Protocol: Red Unit

In a sweat-drenched book-study, a heavy and middle-aged man, slumps behind his desk. Two agents saunter into the room, approaching the hefty figure. As the crackling fireplace casts its fiery spell and the flames dance like Satan's Northern Lights, the man booms, "Argyle. Jenkins."

The agents snap to attention, replying in unison, "Sir!"

"Park your behinds," the man commands, gesturing to the seats before him.

Jenkins, a boyish twenty-something with a hint of innocence, sits across from the heavy man. Meanwhile, Argyle, a thirtyish man, sporting a rugged beard that could challenge a cactus, tightens his posture.

"If it's all the same, sir, I'd rather stand," Argyle grumbles, a defiant glint in his eyes.

"Very well." The man sinks into his worn-out throne, surveying his agents with an air of authority. "So, you two have any inkling as to why I summoned you here?" he queries, a mixture of weariness and curiosity coloring his voice.

"Sir, is this about the mayhem in zone 3?" Jenkins ventures, his voice tinged with a touch of trepidation.

"Ah, the debacle with human witnesses and all that collateral damage," the man sighs. "No, no. I just finished a riveting conversation with the governor. Apparently, they've got it under control." He then turns his piercing gaze towards Argyle. "And you, Argyle, any guesses as to why I dragged your royal Grumpiness and the Boy Scout here?"

"Sir. We've had a breach at the West Coast station," Argyle states, his gruff tone belying a wealth of experience.

"Bravo," the heavy man exclaims, mopping his forehead with an overworked handkerchief. "Listen up, Jenkins. You might learn a thing or two. Carry on, Argyle."

"Sir. With the station's defenses compromised, we're not allowing any authorized incoming crafts to enter Earth's 3rd quadrant. It's like slamming the brakes on all trade, transfers, and intergalactic tourism until we plug up this breach, sir."

"Righto. Now, Jenkins, can you dig out the keyword from that little assessment of ours?" The man leans forward, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"Compromised, sir?" Jenkins offers, a hint of uncertainty lingering in his voice.

"Close, kid. Close but no cigar. The magic word is 'authorized.' Zilch, nada, zero ships are authorized to leave or dock at that damn station. But here's the kicker—what Argyle doesn’t know is that the entire force shield has been compromised. We're playing blind man's bluff in the West Coast station. And..." The man rises, restless energy crackling in his veins. "And we've got ourselves a slippery prisoner roaming free in the station's belly, holding ten souls captive, one of them human, poor bastard. This is where you two lovebirds come swooping in. I'm initiating Protocol: Red Unit, and Argyle, you're the maestro leading this symphony of chaos."

"Sir, what does this slippery devil want?" Argyle questions, his voice laced with intrigue.

“Freedom, what do you think? Our escapee wants a one-way ticket off-planet." the man scoffs.

"Sir, Red Unit? Does that mean we're taking him out? You know, like permanently?" Jenkins stammers. "Her. We're talking about snuffing out a she-devil, kid," the man clarifies, his tone laced with somber determination. "And yes, we can't afford another blazing disaster like the fireworks in New Mexico. The bigwigs upstairs are already turning up the heat on me." He yanks at his tie, as though it were a vise around his neck.

"But sir, what about the hostages?" Jenkins interjects, his voice trembling with genuine concern.

Argyle leans against the cluttered desk, his weathered face etched with a hint of cynical wisdom. "Red Unit means no survivors, kid. It's a one-way trip to oblivion. No fancy trials, no second chances. We step into the shadows, shedding our agency affiliations and disguising ourselves as everyday civilians. If we bite the dust, it's our own epitaph. But if they meet their demise, we get to keep our badges."

The man pivots towards his two agents, his gaze piercing like a laser. "Make no mistake, this is not a decision taken lightly. Given the circumstances, I hope you both grasp the gravity of the situation. I need you to skedaddle straight to the launch pad. Broadhurst will fill you in on your new personas and provide the nitty-gritty details on your elusive target."

"Yes, sir. Let's hit the road, kid," Argyle declares, taking the lead as they exit the room. Jenkins, not one to be left behind, hastens to keep pace. The two agents traverse the corridors, mere minutes away from leaving their boss behind.

"Argyle, this is bad news. Why do you think we got picked for this suicide mission?" Jenkins whispers, his voice a barely audible tremor.

"Because, my young padawan, we're the expendable pawns on this cosmic chessboard," Argyle murmurs, a wry smile curling on his lips.

"You mean... we're going to die?" Jenkins's voice quivers.

"Zero witnesses means precisely that—no witnesses," Argyle replies, his tone oddly calm. "But fret not, kid. I don't plan on becoming space dust anytime soon. We won't harm any hostages. And neither will Snella."

"Snella?" Jenkins repeats, confusion etched on his face.

"The prisoner, kid. Trust me, stick by my side, follow my lead, and keep rocking that 'nervous but eager to please' shtick you've got down pat." They reach their ship, where Broadhurst, a wiry man clad in a sleek black suit and tie, awaits their arrival.