The safehouse.

A safehouse.

A careful method to his script, his hand quietly and quickly swept across the paper. His name, his identification number... all of it. Filled in quickly, the agent found himself staring quietly at the most annoying box of all, the one that was almost a pox to his exsistance.

List Reasons for Transfer.

Sighing, the pen scratched against the side of his head, his gaze shifting left and right. To his left...? Sleeping folks, also part of his department, part of the ruse that they've been apart of. Spying is such a communal thing, in some occasions... to the right, the window. Dirty, indeed, there's been time a'many that he had the urge to simply spit on a rag and wipe it clean, though one clean window in all of Nortune would raise suspicions. What could he really say? 'I've been locked in a dreamworld where all sense of reality is suspended in favor of a pastel pallate and run by the Solarian Princess'?

Sure, if he wanted to be in the looney bin.

Collin cast a wary eye back down to the carbon paper, pen scrawling away quietly. The clock clicked a bit, signaling the late hour... much later than what the typical lights-out is. And lightly, the pen lifted, tapping lightly against the one leg cocked up onto his chair, shin against the desk.

'Former issues with military @location' was written first. Victor, mainly. Ever since Harmony had 'killed' him, the shoot on sight order was rescinded, and... well, it was still amazing that nobody, not even the scant few times he had run into Rico, he wasn't recognized. Scrawled beneath it, 'Duration of stay'. It had been a year, hadn't it? No, not quite getting homesick... but he couldn't take the smog that filled his lungs. He couldn't take the lack of activity... the people. It was as if he couldn't -do- anything worthwhile... He joined the military to make a true difference, that hero-like aspiration that all young boys had at his age. That's what he continued to tell himself, anyway. But ... is that quitting? Is ... transferring out the way to solve the problem? Even if it meant placing a bleak mark on his military career...

Collin lifted small latch that opened the outgoing-mail box, marked for 'official business'. The letter hung there for a moment, quietly, as if the eternal judge that was going to either make or break the next part of his job... his lifestyle...

And with an affirmative nod, the envelope was thrust into the box, striking the empty bottom with a mild 'thwap' noise.