agent of influence
Some days he feels like he's behind enemy lines, all alone, without even the possibility of backup. He wears his uniform like a disguise, tries to conceal his foreignness--he still smells too much of gun powder and not enough of cologne, still speaks with the clipped accent of the field instead of the round tones suited to the desk and office and position he now has.
At the inevitable and unending parties he must attend (for duty, for those who serve beneath him, for those he must protect), he finds himself treating the crowded rooms as if they are battlefields, surveying the terrain and tracking the movement of enemy troops. He smiles when he'd rather bare his teeth, shakes hands when he'd rather pull a trigger. Reminds himself of the oaths he's sworn over the years, of all the sacrifices he's made: this is far from being the worst.
He can lie with the best of them, when he has to, although he still can't lie to himself.
Some days he'd give anything for a firefight.
At the inevitable and unending parties he must attend (for duty, for those who serve beneath him, for those he must protect), he finds himself treating the crowded rooms as if they are battlefields, surveying the terrain and tracking the movement of enemy troops. He smiles when he'd rather bare his teeth, shakes hands when he'd rather pull a trigger. Reminds himself of the oaths he's sworn over the years, of all the sacrifices he's made: this is far from being the worst.
He can lie with the best of them, when he has to, although he still can't lie to himself.
Some days he'd give anything for a firefight.