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Militem Dominum · **12-27-2013, 12:06 PM**

Date: 15 March, 2045
Location: Equipment Locker, Subbasement 2, Tower 4, Montreal, Quebec, Canada
Current Mood: Angry

The elevator doors open, sending a gust of artificial wind right at my face. Rubbing my eyes, I step off the lift and walk into the large, rectangular room, the drab olive green metal walls doing nothing to hinder my mood. Why should I be upset? I'm getting to blow shit up, aren't I? Fuck yeah. Explosions and shit. Gerald steps out behind me, and from the corner of my eye, I see his jaw drop.

"Where are we?" he asks with a sense of bewilderment dripping from the particles of spit that he expelled while asking the question. I spin on one heel to face him, chuckling. I turn my head to the side, and cough into the empty air before returning my attention to the intern once more.

"Classified," I state in a cold, monotonous voice, trying to hold back laughter. Gerald isn't amused. He crosses his arms and stares back at me, scowling. I look down at the floor, turn back around and continue walking, my shoes clanking on each step against the metal under my feet.

"What? You aren't going to answer my question?" He really isn't persisting, is he? Ignoring him, I keep on walking, closer to the bank vault like door on the opposite end of the room. The clanking coming from behind me stops, seriously? I don't even need to turn around, his voice breaks through the sudden, tense silence.

"Well?"

"It's none of your fucking business, rook."

His hand balls up in a fist, and the clanking begins once more, faster than my own steps. I duck, expecting what he had planned down to the second. He continues his sprint, throwing his fist and then being knocked off balance by the big miss. Stumbling forward, he doesn't stop moving until he runs face first into the thick wall, giving it a red streak that originated from his nose. He slides down the metal until he lands in a heap on the floor. I stand back up and walk to the door, standing adjacent to his fallen body.

"Should've listened, idiot." No use sugarcoating that, he is an idiot. I take a look back at where he's on all fours, trying to get back up to his feet, shaking my head ashamedly. Turning my head back, I knock on the door and wait. A few seconds pass, and the sound of tumblers falling out of place fills the silence in our side of the room. Finally, the door swings open, and ignoring the condition that Gerald's in, I step in. Instantly, I'm greeted by the Ordnance Officer of this center.

"You must be that Agent Preston put in for, huh?" the Officer's gruff voice asked at me rather than to me. A cigar hung from his mouth, unlit. I choose not to answer and instead walk past him, eyes fixed on one of the many, many boxes the line the walls on the opposite end of the otherwise barren room. Out the corner of my eye, I see him lean over and look out into the room I came from, presumably to see Gerald finally getting up all the way.

"And who the hell is this guy?" he asks to either of us, so long as he got an answer.

"Gerald Clinton. He's my shadow for this operation." I respond, looking up from the crate I had sat myself down in front of. The Officer shakes his head dismissively, but ultimately doesn't say anything in return. Gerald stumbles into the room, one hand clutching his bleeding, possibly broken nose and the other trying to hang onto what dignity he had left. It appeared as though he was failing remarkably in the second endeavor. I return my attention back to the crate, reaching in and pulling out a baton with a thin, 5 cm long gap in the plastic.

"That's it?" Gerald asks, falling to his knees next to me, looking down at my hand. I nod, before reaching into a small, hidden pocket in the robe and pulling out a small computer chip. I slide the chip into the gap and whisper under my breath:

"Activate."

The plastic strips away from most of the baton, sans the handle of course, revealing a now electrically charged steel baton. Gerald's eyes widen in shock. Bloody rook.

"Deactivate."

The plastic covers the weapon once more, and I slide it into a pocket hidden in the right sleeve of the robe. I shake my arm, checking to see if it's in tightly, and the fact that it didn't fall right back out confirms that fact for me. Content, I go back to scrounging around the crate, trying to pull something out that he can use to defend himself. Finally, my hands brush against the rough handle of a firearm. Should be simple enough, all he'll need to do is point and pull a trigger. Point blank range doesn't require any training, right? I pull it out and flash it in front of his eager, still widened eyes.

"Do you know what this is?" I ask, rather condescendingly. He nods. Good, that spares the five seconds of glaring I prepared in case he said "no". I toss the gun to him, before pulling out one clip of ammunition.

"That's it?" he asks. "Shouldn't I be getting a little more?"

"Look," I begin with a sigh, "if all goes well, you won't need to use it once."

"Fine!" he exclaims.

"Now, get out of here, and meet me outside the front entrance. I have one last thing I have to take care of."

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