Name: James Hart
Age: 23
Appearance: Gender: Male
Personality: James is young, enthusiastic, very intelligent, and anybody can tell that, with a bit more experience under his belt and the right sort of guidance, he will soon be a top Erasure Agent. He is very chipper and widely regarded as an asset on any team; even if he is still something of a diamond in the rough, he is, at the very least, an excellent team mascot. Friendliness, loyalty, and tact are rare traits in the high-pressure Erasure business, and good will is something James tries to bring by the bucketload, as well as a great work ethic.
Although the lad is undeniably bright (even by Erasure Agents' standards), his eye for detail, quick mathematics, and absurdly accurate memory do nothing for his ability to think critically about the intel he is presented with. This makes him easily manipulated, as he, in particular, tends not to think about the
why and takes information at face value. On the positive side (for the team leader), he is excellent at following orders, and makes for an efficient, unquestioning robot whenever something needs doing. He has no trouble following instructions suited to the task in hand, and without the burden of autonomy, his natural all-round competence truly comes to the fore. Alternatively, he can engage his own computer-like brain to become a reasonably strong strategist, but he is not entirely confident in his ability to do so unsupervised.
Once upon a time, James' motivation to become an Erasure Agent was probably more noble than it is now; the desire to help 'fix' people. Since then, though, he has become almost entirely a part of his relatively new vocation, and, now that he's settling into it, has come to truly love the artistry underpinning Erasure operations, the excitement of the chase, and, yes, a certain voyeuristic thrill. Apart from anything else, he struggles to imagine what life might be like outside his current field of employ.
Writing Sample:
Albert swung idly against the banister on the first floor of the hall. It creaked worryingly, but he continued to push his weight into it despite the not inconsiderable risk of it cracking underneath him entirely and hurling him down the stairwell. Hold on. What was that? From his vantage point, staring out the window, he could make out two figures heading toward the motel's reception. There was a young woman wearing sunglasses, and, by the looks of things, an older gentleman, but his face was a little obscured by the hat he was wearing and the gear he was lugging, so it was hard to tell. Either way, they were both wearing suits. That could mean only one thing: his team had arrived. Or, at least, part of it. He span on the spot and hopped down the stairs, almost tripping on the second step from the bottom. Twenty-four hours on his own with nothing to do but work – he was surprised at how grateful he was for other agents to turn up. He skipped to the front door and opened it to see the two agents stood there.
“Welcome to Chateau D.A.P.P.E.R,” he said, amiably, looking over the newcomers. The girl was pretty and was holding a familiar-looking briefcase; the man was, as he suspected, older. Wait. Albert's eyes narrowed, focussing on the bowler hat perched awkwardly on top of his head. The head which now nodded in his direction.
“Widmann,” the older man rested some of his luggage on the ground, “Been waiting long, now?”
“About twenty-four hours.”
The agent grinned, “Guess you’ll be wanting this, then. Miss Brandt, if you would.”
“Miss von Brandt, thank you,” said the pretty girl, clearing her throat. With a surname like that, it didn’t take a genius to guess where she was from. And that accounted for the slightly unusual accent.
She handed him the briefcase she was holding - his briefcase. As the older man tipped the hat he was wearing in apology. Albert twitched a little and half-threw the briefcase behind him, where it landed awkwardly on its side in the hall. Pouting slightly, he simply said, “I like your hat.”
“I’m not surprised,” the older man removed the bowler hat, frowning past Albert after the briefcase in the hall.
“It’s mine.”
This Von Brandt also seemed preoccupied with the briefcase, and, perhaps without realising the irony, said through red downturned lips, “Herr Widmann, do you always treat your toys that way?”
Albert simply ignored the young woman, continuing to glare at the older man; presumably this assignment’s handler. For his own part, the handler coolly returned his gaze, and raised one of his eyebrows, spinning the unusual weight of this particular hat between his palms, as Miss Von Brandt watched, seemingly enjoying herself.
“Give it back, please.”
“It’s the Bureau’s,” said the handler, calmly, “But I’ll loan it to you if I don’t see that,” Albert glanced over his shoulder at the briefcase, “That again.”
Albert paused, remembering the countless times he had been told something similar. It was usually put in slightly blunter terms, but something about this older man suggested that if anybody would make good on a threat, it would be him.
He had retreated back to his room. It was generally best to have both a mirror and peace and quiet for this part, and the whole atmosphere downstairs with the others heaving in the equipment, especially following what he belatedly realised constituted ‘his display’ earlier. It turned out that Alden Aikens was indeed the handler on this assignment, and he had hardly made a fantastic impression on their commander.
On the plus side, at least he’d got his hat back. From the outside, it looked reasonably ordinary, and was, in fact, the smartest item of clothing he owned. Peering into the inside, its true nature was more apparent. The whole inside of the crown was covered with a layer of metal, and exposed wires. He didn’t understand the technology, just how to operate it.
Looking carefully in the mirror, he pulled the hair to the left of his forehead as far back as possible, exposing a small metal disc amid the roots, fused into his skin. It was just about visible through his dirty blonde hair anyway, but revealing it properly always made him gag a little. Still, it was part of him - like it or not. It wasn’t the only one, either. They were physical reminders on - in - his head that were proof, as if it were needed, that he wasn’t, and would never be, normal. Miss Von Brandt, even if she knew his speciality, didn’t understand the reality of the situation. She wasn’t much older than him, but they were worlds, and not just nations, apart.
From the inside of the hat, he pulled out a small green wire, and closed his eyes as he plugged it carefully into a socket within the metal disc. He could feel sparks leap across his mind. Plugging in had long since stopped hurting, but it never became comfortable. With the green wire in, he then did the same with a red wire to a socket on the right of his forehead, and a white one to a slightly larger disc at the top of his neck. He placed the hat on his head, and tucked the wires within his crown. If you knew where to look, you could just about make out the sockets and wires, but, to most, Albert would appear to be nothing more than a young man wearing a bowler hat.
He shut his eyes again as he could feel his mind doing something new. He always imagined a balloon with a tiny puncture: a huge transfer of pressure, painful, but becoming increasingly comfortable. After about five minutes concentration, he was able to stand up again. Apparently, he’d fallen over while focussing. Excitedly, he grabbed the briefcase he had been given and opened it up. Some people might have expected a weapon, or at least a few documents. This one contained mostly juggling balls. Scooping one up, he tossed it gently into the air and smiled as it hovered right there in the middle of the room. Albert was back.