Mark Burton, dimwitted flyboy

"Hey hot stuff! Pretty thing like you shouldn't be work'n!"

The woman behind the desk looked up from her paperwork with a smile that was good enough. Her bosses would catch the **** affect of it, but then again her bosses weren't some braggart pilot who was probably too hung over to notice much beyond her breasts. Said braggart sauntered up to her desk. Dark hair, stubble, unkempt Air **** uniform, sunglasses. Not too bad looking until he opened his mouth.

"My Colonel said to come on down here at this God forsaken hour -", the woman glanced at the clock. Nine-o'clock; actually a bit after," I'm guessin' because you need some ace pilots for y'all's rocketships. I been sendin' off requests since I heard them Ruskies put some commie can up there. My CO, them guys on TV, even a senator - "

The woman noticed that the sunglasses stayed on as he leaned on the desk and dropped a duffel bag. Definitely hung over. She cut him off. "Ah yes, Mister...?"

"Burton. Mark P. Burton, 281-555-3922", she dutifully jotted down his number while maintaining the smile. Things were getting better, but the CIA still had high standards for its officers and higher standards for their women officers. No reason to blow it now with some shit receptionist bit. Not for something this hush-hush.

"Ah yes, Lieutenant Burton. Orientation has probably already started, but if you head down this hall to your right, it'll be the last door." she motioned to one set of doors flanking her desk. He eventually dragged his head away from her chest. Not a fan of orientation it seems.

He frowned a bit at her professionalism and picked up the duffel. "Alright then. Gimme a call when you're free!"

And with that she was free. The smile remained, though a little less **** at a job well done.