"Yes, sir."

The voice was gruff, and weary, but from frustration rather than fatigue. Razor-thin beams of light carved their way between the slats of closed blinds: they should have lanced their way through a reassuring haze of tobacco smoke, but thanks to the progressive left that small comfort had been stripped away, the packet of cigarettes that in the past would have been discarded onto his desk now locked away in a draw by Pentagon decree, the seal not to be broken until he was at least fifty feet away from an occupied building in a well-ventilated outdoor area. Three stars rested on the shoulder of his United States Air Force uniform, and yet he didn't have the damned agency to decide when and where he had a goddamn smoke. If that wasn't a metaphor for society's decline as it marched its way through the 21st Century, General Nathaniel Adam wasn't sure what was.

"Yes, sir, I am well aware of your organisation's interest in subjects presenting speedsters. In fact, I have the memo right here in my hands."

That was a lie, though General Adam still grasped at a random document from his desk regardless, committing to the falsehood enough to at least mime along. For most, it would have been an unnecessary reflex, and to contemplate the idea of being watched at every moment would have been branded paranoid: but given the circles that the General moved in, such suspicions weren't quite so outlandish, and one could never be too careful.

"Unfortunately, the SHADE Protocol is quite clear. Project Tartarus doesn't give me the authority to remove a meta from ARGUS jurisdiction. It's their job to classify threats to national security, and until they do, my hands are tied. Nothing short of an executive order will change that."

The volume of the voice on the other end of the handset telephone increased slightly. General Adam's jaw clenched in silent protest.

"Then respectfully," he cut in, with a stern edge of his own, "You should have got their faster, and caught this meta for your damned selves."

The receiver crashed into the cradle with a violent clunk, a frustrated sigh that rattled with the edges of a growl escaping from the General as the call came to an abrupt end. He felt his consciousness drawn towards the cigarette-containing drawer, but fought against the urge, smoothing down the front of his tie instead, before reaching for the intercom on his desk.

"ETA?" he barked, not bothering to spare the adjutant outside from a little displaced residual annoyance.

"Transport is thirteen minutes out," a faintly distorted voice replied, the Lieutenant outside trained well enough by past experience to have that information readily available.

"And the welcome wagon?"

There was a brief pause before the voice responded, a moment required to translate the nickname.

"Captain Heywood is en route, sir."

The name solicited a different kind of sigh from the General. Across the years, Captain Heywood had meant many different things to many different people, General Adam himself included. In Vietnam, the name had described a trusted ally. During World War II and the years after, it had belonged to a naval aviator and decorated war hero. The current iteration was something else entirely; a something else that General Adam had the misfortune of being the namesake and godfather of.

Resolve shattered, and the cigarettes were retrieved, the desk abandoned and a jacket hastily shrugged on. A cigarette was slid part way from the packet with a thumb, and then plucked the rest of the way by the General's lips, the door of his office bursting open as he marched swiftly towards the nearest smoking area.

"Should I redirect your calls?" the adjutant began to ask as General Adam breezed by.

The senior officer faltered for a moment, a lighter retrieved from his pocket, cigarette ignited a few minutes early in protest of the official regulations. A withering gaze settled itself on the military aide, and this time the sigh that escaped it carried with it a plume of cigarette smoke. By the time he responded, Nathaniel was already in motion again, forcing his way through a set of swinging doors that rushed in fear out of the General's warpath.

"What the hell else would you have my cell number for, Lieutenant?"