Inquisition

Combat fatigues aren't very comfortable. They're not supposed to be. They send a message. I'm part of a group. A group with guns. And we'll kill you.

Freshly in from a training op, Porter didn't bother to shower, shave, or change when he was ordered down to a counselor's office. He left his rifle and sidearm behind, but has retained his field knife. It's strapped to his chest in an inverted holster for fast, easy access.

He's perched comfortably in his chair, simultaneously alert and relaxed. Though he doesn't smile, neither does he frown. He's completely bland. Monotonous. Expressionless.

Across the room, a young secretary is typing away at her computer. Her eyes drift toward Porter every once in a while and quickly avert should he catch her staring. He's a new face, she can't exactly be blamed.

Her phone emits a small bleep and she reaches over to press the button. Then she looks over at Porter, a cool smile stretching across her face as she gets up from her chair. "The doctor will see you now," she says in an overly professional tone.

Striding toward the door, she opens it for the man in fatigues and waits for him to go through before closing it behind him.

Somehow managing to appear both brisk and unhurried at the same time, Porter walks over to one of the chairs and sits down across from the doctor. He crosses his legs at the knee and assumes a similar posture to the one he held in the waiting room. Alert, but not tense. Relaxed, but not loose.

"Doctor," the spy greets. He locks eyes with the man across from him, studying him, measuring him. After several lengthy and uncomfortable moments he flashes a toothy smile. "What can I do for you?"

Just like his secretary, the doctor greets Porter with a rather cool yet still professional smile. it's quite apparent that he's here to perform his duty and nothing more. The office isn't decorated with anything more personal than his diplomas and licenses, not even a picture of any family to speak of. Perhaps it's a way to keeping his personal life at a distance from his job.

"Kyle Porter, thank you for coming." He says in a rather congenial tone, actually getting up from the chair to stretch his right hand across the desk to offer Porter a shake. His left hand holds a rather thick file, with Porter's name written across it. "I presume you already know why you were ordered here?"

Ordered, because no one ever visits this office on a voluntary basis.

"I do," Porter acknowledges.

No reason to argue or even question. It's too late for that. Still…

"I think my record speaks for itself," he continues, politely inquisitive. He laces his fingers together and rests his hands lightly on his knee. At the same time, his toothy smile shrinks to a small, tight-lipped expression. "Whatever my methods, I get the job done. That's what's important, isn't it?"

Sitting back behind his desk, the doctor nods and flips open the file. "Your record is quite impressive, Captain, quite impressive. Until recently." He looks up from the file and locks eyes with Porter. It's not challenging stare or even a hard one, judging by the twitched raising of his eyebrows, it's questioning.

"I'm not going to sugar coat anything or try to pull any punches, just a fair warning. I'm going to be asking a lot of questions, some of them may be uncomfortable, but I will need you to answer all of them." There's no apologetic tone to his words, just straight fact and after his little speech, a pen and notepad are taken from a desk drawer and placed in a comfortable position to begin writing. "Would it put you more at ease to stay where you are, or would you like to move to a nicer chair?"

"I'm fine where I am," Porter replies, crossing his arms over his chest. He lets out a quiet, resigned sigh. "Let's just get this over with."

Like a man preparing himself for the removal of a gangrenous limb, he closes his eyes, takes a deep, cleansing breath, and mentally prepares himself. Then he opens his eyes again and nods briskly. "Shoot."

"Very well," comes the light reply from the doctor, he's already beginning to scribble down notes in shorthand. "Let's begin with your latest mission. You were in Syria, were you not? Something above and beyond your usual intelligence gathering." A hint, perhaps at an assassination? "Care to brief me on the details?"

It's likely the details are already in the thick file, nonetheless, Porter is being questioned. Pausing in his writing, the doctor gives him a brief and encouraging smile. "You can start wherever you like."

Porter coughs delicately into a clenched fist. "Ahem. Well. There was this guy in Syria who had a very sensitive document. So I went to Syria… and then the document didn't have an owner anymore. And I came back. Next question, please."

There's a tightness around his mouth that can't be offset by his casually affected air. He smiles, but it's a fixed expression.

"Looking over the report, it seems there might be a little more to the story than that. Generally there's more detail, especially when there's matters of such a sensitive nature at stake." The doctor doesn't bother writing many more notes, Porter's answer is quite eloquently summed up with one. Evasive.

"How long were you in Syria for, Captain? Was it longer or shorter than some of your other missions?"

"Longer," Porter replies. He's droning now. Detached. "Like you said, there was a lot more to it. I was running arms off the books. Had to get close to a guy. Pick him for information. Meet his suppliers. Gain his trust."

The spy pauses to wet his lips and take a breath. He pinches his eyes shut for a half-second, then opens them again. "And then I killed him and took his list of clients so I could replace him when I moved on to South Africa."

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