[center][h1]Gideon [color=00a651]Ellis[/color][/h1]
[i]The Analyst[/i][/center]
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[hider=Gideon]
Gideon Rathbone Ellis
[i]g.r.ellis@nsa.gov[/i] (Former)
[b]Age:[/b] 41 [b]Hair:[/b] Blond [b]Eyes:[/b] Brown
[b]Height:[/b] 5' 10" Weight: 170 lb

[b]Education[/b]
PhD - Xenolinguistics and the Outside Context Problem, University of Nevada
MA, Cryptanalysis - University of Baltimore
BA, Linguistics - University of Virginia

[b]Experience[/b]
Cryptographic Analyst, NSA  
Analyst, DISA (Defense Information Systems Agency)
Specialist (Intelligence), U.S. Army

[b]Vignette[/b]

"You're a hard man to find, Dr. Ellis." The soldier is Texan by his drawl, but his vowels are tighter than most. Ellis blinks and blots the morning sun away from his eyes with a palm. The soldier is a silhouette, a black tower between the oaks. Ellis finds himself thinking of the Moonlight Killer. 

"That was kind of the idea," he mumbles, pushing his way past the taller man. The soldier (Ellis catches the name [i]Fouke[/i] on his chest as he goes by) has maybe six inches and twenty pounds on him, and the sub-machine gun that hangs loosely in his grip weighs heavy with silent promise. Ellis had seen enough to know what those could do to people and Fouke's masters would know that. Even unloaded, the mere presence of the weapon was a message, a signal, a gesture. A hand on the shoulder. 

Ellis's feet crunched through dead autumn leaves as he takes the gentle slope down towards the road. He knew the path well, it was his main contact with the sleepy little town of Gray, Maine. On a clear day from his cabin, he could just about see the grave of The Stranger but it was early in the day and mist still hung on the ground. He heard crunching behind him and knew he was being followed.

[i]A smoke-filled conference room in November. The middle of the night. Another all-nighter that becomes more than that. Coffee and rolled-up sleeves. The veins on Jessop's forehead as he bellows.[/i]

Of course Fouke wouldn't have come alone. Another man is sitting against the hood of Ellis's 2005 Range Rover. Younger, maybe early 30's. Dark jacket and tan chinos, bulge under the left shoulder. Feathered hair, smooth chin. Ellis scratches his own chin subconciously. No name badge on this one, but he has 'spook' written all over him. "Mountain man's not a good look for you, Doc." His vowels say Harvard; his shoes say Langley. Mr. Spook holds out a hand. "Porter."

Ellis doesn't take it. He unlocks the driver's seat and gets in. Porter gets in the passenger seat like they're old buddies, without word or permission. Fouke materialises in the back seat at some point. Ellis starts the engine. They roll down towards Gray a ways. "I thought government policy was there was no such thing as aliens." Ellis keeps his voice flat and casual, as if he was commenting on the colour of the clouds boiling in from the east, pregnant with rain.

"It is, and there aren't. Left here." Porter narrates further instructions that Ellis wordlessly follows. The route takes him off the road to Gray and towards the Route 114. From there it was south towards Scarborough. About an hour into the drive and the rain hits, pelting hard and fast. As if taking that as a sign, Porter speaks again. "I read your thesis, by the way. Foukes here hasn't." 

[i]Three sleepless nights at a SETI terminal poring over line graphs. A heartbeat in background cosmic noise. Too much coffee.[/i]

"He cleared for it?" 

"Sure, why not? Aliens don't exist, right?" Porter smirks. Ellis at Fouke through the rearview mirror. The larger man is staring eyes forward, like he had been for the last hour. Ellis couldn't see the gun but he could imagine it low, pointed at his back. He struck Ellis as the kind of guy who didn't need context for orders, just orders. The kind of useful sociopath the military had spent decades and millions of dollars to properly identify so their awfulness could be deployed appropriately against state enemies. So long as Porter gave no order, Foukes would be fine. But Porters gives the order and the Book of Revelations gets a few new lines referring to bloodbaths across Maine highways. 

[i]A career spent in SIGINT. A psychiatric diagnosis arriving in the mail. A paper trail of evidence for doctor's visits and anti-psychotic prescriptions that never existed. A letter of termination in the same post package as confirmation of his doctorate. A small green triangle sticker on the top left corner of a manilla dossier.[/i]

In his head, Ellis does the math. A highly qualified and experienced intelligence analyst, with a deniable backstory built into his medical records. Someone previously vetted but with enough distance from the intelligence community to appear independent. It didn't take a genius to figure out where this was going. "I assume I already have a ticket?"

The folder hits the dashboard with a dry clap. Ellis glances off the road briefly and catches the same green triangle sticker on the top right corner. Porter smiles. "I thought after so long in the woods, your bank account would be looking a little low. Not like you were teaching anywhere with that paranoid schizophrenia on your record. So, I got you a job..."  
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