Leaning forward for the retina scanner, a soft crimson laser hums to life. It pierces through a sea of blue, threatening to smear bloody red onto the windows of the soul. Less than a second later it was all over. With the last of the check-in procedures completed, Smith could finally board the elevator into the oblivion where his office laid. The path to work everyday was repetitive, and the lack of human contact made the job all the more displaced. From here on out, the boys in the security department would be watching his every move. Such was the ways of the Agency: a displaced, controlled, artificial, environment- designed to manufacture the control of order in a chaotic world.
Platinum hair waves against artificial light as the elevator doors chimed open. An extremely athletic female figure turns around as her long beautiful hair, and equally slender legs come into view. She was a vixen dressed to kill. Literally. A form-fitting battle dress uniform decked the body of this woman, there were a dozen pouches aligned with her waist and chest- no doubt holding spare magazines for the M4 which she had shouldered upon her thin frame. Her desirable face supported exotically-controlled eyes which held a stern expression.
John steps in quietly in a nearly timid manner. It was obvious that the woman was apart of the security services branches. They were usually here under two circumstances: to give support on important missions- or to investigate traitorous activity. With the consent of the leaders who the common people elected, they were free to purge as they deemed necessary. Smith swallowed hard, and was thankful that the research departments have not come up with a way to read people's minds with a television screen or some other wacky gadgets.
"Don't be scared."
Her emerald eyes shifts towards his direction.
"I don't bite, unless you give me a reason to." This femme fatale didn't need to read minds."I'm sure." was the only pitiful response that came from Smith."Of course you are."
Softly taking a seductive step forward, the darkly dressed angel of death places a hand on his chest. For that brief second absolute control was in her hands. Images of the past suddenly intrude into his conscious mind. Her touch brings back bitter pictures of a faithless love that was once there for him. Taking advance of that instance disconnection the vixen slides under his tie and onto the weapon holster under the jacket. A second later, she points the automatic handgun into his face- snapping him back into reality.
"Nice gun." she comments seductively.
Raising the M9R3 up into the air, she twirls it around her fingers twice before clicking the ejection button. The cold metal clip which housed the 9mm rounds slides out of the weapon and threatened to smash into the ground. Only with quick reflexes does Smith catch it. Not bothering with such small matters, the woman shrugs and cocks the slides of the weapon. Grease and metal shifts against each other until a click echoes throughout the small compartment. A round from the gun ejects from the chamber and bounces into the air. It twirls and twirls, sliding against the wind coming from the air-conditioning device, before the elevator doors quickly slides open again with a 'ding'.
Somebody else from behind Smith catches the bullet with precise fingers. Smiling sinisterly she pushes John out of the elevator and into the offices of Internal Affairs, also known as the ministry of 'peace'. Like a cruel angel she gives him a wink and waves him bye with his own gun.
"I'll catch you later."
