What Really Goes on in the CIA

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Welcome to the Central Intelligence Agency, otherwise known as the CIA. To the American Public, we are a top-secret group of agents, mostly associated with anti-terrorism, who answer only to the Government.

Oh! contrair, we are a multi-faceted agency of many talents! We like to refer to these talents as our "secret services". What kinds of secret services do we provide, you ask?

TODAY IS YOUR LUCKY DAY! Well, no, not really. The American public is prohibited from learning any further information about the CIA. Our devious-- ahem, I mean, perilous secrets must be kept from the public for saftey measures. Therefore, there are no tours of our super-secret office locations.

The only way to know CIA is to be CIA!

Your Friends at the CIA.

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ALLRIGHT.

So, this an rp of what really goes on in the CIA.

You must pretend you're an agent. Your character must be wierd, and have a 7-digit agent number.

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Bob, agent 3135742

Bob, as agent 3135742 was known in the break room, sat back in his swivel chair, his feet propped upon the computer desk before him. He was massive, toned young man-- freshly recruited 5 years ago. Much like the glazed computer screen, his coal eyes were inattentive to the task before him-- cleaning his gun. Something clicked with in the chamber, producing a cloud of smoke, who's stench lingered.

Bob sat up, his bare feet smacking the ground. He pushed his chair all the way across the room, smacking into a filing cabinet, a drawer spitting out, much like a tounge. The drawer was completely filled with socks, a pair of which he grabbed rapidly, swinging his chair around as he stood up. It flew across the room, catching the uneven rug, and toppling over behind his desk.

He then grabbed his "work shoes", and shoved them on his feet, springing forward and sommersaulting across the carpeted floor. He snatched his gun off the table top, locking and loading, carefully scouting out the area. He stalked upto the door in a crouched position, aiming it at the doorknob, which was likely to jiggle momentarily.

The barrel was still warm.

'damnit,' he muttered, now recalling it was he who fired the shot.

Not, a terrorist.

He relaxed a bit, standing up and flattening his body against the wall behind the door. His gaze wandered across the smooth surface of the wooden door, noting the wood which was now splintered where the bullet had hit.

He hurriedly pushed a button on his super-duper watch, an drawer spring out from the wall beside him, completely stocked with guns of all assortments.

Directly across the hall, in the trajectory of his bullet, was the office of Agent...