"Military? I've been CIA longer than I was military." Gerry replied, shaking his head. "I just got lucky, got to do all the liaison operations..." he chuckled and continued checking his gear. Then the guy had the nerve to tell him to watch his language. "Just a tip for you then, bud. Fuck right off. I know how to fucking operate, that's why this is my goddamn job. If I need a fucking grammar lesson I'll come see you." he shook his head at the man and moved on. Yeah, he worked for the government, so did everyone else they deployed. He hadn't heard a politically correct word out of any of them. That was a little different, he supposed, but the agent wasn't going to put up with advice like that from a desk jockey who knew how to bomb-up a magazine. Then, he counted the magazines he was being issued and swore some more.

"What is this? Ammunition for ants?" he muttered under his breath. Then he triple-checked them, and noticed that he was either being given a subtle hint, or someone was incompetent as all get out. He turned and grabbed the MP5K off the rack beside him and quietly continued swearing. He'd been given the wrong magazines. They were at least loaded with the right cartridges though, someone had managed that much. Gerry decided to roll with the punches, and began rearranging his gear. He realized that this would be a domestic operation, and the agent rearranged his whole plan on a dime, just like he was used to doing. "Gimme your fucking coat." he said calmly to the assistant beside him. For some reason, there were people in this building that seemed to think they needed a coat just because the air conditioning was on. It was stupid. He threw the coat on and stashed the bare minimum equipment into the various pockets, stringing his new primary weapon up under his left shoulder beneath his borrowed jacket. Then, because he was paranoid, the operator began rooting about in drawers. The moment he touched the first one, though, the man in charge of the armoury flipped his shit.

"Hey! What the [i]fuck[/i] do you thing you're doing?" the man demanded, slamming the drawer on Gerry before he could do anything.

"Looking?" The operator replied, confused, prepared to throw down at a moment's notice.

"If it's not on the table, you don't fucking touch it." came the other man's nearly-violent reply. The agent smiled and nodded in response. He then turned to the assistant, not bothering to do business with the man in charge.

"Put your hat on the table." he ordered. The assistant was confused, despite the exchange that had just happened. The moment the hat touched the table, Gerry grabbed it and put it on. "Put three boxes of nine millimetre rounds on the table." he added, and the assistant balked. The agent frowned and was about to repeat himself when the man in charge spoke up.

"This is a covert operation, you're not taking the whole armoury with you." he was clearly fed up with the new guy.

"The bare minimum combat load is ten magazines. That won't last an hour if shit hits the fan. I want more." Gerry wasn't going to budge on that. He wasn't moving until he had a sufficient ammunition to last him a while if he had to firefight his way out. 

"Here." the assistant stepped in to break things up, he had two special magazines, one of each kind, and three regular magazines, loaded with black projectiles that the operator didn't have time to check. Gerry calmed down instantly and smiled.

"Thank you. That's fucking awesome." he declared, stashing the magazines away. He wasn't going to keep fighting with the man in charge, it wasn't worth it. The guy ran his armoury tighter than any ship, and the paperwork wasn't worth it. Even in matters of life and death, it only ever came down to paperwork. So, he would settle for fifteen magazines, and he cleared out of that place as fast as he could, not wanting to deal with any of them longer than he had to.

Then, with a sigh followed by an apprehensive breath, Gerry headed to where the briefing would be held. He looked like an operator in his borrowed coat. But he didn't stand out. informed observers would note that he was clearly on some sort of force protection detail or something similar, while most would assume he was just another weirdo that dressed like that. What most people didn't know, was that everyone dressed like him had similar intentions. But that was probably for the best. Figuring all was well, he found himself in Elizabeth's living room, where they were supposed to be briefed. He gave the woman an almost-smile and a nod, and then mostly acknowledged Colton's presence before taking a seat. They had a moment to wait, so he found himself doing what he always did when given a moment right before an operation. Gerry proceeded to check, for the umpteenth time, that all of his gear was in order. He was now carrying a good deal less than he had planned, but it made sense if things were going to be quieter than he was used to. That just mean the gear check went by quicker, and peace of mind for the moment arrived sooner. But he knew by the time the briefing was over he would have checked at least once more. When things could go wrong in an instant, he wouldn't have his kit being the cause of that. He didn't check his magazines, though, and he did that deliberately. He didn't want to know if someone was trying to kill him. Plus, with the way he was trained, things that could be killed by regular bullets would die to his rubber ones too if it came down to that...