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J. Cross, Manager

Ex. Special Agent, Nick H. Cross. That was your name, at least... then it was...

You don't go by that anymore, it was an alias, and you hate that show, so you deemed it reasonable to name yourself after your father, Jeff. Jeff Cross was good enough for your father, and it's good enough for you. At the McGregor's grocery outlet where you work, you proudly display your first initial on your nametag, followed by your last name.

For now, you call yourself J. Cross. At least, that's what all the employees who look up to you think of you as. You've been in this establishment for more years than anyone else on the McGregor's team. You proudly wear your red vest, as opposed to the blue vests everyone else wears, which is quite redeemable, you think, for an Ex. Special Agent.

Every day though, you notice that someone follows you around, or at least, they seem to. They sit in front of your house all day, and park two rows away from you, facing the store, every time you go to work. The same car, you're not sure who's doing it, but you find this completely normal as you used to be in more... shall we say... top secret things? Being followed is nothing new and you can understand if it's the government just making sure that you aren't leaking any secrets.

You're pretty sure your phones are all wire tapped and even your cell phone is listened in on constantly. Neither of these bothers you, and you continue to call the embarrassing 1-600 numbers to talk to girls named "Desire" or "Faith" at your every whim, which is usually every night. Special agents don't get women like they show in James Bond films or spy movies. Life just isn't really like that.
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