The guy’s mouth dropped open—as if Anthony had said something shocking. “You... I... what?”
Anthony peered at his reflection. Was his hair really that messy, or was it just a smear on the glass? “We’re almost on the twelfth floor. I’ll get out, the doors will close, and you can head back to your cubicle. No harm, no foul. Funny story for the water cooler, right?”
“Uh-huh,” said the analyst, still incredulous. This was exactly why he didn’t talk to analysts. Upstart little snots.
Ding went the elevator as it came to a stop at the top floor.
“Showtime,” said Anthony grimly, and the doors opened again.
The secretaries were always ready when Anthony arrived. Perhaps they had access to the security cameras; more likely, their friends below warned them of Anthony’s arrival. Whatever their warning system, they were already standing at attention when the elevator doors opened, the applause in full swing. The only difference between their applause and that of the lobby were the tears in their eyes, the way they held Anthony’s hand just a few moments longer, and the emphasis they put on certain words.
Anthony, it’s so good to see you again.
Anthony, I’m so glad you’ve made it back.
Anthony always wondered—were they glad that he had made out instead of Enrique... or surprised he’d made it out at all?
He didn’t know. He was afraid to ask. It burned either way.
Or maybe the burn was because the analyst was still staring at him. Undoubtedly in awe at Anthony’s welcoming reception on the top floor; it wasn’t everyone who received a standing ovation from both the peons below and the ladies who met the most powerful people in the world on a weekly basis.
Let alone the head of the DVM, Bea herself, standing in her doorway at the far end of the sunlit room, arms crossed and the slightest of knowing, sympathetic smiles on her otherwise inscrutable face.
Bea walked... and the peons downstairs trembled. She was majestic, powerful, and capable of lopping the head off anyone who displeased her. But she waited for Anthony, and that had to impress the hell out of anyone. Honestly, had Anthony been an analyst, he’d probably be impressed with himself, too. Not to mention staring in what was no doubt a mix of envy, lust, and jealousy. Anthony couldn’t even blame the guy.
Anthony stole a quick glance. Yes, there the analyst was, standing in the elevator doors, open-mouthed, with such an expression of disbelief and... was that disgust on his face? As if the pageantry of Anthony’s return was more charade than actual welcome?
“Ow!” yelped the analyst as the elevator doors closed on him.
Serves him right, thought Anthony, with a smirk, just as a pair of slender arms wrapped around his neck.
“Oh, Anthony,” wailed the youngest of the secretaries as she sobbed against his chest. It was a very effective way of dragging Anthony’s attention away from the analyst trapped in the elevator doors. “I was so worried when we heard about Enrique—”
For a moment, Anthony’s heart expanded in his chest, so fast it almost hurt. “Yes,” he choked out. “He was a very—”
“But then we heard you were safe,” continued the secretary. “Such a relief.”
“Now, Caroline, it’s okay, dear,” soothed one of the older secretaries, clucking as she pulled Caroline off Anthony. “You know our Anthony, he’s the best there is. He’ll always come home.”
Unspoken: When others, less capable, will not.
Like Enrique.
It burned.
“Thank you,” said Anthony, the words acidic on his tongue. He moved away from Caroline, still wiping her eyes with shaking hands. “Someone might want to help that poor fellow by the elevator.”
He heard the fighting with the elevator doors as he continued down the line, but he didn’t bother to look back. There were still fans to greet, hands to shake, tender hearts to reassure. By the time he reached Bea, still waiting somewhat less patiently, he was ready to be done with all of it.
“Hello, Bea,” said Anthony, finally standing before her.
“Anthony,” she said gravely, in her typical no-nonsense, emotionless way. It was a front, of course—Anthony knew she liked him, probably best of all his agents, because otherwise why else would he always get the most difficult, most coveted of assignments? “I see you’ve returned. Come in, let’s talk.”
Bea’s office was exactly like Bea herself: simple, no-nonsense, with a great deal of thought put into every feature and aspect. The few items on display were of great significance for those in the know, and behind every hidden panel was a wealth of treasures, from information to office supplies to the 10-year-old Scotch Bea always served him on his return.
Anthony paused by the memorial wall, where every plaque was a reminder of the ultimate sacrifice so many of his brethren had made. To Commemorate the Sacrifice of Agent Redacted, followed by a date and the name of the operation, also usually redacted. Dozens of plaques lined the wall, and Anthony, despite his losses, had only known a fraction of them. Even that fraction was enough to remind Anthony of the others’ importance to someone.
He paused to remember them, as he always did. One day, his picture might be on the wall, just as Enrique’s would surely be installed before the week was out.
“Enrique was a wonderful agent,” said Bea, regretfully. “A fine man. I’ve asked his next-of-kin to come by when we install the memorial plaque. You’re invited to attend as well.”
“Of course. I’m honored.” Anthony forced himself to turn away from the wall and instead looked out the windows to the view of Dupont Circle below. Having an entire wall of windows was an odd choice for a secret organization—invisibility only kept a person so safe—but even Anthony admitted he was probably more paranoid than most. As a field agent, he came by it honestly.
Safety aside, the view was spectacular. All of Dupont Circle lay at his feet, in its sprawling, chaotic glory. Traffic in its typical snarl, people crossing the street, buskers playing their instruments or selling their indie newspapers.
Life going on like everything was normal. Like Cicero wasn’t out there trying to destroy it all.
Anthony admired it for a moment before turning around, ready to sit on Bea’s couch, drink Bea’s 10-year-old Scotch, and go through the grueling post-mortem that was their typical routine after his missions.
The couch, however, was occupied.
By the analyst from the elevator.
Anthony only barely kept his mouth from dropping open in shock. The analyst was just as annoyed and irritated as he had in the elevator, if a little less red in the face and a little more crumpled from his fight with the elevator doors.
Bea placed the tea tray on the table in front of the analyst.
A tea tray. With tea.
And cookies.
And a distinct lack of Scotch!
“I’m sorry,” said Anthony, confused. “Didn’t you get my final report? I sent it two days ago. Perhaps you misplaced it?”
“Of course not,” said Bea, sitting on her customary chair. “Excellent write-up as always, I do so appreciate that you always complete your paperwork on time.”
“Um, actually,” said the analyst, adjusting his glasses, “we’d really appreciate some clarification on the exact nature of the containment fields—”