27 Kimmy
I spent an hour staring at the new burner Operative Seven had given me.
Not in a poetic, longing way. I just sat on my couch in the dark, feeling the measly weight of the device in my hand. The rest of the apartment had faded to grayscale. Only the phone mattered.
I wondered why he'd given it to me, unsure that I believed the explanation that he'd provided.
I'd told myself a dozen times I was over this, but I wasn't.
If I'm in danger, just tell me.
You're not if I'm around.
And then he vanished like a professional hallucination, and I hadn't heard back from him in days. The emptiness left behind was the kind that expanded to fill whatever container you put it in. It leaked into my coffee, my work, my dreams.
The nights were the worst, always the worst.
I didn't understand this emotion, this strange attachment to the person whose face I'd never seen. I hadn't felt this way—or ever—before.
I debated calling the new number but the little voice in my head said he wasn't my friend, he wasn't someone I could just dial to chat about my mental state.
If you want to call someone, call Brynn.
But my relationship with Brynn had gotten complex. She kept on if I had anything to do with the news articles about Ronan Wick and Jerico Thorne. I had no choice but to kept my distance to avoid getting her in trouble.
After a while, I snorted and said out loud, "Fuck it." Then I hit the call button.
The phone rang once before I heard a click.
"Are you in danger?" The voice was even colder than I remembered. Like he'd been stored in a freezer for a few days, then thawed just for this.
I opened my mouth, wondering if he had this number programmed into his phone.
"Are you?" he repeated.
Of course, he did. "No. Not right now," I choked out. "Unless you count emotional instability as a threat."
A beat of silence. "Why are you calling?"
It was a good question, one I wasn't sure how to answer. "I just… I wanted to see how you were doing. And maybe get a progress report on the last one."
"Define the last one."
"Valmont," I supplied, feeling stupid for needing to clarify and for needing to come up with an excuse as to why I was reaching out. "I haven't seen anything in the news."
"I'm being careful," he replied. "The subject is cautious. He's aware that someone is targeting him, which increases the risk. And I don't make mistakes."
His voice was so dry, it could have started a brushfire.
"So what are you going to do?" I asked. "If he's onto you?"
"Wait for him to make either the first move or a mistake of his own."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Everyone does eventually, especially if they have something to hide and something to lose."
The silence on the line was too loud. I was aware of every shift in my own breathing, every tiny vibration of blood behind my eyes.
I went for it, blunt. "Do you have a name?"
This time, the pause was a chasm. I thought maybe he'd hung up.
"Why?"
"Well, I don't know what to call you and Operative Seven sounds like a mouthful."
"No," he finally said. "I don't."
I expected a joke, or a brush-off, or maybe just a snort. But he said it with a precision that meant there was nothing else behind it. It hit harder than I thought.
"You don't…like, you can't tell me, or you actually don't have one?"
"I never had one," he said. "Father didn't give us names. We got numbers."
I swallowed. "That's…Jesus. That's bleak."
"I didn't notice," he said, and I knew, without being told, that it was the closest thing to vulnerability he'd ever allow.
"Operative Seven is just weird," I said. "I'll give you one." I racked my brain for something clever, something with weight. All that came out was, "Seven. I'm calling you Seven."
He didn't react.
"You can call me Kimmy," I said, softer.
"Understood," he said, then paused, then finally uttered, "Kimmy."
For some reason, the way he said my name made my spine prickle. It felt like he'd reached through the line and traced the word across my skin. Just thinking about it had my arms in goosebumps.
I tried to ignore it and turn the mood lighter, if only to keep from falling into the existential pit he'd dug. "So… Do you always answer unknown calls with ‘Are you in danger?' Or is that just a me thing?"
"It's protocol."
"Do you have protocols for everything?"
"Yes," he said. "It helps eliminate risks."
I decided to push my luck. "Is that why you don't have a name?"
"It's because Father believes in eliminating the unnecessary." He sounded almost annoyed, which I took as a win. "Names give you history. History gives you weakness."
I rolled this around in my mind. "I suppose numbers give you anonymity. You can be anyone. Or no one at all."
"That's the point."
I chewed the inside of my cheek, staring at the quiet city outside my window. "What would you pick, if you could? Like, if you could choose your own name?"
He didn't answer. Not for a long time. Then, he spoke, "I haven't thought about it."
"Bullshit," I said. "You must have thought about it. Even if just to laugh at the idea."
Nothing.
I tried again. "What do the other operatives call you? I mean there are other operatives, right?"
"I don't engage with other operatives."
"There are no group projects?"
"Group projects would put everyone involved at risk if something goes wrong."
"So, you work on your own?"
"Yes."
"Must be lonely."
"I don't think about it. It's unnecessary."
"I take it you don't go out and have fun when you're off work?"
"Fun?" he asked as if he didn't know the word.
"Yes. Like movies or karaoke night or clubbing."
"That's also unnecessary."
"It's not."
"You don't do those things yourself."
There was a long moment of silence. "No… Not for a while," I admitted.
"Then why suggest them to me?"
"Because they help you forget about your worries."
"In that case, Kimmy, you should resume those activities," he supplied, his voice somehow a little softer as he said my name again.
My pulse stuttered. "Karaoke is kinda boring by yourself. Maybe I need a partner."
"Find one."
"Maybe, you can come when you're free, Seven," I uttered, almost inaudibly. I didn't even realize I'd said it until it had already left my mouth.
"Did you just ask me to go with you to karaoke?"
"Why not?"
"You also called me Seven."
"That's the name we agreed on for you."
"I didn't agree."
I smiled, even though he couldn't see it. "Well, I like Seven. It suits you."
"Why?"
"It's a prime number," I said, knowing it was a dumb answer. "No divisors. Stubborn. Hard to catch."
"Did you just come up with this nonsense?"
"Maybe."
"Congratulations. Your chatbot was hallucinating. Didn't anyone teach you not to take any AI output at face value?" He rattled all this off with an unmoving voice like he wasn't interested in his own words.
"No algorithms were involved in my attempt to give you a name."
He made a sound, low and almost hidden. A huff of air, the tiniest breach in his professional armor.
"So you do know how to laugh?" I said, incredulous.
"I don't laugh," he protested and his voice pitched just a bit.
"You just did."
"Must have been a malfunction."
We sat with that for a second.
I wondered what he looked like right now—if his face had changed, if he was frowning or smiling or just as expressionless as ever.
I imagined his mouth under that bandana.
The only time I saw him and not very well was at the venue where Ronan Wick was arrested and even then I was too scared and confused to really pay attention to his face.
I was also certain what I did manage to catch wasn't his real face.
Seven broke the silence first. "I have to go."
He hung up before I could say a word.