CHAOS

CIA

created in the shadow of the bomb

and operating in the shadows ever since.

A proud agency, where brave heroes

and brilliant minds

joined forces to battle godless Communism,

manage strategic alliances,

and develop effective interrogation techniques,

en route to winning the Cold War.

This is the story of America's great house of spies.

It is also my story, of how I learned

to defend our country by defying intelligence.

License? Good morning.

Here you go.

Oh, uh...

do you need to see my fluids?

Huh?

I...

bagged my fluids.

What's that? Gumbo.

Asopao.

My mother made it for me to celebrate my first day at work.

She's very proud, as you can imagine.

She, uh...

Yeah.

Hands up!

We have suspicious fluids!

What?

No. No, no, no, no.

That's my lunch.

Okay. Okay. Thank you.

Okay. Okay.

All right.

Mr. Martinez, apparently, you've been the victim of a security glitch.

I've been told that there was a memory leak

in our database which apparently merged our "new hired" list

with our "terrorist watch" list.

Our apologies.

Okay.

Between you and me,

consider yourself lucky that these gate jockeys

don't keep up on the terrorist briefings.

Technically, you were to be shot on sight.

Well, let me be the first to welcome you to the CIA.

I can't think of a better way for a proud American to serve their country.

Thank you.

Ooh.

Say, you're not planning on taking

any domestic flights in the next few weeks, are you?

No.

Good. Good.

That's probably best.

You look lost.

Are you lost? Yeah.

This is my first day.

I have an appointment with the director.

Well, which director? Science and Technology?

Intelligence? Support?

Clandestine Services.

Well, lucky you.

Come on, I'll show you.

Clandestine Administration and Oversight Services,

or as we like to affectionately refer to it around here:

CHAOS.

You are entering a house of mirrors,

and you will not survive without help.

I can provide that help, and all I ask for

is a chance to prove my value.

Mr. Martinez is here, sir. Send him in.

I apologize for the mess.

We're under serious cost-cutting pressure.

Every program is up for funding review.

Remind me...

which program did you apply for?

Core Collector Training.

Well, that's unfortunate.

Our CC program's been red-tagged.

Red-tagged?

Yes, the program lost funding.

Job's been cut.

Sorry.

Well,

it was a pleasure meeting you, Operat...

Mr. Martinez.

So that's it?

I'm out?

But I've trained

my whole life for a career with the CIA.

My whole life.

When my brothers were at soccer camp,

I stayed home and studied Arabic.

While everyone else was dating,

I was working at a firing range getting paid in bullets

so I could train on semi-automatics.

I-I-I will, I would be,

I could be... a good spy.

I'm dedicated, I'm focused...

and embarrassing myself.

I'm sorry.

I suppose I should let you get back

to slashing jobs.

Wait a minute, Mr. Martinez.

Have a seat.

I'm won over by your spirit.

As it happens,

there is a position available here

at the Agency, an assignment

that requires the skills and savvy of a seasoned spy

cloaked in the veneer of youthful innocence.

Are you interested?

Yes.

Good.

Good.

Starting today,

you will be assigned to the Office of Disruptive Services.

Your task will be to monitor the activities of your office mates,

report back any proof of misconduct.

Consider no offense too small.

You...

want me to be a mole?

I want you to be a spy.

That is what you trained for your whole life, is it not?

Well...

yes, but... I see.

You're conflicted.

Well, I assure you, Mr. Martinez,

these men, the ODS...

represent a cancer...

a cancer fueled by feckless ego...

a cancer sucking the precious lifeblood

from the intestinal walls

of this agency.

You would be doing this country a great service.

Can I have some time to think about it?

No.

You're faced with a clear choice, Mr. Martinez.

Either you walk out of this office as you walked in--

a civilian...

...or you walk out of this office a spy.

Get the door, would you?

The door?

Pants on, Billy! New guy.

Where are your manners?

"New guy" has a name.

Mick, right?

No, no, it's, uh, Rick.

Rick Martinez.

Martinez? You're a Mexicano!

Bueno, bueno! No, I...

Hey, where'd you pinch that?

Plotkin's office.

Chair's stolen?

If we were to put in a formal request,

you'd be sitting on a milk crate for six months.

Besides, Plotkin won't miss that.

He ate a bullet last week.

I'm sorry.

No, literally. He ate a bullet, on a dare.

It got lodged in his lower intestine,

and septic shock set in.

Now he's out

on full disability, and you're

the proud new owner of his Herman Miller.

Hey.

This the new guy?

His name's Rick.

And he's Mexican.

I'm Puerto Rican.

Oh, I stand corrected.

There you go-- your very own desktop.

Comes with Windows '97 installed.

You're kidding me, right?

You're familiar with the IRS,

U.S. Postal Service, FEMA-- what do they all have in common?

They're government-run agencies?

As is the CIA.

Now, when was the last time you walked into the post office

and shouted, "My God, I've stepped into the future"?

Will you look

at the furry mug on that!

He's so cute!

You're Scottish. Indeed, I am.

Billy Collins, born and bruised in North Edinburgh.

And I imagine you're wondering

what I'm doing working for the CIA.

A bit.

I was with the British Secret Service,

until I was... decommissioned

for a wee bit of reckless, boyish mischief.

Meaning he was deported.

A mostly irrelevant detail.

This proud fermenter

of negativity is Casey Malick.

I suspect

you're wondering how such a boorish man with...

well, zero discernable charm

has managed a 12-year stint with the Agency.

Oh, go on, don't be shy,

tell him.

I'm a human weapon.