In the eight years he’d been working on this backwater planet as a covert intelligence operative for the Canine Confederacy, Duke had been constrained to do any number of things that would have been beyond abhorrent to him as a novice agent. He supposed this was inevitable when one transitioned from the artificial environment of the Academy to actual fieldwork.
Still and all, he’d had just about enough of compromising his integrity and his morals for the perceived greater good of defending the Confederacy against its purported enemies.
Banishing such thoughts from his mind, he entered the unassuming suburban dwelling to see what, if any, credible intel he could get from his contact this week.
It took all of his not-inconsiderable field experience to maintain a mien of detached professional calm when the lips of the low-level Feline Federation turncoat touched his ear and in a harsh whisper fed him morsels of potentially-useful data.
This story was written for the weekly Five Sentence Fiction flash fiction prompt: whisper.