Roy stood in the doorway of the Afghani base, aware of the battle going on around him, and yet it seemed as if he was waiting for something...or someone. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and placed one in his mouth, before flicking open his lighter with a well practiced flourish of his wrist. The tiny flame burned in the air, heeding its master's call. Roy took a few drags from the cigarette before dashing the ashes out into the floor, blowing smoke out of his nostrils.<br/><br/>Stepping away from the doorway, he left the building, walking in the war torn Base, stepping almost nonchalant over broken and beaten men and women of varying nationality. It seemed Armenia was making a move, putting a big piece on the old chessboard. And the UK just HAD to call him in. Was it bad enough that they pulled him while he was on a date? Bloody Armenians ruined his chance to finally have a relationship. Sod the lot, he was going to salvage whatever he could. Pulling the cigarette from his mouth his mouth turned into a scowl.<br/><br/>"Sodding war," he muttered, and with his free hand, he pulled up his collar against the wind. "Had to go and mess with my bloody day."<br/><br/><br/>Roy walked the halls of the base, plainly ignoring the Armenian written on the walls. He couldn't read or understand it, and never bothered to learn. Sure, he worked frequently for the MoD, and sure, the Prime Minister was in his poker group, but that didn't mean that the government could just tap him on the shoulder every time they need the bleedin' garbage taken out. Roy chuckled and rubbed a hand along his jaw, cigarette still in his mouth. In this case, though, there was more than just garbage.<br/><br/>14 hours ago he was sitting in a white room, so blinding in its monochronicity that Roy was blinded at first. Shielding his hand against the light, the door opened, and a man in a Westwood suit walked in, placing an ashtray on the table, alongside his lighter and a pack of his favorite brand of cigarettes. Sitting parallel to it was a thick file. "There you go." The man uttered, clinical and calm in every action he took, even sitting down seemed to only take as much energy as he allowed it to. His name, Roy would later learn, was Mr. Thomas Caulvin, Second in command of MI6. Caulvin was a sallow man, in his mid-thirties, but the dark circles around his eyes suggested a kind of haggard world-weariness that came with a job in intelligence and espionage. His face was clean shaven, and though his head was shaven, his eyebrows had already become gray. Life had clearly taken a toll on him.<br/><br/>Roy sighed. "Ello, Tom. Long time no see." He picked up the pack of cigarettes, and smacked it against his palm. Caulvin looked on with indifference, used to Sanders' ways. Roy looked up, and ran a hand through his blond hair even as he placed the cigarette in his mouth. Shifting it to the corner, he spoke. "So what's it this time?" The file slid to the center, and then it turned to him. "Three days ago, we caught some interesting chatter from an Armenian base in Germany concerning.....troubling plans. We sent in two operatives to retrieve them, and the mission went successfully. Unfortunately, it's the results of that mission you're here about. The Armenian base in Germany was preparing an unusual shipment for an Afghanistan base. We believe they now are in possession of both high profile prisoners, TSGs, and other materials. We fear that stage one may simply be a nuclear attack. What we want you to go in, confirm and eliminate is Stage Two, according to the chatter. A coordinated attack on against the UN and its interests."<br/><br/>Throughout Caulvin's briefing, Roy had lit and smoked a little of his cigarette. Blowing out the smoke, he closed the file shut. His blue eyes regarded Caulvin for a moment, before sighing. "Sod the war, what's in it for me, mate?"<br/><br/>Snapping back to the present, Roy walked to a detention center in the base, checking the numbers on the cells. If he didn't find this guy, things were going to hit the fan.