1
Tom Hansen was liked by his former boss. More than that, he was really, insanely, incredibly well liked. When he’d wandered into the greeting card company, confessing in the interview that he was an architecture major who didn’t so much as send Birthday cards much less write them, Mr. Vance had still given him a job. When Tom had slipped into a deep, aggressive depression after Summer had dumped him, Mr. Vance had attempted to put him on the right track. When Tom had almost stumbled into the sub-basement level, where regular employees were forbidden any access, Mr. Vance had chuckled, patted him on the shoulder, and redirected him to a floor. Tom had been so relieved to escape punishment, it hadn’t even occurred to him to ask why there was a secret sub-level basement in a greeting card company.
Still, when Tom had had a complete meltdown in the middle of a meeting and in front of a potential client, he’d been sure that even Mr. Vance would not forgive him.
He’d floated around for a while, wallowing in self pity. Self pity was easy. On some basic, pathetic level, self pity even felt good. Then he’d picked himself up and started looking for a new job. If he was very lucky, he’d find a new boss as understanding as Mr. Vance, but doing something he could enjoy.
For a very short while, life was good. He was eventually hired by a reputable architecture firm, dated Autumn until the sting of Summer was gone for good. He didn’t feel like his old self. He felt better, older, wiser even. He took to wearing suits, sometimes even on his off days, and dressing impeccably even when he didn’t. His hair was seldom without gel, his jaw always perfectly shaven. He’s a better version of himself, in every possible way.
Still, the time comes for his new life to end, as a niggling voice in the back of his head always told him it would. Autumn was offered a promotion in a different city and, since they were still only casually dating and there was nothing to tie her to LA, she took it. Her departure hurt, but he would survive. He grew despondent in his work and began into fantasy, as he always did. His idle sketches began to take on paradoxical elements, which he taped to the walls of his bedroom. Sure, they were useless in architecture, but that didn’t make them any less fun to design. He began to shuffle into the firm each day, still content, but a little numb. This was probably how most people felt when they found the career they would follow for the rest of their lives.
Then Mr. Vance walked right back into his life.
“Interesting sketches,” Mr. Vance remarked. “You a fan of Escher?”
Tom blinked up at the patient, smiling man he had been certain he’d never see again.
“Mr. Vance?”
Mr. Vance plucked one of the paradoxical sketches off the corner of his desk.
“This is good. I had no idea you could draw like this.”
“Yeah, well, my job was coming up with the words, not the designs on the cards.”
Mr. Vance nodded thoughtfully.
“How would you like a job where you get to use these?”
Seriously? Tom let out a startled laugh and shook his head.
“With all due respect, I think I made my feelings about greeting cards pretty clear when I quit.”
“I’m not talking about greeting cards.”
Tom sank back into his seat. Mr. Vance didn’t let anything show on his face.
“Excuse me?”
“Tell you what.” Mr. Vance pushed some of the sketches aside and sat down on the edge of Tom’s desk. “You’re a clever man. You’re driven, you’re determined, and I’ve gotta admit, I loved working with you. So whenever you feel like designing office buildings is no longer fun, you give me a call.”
He set a small, white business card down on the desk. Tom frowned and picked it up.
“Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division?”
“We’re working on it,” Mr. Vance assured him. Then, with a smile, he left.
Tom resisted for two weeks. Whatever this was, clearly it had something to do with that sub-level basement, but what kind of greeting card manager worked with anything that had ‘strategic homeland’ in the title?
After two weeks, though, he had to admit he was interested. He didn’t quit his job, he just called Mr. Vance and agreed to meet him. Mr. Vance looked as pleasantly content as he always did, fingers crossed as he smiled at Tom. Mr. Vance’s office felt so alien to him these days. Once upon a time, he’d been some dissatisfied, lazy kid who sat in here accepting guidance in a job he didn’t particularly like.
“Tom,” Mr. Vance said. “You look good.”
Tom inclined his head.
“Thank you, Mr. Vance.”
Mr. Vance chuckled at that.
“I think it’s about time you stop calling me that,” Mr. Vance replied. “I think, for now, I’d like it if you called me Phil.”
“Phil Vance.” Tom tried it out on his tongue. Somehow, it didn’t quite work. Mr. Vance bit back a grin.
“Not exactly. Don’t worry about it. What’s more important is that you chose to come.”
Tom shifted anxiously in his seat.
“Well, you said you might have a job for me, one that might let me utilize paradoxical design.”
“You find that interesting?”
“I think it’s worth hearing the whole sales pitch.”
Mr. Vance smiled, looking Tom over.
“You’ve certainly changed since we first met, Tom. That’s good. It means you’re adaptable. You’re going to need it in this line of work.”
“I haven’t accepted the job.”
That made something twinkle in Mr. Vance’s eye.
“Of course,” he amended. “Not yet. Come with me, Tom.”
He led Tom through cubicle city. Tom grimaced as he passed his old desk, noting how completely different it looked. Apparently whoever had inherited it had an affinity for cartoon frogs. They stepped into the elevator, sinking down to the lobby, then the storage basement. Tom’s heart skipped a beat as they fell to the sub-basement.
The doors opened to reveal an ordinary looking hallway. Mr. Vance pulled an ID card from his pocket and the two of them strode down to the door at the far end. Tom glanced around suspiciously. For such a supposedly top secret floor, there was nothing particularly special about the hall. At least, not until Mr. Vance touched the door handle. Instantly, a panel opened in the wall. Tom jumped, eyes widening because, well, a panel just opened up in the freaking wall like some kind of science fiction movie. Mr. Vance first swiped his card through the slot. Then, he placed his palm against a flashing green screen. Then, because it couldn’t get any weirder, he let it scan his eye.
“Voice Authorization Required.”
“Jesus, do you work for the damn CIA?”
“Access Denied.”
Mr. Vance shot Tom a Look over his shoulder.
“Just be patient,” he urged, going through the ID card, handprint, and retinal scan once again. When the crazy wall-computer asked for his voice again, Mr. Vance leaned in and said, in a clear, certain voice;
“Phillip Coulson.”
The hell?
“Access Granted. Welcome back, Agent Coulson.”
“What the everloving fu-”
But Tom lost the ability to speak as Mr. Vance… or Mr. Coulson or whoever the hell he was pushed the door open to reveal an honest to God, secret, sterile underground base, complete with men and women in dark suits walking briskly past, their arms full of files, clipboards and… he had to blink, because that woman was armed.
Tom swallowed.
“So… this is the, uh, Strategic, Homeland… Energy…”
“We’re thinking of going with S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Phil offered. “Has a nicer ring to it.”
“You’re a spy,” Tom breathed.
“Not a spy,” Phil assured him. “Just an agent.”
Tom took a sharp breath and glanced up at the stark, white ceiling. He could see the dozens of employees in his mind’seye, milling around the water cooler and typing up kitschy greeting card lines.
“Is this whole thing a scam?” he gasped. “Was I the only person who actually thought you made greeting cards?”
“We do make greeting cards,” Phil assured him. “It’s a great cover, don’t you think? Real company, real employees, nice little profit to help fund us, and what’s more it gives me something to think about on stakeouts.”
“Oh my God,” Tom moaned, running his hands through his hair, effectively ruining it. Phil laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Come on,” he offered. “Let me tell you about your new job.”
“I haven’t quit my old one,” Tom protested weakly.
“Of course you did,” Phil objected. “This morning. Sent in the resignation myself. Now, let me tell you a bit about Dreamshare.”