#cia agent!reader

You had worked - somewhat - hard to keep your devilish mannerism under lock and key, wanting to form a relationship with people rather than make them, to force them and control their minds into becoming friends with you. You had gone through so many challenges to keep your past a secret, to separate yourself from it : from your eerie eyes, the striking red spirals over your yellow iris, to the impulsive need to foster fear and control. Manipulation. Be it the higher ups, the lesser men and women, or anything that seemed to bother you, you worked hard to bury the unconscious need to make them fear you. 

Fear worked best for a Devil than respect did. Fear created you, the conception of it had birthed you and the death of it would call your end. Perhaps that’s why you always had the urge for it. 

Though you willed something to happen, you couldn’t exactly fix incompetence in dead men, the contracts you’d seen them made with other of your kind coming to an end because of sheer hubris, thinking they could beat a better equipped army or outplay more experienced people. You could always hide and last long enough for them to move on, but, in your situation, the enemy wanted to use this building. So hiding was out of the question.

You could always use the weapons you were given, the simple handguns often strapped to your sides or your back, but even they would eventually run out before you’d gotten rid of everything. It made you wondered where the million dollar budget the CIA received went; which department did it go to? You weren’t certain of it, but you suspected personal spendings and expenses wired towards the information department. Granted, you depended on it as an agent, but your- the human agents had a high risk job and required better equipment. You knew you should have went with the military, they were less bureaucratic and uptight. 

You figured you’d simply have to alternate between using your gun and… your powers.

Soap had no fucking clue what he’d stumbled into. Laswell had told them all that this was a search and rescue, possibly a retrieval. A group of four agents were sent to collect a hard drive, but all had gone dark, no reply, no command and no call backs. So it only made sense if this was a retrieval mission rather than a rescue. 

They were warned of enemy interference and of the dangers, but not this: a fucking bloodbath. Blood pooled around the corpses of men decked in thick body armour, whatever left of it was splattered on the walls and a few limbs scattered around them. Weapons, goggles, headsets, magazines and even chipped cement littered the ground, making the floor a hazard to walk on. 

It wouldn’t have been such a shock to see, they were used to the bloody mess and the violence that broke arms and necks as much as it did lives, they weren’t a stranger to it, rather frustratingly familiar. It wouldn’t be so eerily strange if it wasn’t for the sole fingered standing over a mass of bodies and shattered bones, listening to the disgusting sound of cracking bones compressing down by an unknown force. 

They were bathed in red, a - what he could assume used to be white - crimson button up shirt and drenched suit and slacks covered whatever skin wasn’t as red as the ground. They held a gun in one hand, pointed down while the other hand was raised towards the squirming body, cracking and bending in unnatural ways. 

“Steamin’ Jesus,” he cursed lowly, the words hissing through the air, “That’s who were supposed to rescue?” 

Whatever monster - devil - this was, Soap - now - added another thing of CIA agents to fear.