It Went Sideways, Then Upside Down
Flashbacks apart, Harold was into Lasagna as well as data crunching as a side hustle. The investigations were going on about the heist they had carried out recently. Jonathan Reed's tenure was on the line. And then came the interrogation call from the Agency.
Welcome to Hell
Acid Burn, channeling her inner “Welcome to Hell” infomercial, was laying it on thick with the CEO of DataCorp. Let’s call him Mr. Spreadsheet, because in his world, even lunch breaks came with pie charts. More than that, if you sneezed in his office, you’d probably get a bar chart of your nasal activity.
So they were in the office of some high-strung interrogative agency – the kind of place where people go to report suspicious activity and leave feeling like they’ve committed a crime themselves. Mr. Spreadsheet had been called in by the agency to explain why his company’s data looked more suspicious than a cat with a can opener. The CEO, a man so serious that even his pen wrote in monotone, sat across the table like he was negotiating a merger with his own patience and dignity, while Acid Burn’s voice – part Bond villain, part bad horror flick – was turning the tension into a spectacle.
Meanwhile, Harold’s brain was firing on all cylinders – or at least trying to. The situation was spinning out of control faster than a hamster on a wheel.
How were they going to wiggle out of this one? More importantly, how had they ended up in a room that smelled like old coffee and corporate despair? Instead of a coffee house kitchen where he would be whipping up lasagna.
Mr. Spreadsheet at the Agency Office
Once inside the agency’s lair—sorry, office—and seated alongside Mr. Spreadsheet, the CEO of DataCorp, they were unceremoniously plopped into chairs that looked like they’d been stolen from an airport waiting area. The lead guard, who seemed to be auditioning for a role as a human wall, crossed his arms like he was getting paid per flex.
“You have five minutes to explain yourselves,” Mr. Spreadsheet said, his voice colder than a leftover meatloaf. “Start talking.”
Harold took a deep breath, which came out more like a wheeze, and launched into their story. He explained the unauthorized access, the trail leading to Jonathan Reed, and the massive conspiracy bubbling away under the surface of DataCorp. It was the kind of tale that should have come with a popcorn machine and a seatbelt.
Mr. Spreadsheet listened without blinking. In fact, Harold was pretty sure the man didn’t even breathe during the entire explanation. Was he a robot? Were they dealing with some kind of corporate cyborg?
When Harold finally finished, Mr. Spreadsheet turned to Acid Burn with the kind of look you give someone when you’re not sure if they’re serious or just messing with you. “Is this true?”
IS THIS TRUE?
Acid Burn nodded like she was confirming the earth was, indeed, round. “Every word of it.”
Next, he glanced at Arjun, who looked like he was about to either faint or spontaneously combust from stress. “And you?”
Arjun swallowed so hard it echoed in the room. “Yes, it’s true,” he squeaked.
The guard, who had clearly seen too much to be impressed by this point, sighed like a man who’d just realized he’d left his wallet at home. “This is above my pay grade,” he muttered, rubbing his temples like he was trying to massage out a migraine.
He pulled out his intercom and grumbled into it, “We need backup in Interrogation Room 3. We’ve got a situation here.” You could practically hear his dreams of a quiet retirement slipping away.
A few agonizing minutes later, a man in a suit who looked like he’d stepped out of a high-stakes poker game strolled in. He had the kind of aura that made you want to check if your shoelaces were tied correctly.
“I’m Agent Carter,” he said, with the kind of curt efficiency that made Harold wonder if he charged by the word. “I’ve been briefed on your… predicament.”
He sat down across from them, steepling his fingers like he was trying to win a “Most Mysterious” competition. “Now, tell me everything.”
Harold repeated the story, watching Agent Carter’s face for any reaction. At one point, Harold could have sworn he saw a flicker of interest – maybe even amusement – but it was gone so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined it.
When Harold finally wrapped up, Agent Carter leaned back in his chair, studying them like they were the weirdest creatures he’d ever encountered. “This is quite the tale,” he said, finally. “But why should I believe you?”
“Because we have proof,” Acid Burn interjected, her voice practically vibrating with confidence. “It’s all on that secure drive.”
Agent Carter raised an eyebrow, a small but impressive feat given the general lack of movement on his face. “And where is this drive now?”
Harold, feeling like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of his hat, reluctantly admitted, “In my pocket. But you’ll need to clear us if you want to see it.”
There was a tense pause where Harold was pretty sure everyone could hear his heart trying to leap out of his chest and make a run for it. Finally, Agent Carter nodded to Mr. Spreadsheet, who gave a curt nod back. Clearly, these guys had perfected the art of silent communication – either that or they were telepathic.
Harold reached into his pocket, fishing out the drive like it was a live grenade. He handed it over to Agent Carter, who plugged it into his laptop with the grace of a man defusing a bomb.
Agent Carter’s eyes widened as he scrolled through the files. “This is… substantial,” he muttered under his breath, which, coming from him, was basically the equivalent of someone else doing a backflip in surprise.
He snapped the laptop shut and looked at them with a newfound respect, like they’d just revealed they were secret superheroes. “Alright, you’re coming with me.”
“Where are we going?” Arjun asked, his voice wobbling as they stood up.
“To put an end to this,” Agent Carter said firmly, “once and for all.”
They followed him out of the room, down a maze of corridors that seemed to stretch on forever. Harold half-expected to run into the Minotaur at any moment. Finally, they reached a door marked “Restricted Access” in letters so big it felt like they were screaming at you.
Agent Carter punched in a code, and the door slid open with a hiss that was definitely trying to be dramatic. Inside was a control room that looked like it had been designed by someone who really, really loved buttons and screens.
“This is where we’ll find our answers,” Agent Carter announced, as they stepped inside.
But all Harold could think was that, in the middle of this high-stakes operation, he was starting to feel a bit soft in the head. Maybe this whole spying gig wasn’t for him. Maybe he should just become a cook. Yes, that was it – a life of lasagna and garlic bread sounded much less likely to involve being chased by security guards.
But then again, knowing his luck, he’d probably end up with a burnt lasagna, a flaming kitchen, and somehow still have to explain it to Mr. Spreadsheet.
Maybe sticking to hacking wasn’t so bad after all - at least computers didn’t scream at you when you overcooked the pasta.
