Title: Retrospection

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Crossover, Science-Fiction

Summary: "It was information overload—like an impossible perpetual motion machine moving faster and faster."

Rating: T

Characters: David Webb/Jason Bourne, Pamela Landy, others.

Awareness

Fire.

That feeling struck her the strongest.

No, not fire. Being on fire.

A horrible sensation that made her feel like every fiber of her being was burning away from the inside out. She tried to scream, but in her nightmare no sound came out beyond a strangled gasp as her damaged lungs could no longer move any air in or out on their own.

A nightmare.

She did scream when she woke up, and found that she could breathe on her own just fine. In fact, she was hyperventilating before she got a hold of her senses, took deep breaths and calmed down. Though sweaty, she wasn't burning.

In fact, now that she had shrugged off the remnants of sleep, she realized that she had absolutely no idea where the hell she was.

Pamela Landy untangled herself from the bed sheets, brushed aside her long ash-blond hair from her face and looked around—getting her bearings.

The bed wasn't hers, nor the pajamas she wore—a pair of gray yoga pants and a soft gray t-shirt—now soaked in sweat. Yet the bed, while foreign, was comfortable, and the style of the bed frame, sheets and comforter all looked like things she would have chosen for herself.

The room was spartan, simple, yet somehow seemed to fit her sense of style and taste. Simple warm tones of blues and yellows lined with light oak wood trim.

It had a high ceiling, light hard wood flooring with simple rugs in pleasing patterns that complimented the rich wood, exposed wood support beams and two ceiling fans. A fireplace set in the wall directly across from the foot of the bed was surrounded by a simple slate-colored stone facade and mantle. A large skylight was centered over the bed, affording a view of the sky. Light streamed in from a set of bay windows that covered the entire wall to the left and a quarter of another wall, and were shielded by light-colored drapes that provided privacy while adding to the open-air feeling. The opposite two walls were windowless and had two oak wood doors. The whole area appeared to be about 20'x 20' x10' –very generous dimensions for any room. Apart from the lamps on the bedside tables, there didn't appear to be any other lighting.

There was no phone or television to be seen anywhere. Besides the lamps, the only other sign of technology in the entire room was a small computerized clock on the bed side table A larger radio sat on the bookshelf in the corner; the type that offered pleasing sound in a small wooden cabinet with an LCD display screen and controls. Facing one of the windows was a plush easy chair in an off-white color. On the opposite side of the fireplace was a desk with a padded chair, also in an off-white.

Much of the windowless wall space was bare, but there were a few pieces of art that, while unfamiliar, were pleasing to the eye and went with the room's decor. There were no personal items or pictures anywhere to be found, nor any luggage.

A look down revealed a gray and pink checkered flannel robe on the foot of the bed within easy reach along with a pair of slippers on the floor; no doubt her size.

What the hell happened? Where am I? I was in D.C., heading for the lobby... then.

Nothing.

Shit.

With questions that had no answers, the first step in finding them was to get out of bed.

Placing her bare feet on the wood floor—which felt surprisingly warm—she skipped the robe and slippers. As comfortable as they looked, she needed to be able to move quickly if she ran into trouble. Besides, she felt anything but comfortable. She started by slowly panning around the room.

Behind the bed, set in the center of the room, was a dresser flanked by two doors and a vanity. Directly to the right was a third door.

Cautiously, she choose a door and opened it to find a large walk-in closet. A flick of a nearby light switch brought its contents to light. A row of jackets, suits and dresses lined a rack; again, styles that she liked and appeared to be in her size. On the floor were shoes arranged in a neat row, everything from pumps to sandals, boots and sneakers; no doubt the dresser and vanity contained other pieces of clothing and accessories. She closed the door and tried the next one and couldn't help but let her jaw drop. Inside was an expansive bathroom, decorated similarly to the bedroom, smaller but no less extravagant than the room she resided in.

A large bathtub took up the center of the room, an equally large glass-block enclosed shower stall took up a corner. Light was streaming in from a set of skylights and a floor-to-ceiling window in one corner of the room, also covered with a gauzy off-white drape to maintain privacy. A nicely sized sink and vanity in a pleasing light granite and light oak wood took up a sizable part of the far wall, with drawers and cabinets for towels and other items. A rack holding terrycloth towels, in a pleasing shade of yellow, were already set out. A weaved laundry hamper was set to the right inside the door. A check inside revealed it empty which, while not surprising, was unsettling.

What happened to the clothes I was wearing?

Regardless, she'd end up using the shower eventually but decided to finish her search. The last door, which could be locked from the inside, opened into a lighted hallway. A few seconds of listening brought no sign of life nearby—in fact, no sound at all. Silently, she shut the door and locked it.

A careful peek though one of the curtains revealed a lush forest and a lake—most likely freshwater—with no sign of civilization beyond. The country side appeared to be made up of gently rolling hills and the usual plant life you'd expect to find in North America or Europe.

She continued her search. The desk, vanity and dresser were like the rest of the room and bathroom: nothing that she recognized as her own, but had plenty of things that she would likely use and were her style. The desk had pens, pencils, erasers, and writing paper. Predictably, the vanity and dresser held several pieces of jewelry, undergarments, and other typical accessories.

Whoever had chosen her clothing had done an excellent job of choosing styles she liked, while staying away from anything ostentatious or daring. It even extended to the undergarments and swimsuits. They were simple styles that were comfortable—flattering, but not racy or revealing.

Finally, she sank down in a chair in front of the vanity and stared at the reflection in the mirror. The image reflected back at her was pale and disheveled; exactly the sort of appearance of someone who had slept in a strange bed and woke up from a nightmare. She stared at that mirror for a long time—willing to find an answer—but ended up stumped. Nothing made sense.

She had to keep moving.

Since her hosts were gracious enough to provide her with everything, she was going to take full advantage while she could.

After selecting some clothing—a pair of blue jeans, burgundy v-neck cashmere sweater, black leather jacket, socks, underwear and a pair of gray and black low-topped trail running shoes—she went into the bathroom and locked the door.

Everything needed to freshen up were either already set out for her or easy to find. Despite the pensiveness she felt, the shower had done wonders in relaxing her body and clearing her head. Once dried and dressed, her still damp hair tied back in a pony tail, she began to seriously assess her situation.

She was uninjured, unarmed and with no means of communication (that she could find yet). So far, she hadn't encountered any form of restraint or threat. She'd need to see more of the ground, of course, but— I may be trapped here, she dreaded.

On the vanity were some personal items: perfume (her brand no less), a woman's Tag Heuer, a pair of dark sleek sunglasses, and a black folding pocket knife. The watch and clock radio both showed the time to be 7:43—morning, judging by the rising sun. After carefully inspecting each item, she pocketed the knife and sunglasses, donned the wrist watch, then cautiously began her trek outside her bed room.

The hallway was decorated similarly to the bedroom with the same light oak, but in a darker butter yellow paint, lit by indirect lighting that lined the floor and ceiling with no other decoration. Directly across from her door was another door, one end of the hallway lead to a yet another door, while the other end lead toward an open space.

Silently closing the door behind her, she padded toward the closed door at the end of the hallway. With her ear pressed against solid oak, she heard nothing. Finding the door unlocked, she opened it to find a large walk-in linen closet. Towels, comforters, blankets, sheets, pillows and pillow cases were neatly folded and arranged inside. She tried the next door that was set directly across from her own.

It was another bedroom, similar in size and style to the one she woke up in, only decorated in darker shades of blue and cherry wood with no windows except for a group of skylights set in the ceiling directly over the bed.

The bed was still made, and the room's stillness led her to conclude that no one had resided in the room recently. But it did reassure her that this place may not be a prison—at least not one tailored for her.

Beyond the open end of the hallway was a balcony that ringed the side of what was obviously the living room. One wall was lined with large floor-to-ceiling windows that put the entire forest beyond on grand display which were neatly bisected by a stone fireplace. A look down found plenty of wooden furniture in a simple, tasteful style and comfortably arranged around the room, which was cavernous in size and seemed to span fifty feet across with the walls arranged in a semi-circle.

A couch and chairs faced a large flat screen television. A winding staircase off to her right presumably led down to the living area. Beyond the staircase was a combined lounge and library area with its own set of furniture and an outdoor balcony. Set in its own alcove, the entire wall was lined with bookshelves and books, a desk, conference table and chairs. There was even an elevator.

The library was filled with books, mostly fiction and non-fiction, but also technical references and periodicals. There was a globe and world atlas on a nearby table, a telescope and a book on astronomy were set in a corner facing an unobstructed view of the sky. At least it would keep her mind occupied.

With still no indication that there were others in the house, she cautiously made her way down the staircase.

Beneath the balcony was a combined dining area and kitchen. Another little radio, this one in a piano black with a silver face, went with the kitchen's dark granite counter-tops, dark oak cabinets, and modern stainless steel appliances.

There were still no phones that she could find. But, there appeared to be at least two doors that led outside—one in the kitchen and one on the opposite side of the living room. She selected the one in the kitchen and cracked it open to peer out. The outside temperature was cool enough to require the sweater and jacket, but not uncomfortably so, and the air smelled fresh. She could hear nature and wildlife; a fact that made her realize that the house was sound-proofed.

With the door closed and locked, she checked the kitchen. Everything was where she expected to find it, and there was plenty of food in the refrigerator and cupboards; it was too good to be true.

Much too good to be true, she thought. This could easily be my place. It's too familiar, too easy, too comfortable. Comfortable, that was what made her feel so on edge. The entire house felt like a trap, and she felt like she had already fallen into it, or was about to.

At the kitchen's island, she turned on the radio, and quickly realized that it was one of those computer-based units that streamed audio from other storage devices or the Internet. It didn't take long for her to figure out how to use it. This one appeared to be connected to an in-house server and was playing back stored music, in this case a pleasant classical piano piece. Though it also had AM and FM tuners, a scan through both bands brought only static. She switched it off and went into the living room.

On the oak wood coffee table was the television's remote, which she picked up. The television instantly sprang to life, presenting her with a computer-driven menu. It was the type that you'd see in a smart home, and this one showed various categories, from lighting to movies,but no phone or Internet software that she could find. While there were plenty of prerecorded TV shows and movies, there were no live feeds or channel guides.

Everything looked new, with no signs of age or wear—even the clothes she wore felt new though they smelled freshly laundered.

Looking around, there were a few more doors in the kitchen area. One was a supply closet with various food stuffs, cleaning products and other items, another smaller closet for boots and other types of outdoor clothing, and one that had a flight of stairs that led down.

After a flick of another light switch, the area that she now stood in was a cavernous garage and work shop. Unlike the rest of the house, this area was clearly meant to be utilitarian.

The space itself had a high ceiling, the layout was rectangular, floors were sealed concrete, the walls were painted a functional white, the lighting was brighter and harsher—needed since there were no windows to allow natural light in. There were rolling tool cabinets, peg boards from which hung every hand tool imaginable, several work tables and even a hydraulic lift—all clean and showed no sign of use or wear. What really caught her attention were the vehicles parked in front of her.

There was a snowmobile, a snow cat, and a white four-wheel-drive four-door pickup truck. After a walk around to look for anything out of the ordinary, she cautiously opened the passenger side door and checked the glove-box and center console. There were no keys, which came as no surprise, nor were there registration or insurance cards; not even a map. Every nook and cranny in the pickup was clean. A look under the hood and underneath all appeared as if it rolled off the showroom floor. If she could find the keys, she would at least have transportation.

None of the other vehicles had keys in them, nor any other documentation besides the owners manuals. Nothing was found in the tool cabinets or work table drawers. There were plenty of supplies, from motor oil to spare parts and even the factory service manuals for all the vehicles present—even the brand-new Toyota—but still no sign of keys or registrations. In fact, no license plates or registration numbers at all. The serial and VIN numbers were present, but they were meaningless to her.

There were a few other doors. One led outside, one led to yet another storage area, another was to the elevator machinery, yet another led into a series of crawl spaces under the house and one to what was obviously the home's utilities.

A single floor-standing equipment rack held a server, a network switch, and a few other pieces of equipment that she couldn't quite recognize. There were gas and water pipes, electrical conduits, breaker panels, and various other pieces of equipment. There were no obvious means of access to the server; there was no monitor and keyboard. There were status displays, but their functions were limited. She could turn the equipment on and off, but little more than that. Whoever put her here didn't want her to dig too deeply; at least not into the computers. That she had access to the entire house was something, but it was a hollow victory; it was too easy.

Feeling somewhat defeated, she decided to go back upstairs. On the way back up, she noticed a lock box set into the wall near the foot of the stairs, which appeared to be the right size to hold keys. But the box itself either required a combination or its own key to open it.

Well, she had access to a workshop with every conceivable tool, so it shouldn't pose too much of an obstacle for her to pry it open.

Later, she decided.

The growling from her stomach signaled it was time to take a break. So far, she hadn't found anything that posed a threat, so she decided to have breakfast. If she wanted to keep going, she needed to eat. Besides, there was no way of knowing when she'd have another chance. So, breakfast.

And coffee. Strong coffee.

Coffee was soon brewing and she was preparing a bowl of instant oatmeal. Everything was sealed and didn't appear tampered with and had the usual brand names. After a few tentative smells, bites and sips, she figured it was safe enough and dug in.

As she ate, her mind began reflecting on who may have been responsible. Unfortunately, as fast as her mind brought up suspects, there were just as quickly dismissed. This didn't feel like anyone at the Agency; they wouldn't go to this much trouble for her, they'd just put her in a cell or a box. In fact, this couldn't be Agency at all. There was no protocol for this kind of treatment except for high-value informants. Even then, there would be a debriefing, paperwork, a protective detail; some sort of formal notification.

If I was an informant, she lamented. She was a whistle-blower. Whistle-blower. Two words that were meant to make people feel ashamed, even if they did the right thing. Even though she blew her whistle through the right channels, she still blew the whistle on her former colleagues, which was why this couldn't be Agency business. You silenced whistle-blowers by threatening—or administering—prison or death, not give them first-class accommodations in the middle of nowhere. More like having a bag thrown over your head, shackled, drugged and put on a plane to god knows where, stripped naked and kept in a cold bare cell in the middle of nowhere, she shuddered.

On the other hand, this sounded like something Hirsch could do. Dr. Albert Hirsch, former head of SRD—yeah Doctor, she thought disgustedly. Maybe this was some new interrogation technique? No, that didn't scan. She didn't feel like she was in a drug-induced fantasy land; it felt real.

In fact, all she felt was confused, and any fear was fading and being replaced with curiosity. If the good doctor wanted to break her, she knew he could pull it off faster, easier and cheaper than... this. Whoever—or whatever, let's not be narrow-minded—put her here had made an enormous effort to make her feel right at home; right down to the preferred style of underwear in the panty drawer and her favorite brand of coffee in the kitchen cupboard. It was odd, disturbing, but hardly the kind of mind fucking Hirsch was known for inflicting on others.

The more she considered the possibility it was Hirsch, the more she rejected it for the simple fact that he wouldn't even consider making an effort to make anyone comfortable; in fact, just the opposite. His specialty was building assassins through behavior modification. Besides, he was spending the rest of his life in a Federal Prison.

She shook her head. The day had barely begun, and she knew she was in for a very long one. She pushed aside all her questions and fears and ate.

Later, after setting the dishes in the sink, her next step was to take a better look around outside. Maybe if she saw more of the ground, she might have a better idea of where she was and come up with a plan. With no maps, she'd have to be careful not to get lost since this house meant food, water and shelter.

As she gripped the door knob, she was suddenly hit with a wave of dizziness and an unpleasant taste in her mouth. It was an odd sick burning taste. But, just as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone—like a moment of deja vu. She rested her head against the door, keeping a white-knuckle grip on the door knob for support, and took several deep breaths.

Worried that she might have actually been drugged, Pamela went back to the sink and carefully checked the coffee cup and bowl. Neither smelled odd, nor was there any indication of anything other than food in the dishes.

Back at the door, her hand once again rested on the knob while she ran another internal check. She felt fine, her stomach was full, her head was clear, and there was still no sign of trouble. Okay, here we go. With a deep breath, she turned the knob, was greeted by a gentle cool breeze, and carefully ventured out.

A wood deck extended around the house which, from her look up, appeared to be carved into the hill and had full exposure on one side. It was like someone had blended a rustic log cabin into the surrounding hillside. The mirror-like coating on the windows gave the home a high-tech element to its design. This explained the unusual layout and lack of windows on the lower levels; the entire garage/storage area was underground and half the house was inside the hill.

The entire house was earth-bermed; it used the surrounding dirt and rock as a natural insulator, which in turn reduced the energy required to heat or cool the interior. A long earth-colored cobblestone ramp near the kitchen door led down to a solid-looking metal garage door that was painted to blend in with the rock face.

It occurred to her that even with the wood deck and windows, the house would be difficult to spot from the air. Someone would have to know exactly what to look for.

A well-maintained dirt road led off into the forest, winding out of view. It was possible that she could simply hike or drive out of here. Could I? She wondered. Would it be that easy? Maybe. Then again, maybe not.

She crouched down to examine the stone. There was nothing remarkable about it; it was just garden variety cobblestone available anywhere. The trees were a mix of pines, elms, and a few other types she couldn't name. That did narrow things down to the Northern Hemisphere; the US, Canada, or Europe.

There were no mountains that she could see in any direction—though the surrounding hills obscured the horizon. Assuming that there weren't any mountains near by, that could narrow down her location even more, but she was starting to get ahead of herself. So many questions were flying through her head. What the hell is going on? How did I get here? Who brought me here and why? Her eyes closed and took a deep breath. Pull yourself together Pam. Don't panic, don't lose focus.

Maybe she was being tortured. Even though she was placed in a comfortable home with food, water, clothing, entertainment and vehicles, she was isolated with no means of contacting the outside world or contact with anyone. Maybe she really was being held prisoner, except the prison wasn't the house, but the surrounding area. For all she knew, she could be in the middle of Virginia or Russia.

It was information deprivation—she had no idea where she was, had no links to the outside world and had no one to talk to. There was no one to threaten her, but no one to comfort her.

The rest of the world may as well not exist.