Inkchanger

8: Agent 97

A place for everything, and everything in its place. Looking around the room, it seemed the saying was invented just for Agent 97.

A visitor could've easily mistaken the clinically sterile room for a doctor's office rather than the office of the third-best member of the ultra-top-secret Supernatural Cases Division of the FBI. Most other agents' offices looked lived-in, an accurate description given that many slept curled up under their desks at least three nights a week. Some even had tiny mattresses and refrigerators fitted. The average working space for an SCD employee was decorated with important personal touches that reminded the resident of their humanity: family photos, succulent plants, zen rock gardens. You needed an anchor to the mundane world in this job, lest you forget yourself. The records were filled with accounts of agents who'd leapt off bridges thinking they could fly after too many encounters with fairies and not enough pictures of Monday-hating puppies in their office.

And so walking into Agent 97's office came as a bit of a shock to anyone who visited. He had requested it painted nursing-home beige to cut down on glare, removed the previous occupant's biography-filled bookshelves, and installed blackout shades over the only source of natural light; his only additions to the room were a starched army cot and a closet filled with seven identical suits. Behind the standard-issue ergonomic chair, a geometrically-aligned array of framed certificates quietly showed the world Agent 97's dedication to his department. "Most Evasive Congressional Testimony" held a place of pride in the center. The fluorescent bulbs buzzing softly in the ceiling illuminated a Spartan desk: an antiquated computer, a legal pad with silver pen, and a single picture frame. No other agent had ever seen the contents of the frame, and there was a betting pool as to what could possibly be in there. A picture of his ex-wife? His cat? The president? Agent Smith from The Matrix ?

The only sound in Agent 97's office was the incessant tapping of the keyboard as he filed his paperwork. On days he did leave the office, it was never before 1900; he attacked the unending sea of reports as if they were a personal affront. By 1830, he had nearly won – just one more PD24 to go and he'd sleep easier tonight.

Two things happened simultaneously: a gentle ping on his computer screen and a tentative knock on his glass door.

Anomaly Reported in Sector 6, Quadrant 2.

"Agent 97, you in there?" asked the visitor, fidgeting with the manila folder he was carrying. Agent 24 knew full well that he was, but he didn't dare just walk in. The last guy who did that had to go home and phone his mother for reassurance that he was still a valuable human being.

"Come."

Agent 24 gingerly pushed open the door with his empty hand and took the only seat in front of the wide desk. Agent 97 had pulled up the computer's report and was scanning through it, the email's reflection on his ubiquitous sunglasses showing Agent 24 that he'd probably wasted his time. He might have to complain to someone in admin about sending runners (i.e.: him) to give paper documents to agents when they already had digital ones. Then again, he could probably use the exercise.

The visiting agent slid the dossier onto the pristine desk and waited to be acknowledged. Agent 97 took another solid five minutes to finish his reading, then picked up the paper report and took another ten to flip through that, despite it containing exactly the same information.

Agent 24 couldn't help noticing, in his meditative silence, how fresh-pressed Agent 97 looked; the man never had a wrinkle, piece of lint, or hint of dandruff on him. Like a well-oiled machine.

That guy ain't right.

When Agent 97 finally deigned to speak to him, it was in the flat tones of the unimpressed. Not that he ever used a different one.