I tried to vary sentence structure more with this story, written for a contest on SCP.
Randy Gordon was just a name; a facet of an individual, shoved in some deep, dark corner of a dark soul. He'd been known by his call sign for most of his life. Strife felt that it suited him well enough. Strife: bitter war; conflict; humanity's struggle against itself. Strife littered the past and strife was the future, as long as humanity lived. Randy Gordon had fought strife, for only through conflict was progress made. It had once been so much simpler: shoot the enemies of his flag, find allies to help, and most important: keep your men alive. Now, everything was darker, muddled. Flags weren't nearly as easy to see.
The new Level One Agent was in a world where the rules didn't always make sense. Where repeated application of firepower and maneuver might not be enough. He was still naive though; he had his faith, and he had his firepower. Mostly though, he had his faith in said firepower. It was an exciting, new world with new challenges.
He took another sip of his drink, smiling grimly. Drinking alone made the call sign's thoughts run on dark paths, didn't it? Strife supposed that it was appropriate. His first mission, the importance of the task should weigh heavily on him. The operation should be easy enough, drive his own personal vehicle to go collect an object of interest. The details had been given to him late in the day, so he had decided that the best course of action was to stop at 2300 and find somewhere to sleep. He'd make the last bit of the journey in the morning, collect the object, and power back to the site. A pocket full of plastic paid for the gas and anything else needed. In this case, one of them would pay for his drink. Pretty good gig.
Strife polished the double off, enjoying the burn in his throat. A hotel seemed tied down and vulnerable. He figured that sleeping in the car would be safer for him and the car. The bartender looked over, eyes asking if he wanted another when someone decided to sit down, immediately saying, “Another one for my friend here.”
It was a cheerful, somewhat annoying voice. There were plenty of stools around the bar that weren't right next to anyone. What was he playing at? The Agent looked to his side. As the bartender set down the drink, Strife noted details. Shined shoes, expensive. Nice pants, collared shirt and tie. Relatively loose suit coat, hiding a shoulder holster? “Why the drink?”
The interloper ordered himself a martini, leaning conspiratorially towards Strife. “You look like an interesting person. What exactly do you do for a living?”
Strife didn't like people leaning into his comfort zone and he certainly didn't like questions about his job. “I'd rather not say, if you wouldn't mind.”
The well-dressed, annoying man's voice took on an eager tone. “Well son, I represent a group known as Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd. It's a powerful organization, and they might be willing to pay well for a man of your talents . . . and connections.”
Strife hoped that his flinch at the name wasn't too obvious. Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd. was a shadow organization that often clashed with his Foundation. Rich bastards wanting money and entertainment, not caring about anyone getting hurt. Standard Operating Procedure was for agents to maintain their cover. Happily, his cover was just fine with getting angry here.
The combative trained Agent grabbed the man's far shoulder and spun him around. In short order, Strife had him laying halfway on the bar, with a forearm across his throat to keep him there. What came out of Strife's throat was closer to a growl than anything else, “Listen up. You want to know my job? Ever heard of the Delta Force? The people who are authorized to poke you full of holes if you snoop around our business. And I'll tell you what, Comrade, there isn't enough money in the whole world to get me away from my very important job, especially to work for some fucking no name Ltd.”
Strife fished out one of his credit cards with his off hand, “Bartender, settle my tab, if you wouldn't mind.”
The arm maintained steady pressure while the card was processed. Strife turned and walked out, hands in his coat pocket. The dull roar of his car cheered him slightly, he drove a few miles away and stopped in a deserted parking lot. Getting out of his car, he looked around. The vehicle got a pat on the hood as the agent slouched against it.
The greatcoat is a good article of clothing for many reasons. Amongst them are large pockets. The hungry soldier removed a sandwich from one and started eating. As he was finishing, another car decided to join him.
Mercedes, muted red color. Very new, very expensive. Strife was fairly sure that he could outrace it if need be, depending upon the weights involved. The suited man from the bar got out and approached. “Maybe we got off on a bad start.”
Strife didn't have much patience for this, “I don't believe that I'm interested.”
He a step closer. “Es, Cee, Pee.”
The out-of-his-depth agent swore to himself, wondering what to do and wishing that he had someone to advise him. “I don't know what the bloody hell you're talking about. Don't make me hurt you.”
There was a sneer, and another step. The man from Marshall, Carter, and Dark was awfully close to Level One Agent Randy Gordon. “Sierra, Charlie, Papa ring a bell?”
There was no response from Strife. Another step and Strife's opponent had a handgun in his hand, pointing right at the agent, six inches from his stomach. The man enunciated every c and t, “Secure, contain, protect. That's what you do, isn't it, Agent? Now, you're going to do exactly as I say, or I'll shoot you dead.”
Running out of options, Call sign Strife looked down, noting the details of the gun. “A Walther P22? Mightn't a bigger bullet be a better idea? Twenty-twos don't really cut it.”
“It'll work just fine when I put three of those cute little bullets right through your heart.”
The man took the last step, resting the barrel of the gun right over Agent Strife's heart. It made a dull clink on impact. Strife smiled. “Here's the thing, old man. I'm wearing standard ceramic body armor. It's really quite good. A wimpy Papa Two Two won't penetrate, even at contact distance. Now then, you wanted information about my employer? I'll be happy to get your feet in the door.”
The massive cross sent the man sprawling, and Strife wasted no time restraining him and depositing him in the trunk. The agent got in his car, wishing that he had something to destroy the Mercedes with. Could he get a couple of Thermite grenades? A satellite phone call connected him with his site. He just wished that he knew who exactly he was supposed to report the development to.