Slowly, Vincent pulls his car into the driveway of a run-down mobile home, the headlights illuminating the trash cans near it as he turns in. Raccoons, some perched atop one of the old rusty metal trash cans, scatter in all different directions. Many make for the safety of the underbelly of the home, where old, rotten wooden planks serve as insufficient deterrents, but provides plenty of shelter for animals seeking to avoid view of humans. Turning the key and thus the vehicle off, Vincent opens the door and climbs out, the groaning of the vehicle's aging shocks more than sufficient to announce his arrival.

The porch light flickers on about the same time Vincent shuts the door to his vehicle, but the mobile home's door doesn't open. Vincent grumbles loudly. He climbs the rotten wooden ramp, clearly much newer in comparison to the rest of the home, up onto the porch. The poorly maintained wood of the porch groans in protest, almost as loud as his vehicle. Not wanting to test the rusty nails, Vincent opens the screen door and the door behind it.

"It amazes me you haven't been robbed yet..." Vincent closes the door behind him, peering about the home. While the outside looks awful, the inside is evidently much cleaner: the floor is easily navigable, with faux wooden walls almost completely hidden by maps and diagrams. Whatever windows haven't been covered by boards and posters have met a similar fate, and light cannot hope to shine inside. A bed lies on the wrong side of the home, though it seems more like a bunk that's had several layers of blankets piled on for cushioning. The kitchen is the only place of the home so far that's been left largely untouched, with a stove, fridge, and various cupboards and drawers.

On the other side, the bedroom part of this small home has been refurbished to hold a battle station of computers that would put NASA to shame: monitors, all of varying sizes and quality. The blue and white glow of it is more than enough to properly light the room. A few air conditioners chug desperately in their own secluded corners, trying their best to keep the room cool enough for someone to inhabit it. Smack in the middle of it all sits a balding man in a computer chair, dressed only in shorts and a white t-shirt, both having seen better, cleaner days. What few wisps of brown hair are left on his head frame dull blue eyes, accentuated by the eye bags of someone who clearly gets less sleep than is healthy.

"Jesus, Donny, you look like hell. What happened?" Vincent grumbles, cautiously stepping into what was once the bedroom. He peers about at all the monitors, but there's so much going on that it's impossible to look at any one monitor and tell what's going on. Information moves much too fast for him to catch more than bits and pieces, and none of it really makes sense to him without context. "How long has it been since you last slept?"

"Only about thirty six hours," Don chuckles. "Though, that's off a two hour nap... after a seventy two hour movie binge watch." He extends a hand out to Vincent, who politely declines. With a shrug, Don turns his chair back toward the monitors opposite the door. Several keyboards lay on flat surfaces that have been screwed to the wall, all in a circle so he can easily maneuver his chair between it all and turn as needed. "What brings you to my humble abode?"

Turning back to the kitchen, Vincent begins to dig around in the cupboards, only stopping when he finds coffee. "Instant coffee? Is this really all you have? Why not just boil dog poop and pour creamer in it?" He sighs, digging around some more. "Knew I should've stopped to get coffee."

"Surely you didn't come out all this way just to judge my poor choice of caffeine. You only come out here when you need something from me. Who died this time?" Don says, turning the chair around to face what little of Vincent he could see from the doorframe.

"You've heard about the Buckhorn Mountain incident? Been on the news all week," Vincent offers, surrendering and pouring some instant coffee into a cup of water, tossing it into the microwave to heat it all up.

"I think the whole world knows about it by this point. I mean, when was the last time a whole mountain fell in on itself?"

Staring into the microwave, the insides barely lit by a dim bulb, Vincent continues. "I was assigned to it. For all of, I don't know...twenty minutes? Some kids went missing. I'm thinking their disappearances might be linked to the collapse. Though, honestly, they're probably dead."

"Probably got snatched by bears, or buried in the landslides or something." Don leans back in his chair, eyebrow raised, curious. "You know my cousin Rufus got snatched by a bear once. He lived, but he was never the same after. Always afraid of dogs..."

"Well, they didn't find any bodies in the rubble..." Vincent opens the microwave, removing the cup and sipping at it. The grimace on his face shows that the coffee is poor quality, but passable enough to at least sate his addiction briefly. "And they called off the search party yesterday evening. Military showed up not long after I did. Anyway, I figured I'd wait until all the bases got covered."

Don folds his arms across his chest, narrowing his eyes. "Alright, get to the point, Vince."

"My point is that there's more to this than meets the eye. Exhibit A, the military having a business in this, they completely took over the scene. They headed the search parties. Of course they're not going to come up with anything." Vincent sips his coffee again, before giving up and dumping it out into the nearby sink. He sets the cup down and leans against the doorway to the bedroom. "More suspicious is that I had eyewitness testimony of a UFO. Thought that might interest you."

"Ah," Don turns to type on his keyboard. His monitors bring up articles about the Buckhorn Mountain incident, as well as a collection of UFO images. "My kind of weird."

Vincent frowns, staring at the articles as they pop up onto the screens. All of the headlines say there were no casualties. "Right, well, that's why I'm here." He motions toward the monitors. "I found something odd when searching for information on the newspaper. Before the incident, we were having increasingly powerful seismic activity centered in on the mountain. Though, nobody really made a fuss about it until the whole thing collapsed in on itself. Anyway, I'd like to find out more about that. You seem like the right guy for the job."

"To look up reports of abnormal activity?" Don chuckles. "Way ahead of you." He begins to type on a keyboard, the articles are suddenly replaced by a website with an enormous map of recent seismic events. "I've been looking at this stuff for a while now, actually. Something strange is going on. I was watching this one camera feed in Australia and there was this thing that—"

"Donny, focus." Vincent cuts him off. "Give me something I can use. I need something concrete."

Don sighs and keeps typing, bringing up another map on screen. "Alright. Let's cross reference seismic activity in this area with any that have occurred in the last three weeks." The map lights up with various blips, all seismic disturbances. "Most of this stuff is pretty common, you know? Ring of fire, plate tectonics sort of stuff..."

Vincent nods.

"But, ask yourself this: how often does Florida have earthquakes?" Donny says.

"Not often, I'm guessing?" Vincent leans his head down, running a hand through his red hair.

"Exactly. All of the activity is off the coast, but there's several blips..." Don zooms in on the state of Florida. "...with strong seismic activity right smack dab in the middle of the state." He highlights the several blips on the monitors. "All of them have identical richter-scale numbers. Which shouldn't be possible. Seems a bit suspicious. And get this: they're creating huge sinkholes out there. They're chalking it up to aquifers collapsing."

Vincent shuffles his feet a bit as he mulls the information over, biting his lip, resisting the urge to spit out the aftertaste of that instant coffee from earlier. "What we need is some local activity that's abnormal, like with Buckhorn Mountain. Something we..." He peers up, noticing the apprehensive look on Don's face. "... something I can realistically drive to and investigate. You know, somewhere nearby."

Satisfied, Don turns back to his monitors. "Well, then I'd say the Blue Mountains are probably your best bet. They're not far from here. I can print you up a map to follow, with triangulated position based on seismic data. Give me a second."

"Don, we live in the twenty first century. I have a cellphone, I'll just use the GPS." Vincent removes his phone, wagging it a bit to get Don's attention.

"I'm telling you, you'll want this map." Obscured from sight in the shadows cast by the many monitors, a printer whirs noisily to life. It's an older model, using printer paper that's long since been out of manufacture. He leans over and tears the map from the reel of paper when it's done, and he hands it off to Vincent, who takes it and looks it over the bright monitor light. Don stares at the map as Vincent looks over it. "I also gave you some towns to stop at, and some other places to look for when you're out there hiking around."

Vincent calmly folds the map and tucks it into his messer fedora, before setting it back atop his head. "I appreciate this, Don. You've been a real help. And, hey..." He clears his throat a bit. "... if I don't come back from this or something... just want to let you know you've been a good friend all these years, helping me out with my work."

Don leans his head back a bit and laughs. "Oh, cut the theatrics. The most you're going to find out there is a lot of dirt and trees. You'll be knocking at my door for help with your next assignment before long."

With a smirk, and a rude gesture, Vincent turns around to head for the door. "Do yourself a favor and get some real coffee, alright? Give me a reason to come back here." And with that, he opens the door and steps outside. There's a response from Don, but it's muffled by the walls and the noise, and Vincent doesn't quite catch it. Figuring it was just banter, the man crosses the porch back to his car, opening the door and climbing in.

The trip back home is quiet except for the low din of the radio, left on to a news station. Vincent is lost in his own thoughts, but a few words catch his attention quick enough for him to reach out and increase the volume.

"... are calling the collapse of Buckhorn Mountain the result of a new fault line. Thanks to the efforts of local and state police, the area had been roped off beforehand and no-one perished in the rockslides following the collapse. Needless to say, Buckhorn Mountain isn't quite as big a mountain as it used to be. They haven't officially declared the mountain's new height, but they say it's one of the biggest losses since Mount Saint Helens erupted in 1980..."

The radio drones on as Vincent quietly listens, turning onto the back streets that lead to home. The homes on this side of the city are the sort of white collar idyllic, American dream sort of homes, white picket fences of all shapes and sizes included. He slows a bit to make his way through the cars parked on either side of the street, but he quickly hits the brakes as he turns onto the road home. Where neighbor vehicles were once parked now sat a familiar sight: military Humvees, taking up every available inch from the start of the road, all the way to Vincent's home.

Behind the Humvees are a small group of men, dressed in fatigues and armed with rifles, who quickly turn their attention to Vincent and signal him to keep driving forward. Figuring they wouldn't simply allow him to back up and leave, he gently pumps the accelerator and cruises slowly past the intimidating vehicles. When he spots the only opening in the Humvees, the driveway leading to his home, he figures it's no coincidence.

"Son of a bitch..." Vincent breathes, heart-rate steadily increasing as he pulls into his driveway. More men in fatigues, stationed at his garage door, motion for Vincent to turn his car off and approach to open his door. "I can open my own door, thanks," he grumbles as he climbs slowly out of his vehicle. The men press the button to unlock the doors in the back and begin to immediately search the vehicle. Resisting the urge to say something nasty, he simply walks around the car and down the short walkway to his front door, wide open. Only the screen door keeps the mosquitoes at bay, the same one he opens to walk inside.

Resisting the urge to hang his messer fedora on the hat rack at the side of the door, Vincent instead makes a beeline for the left archway leading into his living room. Standing at the opposite side of the room is the very same man that had taken over his Buckhorn Mountain investigation: the decorated military man, tall, with blonde hair trimmed in military style. His blue eyes consider Vincent as the two stand at nearly opposite sides of the room. From all around the house, the sound of footsteps are obvious as the men search.

"Vincent, right?" The man speaks up, a cocky smirk on his face. "I'm First Lieutenant Michael Hagan. We're just here to have a little chat with you about the Buckhorn Mountain investigation you helmed for all of twenty minutes."

"I hope you have a search warrant for this," Vincent grumbles lowly, clearly uneasy in a house filled with men armed to the teeth.

"All things considered, you should feel yourself lucky that we chose this route instead," Michael says, shaking his head slowly. "I'm disappointed in you, detective." He slowly steps around the coffee table, the only thing separating the two men. "Do you remember what I said when I arrived? When I got up on top of that vehicle and spoke for everyone to hear? I was pretty clear."

Vincent looks away, not daring to look the man in the face, as if by doing so he might give away his plans. "That you're an ugly asshole and you're going to ransack people's homes?"

Michael bites his lower lip, tensing up for a moment, before relaxing and letting out a low, ominous chuckle. He turns his head away for a moment, before turning his attention back to Vincent once more.

"To drop everything, and that you didn't want to fail to comply with our orders."

"Where's my wife?" Vincent inquires, turning his attention back to the other man.

"She decided she couldn't handle the idea of her husband possibly engaged in something illegal, and she took her kid to a hotel for the night," Michael replies simply. His blue eyes flit from Vincent to nearby movement, as one of the men step inside and into the living room, past Vincent, and directly to him.

"What do you got?"

"Some witness testimony, and pictures of the five missing kids," the man speaks, handing them over to Michael.

"Nice work, Davis." Michael accepts the offered papers and pictures, calmly opening them and looking them over. "Interesting testimony. Spaceships, huh? Missing kids. Seems like some real conspiracy theory stuff." He turns his eyes back up to Vincent. "Did you think you could hide these files from us?"

Vincent folds his arms across his chest and turns his eyes toward the nearby window, out into the dark of the neighborhood and the frequent flashes and beams of light from flashlights as the outside is searched. "Don't think too highly of yourself, prick. I didn't think to hide it better than the glove compartment." His gaze suddenly returns to Michael. "Let me guess. This is all something huge, and you guys are rushing to cover it up as best you can? You're in a panic, aren't you, Lieutenant? Higher ups at your throat? All this seems a bit beyond your training, doesn't it?"

Michael lurches forward without hesitation, gripping Vincent firmly by the collar and slamming him against the nearest wall with enough force to nearly knock the man senseless. "You're playing with fire, detective, and if you're not careful, you're going to get burned. If this whole incident hadn't been covered up as well as it had, I would have orders to make you disappear after we acquired what you'd taken from us." He slowly releases Vincent's collar, looking him over as he takes a step back. "I'm still considering it."

Vincent shakes his head a bit to clear his head, his gaze settling back on Michael again. He dusts himself off, leaning his head down to do so, only to have his fedora plucked from his head. He looks up, narrowing his eyes, but by some miracle, the map's edges had gotten stuck to the inside of the fedora and didn't come tumbling out from the force of the swipe. When nothing does, Michael doesn't think to look inside and tosses the hat across the room carelessly. "Better fetch your hat."

Vincent frowns, looking at him fiercely. He would insult him to the ends of the earth, but that would just get him pummeled to the wall again.

"This concludes our investigation."

Michael condescendingly pats Vincent on the shoulder. He steps into the entry foyer, clearing his throat. "We've found what we came here for! Let's move!" In unison, the men throughout the house noisily move toward the entry foyer. With the kind of precision only a thoroughly trained and disciplined military unit can manage, it takes only five short minutes for them to be gone, leaving behind a home for Vincent that looked as though a tornado had blown through it.

Quietly, Vincent steps across the room and picks up his fedora, placing it back on his head, before heading into the kitchen. He prepares some coffee, setting aside some thick cardboard coffee cups, as well as some sugar and creamer. He grabs a notepad and leaves behind a scribbled note for his wife, applying it to the fridge with a magnet advertising a local pizza place.

'Going to be gone for a few days. Phone off. Will contact as soon as possible. Love, Vin.'