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If you had asked Imogen if she would ever find herself in the middle of nowhere, United States, at some facility housing personnel with varying degrees of skills, bloody or worse, and that she would be tasked with ensuring the reputation of said organization remains squeaky clean, she would have had you committed. 

And yet, here she was, standing on sunshine-yellow high heels, a phone in one hand, as she made her way to the briefing room. She was having multiple conversations at once via text, while also scrolling through news headlines. To the untrained eye, Imogen looked like a flighty millennial, doomscrollng and being upset at the latest conspiracy theory or some off-handed comment a celebrity made, putting down one of various minority groups.

Oddly enough, that was not far off from her actual job.

No, Imogen knew she was one of the best in her field, which meant her hands were as dirty as the ones who "cleaned up". She may not have the brawn of an ex-soldier or the military training, but with the right tools in her hands, she could be just as deadly. 

So as she stood in the cramped elevator, aware of the bodies around her, but ignoring them as she typed on her phone, she knew whatever this call was about would be of grave importance. An "all hands on deck" approach.

She made her way into the briefing room, preferring to stand off to the side. Satisfied she had tied up some loose ends, she put her phone away, finally glancing at the people she had entered with. An assortment of colorful characters gathered in one room. You can bet someone in the world was quaking in their boots.