His director had given him a diagram of the base, which included all of the basic rooms everyone knew about, briefing room, meeting room, cafeteria, entrance hall, pool and recreation room, et cetera.

But then George had drawn extra lines, adding on to the standard map, listing all of the secret rooms he needed to know to reach the wine cellar.

But Bland didn't really care for the hidden passages or the Specter-like organization he was about to be briefed on. No, he cared about the map. For hours he had looked at it, memorizing every detail. Most agents would have given it a quick look then forgot it was even in their pockets later, but Bland found this boring activity exciting.

James Bland reached the wine cellar punctually at seven-o'clock sharp. He knocked on the door with the default secret knock, which was basically just playing "Mary Had A Little Lamb" by banging on the door.

As he finished the last line the door squeaked open, granting him access to the wine cellar which was connected to the laundry room, which gave Bland the perfect cover due to his bi-weekly visits there to do the laundry.

As he walked down into the darkness he had a thought, an actual, genuine, not-bland thought.

When I was a kid I would've been scared to come down here.

Bland stopped in his tracks on the wooden staircase. He had had a thought. He had started to remember something. This didn't happen often; he often had trouble piecing together a memory, and he hadn't had a memory since...

James Bland's brain shut down the train of thought. It was like he had trained himself to forget one year of his life. Over the years, though, he had started to remember things from that year, horrible things that no human being should have to endure.

Occasionally Bland would remember bits and pieces, screaming as they were dragged away into the darkness by some sort of soldiers, and a person suspended by wires in some sort of green test tube.

Beyond that, his mind had only memories of darkness, memories of pain. Bland descended into the void, flashlight in hand. He felt happy that he was walking on these steps. Why? Even he himself couldn't give anyone a straight answer to that question, and he often pondered why he felt happy being the opposite of everyone else.

The narrow wooden staircase gave way to a cement floor. As James reached this solid ground he noticed that the walls had racks upon racks of aged wines. Bland was about to examine one when he jumped away. There was a giant spider that was skittering across the bottles.

"Follow me." It said.

James Bland believed he was going crazy.

"Bland," James said, extending his index finger to the now still spider, "James Bland."

The large spider came into view, revealing that it was a tarantula. It then extended one of its eight legs.

"Now James-"the spider started.

"You know my name!" interjected Bland.

"Listen, I'm your director, George Connor, okay? This is a prototype spying technology. Now quiet down, I know you get excited and go beyond your... Blandness when you're scared, but you have to calm down or one of their spies will come down here."

"How can we talk down here when your office isn't even secure? And what's with prototype this and prototype that? Doesn't anything ever get finished around here?" Bland said. It was a good point, after all. Bland began to wander around, exploring, when he checked the closet, didn't like what he saw, or the smell and closed it.

"Three years ago, Madskull implemented bugs down here along with almost every room in the entire base. But one day a drunkard agent found them after he stumbled around with a 1928 red variety. That inept, drunk agent was me. That's how I know what I know about Madskull, James. Now, come with me."

The spider began to skitter away when Bland said:

"If you're my director, then why is he dead, hanging from the ceiling in the closet?"

The spider muttered a swear word under its breath.

"Code Red," it said, "We have a Code Red."

Bland had a pretty good idea of what was about to happen when the cellar door was kicked open by three men wielding guns. The tarantula then sprouted a machine gun turret out of its back.

Bland ran, vaulting gracefully over a rack of wine as it exploded in a mess of glass and aged alcoholic drinks. By the time Bland had finished leaping over a barrel of hard cider three men in the standard tuxedoes or were they really men at all? Due to pitch black balaclavas adorning their faces, and the heavy body armor that they wore beneath their suits, this question remained

Bland stood straight out in front of his assailants, and noticed the branding on their weapons.

"That's a Smith and Wesson. You've had your six." He then jumped into the air, kicking the two attackers on the sides. They promptly fell over. He took out the last one with a quick punch to the face.

"Note to self: never trust a talking tarantula." James said as he ran up the stairs, and back into the base.