special agent stan marsh

[] OPERATION: KEY []

"Give me a whiskey."

The bartender picks up his rag and grabs a glass, pouring expensive alcohol in a rather ironically careless fashion. He slides it across the counter, the cup slowly coming to a halt.

Stan Marsh, or an unnamed individual in this case, picks up the drink with an air of confidence, stealthily checking for any unwanted liquids. Other spies have been drugged with poisons or aphrodisiacs before, but not Stan. Stan doesn't make mistakes.

He deems it safe; why wouldn't it be? The bartender knows nothing about his mission, nor the informants' meeting that will soon be taking place. Stan had recently received a manila folder from The Handler, telling him the details of a crucial exchange. Damn Stoley.

The only one who can possibly pull this off is Agent Lynx, otherwise known as Stan Marsh, the best spy his agency has ever created. There's nothing he can't do- nothing at all.

Stan swirls the whiskey before taking a long sip, eyes flicking discretely towards the target.

Kevin Stoley: an executive involved with the Southside Mafia. He had managed to steal information regarding several agents on long-term missions. Apparently, he's planning on exchanging it tonight.

To whom? Stan's not entirely sure. He's guessing someone of higher rank, but again, it's wise to be aware of what you don't know.

He places his glass on the table, now half empty. Stan's built up quite the resistance to alcohol- either it be from his missions involving it or his... well, Stan prefers not to talk about it.

Around the luxurious bar, velvet carpets and rich, diamond chandeliers roam. Stoley's currently sitting at one of the larger tables towards the back. Stan's been keeping an eye on him this entire time, waiting for the moment they leave.

Stoley surely wouldn't give the information in a public bar- the Southside Mafia is an illegal organization, much like Stan's own. He'll most likely enter a party room. Stan's bugged all three, so it doesn't matter which one he chooses.

Stan takes another drink when a tall figure with night-black hair enters, a trench coat enveloping him in darkness. Stan's intuition proves right when the man takes a seat next to Stoley.

"Where's the information?" Stan reads the man's lips.

"Just follow me," Stoley responds.

The two get up and disappear down the back hallway. This leads straight to the party rooms.

Stan downs the rest of his whiskey and ruffles through his wallet, leaving a twenty-dollar bill next to the empty glass. He gets out of his seat and walks towards the hallway, adjusting his bow tie. Tuxedos are used surprisingly often in his line of work, so he's truly learned how to flaunt in expensive clothing.

His fingers reach to touch the base of his palm, activating the earbud hidden behind his hair. No activity in room one... room two, bingo.

He checks room three just to make sure, but there's nothing. Stan switches the feed and listens closely, continuing to stride down the hall. He walks with an air of confidence, one of which you wouldn't suspect from a spy.

"C'mon! No need to be so formal. This drive isn't going anywhere," Stoley's voice buzzes through.

The recipient in the trench coat responds, "If this information is as sensitive as you claim, the Northern Intelligence Agency will stop at nothing to find it. They may send Lynx."

"Oh please, Craig," Stoley begins. Stan scans his mind at the mention of his name. Craig Tucker, one of seven key supporters under the leader's direct command. He must have connections. "At least have a drink."