> Meet Maddox
The hum of computers and fluorescent light permeates the office space like cicadas on a humid summer night. It actually is night and most of the computers are off, or, knowing the computer knowledge of the average nine to fiver, at least the monitors are off.
One screen is definitely still on and the sound of keys clacking can be heard from the elevators on the other side of the cubicle nightscape. In one cubicle sits a person a little too tall for their chair, their short dark hair looking slightly windswept from the amount of times they’ve ran their hands through it. A wastebasket by the entrance contains the remnants of what must nearly be an entire bag of suckers and something familiar, thin and white like a parody of a cigarette, sticks out between the person’s lips.
A nameplate tells you that this person is most likely Sr Agent Millan. You might even be familiar with their code name, Bluejay. Right now, however, they more closely resemble an owl, eyes wide from the second sugar rush and sleep deprivation. You can’t even be certain if they know you’re standing there. Knocking lightly against the cubicle wall would be the polite thing to do.