To most people in the Agency, the Internal Branch handles requisitions, and nothing else other. Truth be told, They handle a lot more then one would think. That's the reason Lieutenant Carver was chosen to lead it. Because They said so, and when They say something, They mean it.
Two blond men look across at each other. One has brown eyes, the other black. One is Henry Vincent Pendleton-Carver. The other, er, isn't.
"So, what can I do to look more like you?"
"For starters, Peter, no yellow tie. It's both an eyesore and I wouldn't be caught dead in it. Other then that, you're good, Mr. Monroe. Go out there and give 'em a speech to rival the best! Make them reporters eat right out your hand."
"Thanks for the well wishing, Lieutenant.
"Any time-" The door closes. "-Any time, you sucker. Ha! Too easy. Now, for some behind the scenes philanthropy. Send a supply truck to the lesser cared about places, and make the public love you..."
'Am I really helping, or am I hindering those people out there? Which is it? WHICH IS IT GODDAMMIT TELL ME I JUST WANT TO HELP. It doesn't matter, does it? I've been here for a month, nothing's changed. What am I? A figurehead. That's all I am. I just wanted to help...'
A strangled cry emits, as the man rests his head on his desk, tears rolling down his face, plastering the blond hair to him. The man continues crying, his hazel eyes becoming stricken with memories, memories he had ignored. He cries, a bit harder this time, banging his head on 'his' desk, knocking over 'his' name plate.
"I just wanted to help..."
Author's Note. So, nervous breakdowns. Fun.