<br/><div style="text-align: left;">        The room was cramped, and empty for that matter save for Peter, two chairs, a table, and the one-way mirror that was typically used by lawyers and commanding officers. This was an interrogation room, the design being made for psychological warfare. It was perfect at making someone feel isolated, as though the only way out was to scream the truth at the top of your lungs. Peter has seen his own share of interrogations, watching as the experts used a person’s desires and fears to overpower their subject’s will, and have them tearfully confess to the crime. Peter didn’t have the mind for it, hell he didn’t have the mind for an interview. Yet here he was, getting ready to interview applicants. <br/><br/>        The former bomb-tech was dressed casually, stripped of his coat due to the heat of the room. It had poor circulation, and he had begun to sweat within five minutes of sitting down. He wore jeans on top of his regular boots, with a tank-top emblazoned with Ohio’s football team, the “Ohio Buckeyes.” His false arm was bare, along with the scars that came from the burns and surgery. Around the arm, where it was planted at the shoulder, ragged scars formed, the veins beneath black with their connection between the new nerves in his shoulder, and the arm itself. It was detachable, of course. It was hard sleeping with metal attached to him.<br/><br/>        He peered around at the unwelcome setting, frustrated that they couldn’t simply give him an empty office. The building was huge, yet they told him there wasn’t one single room they could put a table and some chairs in? He sighed, drawing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket as he fingered the empty ashtray in front of him. With that being said, he did kind of appreciate the claustrophobic tone the room set. It helped to establish the tone of these interviews, and make them realize that this was more than a simple promotion, it was a decision you were making with your life. A gamble, if they wanted to call it. They’d be gambling their lives in combat every operation, where anything can happen. It needed to be taken seriously, and if they didn’t approach this with the right attitude, then Peter was liable to flat out deny them. He wouldn’t put lives in the hands of someone who he didn’t think could handle the pressure.<br/><br/>        Flicking the zippo(another relic from the old world his grandfather left him), he lit the cigarette and set the pack down in case the subjects wanted to take one. It was synthetic tobacco of course, as real tobacco became an extremely rare commodity due to it being shoved aside agriculturally, in favor of real food. Aside from the ashtray and cigarettes, there was also a recorder, and a stack of files. Curious, Peter picked a file and leafed through it. All of these people would be coming to see him in a few minutes, applying to the Psycho Squad.<br/><br/>        The door opened, and Peter’s eyes flicked up to the applicant.<br/><br/>        “My name is Peter Akimov. Protocol mandates that all potential applicants are interviewed by the current commander-and-chief of said Group. Seeing as I’m the current leader, I’ll be the one interviewing you for your position on the Max-Tac Operations Group. I’ve been a member of the OHSPD for thirteen years now, the first four of those years spent as a technician on the bomb-disposal unit, and the next nine with the Psyc- Max-Tac group.” He wasn’t supposed to call it the Psycho Squad. While everyone called it that, this was supposed to be as formal as possible. Enough of the fucking introductions. He inhaled the cigarette, then blew the smoke. <br/>        <br/>        “Due to the nature of this interview, I’m supposed to record it for later analysis. Before I start recording, and begin the questions, do you have any questions or comments, personal or professional to ask off the record? Courtesy.” Peter offered, staring them in the face.</div>