Because a few years after 1984 is not too late…….

The black curtains slides opens, as the automatic machines from opposite ends of the window shifts. Slowly, a soft brazened white light flows into the dark living room. With automatic timing, the television turns on; flickering to a news channel all by its own accord. Traveling with endless efficiency, the morning light softly touches the body of a half-nude man upon a black sofa. Its soft warm touch caresses his chest, similar to that of a lover which had left him so long ago. Dark piercing blue eyes suddenly snaps wide open as the man awakens.

"Military leaders today have authorized the bombing of Southern Iraq in a…"

If it wasn't for the television blaring away the rhetoric of war politics and the cursed light, this blue eyed demon would have still been asleep. While in a yawn he arises- knocking over objects, including several foreign beer cans off the adjacent table in which he used to rest his right leg. Amongst the objects which hits the floor is a M93R; an automatic pistol which was carried along with the identification card which eclipses it a second later. In bold letter, it reads:

"Central Intelligence Agency, Internal Affairs: 'John Smith.'"

With tired and delusional hands- the man in buff picks up his belongings. After months of training on the 'Farm', all the tactical handling with the fire arms, and even with the Agency's policy of keeping at least one weapon at your side at all times; life was dull and frustrating for paper-pushing John. There was a yarn for greater goal, a higher purpose. Sliding his right hand over his head, the Agent casually flickers the block of raven black hair to the side; allowing the blue eyes to adjust to the light. Just through the window were a dozen flags, hanging with the stupid little yellow ribbons while portraying the colors of Uncle Sam.

"The White House has declared that the possession of weapons of…….."

For some unfathomed reason, he felt the tugs of rebellion whenever he saw those colors. It was an irrational feeling; after all- he works for Uncle Sam. If any psychological tests revealed treasonous traits, the results would be disastrous; Smith would be royally fucked. The feeling was a primitive impulse; he disliked other people's patriotic behavior for he feared them. He loathed that behind all the patriotism, there was nothing but a vacuum in which life existed without true meaning. It was only through this lie of doing something greater for society which kept him going. Yet the feeling lingered, it was an impulse to satisfy his dissatisfaction with the absurd nationalism which was rampant just a few steps outside of the door to his left.

"If only they knew of the work we do."
If only people looked..."

Placing rough hands over his eye lids, John allows darkness to consume his vision and thoughts. A flashback of old reports invades his mind's eye. Upon closer inspection, a dozen outlandish reports begin to reveal a dozen international treaties being hampered.
Everything from conspiring actions of aggression, to the selling of biological weapons to rogue factions was there. Though they were briefly mentioned in the text books of times past, many people stayed ignorant of these subjects.

"It's up the few of us, to protect them from everyone else and themselves..."

Lifting his chin up, he quietly walks into his empty bed room and gets dressed. The semi-casual business suit was in order, after all- this dress code at the Agency's offices demanded utmost profession in every manner of business; except for the business of covert operations and assassinations of course. Fixing up the collar, Smith slides into the kitchen for a quick bite before going off to work.