"Please state your name for the record."

"William Frederick Overman."

"Dr. Overman, the purpose of this session is to assess your-"

"I know the purpose of these interviews. They're to make sure those of us in the field don't turn out like Phillips or Wandrei. Not my first rodeo, miss."

"Very well. I'm going to ask you a few questions, there are no wrong answers."

"Yes there are."

"Very well, Dr. Overman. We'll start with something simple. How old are you?"

"Fifty four and eight months."

"Do you have a family?"

"Yes, a wife and a teenage son."

"Describe your relationship with them?"

"Thoroughly normal. I work long hours, my wife and I fight, make up, make love. Son blames me for her drinking, and he's not wrong, completely. We love each other- usually eat dinner together. Arthur- my son- and I go fishing some times."

"You bring up her drinking, does your wife-"

"I know March knows all about my private life, so there is no point in hiding things here. My wife is a heavy drinker, an english professor at NYU. Also a very devout Catholic, late in life conversion. Son is too, he got enthusiastic for it when he saw his mom join the church. Might be a fad. Might be looking for a way to connect with her."

"Your beliefs?"

"I don't think there's a God."

"Would you describe yourself as atheist or agnostic?"

"I think we're on our own and must do what we can."

"Do you believe in the devil, Dr. Overman?"

"In a manner of speaking, I do."

"Do your beliefs cause friction at home?"

"Yes, often, though I try not to be preachy and so does Alyssa."

"Talk to me about what happened in Florida."

"The bait'n switch, huh?"

"Excuse me, doctor?"

"Nothing. I consider the Florida operation in July a success. As you know."

"There were civilian casualties."

"That's correct. Still, the tablets were recovered unharmed. Civilian casualties were caused by the traffickers."

"You chose to engage them in a public space."

"Far safer that way."

"Why is that?"

"Dispersed intentional gestalt-"

"Could you explain that in laymans terms, please?"

"No, but, the bottom line is more witnesses, more conscious beings in the area, the more diluted was the ah, traffickers ability to draw on the power of what was, essentially, controlling them. Confused the signals, you might say."

"And what was that, what controlled the smugglers?"

"There is no English word for it, and if I called it by its true name I could do you considerable psychological harm. And myself."

"Was this your first encounter with such a- an entity?"

"I wouldn't be much good to the company if it were, would I?"

Non! Pour toi Dieu n'a plus de pardon! Pour toi le ciel n'a plus d'aurore! Non, non!

Overman tried ignore the assault on his ears. He hated the opera. Alyssa loved it, though, and he loved Alyssa, and marriage- like so much in this world- required sacrifice. Heaven knew she made more than her fair share for him, so a night at the opera was a small price for marital peace.

He found his wife's hand and squeezed it, and she squeezed back and gave him an 'I know you hate this' smile, before turning her attention back to the drama unfolding on the stage. The foreshadowings of a headache rumbled in Overman's temples.

His phone buzzed, three quick vibrations. Overman sat up. It was the Office.

Discretely, he checked the screen, ignoring the disapproving glares of his fellow opera-goers.

"Bill- just heard cousin Louis is in town. Better meet with him."

Overman sighed. Alyssa frowned at him and glanced at his phone.

"I gotta go. This is serious," he whispered to her.

"Who's Louis?" she asked with hushed annoyance.

"It's just a- I've gotta go, hon."

"Bill, it's a quarter to midnight."

Overman met his wife's eyes, "You got that right."

Something in his tone made her acquiesce. Dr. Overman crept out of the opera and into the misting autumn night.

-

He rode the subway down to Chinatown in his tux, alone except for a homeless man asleep on the bench at the other end of the car. He watched his reflection in the dark window, a pale face with black eyes.

He got off at Canal, wandering east to the dingy little Cantonese place- still open at midnight- where he knew he'd find 'Cousin Louis' slurping down noodles.

His phone beeped, he picked up the call.

"Overman speaking."

"Yes, I'm going to meet him now."

"They'll agree to that? You're sure? They've never-"

"Understood. Have the Curator prepare my case then, he'll know the reagents I need. I'll pick it up when I'm done here."

Overman ended the call and stepped into the steamy, savory warmth of Shanghai Kitchen. The host drowsily nodded him to the table in the back corner, where Steve Foster sat smiling.