Montana was in the advanced testing area, checking on his newest commission, a stealth suit. The Modified AD, or MAD for short. While a large portion of their duties involved the subterfuge of espionage, a well placed smile and a keen eye, one could never be too certain of what one might run into. 

That aside, some assaults needed a subtler touch then the raw power of Thunder or Wolfs Moon. The suit was multifaceted, like any Agent worth the expensive clothing they slipped into.  

The ballistic and strike testing had gone quite well. The thin plating was braced with a gel that solidified to counteract kinetic force. They were spaced to cover the internal organs without sacrificing the mobility of the wearer. It was an advanced bit of technology, all made possible by S.C.I.O.N's R&D teams. Imagination and innovation without the tight grip bureaucracy and politics. Research supplemented by what was for all intents and purposes, a black budget. 

Speaking of research, Montana could hear some being conducted from the hallway adjacent to his office. Kora could be high strung, preferring to use bravado and brawn to push her way through life, but he did feel some sympathy for the werewolf he watched grow up.

Sympathy here being a detached, oddly objective emotion for Montana. 

His fingers glided over his Hunters Moon issued PADD. The suit was responsive to multiple kinds of electromagnetic stimuli, including your average touch screen. 

He was currently playing a "connect the dots" or "clue" styled game of his own design. Montana would take current events, world news, and diplomatic cables,  find correlations between them, and ascribe each event with what branch of intelligence was involved, and why. 

It was a mental game to pass the time. Later, he'd launch lines of inquiry through his intelligence channels for the predicted answers. 


Montana rose from his seat, he felt his muscles flex beneath the fabric of the stealth suit, like memory foam, contorted itself to fit his body. 



Nothing about him particularly screamed "Cold War Spook". There was no repetitiveness to his method, no hours spent trying to decipher long abandoned numbers stations. He was a man of the times, as the world of espionage evolved so did he. The abstract objectivity he viewed the world in however, remained the same, and he understood that some methods retained their usefulness no matter the decade.

Which is why he'd transport the more classified documents regarding the last Hunters Moon outing by hand. 

Everything he felt the department head, one rank above the leader, needed to know.

The part about the lipstick, cyanid, and his personal conduct with The Fist, And The Femme Fatal was best left redacted. In his opinion. 

He stepped out into the hallway, and moved toward the department heads office. 

It was no coincidence that he soon passed,

[b]"Good Morning Ms.Kovalenko, Miss Trevon."[/b]