Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Phantom of the Opera.

The Assignment

It all began three years ago. Back then I was a suite wearing, special agent for an over-glorified government agency known as the NSA. But do not ask or search for the whereabouts of this institution, for you will find no answers. The agents employed used to call it the "No Such Agency." Now, I truly wish that there was no such thing.

I was given a case regarding a man by the name of Steward Jansen. He was a fugitive, on the run from the military hounds out in Nevada. He had disappeared, and the military men had asked the NSA for help locating their man. At the time I did not understand why the NSA would become involved in the capture of this nobody, but I was taught to never question my orders. Like a dog, I listened to my master and headed out to Nevada on a small private plane.

I never liked to fly. When you are in a plane, your life is placed in the hands of a pilot. There is a sense of loss of control as you sit in those gray seats, looking out into the endless sky and patches of clustered white smoke. I hated that feeling. That was the reason I never allowed anyone to drive me anywhere.

"We will be landing shortly," announced the blond man who sat in the front, his hands on the strange looking black steering wheel. "You will need to fasten your seat belt," he said as he began to flick switches and turn knobs. I had not unfastened my seatbelt since the plane had taken off.

Land finally came through the blue that had conquered the view out the window. It was not the kind of land I expected. All that could be seen was one long, gray strip of road and golden sands. There were no cars, no houses, and no vegetation. But that changed seconds later, when the reflection of bright light hit my eyes.

Hundreds and hundreds of buildings stretched over a vast amount of land. Each one covered in metal and with cars parked in front of what appeared to be the entrances. As we dropped lower, men dressed in green became apparent. They stood guarding god knows what, motionless, their fingers on the trigger, ready to take action.

I had been in a military base before, several actually, but this one…there was something about it that did not sit well with me. Call me paranoid, but my gut told me that something fishy was taking place, and I always trust my instincts. They are the only things I can always count on.

Walking down the white stairs of the plane, I was greeted by a man in full army uniform. His hat hung low, giving me no view of his eyes. On the breast of his green jacket hung a myriad of medals, some which dangled as he approached me. Three armed men in camouflage clothing stood behind him, their eyes scanning me and the surroundings.

"Agent Dawson," said the man, "We have been expecting you. Please follow me."

I followed the man and his pets into one of the metallic buildings. As we walked, I realized that there was nothing in the open. There were several landing strips, but no planes. Besides the few cars, there was absolutely nothing else.

"This way," he said as he opened the door to what looked like a massive warehouse.

It was empty. There was one very long hallway which stretched for miles, but no people. Nothing but polished metal walls and cement floors. But there were doors, hundreds and hundreds of unlabeled doors.

The man in charge approached one of these doors. He placed his palm on some sort of touch screen at the side of the door, and then proceeded to swipe a white card though a black slot.

As the door opened, the bright overhead florescent lights came to life. Everything was so plain. There was a metallic desk, a few chairs, and over a dozen file cabinets that covered the white walls.

"Sit," he told me as he moved behind his desk. I did. "This is a very delicate matter, as your superior has most likely told you. We need the man returned to the base as soon as possible. He has been on the run for 45 hours, and we cannot afford to have him run loose for much longer.'

I produced a black notepad from my suite jacket. If I was going to find this man I needed to compose a profile.

"I am going to need some background information,"

"You were given a file with all the necessary information."

"I was given a file," I told him, "with virtually no information.'

"I am afraid that is all that we are able to release."

"Than I am afraid I cannot help you."

He smirked as I put away my notepad. I was prepared to leave the base and return to DC. If the army was not going to procure what I needed, then neither would I.

"You know as well as I, that that is not an option."

"You'd be surprised at just how many options I have," I said calmly, something which seemed to irritate the man. Good. "It was you who asked for help, not the NSA. If you are not willing to corporate then I see no point in me spending another minute on this base."

The man cracked his knuckles as he thought out his next move. He looked over at the file cabinets, and then back at me. His fingers began to tap on the metallic desk. The silence was beginning to irritate me.

"My time is precious, Sir," I said as I looked at the man with authority he was not appreciating. He might have been respected and obeyed on this base, but I was not working for him and whatever rules this base had did not apply to me. It was one of the perks, so to say, of being in the NSA. "Make your decision."

The man walked to one of the cabinets and pulled out a manila colored folder. In black, capital letters was spelled out the word "Classified." He walked to me, the folder in hand. When my hand griped the folder, he pulled it slightly back. I looked up at him, at those anger filled eyes for the first time.

"While you are on this base, I suggest you watch you mouth. Not everyone tolerates sharp-tongued women."

"They'll have to deal with it," I spat as I pulled the folder from his hand.

As I opened the folder, the hunt for the fugitive began; a fugitive who had a past that would hunt me for years to come.