Sixty one...
Sixty two...
Sixty thr-
With a resounding shout, Yerbol released himself from the steel bar, squatting to within inches of the ground. Sweat dripped off the bridge of his nose onto the black synthetic surface that covered the expansive gym(just one of ten in the building), his breathing labored and intense. Looking up as he stood, a smile crossed his face. A few feet in front of him was the usual mess of dumbbells, kettlebells and medicine balls that he employed in his training rituals. It was an obstacle course for any who attempted to work out in the same room, which might explain why the gym he was currently utilizing was vacant of all human life. He preferred it this way, of course. It was a fortress of solitude for him, a way to escape the constant demands of his line of work. Of course the demands hadn't been coming in for very long.
One month ago, he had been called in from a training exercise by his superior to talk with two men, who he now knew as Alan Huntley and William Brandt, director of the IMF and senior operative respectively. He had heard of the IMF from others at his station in Barcelona, but they were only rumors, wild tales of a man named Ethan Hunt and his band of cohorts tearing down international terrorism one cell at a time. It was a bit surprising to have any contact with the IMF, seeing as they were a branch of U.S. intelligence(as confirmed by Huntley). The director's pitch was concise and efficient, Brandt adding that they could see Yerbol's "excellence in the field" and wanted to know if they could recruit him from Interpol, a group that had been rapidly promoting him from within and didn't want to see him leave anytime soon. Yet, there were things in the States that he still desired to accomplish, people he desperately wanted to spend more time with. Disregarding any professional gain he could've made at Interpol, he accepted the position as a field operative with the IMF.
Set up with a space efficient yet somewhat cozy apartment in the heart of D.C., Yerbol was transplanted from Barcelona and was put through a gauntlet of tests and simulations, all of which he did well at(except for long distance shooting...he was terrible). The promise of his first mission had been made just yesterday, Brandt telling him to keep his phone nearby. The device lay next to a dumbbell, set on the loudest volume possible. He walked forward, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and scooped it up, seeing that he had missed a text message notification. It had been sent five minutes ago from number 356, code for Brandt. It simply read:
"Briefing room. Half an hour."
He smiled.
_______________
Showered and changed into brown slacks and a blue button down shirt that he brought in his gym bag(had to be prepared!), he made his way out of the gym into the off white corridor, turning left. The briefing room was on the top floor of the twenty floor office building that served as the headquarters for the IMF, the building blending in rather nicely with the business milieu of this part of the city. Reaching the elevator, he summoned it by withdrawing a keycard from his wallet and inserting it into the slot below both up and down buttons. A moment later, the metallic doors slid open, Yerbol politely smiling and nodding at the other occupant of the elevator. He turned to press the button marked "20", but noted it was already illuminated.
Interesting.
Sixty two...
Sixty thr-
With a resounding shout, Yerbol released himself from the steel bar, squatting to within inches of the ground. Sweat dripped off the bridge of his nose onto the black synthetic surface that covered the expansive gym(just one of ten in the building), his breathing labored and intense. Looking up as he stood, a smile crossed his face. A few feet in front of him was the usual mess of dumbbells, kettlebells and medicine balls that he employed in his training rituals. It was an obstacle course for any who attempted to work out in the same room, which might explain why the gym he was currently utilizing was vacant of all human life. He preferred it this way, of course. It was a fortress of solitude for him, a way to escape the constant demands of his line of work. Of course the demands hadn't been coming in for very long.
One month ago, he had been called in from a training exercise by his superior to talk with two men, who he now knew as Alan Huntley and William Brandt, director of the IMF and senior operative respectively. He had heard of the IMF from others at his station in Barcelona, but they were only rumors, wild tales of a man named Ethan Hunt and his band of cohorts tearing down international terrorism one cell at a time. It was a bit surprising to have any contact with the IMF, seeing as they were a branch of U.S. intelligence(as confirmed by Huntley). The director's pitch was concise and efficient, Brandt adding that they could see Yerbol's "excellence in the field" and wanted to know if they could recruit him from Interpol, a group that had been rapidly promoting him from within and didn't want to see him leave anytime soon. Yet, there were things in the States that he still desired to accomplish, people he desperately wanted to spend more time with. Disregarding any professional gain he could've made at Interpol, he accepted the position as a field operative with the IMF.
Set up with a space efficient yet somewhat cozy apartment in the heart of D.C., Yerbol was transplanted from Barcelona and was put through a gauntlet of tests and simulations, all of which he did well at(except for long distance shooting...he was terrible). The promise of his first mission had been made just yesterday, Brandt telling him to keep his phone nearby. The device lay next to a dumbbell, set on the loudest volume possible. He walked forward, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and scooped it up, seeing that he had missed a text message notification. It had been sent five minutes ago from number 356, code for Brandt. It simply read:
"Briefing room. Half an hour."
He smiled.
_______________
Showered and changed into brown slacks and a blue button down shirt that he brought in his gym bag(had to be prepared!), he made his way out of the gym into the off white corridor, turning left. The briefing room was on the top floor of the twenty floor office building that served as the headquarters for the IMF, the building blending in rather nicely with the business milieu of this part of the city. Reaching the elevator, he summoned it by withdrawing a keycard from his wallet and inserting it into the slot below both up and down buttons. A moment later, the metallic doors slid open, Yerbol politely smiling and nodding at the other occupant of the elevator. He turned to press the button marked "20", but noted it was already illuminated.
Interesting.