John Price never really understood the point of games. Not that he condemned them. Everyone needed something to unwind. Some drank whiskey, others smoked cigars; you just sat in front of your PC with your headset on, berating pixelated people with astonishing composure. Price stood behind you, one hand on his cup of tea, the other on the back of your chair. "So" he said "you run in there, shoot them, and hope it works?" "That's called an entry."

"Sounds like a soap opera." You chuckled briefly, without taking your eyes off the screen. Price watched you more closely. You were tactical. Patient. You gave your team calls as if you were leading an operation.

You grin and then look at him "but you'll never guess what my rank is or my main agent."