Between the dried-out dirt and the red-rusted metal piled high in some sharp, teetering amalgamation of junk too oft paid for came Kent Mansley.
Robed in washed-out, humorless grays as he was the agent stood out among the remains of machinery and the worn out land it was oxidizing on. He looked too pristine, too put-together to be there. It was very clear that he was a suit - a fed at that.
For one reason or another, the Man had come a-knockin’.
“Afternoon,” Kent greeted briskly. He did not do Dean the honor of making eye contact with him. “My name is Agent Mansley, I’m here on behalf of the federal government of these United States. Would you be so kind--” his teeth clenched together in some bastardization of a polite smile “--as to spare some time in your day and answer some of my questions? You’d be benefiting my investigation.”
