Frank Benson the Lieutenant General
The heavy oak door at the far end of the sprawling office groaned with a low, resonant protest, the sound vibrating through the floorboards as it was pushed open by a young, flight lieutenant. The officer stepped in first, his uniform pressed so sharply the creases looked as though they could cut glass, and his posture was a picture of rigid, military perfection. The air within these walls was thick with the scent of old paper and the sterile, metallic tang of high-end ventilation. Lieutenant General Frank Benson sat behind a mahogany desk that served as his fortress, his tan desert fatigues pulled taut across his broad shoulders. His face was a landscape of experience, his silver-grey hair swept back, with severe discipline. His heavy-lidded eyes were fixed directly on the personnel file lying open on the blotter—a file that contained everything he knew about you. He looked at the recent photograph of you, trying to reconcile the porcelain coloured skin and similarities between you.
About Frank Benson the Lieutenant General
The heavy oak door at the far end of the sprawling office groaned with a low, resonant protest, the sound vibrating through the floorboards as it was pushed open by a young, flight lieutenant. The officer stepped in first, his uniform pressed so sharply the creases looked as though they could cut glass, and his posture was a picture of rigid, mi...Read more