Qualified

Contrary to popular belief, Alfred did in fact have some manners. Granted, some things he would never be able to shake off no thanks to the military (where his obedience had been top notch—he'd been the perfect soldier, no questions asked) but at least now he could have a little self-autonomy, which he enjoyed maybe a bit too much. Still, Alfred had to make use of some of the basic manners people instill into you when growing up—such as knocking before entering an office.

Which is exactly what Alfred did. He knocked, each rasp delivered with precision and an ample amount of authority, waited a beat, then entered.

His supervisor blinked, probably not having expected his presence.

" . . . You know how to knock."

OK, so Alfred had a habit of barging in whenever. He just needed to be in his boss' good graces, OK?

Alfred grinned brightly. "Why yes, sir!" Alfred always referred to his superiors as 'sir,' no exceptions. "Thought I'd give it a try! Cuz that's what HEROES do! HAHAHA!"

His supervisor, Special Agent Homer, pinched the bridge of his nose, looking for all intent and purposes as if he were trying to ward off a particularly nasty headache.

"What do you want, Special Agent Jones? I've got paperwork to fill out—all that commotion over at Large Corp. and Sons is really taking all of my time."

Ah, yes. That. The media was pressuring just about everyone for them to release his name and picture—except, Alfred didn't feel like it. That would mean interviews, of which Alfred didn't have time for. It was BBC marathon this week, as well as the superhero special, and he wasn't about to go miss marathoning on Merlin and Green Arrow anytime soon. He also had reports to write and paperwork to fill out. In addition to that, he was also on call 24/7.

"It'll be quick n' swift, sir~!"

Special Agent Homer glared at him, no doubt wondering why Alfred wouldn't just own up and face the spotlight—a thought that seemed very oxymoronious indeed. It was a well-known fact that Special Agent Jones loved to be the center of attention.

"Let's hear it out, then—just be quick about it."

Alfred nodded enthusiastically, before diving in on what his sister said . . .

What happened was very interesting. Once Alfred mentioned the name of the school his sister worked at and its location, Special Agent Homer seemed to freeze.

Alfred noticed instantaneously, having been trained in the art of reading body language.

"Sir?"

"Ah, nothing."

He was also trained in the art of interrogation.

Alfred smiled.

At that moment, the phone rang.

"Please step out for a second, Agent."

Psh. Saved by the bell, eh?

Alfred was not invited back in. Regardless, he had a feeling . . .

He was highly tempted to hack the FBI's secret out-of-the-way backup database—the one he definitely did not know about—but decided against it. At least, for now.

OoooOoooOoooO

Turns out, Alfred was right. Three days later, his patience was rewarded; they were all called to a meeting, FBI Agents and then some. Alfred sat down on one of the chairs that were brought out, choosing to sit at the very back, in a corner, where he could see everyone in the room. Paranoid? Hell yeah. A healthy amount of paranoia never killed anyone.

Agents started filing in, some individually, others with some friends, quietly talking to one another.

Alfred got comfortable.

In no time, the whole room was full. The head of the FBI, Special Agent Hughes, stepped up behind the podium. He cleared his throat. Everyone fell silent.

"It has come to our attention that a new organization that goes by the name 'Roanoke' has sprung up in the country."

Oh? Interesting. Roanoke. As, in, one of America's oldest mysteries? In which a group of English colonists disappeared without a trace? Good name choice—Alfred would have to give them that.

"We are not entirely sure what their main goal is, but recently, they have been moving around the country, contacting other underground organizations."

They were called Roanoke. Shouldn't that be a clue as to what this group was up to? Honestly. Or maybe they just liked the name—who knew? Either way, they smelled like trouble.

"We believe that they are stocking up on ammo, and the U.S. Government has decided to give them possible terrorist status."

The crowd stirred, whispers and questions springing up. Now that actually alarmed Alfred. Not good.

"KEEPing tabs on them," he started, trying to muffle out the noise, "has proven to be difficult. This issue has recently come to our attention, although we know not how long they've been doing whatever it is they are attempting to accomplish."

More reason to be worried.

His Conflict Senses were tingling.

"Moreover, we as a nation are trying our best to keep a leash on them. Up until now, this information was classified, but the higher ups in the White House have decided to brief everyone the basics. The President himself is interested," there were some whispers at that, "so I hope your best effort is put in tracking down and apprehending these individuals. For now, though, we are focusing on information gathering; we must first identify and uncover what these criminals are up to. They aren't a threat—yet. So we must move fast—faster than them." He looked at them all—Alfred thought that his gaze stayed on a particular group of Agents a little longer than most—and concluded: "Be on alert. More than likely, you will be assigned cases that are related or suspected of being related to Roanoke. A select few of you may even be tasked with larger, more sensitive cases." Here, Special Agent Hughes gave the crowd a nod. "With that said—meeting adjourned."

He disappeared as quickly as he came, strutting away with a manila folder under his arm.

Well that happened.

Alfred got up and stretched—conversations had broken all around him. He straightened his suit, and casually beelined out of the room.

They didn't enjoy his company anyway.

Lucky him, when he crossed from one end of the hallway to the other, he walked into a hushed discussion between Special Agents Hughes and Homer.

"Yo."

They paused, then just plain out stared at him.

Ooooookaaaaaaay?

Did I just interrupt something?

"Uh, I'll just, uh, let you guys finish your secret conversation. Laters!"

Definitely interrupted something.

He continued past them, making his way towards the stairs, when—

"Wait. Come here." That was Hughes' voice.

Alfred came to a complete halt, firmly planting his feet into the ground. He swiftly turned around, and with military precision, marched up to the duo, curiosity eating away at him.

"Sirs?" he asked. They seemed surprised at his newfound militaristic grace. Homer blinked at him confusedly, while Hughes studied him in a very calculating manner.

"I've . . . seen your face, somewhere. What are your qualifications, Agent?"

Alfred cocked his head.

"You are probably mistaken, Edward. He is under my division and . . ." Special Agent Homer grappled for a kinder word, before settling on ". . . not qualified."

Hughes was still staring at Alfred. Alfred stood firmly, unmoving, hands resting behind his back. His expression, though, was one of amusement and curiosity.

". . . What is your name, Agent?"

"I am Special Agent Jones—Alfred F. Jones to some and Alfred Fucking Jones to most, sir!" Alfred did not waste time introducing himself, mirth in his azure blue eyes, the light tugging of a smirk ghosting over his lips.

Homer face-palmed.

Hughes blinked. Then, apprehension dawned on his face.

"Yes . . . You look exactly alike—her maiden name was Jones, if I remember correctly," the elder mumbled to himself. "Agent, any relation to a Madeline Williams of Hetatown, Maine?"

Alfred stiffened, eyes narrowed dangerously. Both men suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

"She's my sister . . . sir."

Hughes nodded.

Homer cleared his throat; "It was through Jones' connection to his sister that we discovered . . ." here, he shot Alfred a quick glance, making a hand motion "you know."

"Ah. Is that so?"

Homer nodded.

"So he's directly involved?"

Homer went from semi-passive to scandalized in about a second. "This is a highly sensitive case, Edward!"

"But you said so yourself—we got the base to our current knowledge thanks to him. He knows something."

"He's not qualified!"

"He's so qualified!"

Both men turned to look at Alfred so fast, he wouldn't be surprised if they got whiplash. Alfred grinned innocently.

"You believe to be qualified enough, Agent Jones?" Hughes asked gruffly, eyeing the young man in front of him. Homer gave him an incredulous look.

Alfred flashed them a winning smile. He wanted to know whatever the hell was going down in his sister's town of residence. Instead of responding, he asked a question of his own, one whose answer he knew . . . but didn't want to believe.

"Does it have something to do with that new terrorist organization?" Alfred asked sweetly, smile plastered on his face. No one puts my sister in danger and gets away with it.

They stiffened. Jackpot.

Alfred's smile disappeared, replaced with a look so serious it was unsettling. Homer, at that moment, thought that that was the most unnatural thing to ever grace the planet. An Alfred without an idiotic smile was a preposterous thought.

"I want in."

Hughes frowned. "But, are you qualified?" he asked once again.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Depends. I don't know what the hell is exactly going on, sir." Alfred was sure he was qualified enough for whatever—he was always qualified enough when it came to the safety of his country—and especially his twin sister. "And should we even be doing this out here in the middle of the hall?" he casually bemused.

They blinked, turning to look at one another.

"Ah, yes . . . there's an office we could use here . . ." said Homer, somewhat unsettled.

They entered the office adjacent to where they had been standing.

No one sat down.

Hughes did not waste a beat.

"Do you have experience with undercover work?"

"He hasn't been here for more than a year! And he disables bombs, which has a distinct policy for undercover work! Jones has no experience—"

Hughes silenced him with a raised hand.

"Jones?" he asked.

Alfred gave them a casual shrug,

"Well, there was this time when I had to go undercover as a tourist? Does that count?"

Hughes cocked his head. "That's . . . something. Continue."

"It's sort of classified . . .?"

He'd rather not talk about the time he had to over-tan himself to a crisp, dye his hair black, and perfect his use of the Arabic language. He had been an Arabic tourist on vacation in the capital of Iraq, 'sightseeing.' Now that had been an interesting ordeal! Oooh the squirmishes and near-misses~

Oh, and there was also that time when—

"Classified?" Homer exploded. Alfred blinked.

"Yeppers. It was a four-month job." It had originally been a three-month job, but complications arose. Stupid handler. Stupid flammable instructions. Stupid ISIS.

Hughes gave him an incredulous look. "I am definitely going to have a look at your file, Agent."

Alfred grinned.

"Awesome. Then you'll see I am totally qualified!"

Hughes turned to Homer. "New blood or transfer?"

Homer paused. "I never actually bothered to check. He came in through the system, though," he was quick to add.

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Transfer, duh."

Both men gave him inquisitive looks.

Que to awkward silence.

The bespectacled man huffed.

"So are ya gonna brief me, or am I gonna hafta hack into the secret FBI database that technically doesn't exist?" Alfred crossed his arms, one eyebrow raised high in the air.

After all, I am very qualified.

A/N: Tell me, what is your favorite Alfred Moment so far? Quoting or general paraphrasing is encouraged.