Clint plants his feet on the other side of her desk, his weight evenly distributed, tucking his hands behind his back and he meets her gaze with a neutral expression. “What do you need?”
She’s had a headache for about three days, but Clint’s prompt response to her request was appreciated, even if it only showed in the slight droop of her shoulders. “Sit.” A beat. “Please.” They’d both be more comfortable if he took a seat ( rather than towered).
“I’ve got an assignment for you.” Fingertips at the edge of a set of documents push them across the desk. The cover sheet details a set of S.T.R.I.K.E. teams set aside specifically for the task of pursuing those operating as fugitives of the ACCORDS.
“We need someone to head up S.T.R.I.K.E. teams EPSILON, KAPPA, LAMBDA, and OMICRON. Someone we trust.” We, of course, implying herself and Sharon.
