It all reeked of cigarette smoke and urine- he could hear the footsteps now.

Pit pat. Pit pat.

Marching down the cement floor of the outer cells..expensive shoes. Tailored pants, a little tight. He walked with a slight limp.

Pit pat.

A shuffle of shoe heels and wing tips followed, then a stonk.

Stonk stonk.

Down the hall, onto the reinforced steel floors. Inner cell chamber. He was far, but even here, in the crossing, swirling shadows of his cell, he could smell the visitor. Old cigars...blending into the veritable rainbow of colors he associated with taste, smell. Gut feeling. A swish of leather shoes, shuffling papers. Folders...case files. He had a lot of clients, apparently. Or a lot of prisoners. Either one meant trouble.

Chuck had gotten used to this cell. For two years, he'd just wanted some peace and quiet...just some time to himself. To reflect. He didn't ask for anything else. Unfortunately, when dealing with a guy like him, not many people thought reflection was a good idea.

Cold. Hateful. Bitter.

These attributes didn't reflect well, and they were ones that featured prominently in Poen's moral make-up. Fortunately, that made this place just perfect for him.

Cold. Dark. Damp.

But most importantly, quiet. Away from the world. Not a soul could reach him. Not a single filthy hand could touch him- not the gangs, not the masks -no one.

"Mr. Poen? Charles Poen?"

The heavy iron door screeched open, like a newly-opened vault, letting all the foul air out and spewing a rush of cold, punishing wind across his body. The tiny silhouette of a man half his size formed in the open doorway, prompting the same response he'd have given on any other day if he were to be intruded upon.

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm Roger Pensfield. I represent national interests in regards to certain..uh..supernatural phenomena. Your case in particular falls under my jurisdiction." answered the shape, coming into clear view now as he dragged a bag full of case files behind him.

"What the Hell does that mean? I've never heard of you."

"...yes, well, I've been asked to come here, to solicit a appeal on your probation denial."

Poen's wrists itched beneath his manacles, prompting him to drag his shackled arms desperately against the concrete wall opposite his cell door. He thought for a moment, then spoke with a withered tongue, tired and rough. He was getting antsy.

"I didn't ask for an appeal."

"Oh, y-y-yes, I know. We received a petition from your former colleague, Wilfred Malc- "

"I know who he is. What does he want?" Charlie barked, clenching his fists and pressing them against his closed eyelids. He sank to the floor, squatting as he rubbed his eyes. His vision hadn't adapted to the sudden increase in light just yet; until Pensfield had stepped in, he'd been standing in a pitch black room for what seemed like forever.

"His representatives proposed a program in which a citizen with specific traits would act as a liaison between our organization and the Abnormal community, to- "

"Who?" he interrupted, hands dropping from his face to get a better look at the smaller man. Pensfield's knees were shaking.

"Well, you were-"

"I meant the program. Who proposed that? Doesn't sound like any government policy I've heard of. If anything, it sounds like some kind of spy games crap. And what was that you called me? Abnormal? Heh."

"We're...I'm not exactly sure on the specifics, but I do believe this is a proposition that favors both sides."

"And why's that, Roger?"

"With an Abnormal liaison working hand in hand with our organization, we can ascertain threats and appropriately gauge their relevance in the world scope. Having you on our team makes our superiors feel safer. Their confidence in this program is entirely dependant on your cooperation."

"Buy one sheep and have him lure the rest in. Typical."

Visibly perturbed, Chuck returned to grinding his cuffs against the wall somewhat more vigorously. Despite his hostility, he was now eager to hear the end of Pensfield's story. Why did the suits need him to play along with this? Why not someone else? Someone without a record. Pensfield had gone silent, however, perhaps in fear of a violent response from the bound prisoner. Prying himself from the entertaining mental image of strangling the little pencil-necked geezer to death, he took it upon himself to re-start the conversation.

"So what's the deal?"

"Well..you go free, we..well, fix your record, and you take up residence at our embassy with a new cover. We're on a tight schedule, though, so if you agree, we'll need to get you on a plane tonight."

"...worked out my papers already?"

"It's done. If- if you accept, that is. I was just sent to...you know, see if you needed anything, specifically."

"Yeah, a couple things. You might want to make a list, or something, Roger."

"R-r-right. Heh. Go ahead."

"Aspirin. Something strong. Go for 600 milligrams. I'm gonna need a suit, too."