2

"Dawson, get your lazy ass up,"

I put my hat further over my eyes, shielding them from the florescent lights and my bosses' shrill voice. I have a Scarlett hangover. It's hard to go back to normal life after a visit with Scarlett.

"Late night?" he asks.

I chuckle. "Of course. These files won't decode themselves,"

"You're always putting in overtime, Dawson, I appreciate that."

I just grin. My work is ridiculously easy for me. All I do now, is visit Scarlett. I cram all my other work in during the hours between the sunrise and the time I clock in.

"It's no problem boss. It's because you give me so much freedom," I grin.

He side eyes me a little, shuffles in place. His hands wring together. He forces a smile. "It's because you're so good at your job, Dawson."

I just chuckle. He shuffles out of the cubicles and into his office. He doesn't like me much, Mr. Reid. It's because he's been around a long time.

He can smell a rotten soul, he's seen many. He was in the war–Vietnam. He can sniff it out. I hate people like that.

I pack up my laptop, and take my work home. I have a 'hybrid' schedule, which means I show face and go home.

I always take work home—can't help it.

I get into my car and head home. The scenery passes me by, and I watch as I go past mansions, then mini-mansions, then suburbs until I stop in the slums.

Home sweet home.

I'm used to better luxuries, but a man has to do what he must for the sake of the job.

Always for the sake of the job. I sigh heavily, and get my keys ready to open the door. They're silent—I'm deft with my hands. I shuffle through the doorway, and abandon my hat on the couch, my coat on the table, my body on the pullout bed.

There's something amiss.

I open my work laptop—the second one, and put in my password. The screen grows green. I take the pen from behind my ear, and swirl it around my fingers. Helps me think.

My house phone rings. My eyes snap to it, narrowing. That phone never rings. I fucking hate it when that phone rings. It only brings me trouble.

I hesitate to answer it. My fingers swirl around my pen frantically. I swallow roughly.

The ringing ends. I breathe a sigh of relief and open my work laptop again.

Ring.

Fuck. I cross the room, stumbling over random junk in the way, and answer it.

"You answer the first time I call,"

I smile tightly. "Noble. It's you. You know I despise that tone of voice you use—so high pitched."

The line crackles. "Ha-Ha, very funny. You're very funny, Dawson. I hope you're doing your job."

I bite my lip. He clearly thinks I'm not; he called.

"Is there someone telling you I'm not?"

He scoffs. "I've sent you an email. Ensure you open it. It has very important work details."

"Yeah sure, Noble. I'll check it right away. Hey, how's your arm?"

The line clicks. Always so uptight, that one.

I open my laptop—the one for my second job. The screen projects a hologram with details of the mission. He made it sound so extravagant but it's just recon.

I tap my fingers against the laptop.

Continue your mission of integrating into enemy territory inconspicuously. Work your way up through the ladder until we have access to their software.

Same mission since I got here, I can damn near recite it by heart. I close the laptop, dissipating the hologram.

I'm deeply embedded; I have been for 6 months. I hope this isn't a lifelong mission. It's not exactly one of adventure.

I'm basically an average joe.

Except for her. She's the only thing interesting in this place.

I cross the room, open my fridge and retrieve a beer. My fridge is empty. I open the blinds, the crack under my fingers, as I pull them, scanning the area.

Nothing but the normal lot. I sigh, and glance out the blinds once more. The sun's set. I let the blinds snap closed, ambling to the bathroom.

My apartment is small and cramped. Normally I'd call the places I stay in 'my house' but my living room is next to my kitchen, and my bathroom is next to the door so...

I barely fit in the bathroom, there's not enough space to turn around in. I stuff myself into the shower and wash anyway.

Why do I live here you may ask? Aren't you a talented spy, a handsome, good looking rouge, an absolute smoke show?

Yes. Yes I am. But my character 'Dawson' isn't. He's a recently divorced coder who lost everything when his wife left him for banging his secretary.

He does not understand the correlation.

And until he stops paying alimony, this is how he lives.

Who picked this backstory you may ask? That asshole Noble. But what's done is done. I dress in my finest clothes—leftovers my last mission in Italy—Italian suits truly are beautiful, especially hand tailored.

I cover my outfit in my shabby coat, and put my old hat on, as I walk out the door. It locks behind me automatically.

I head into the night, to do what makes this whole piece of shit assignment bearable—fucking Scarlett.

It's simple actually. It's in the handbook. Stay in character and no matter how hard it is, find something to make it bearable.

A woman. A hobby. A drug for some. The only thing? Don't let it side track you. It's a treat for a job well done.

She's my treat. She lives even further in the slums than I do, graffiti is on every surface, the lights flickering in out tiredly.

There's a homeless man on the stoop with a bottle of beer that never leaves his hand.

"Hey Hughie."

"Oh it's that creep, Dawson," he chuckles. "You got an unsettling aura. Got 2 dollars for a beer?"

I chuckle and slip him two dollars. Homeless people, war vets, children—hell, dogs. They're all attuned to the spirit. The first have seen too much. The last not enough.

They catch me, no matter how inconspicuous I am to regular people. But no one listens to any of those people, so it really doesn't matter.

I walk up the three flights to get to her apartment. The numbers are off the hinge and one has fallen off.

I knock at the door. The remaining 3 in the apartment number 304 shakes.

"Who is it?"

I don't say anything for a minute. She knows who it is. "Can I come in?"

There's the sound of shuffling, before the door opens with an unoiled creak. She looks me up and down, and then turns on her heel, walking away, leaving the door open.

"You again,"

I grin and shut the door behind me. "Me again."