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Wade

2023-09-21

Special Agent Thomas Wade captured a screenshot with Snipping Tool, signed out of his Endchan account, and glanced at the wall clock in his tiny office. 3:00 PM, almost quitting time. He yawned and loosened his tie. "Another day, another case off my plate," he voiced to himself in his stream of consciousness before turning his thoughts to that college-aged server girl at TopGolf. "She can pour me a stiff one anytime," Wade smirked. That would be a good one to share with Special Agent Marshall during their next bout of drinking, but Wade's witful and self-congratulatory moment of zen was cut short by the ping of an Outlook email notification from his desktop.

The agency générique walls of the FBI's Roseville field office could hardly contain Wade's disappointment as he looked over the newly-arrived case file.

Another so-called extremist group, and not even one of the honeypot groups Wade and Marshall had cooked up on edgelord message boards. No crime, yet—just two persons of interest. And they're in fucking Santa Clara, a good two hour drive when 680 wasn't all torn up. SAC Holland had waited until the end of the work week to dump this shit in his lap, and to top it off she'd put him on field duty. Wade cursed under his breath. Lately if there was one thing Wade hated more than driving, it was investigating, and this case looked like a lot of both.

Wade's inner monologue, newly-enraged, was once again shattered by the hollow clack of a courtesy knock on the particleboard of his open door as Special Agent in Charge Rebecca Holland strode into his office.

"You got what we need for that warrant, Tom?" Holland was skipping the pleasantries, as usual.

"Yes, boss," replied Wade, "I was just wrapping up. I'll have it in your inbox by end of day."

"Great," said Holland, "because I've got something new for you, and don't look so thrilled about it."

Holland could always read Wade like a children's book, and Wade hated her for it, among numerous other reasons. Holland represented everything that Wade could never be at the agency: ambitious, attractive, charismatic, and successful. She had been sent in to whip the new Roseville field office into shape, a formality before she would inevitably ascend the ranks to bigger and better-compensated new horizons, with her Northeastern buddies back in Virginia cheering her on every step of the way.

For Wade, Roseville wasn't a stepping stone; it was a dead end. Wade had been reassigned here eight months ago after the catastrophic collapse of a deep-cover investigation he was spearheading in Miami. After a year undercover to disassemble a Russian insurance fraud operation, Wade's higher-ups botched the landing; moments after his acquittal, crime boss Vlod Naryshkin disappeared into the Atlantic on a charter yacht, with his money wired far out of reach. The whole farce was a publicly humiliating black eye for the FBI, and internally, Wade had been given a disproportionate share of the blame by his slick-talking SAC at the time, Roger Gowley. It was made quite clear to Wade that Roseville was where the agency was sending his career to die, serving the remainder of his pension accrual on shitposting duty.

"Hey, are you even awake?" barked Holland, "I've got some good news for you."

Snapped away from his self-pity, Wade just stared dumbly into Holland's conventionally perfect face.

"Since you're our resident expert on deep cover operations," Holland enunciated a bit too clearly, "I'm sending you into cover on this one. Send me that email and call it a week, we'll debrief 8:00 AM Monday."

"Um, yes ma'am!" sputtered Wade, as Holland strode out of the room.

This wasn't just field duty. It was an actual cover op, his first since his last. Was Holland blessing or cursing him? Wade was too confused to descend into another rabbit hole of self reflection, but he was intrigued, and, for the first time in a long time, interested.