Dylan is armed with (jazzhands) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-08-28 01:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | jabberwocky |
Who: Dylan
What: Narrative
Where: DC; FBI Headquarters
When: Following Mexico
So let me get this straight. . .
The flight into DC had come directly off the heels of Mexico, where he'd had time for barely more than a shower to wash the sand and sweat out of his hair before pulling the duffel bag out from beneath his bed and heading for the airport. It was a bag that every agent prepared at one point or another. The change of clothes, documents, badge, and gun. Undercovers had a similar bag, something that was easy to pull in case of discovery. A run bag, essentially. Something that one went for when shit went bad and it was time to report to headquarters. Dylan wasn't really sure how these situations were supposed to go. He'd never had to report to headquarters over such a massively failed assignment before. Maybe he'd been lucky. Maybe this kind of thing happened.. although he wasn't exactly counting on it.
You were unduly familiar with the agent heading your operation. . .
He hadn't slept on the flight. Too amped, too caffeinated, reliving too much of the immediate past to ever shut his eyes. Dylan needed to figure out where he'd gone wrong, and that wasn't going to happen if he closed his eyes. So when he walked into dark concrete doorway of the seemingly out-dated building, he looked more like a zombie than an agent. Some other suits turned to watch him, and he knew that even if he didn't know who they were, they probably knew who he was. Immediately, he was shown into a little mirrored room with a little, paper cup of coffee.
An operation you failed at. . .
He fell asleep briefly after writing his statement, hunching over uncomfortable against that black tabletop. They left him alone for a couple of hours, and he took a couple of phone calls before the questions picked up again. It was less of an interrogation than a crucifixion, and there wasn't anything that Dylan could have told them that they didn't already know after Max's signed affidavit, anyway. Dylan still had no idea how he'd screwed up so badly, or where the bad intel had come from. He had no idea, and that's what chewed him up. That more than all of the papers that he signed his future away on.
And you don't understand why I'm asking if you want a representative to sit in on this with you?
Dylan left the DC sometime around sunrise the following morning, and he went directly to the airport on another bit of loose change sleep. He bought a standby ticket back to Las Vegas and pulled the little window shade down when the sun started to come up gold. He didn't think about the gun he'd signed back over, or the badge. He didn't care about the fucking benefits he'd lost. He didn't even really care about where it had all gone wrong anymore. He felt hollow.. and that was okay. He was still here.