The New Yorker — Roleplayer Guild

Reddick walked in midway through Diego’s final sip, which slowed to a crawl as the Columbian’s cocoa eyes pierced the mission Op’s soul. That is, whatever Reddick settled for instead of a soul. He was one of those men that would do fine anywhere he went, a slimy little chameleon. Diego laughed at himself when he remembered he was the same way. His eyebrow arched at the subtle chiding Reddick received from the Captain. She seemed to have something against him, something personal. Reddick was the sort of individual who would rather make enemies than friends, and he liked it that way. He was a master manipulator, and nihilistic narcissist. The word projection came to Diego’s mind, and he smiled to himself. Anyway, the point is, Reddick was only interested in his own behalf, and those who could keep him safe. Diego could keep him safe, but from what? He made a note of that option, ranking along all the other options he had before him. Finding the truth behind this mission would be hard, but not impossible, and Diego was determined to find out what it was.

Of course, he had no evidence that such a thing actually existed, but it gave him something to do.

The dubiously calm moment between Lena and Reddick was over in a moment, and so was the coffee. When the briefing began Diego considered getting more coffee, but thought better of it. Everything seemed familiar, there was nothing mentioned that he hadn’t heard at least two other times before, or read about. But, when Reddick interrupted, Diego felt a coarse chill wade up his spine and wash over the rest of him. Memories from his time with the CIA came rolling back, and his brow furrowed the more Reddick spoke. With each passing word Diego’s gut turned, and the lump in his throat grew. Lena discounted it as a simple, selfish reminder; with good reason. But Lena missed the malice, the grotesque underlining. She fumbled the dirty little secret, but Diego was able to quietly retrieve it from oblivion. Those words confirmed his suspicions, they made clear the crystal ball and revealed the conspiracy. ‘What a web they’ve weaved,’ was all he could think, ‘what a web…’.A high pitched noise sounded from somewhere in Diego’s mind and all he could see was Reddick’s face, fully illuminated upon a black backdrop. The words, and how he said them, so effortlessly spilled from his mouth. They were echoed by a voice far off, distant but familiar. Suddenly Diego’s mind was quiet and Reddick’s face had disappeared in a mist.

“… are there any questions?” was what Diego heard as he emerged from the fallow caverns of his mind. He stood, almost a little too suddenly, and looked back around the room, gauging opinions and expectations. It seemed as if his lapse went unnoticed, probably for the better. He rubbed his eyes, to clear the cloudiness, and ruffled his hair with a final puff of air.

Diego walked to the sidelines where he saw D’Angelo, tossed his cup into the receptacle. “I think I could go for another two years,” he said jokingly after a yawn. He settled next to John Paul, and rubbed his eyes a little more. “Is it bad that I just want to go home now?” Diego asked with a tired smile, having decided to forgo all the other more prevalent, more personal lines of dialogue.

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Treading the Rhetorical Minefield

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