later,
Britt
Sebastian had lived in Empire City for three years, but could count on one hand the number of times he’d trekked to Gypsy Town. From his perspective, that district appealed to, and consisted of, three types of people: bohemian grime in black jeans, yuppies who played at the same on weekends, and natives too poor or stubborn to leave for the far townships. Being none of the above, he saw no reason to leave the center of might for an outpost in the fringe.
Artists lived in that fringe, though, good ones and bad ones, real ones and posers. He’d wanted to be a writer once, and sometimes wanted to be one again. But living among a tribe charmed Sebastian much more in theory than it did in practice. He had a bourgeois heart deep down, he knew.
An old habit seized Sebastian, and he typed Pete Swenson into the web search of his computer. He’d already read the top results. America’s First Real-Life Superhero, declared one headline. Leader of the Volunteers Opens Up, went another. Sebastian remembered that one, a long profile about how a son of privilege had lost his father in a sarin attack and turned himself into a rugged warrior. Justice Saves Ten in Benghazi! exclaimed yet another. Sebastian snorted. Justice. What a stupid code name. Some War Department clerk probably had gotten a bonus for it.
Magazine articles and PR dispatches tumbled through his computer screen with alacrity. He’d read them all. Stories of the brave Justice, the bold Sniper, steadfast Dash, serving and saving, salvaging and sacrificing. They were the best of us, but also better than any of us. Heroes for the people, but not of them. They were super. And because they were super, they were beyond.
He clicked an entry titled “Top-Secret Military Program Yields Super Results.” It was the press release from two years prior that had revealed the Volunteers to the world.
The propagandist in Sebastian couldn’t help but admire the falseness of it all. No mention of Tripoli. No mention of the Rangers who died in Tripoli. No mention of Mia. No mention of him. Making it seem like the government knew how to control cythrax. Making any of it seem controlled. Even the name “Volunteers” rang hollow. Who in their right mind would choose to become a science experiment?
Sebastian’s phone buzzed, shaking him from his speculations. “Come downstairs,” read the text, from a number he didn’t recognize. Then a second text: “ASAP.”
Fucking Dorsett, he thought. So paranoid. Still, after waiting a couple of minutes to protest the ASAP, Sebastian went downstairs.
The door of the first-floor apartment was cracked open. Sebastian knocked once and walked in. “Yo, yo,” he said, smelling sausage and peppers. “Long time no see.”
Special Agent Theo Dorsett III stood in his kitchen holding a rubber spatula like it was a torch. He wore a pair of dad jeans and a wrinkled polo stretching to fit his broad, compact shoulders. His skin was deep black, and his back was to the door. From there Sebastian could tell the food was winning. Even Dorsett’s posture looked like a question mark.
“I’m impressed.” Sebastian took a seat at the kitchen table. He spotted an open cooking manual propped up against the stove. “Smells good in here.”
“That it does, that it does. Hungry?” Dorsett’s voice carried a breeze of Carolina coast in it, something he could turn off as needed. Sebastian figured the Bureau had weather ladies who taught agents how to do that, but the one time he’d mentioned his theory, Dorsett had just laughed at him.
“I’m good.” Sebastian wasn’t sure what to make of Dorsett cooking for himself, other than it being a sign that his wife wasn’t soon returning. “Already ate. Thanks, though.”
“Do you, hoss.” Dorsett shoveled the sausage and peppers from the pan onto a plate and took a seat. Sebastian got up from the table and turned off the stove’s burner. Dorsett just shrugged, rubbed at his fade, and began eating. Sebastian sat back down.
“So.” Sebastian didn’t know where to begin. He hadn’t seen or spoken to his handler for three weeks. “How’s my favorite special agent?”
“Cut the shit,” Dorsett said between bites of food. Sebastian thought he was chewing longer than necessary, possibly because he hadn’t seasoned the meal with anything but cooking oil, but kept that to himself. “You went invisible last night. People see that, man. They call the police. Come on. You know better.”
“Oh. Damn. I’m sorry.” Sebastian rubbed at his neck. Dorsett stared at him with hard, dark eyes until he continued. “Too much drink, that’s all.”
Dorsett kept staring at him. “Shouldn’t you be at work?” Sebastian asked.
“Jesus, man. It’s Sunday. You miss church?” Whatever authority Dorsett had lost at the stove had been regained. He struck Sebastian as the type of man rarely at ease. Something about the way his eyes were always studying the edges of a room. “Pull it together. You ain’t gonna have me around forever.”
Sebastian wasn’t sure he agreed with that—the handlers had an “indefinite” assignment, as far as he knew—but he didn’t feel like talking about the future, so he didn’t. The best way to prove to the Bureau that he no longer needed a handler was not using his power. And he’d just reset that clock to zero.
Dorsett grunted and shook his head. “My fault for not being around.” Then, after another bite of food, “Should be available more going forward.”
“Cool,” Sebastian said while thinking otherwise, because of what “available” probably meant. The Dorsetts had uncoupled, recoupled, and then re-uncoupled over the past eight months. Dorsett only talked about it at the bar; the few times Sebastian had mentioned Anita in the bright of day had yielded only long, seizuring pauses. In the neon of night, over beers, they could be friends. Sebastian didn’t have many of those anymore. Anywhere else, at any other time, he and Dorsett were something else.
Sebastian watched Dorsett finish his meal in silence. He almost brought up the Volunteers twice, but held his tongue. Of course Dorsett knows about them being here, he thought. Even a truant special agent would be aware.
Dorsett rose to put his dish in the sink and did something with his eyebrows that made Sebastian think they were done. Sebastian had his hand on the door handle when Dorsett asked, “Bar tonight? There’s a Knights game on TV.”
Sebastian prided himself on never lying, or trying not to, at least, so like a lot of people like that, he was adept at the art of omission. So he just said, “Can’t, got a thing.”
“Another night, then,” Dorsett said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Another night.”
* * *
As dusk spilled through his window blinds, Sebastian rummaged through his bedroom for an old tin box. He could’ve sworn he’d last seen it on his dresser, next to a stack of The Volunteers comics. Sebastian found the writing in the issues middling—what else to expect from the War Department–funded military-publishing complex?—but the art was dazzling. In fact, on his to-do list, he’d added “Apply for Comic Book Job” some months ago. There it remained, preserved and intact from any threat of a strikethrough.
Sebastian found the tin box behind the hamper, in a pair of jeans that didn’t pass the smell test. It had the red dragon of Wales on it, a souvenir from a family trip. He opened it and transferred a few blue Valiums to his pocket, just in case. He didn’t think they’d expired yet. Then Sebastian slipped on a plain green tee and a pair of skateboarding shoes he thought weren’t too out of trend and left for Gypsy Town. He was feeling a bit like a crusader, socially dogged and culturally ignorant.