his chair. The door, still open, stays open until a woman enters. Tall, clearly middle-aged, and of a similar rank to the man, she is decidedly more attractive and takes pride in her appearance. Her short blonde hair is well kept, though clearly dyed, as her roots are starting to show signs of brown. On her person is a briefcase, which she sets onto the table as she sits down. "Mr. Callahan, I'd like you to meet the director of this facility, Colonel Amanda Hayes." The woman settles into the only empty seat but stays quiet, just analyzing Vincent from across the table.

The man turns his gaze to Vincent once more as he too sits down. "You may refer to me as Colonel Oliver Campbell."

Vincent leans back in his chair, trying to get comfortable. Between the smooth, cold metal, and the abrasiveness of his clothing, he finds it nearly impossible to do so. "Hayes and Campbell. Sound like really great military last names. You two from long-running military families, I take it?"

"That's not important. What is important is that you tell us what you know, what you've been doing and why," Oliver speaks, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table.

Vincent mulls it over for a moment before speaking. "Do you mean recently? Not much. I wasn't able to get a TV in that little cell or magazines or anything, so mostly sleep and exercise. I've been dying for a coffee, though. Not that I'm ungrateful for the shower or anything."

"You know full well what we're referring to, Vincent," Oliver sighs, before he motions toward the two-way window. "Tell us from the beginning. What do you know?"

Letting out a sigh, Vincent leans back a bit more and gazes straight up, past the light. He's quiet for a few moments, before he finally pulls his head down to look back at the two. "Look, I'm a simple cop out of a precinct in Aberdeen. I'm sure you already know that, I doubt you came into this room completely ignorant of who I am and what I did for a living. I got assigned to some missing kids. Part of the Buckhorn Mountain incident. Bunch of your guys show up, take over all the investigations, told us to go home. That about sum it up for ya?"

A younger man enters the room with a cup, setting it down in front of Vincent and immediately leaving the room afterward, shutting the door behind him. Vincent considers the coffee for a moment, picks it up, and takes a sip of it. "Not bad. You even knew how much cream and sugar I like. Whoever it is that you have creeping up on people, they're thorough as hell. Give them a raise."

"Continue." Finally, Amanda speaks up, but she keeps it brief. "What else?"

"Yeah, hold your horses," Vincent sighs, taking another sip of the coffee. "Ah, that's some good stuff. So, anyway, I thought a witness testimony I jotted down was strange and the military intervention to be even stranger. I did a little research, wound up in the same place as that UFO." He sips his coffee yet again. "Craziest shit I've ever seen in my life."

"You also assaulted military personnel, trespassed on a secure military facility, and viewed classified government material, among other things," Amanda speaks up again.

"In my defense? The guy was half a man, could barely throw a punch. There was no fence keeping me out, so I figured it was public property, and it's tough to look away when proof of extraterrestrial life appears from a mountain right in your field of view," Vincent says, taking another sip of coffee. "I'm telling ya, if I knew you guys had this kind of coffee, I would've come here sooner."

The two Colonels exchange looks, before returning their gazes back to Vincent.

"And who assisted you in finding the Blue Mountain military base?" Oliver inquires, his eyes glancing down to the still steaming coffee in Vincent's hand.

"No-one. It was all me," Vincent states simply, occupying himself with another sip of said coffee. "I mean, anyone can look that stuff up these days, what with the internet and all. You guys do have Internet here?"

Amanda opens the briefcase on the table, pulling out a picture and sliding it across the table toward Vincent. On the picture is a candid photo of Don in his electric wheelchair, a bag of goods from a local corner store in his lap. "So this isn't your friend, Donovan Edwards?"

Vincent stops for a second, putting the coffee down. He heaves a sigh, gently picking up the picture. "You know, I always made fun of him for thinking the government was spying on him, figured he wasn't worth a damn watching but..." He tosses the picture gently back across the table. "Guess you proved him right. So, is he in trouble or anything?"

"How much trouble your friend gets into depends on you," Oliver offers, picking up the picture from the table and handing it back to Amanda.

"Sounds a little like extortion to me," Vincent licks his lips. "Trust me, the only hand Donovan had in all this was to tell me where some quakes happened, and I'd imagine most of that stuff is public knowledge. If you didn't want people to figure out that we had huge spaceships buried in the ground suddenly popping up, you might have wanted to keep that data hush hush, yeah?"

There's a moment of quiet, before Amanda rests her hands on the table and sighs. She narrows her eyes as she speaks. "You know, people in your situation wouldn't typically be wisecracking. You're in a lot of trouble."

With a helpless shrug, Vincent takes another sip of his coffee. "If you guys wanted me dead, you wouldn't have dragged me all the way here, given me meals, let me clean up, sit me down in such lovely accommodations, and then provided me hot coffee. So, no, most people wouldn't be wisecracking in my situation, but I'm not 'most people'."

Amanda clears her throat. "I'll be blunt with you. Under normal circumstances we'd be leaving you to rot until everyone forgot about you, but fortunately for you, we can use people with your skills. There's been many instances where recruiting within the military becomes a tricky process because they've been raised to do things by the book. We've been looking for people that don't. People that aren't restricted to the typical way of doing things. People, like you."

"You got lucky and caught our attention," Oliver explains. "We're creating a new, top secret government agency that will deal with the investigation of extraterrestrial activity under the guise of normal private investigators. We want you to head that department." He sighs, before continuing. "We just wanted to make sure that you were trustworthy and skilled enough to lead people into potentially dangerous situations."

Vincent looks between the two of them for a moment, visibly mulling over the offer. He can't help but smirk. "This is a joke right? Why not the FBI or CIA? Hell, why not NASA? They all decide they didn't like the idea of crossing country to check out some mountain spaceships?"

"It's something we are currently considering, but we figured it'd be easier to simply narrow it down to a list of qualified candidates that are already, somehow, connected to these events. Give them a second chance, put them somewhere we can keep a constant eye on them," Amanda elaborates. "You know. Put them to work."

"And if I refuse?" Vincent says, eyebrow raised.

"You and your friend Donovan rot in cells for the rest of your lives," Amanda responds.

"Oh, so it is extortion." Vincent gently rattles his cup to test how much coffee was still inside. When he gets no reaction from the two Colonels, he simply takes another, deeper swig. He clears his throat after putting the cup down on the table. "Alright, well, since I don't fancy never seeing my family again or rotting in a tiny cell for the next twenty or thirty years, even if you do have damn good coffee, I accept your offer. But I want some comfortable clothes, and... constant access to the aforementioned coffee, and I want to be working with Donovan."

The two Colonels look at each other before Amanda reaches into her briefcase and removes a folder. She sets it down on the table and pushes it toward him. "These are the other candidates we've been looking at for the agency. Seeing as you're head of this new department, it's your job to choose the most qualified candidate."

"Candidates, you say. Only one?" Vincent opens the folder, briefly thumbing through it. "This is going to take a little while. Any chance I can get a more comfortable place to rest while I look at all this stuff?"

"Aside from the candidate you will be choosing, we've already chosen one other person that will be working alongside you. He'll be observing you and reporting back to us, but he'll still be under your direct supervision. You'll be meeting him later, but for now, we'll be letting you go back to Aberdeen to spend some time with your family and look over the list of potential candidates," Oliver says, pushing his way to a stand. He extends a hand toward Vincent to shake. "I hope you realize how important this is. You are serving your country in understanding these strange encounters. Put your skills to good use, this time in favor of us, instead of infiltrating military property and landing yourself in a world of trouble."

Vincent leans forward and reaches out to shake Oliver's hand, and then Amanda's when she extends her hand for one. "Here's to not rotting in a janitor's broom closet for the rest of our lives, and instead, chasing aliens." He lifts his coffee in a mock toast, earning him an incredulous look from the Colonels.

"Wait here for your escort." Oliver turns and leaves the room with Amanda. Vincent leans back again and takes another sip of his coffee. Not too long after the two Colonels had left, the same young man from before arrives to escort him. He picks up the folder and carries it with him, allowed some time to put on some normal civilian clothing before being led from the facility and out to a helicopter pad, where one is already waiting for him. Before the door shuts, Vincent considers his surroundings, obviously at some sort of military facility in the middle of a forest, but with no mountains in sight. Though, it is dark, so it is impossible to tell for sure where exactly he is, which was probably deliberate.

The helicopter flight takes several hours, allowing Vincent to settle back into his seat and seriously look over the candidates, though there's too much for him to look at in detail on such a noisy flight. Instead, he decides to rest until he can get home. The white noise produced by the helicopter's main rotors lulls him to sleep. Before he knows it, the helicopter has landed, a young female soldier meeting him at the platform to escort him to a vehicle. In anticipation of his arrival, he waits to spot the city limits sign for Aberdeen, and not long after, the street signs leading to his home.

As the vehicle slows to a stop, Vincent nods to the driver. "I'd tip you if I had my wallet, kid." The driver, also clearly military, merely smiles and gives him a thumbs up before Vincent leaves the vehicle, folder in hand. There was his home, completely devoid of the presence of the military as he'd last seen it. Any damage that might've been done was fixed; the lawn even seems like it had been tended to in his absence. He steps forward, testing the front door to find it unlocked.

"Hello? Anyone home?" Vincent calls, though the smell of breakfast, and coffee, hits his nose to inform him that someone is indeed there. The sound of three chairs screeching against the kitchen tile in a rush is soon replaced with the arrival of his kids.

His wife, a petite female of barely over five feet, quickly throws herself into the arms of her husband. Her brilliant, misty green eyes are accentuated by her light brown hair, and her blue dress only serves to compliment her features. Her figure isn't exactly what one would call hourglass, but it was clearly the sort of attractive that Vincent went for. Easily handling her weight and lifting her up, Vincent squeezes her softly, pressing his face in against her neck and reveling in the smell of her perfume. "I was worried sick about you..." She whispers to him and holds him tightly. "The kids were too."

"Yeah, I know, I'm just glad to be back, Lillian," Vincent gently sets her back onto her feet by lowering her again. "How've they been?"

"Not much different. I think they were glad that the person that does the most disciplining in the house was gone for so long," Lillian smiles up at him, noting the folder and softly taking it from him. "I'll put this in the office. Spend some time with your kids." She quickly shuffles off, leaving Vincent to his children. His son, the older of the two siblings, clearly inherited the looks of his mother. The green eyes, the brown hair, perhaps a bit softer in his features than Vincent would've preferred. His daughter, the younger sibling, clearly borrowed everything from her father. Her shoulder length red hair and green eyes, freckles, and strong facial structure. She will probably wind up being a tomboy later in life.

"Lucas. Riley." Vincent smirks, moving to his knees to tousle their hair, earning him the laughter of his children he coveted so much. "I hope you haven't been giving your mother any trouble while I was away."

"Nope," Lucas says, the boy grinning. "But we protected mom when those army guys showed up."

Gently ruffling the boy's hair again, Vincent smirks. "Hope you gave 'em what for."

"Mom says you shouldn't encourage Lucas to commit violence," Riley speaks matter-of-factly, but she doesn't miss the opportunity to get in close to her father and hug him tightly. "Dad, I hope you won't be mad when she tells you all the stuff we did while you were gone."

With a smirk, Vincent leans down to lay a kiss right on the top of her head. "I can't make any promises, sweetheart, but c'mon. Let's go have breakfast before it cools down." He slowly moves to a stand again, letting the kids head back toward the kitchen. He steps in the direction of his office instead, opening the door to find it in surprisingly good condition.

He can barely tell that a bunch of men had sifted through his personal items before. His eyes drift to the folder set on his desk, and he moves behind the desk to sit in his chair. Brown leather, comfortable, clearly an expensive purchase, but totally worth it. He savors the feel of something familiar, before he leans forward to open the folder again.