Immortal

Immortal is one of the highest ranks an agent can receive. And it's a rank that Phoenix fears that he isn't going to achieve.

Is that vanity? Maybe. Is that petty? Also maybe. Does he care? Hell to the fuck no, and you should be ashamed for asking. Who "you" is in this scenario, the man doesn't know, but he's certain that there's a "you" somewhere in all of this. Like, aside from the person on the other side of the glass. Not "Control," but "Sir," as the case is. He talked to Control in his last field assignment, and that didn't go well. At all. Like, it went so not-well, that a lot of Venice is no longer resembling a field at all. Not that it did to start with, but-

"Are you drifting, agent?"

...but he's drifting. Again. Damn it. He forces a smile, and hopes that the git on the other side of the glass can see it.

"Sorry," he says.

"Sorry," says Sir. "That's what we've been saying to the Italian government the past twenty-four hours. How do you think that's going?"

His smile becomes even wider, and even more forced. "Good enough that you haven't booted me out yet?"

Sir doesn't say anything. Phoenix's smile fades away.

"Yeah. Okay Sir. Duly noted Sir. Won't happen again Sir."

"I...we, know it won't happen again. The purpose of this debriefing is to decide whether that outcome involves giving you the boot."

"Make it a sneaker sir. I like those."

Sir doesn't say anything. And despite the fire that courses through his body, Phoenix supposes he can't blame him.

There's a word for what happened in Venice - FUBAR. Or at least that's what described what happened to Venice after the shit hit the fan, what happened during said shit hitting said fan is a a term that doesn't reside in the English language, or Italian. And while he isn't fluent in Korean, he doubts there's a term in that language either. Maybe the bitch with the knives could tell him, but he isn't counting on that. Not after she detonated that device, causing part of the city to end up levitating. First Light was screwed up enough, but this? This is like something out of science fiction.

"So," says Sir. "We read your report. About how you failed."

"Heroicly failed," Phoenix murmurs.

"And about how you let the enemy agent get away."

"Just to remind you Sir, I did give my life in the line of duty."

"...and that agent is still at large, while you come back here like a beaten dog," says Sir. "Anything you want to say in your defence before you're out of here?"

There's a lot Phoenix wants to say, but he doesn't think it's for polite company. So channeling his anger into something a mite more constructive, he murmurs, "you won't let me go. You'd miss me."

"Hardly."

"First Light did a number on me, alright? Ain't too many people like me around. And the bitch with the knives, she's one of them, right? Or, one of us? Is it us? Like me?"

"One of us," murmurs Sir.

"Us?"

"You."

"Um..."

"Agent Phoenix, this agency deals with terrorism, not the intricacies of pronouns."

Phoenix isn't sure about that, considering Darleen in admin insists on being referred to as "they," but he decides not to go there. Instead, he goes back to where he's already been, and says, "like I said, ain't too many people like me. And better I''m employed by the good guys than the people who decide that Venice needs a few less canals."

Sir doesn't say anything.

"Also, I'd dare say I'm a mite more important to keep around than most other agents."

"Really? And why's that?"

"Simple." Phoenix smiles, but it's bereft of mirth. "I can't die."

It's a statement that carries the weight of truth, even if it isn't entirely truthful in of itself. But it's done its job, and caused Sir to fall silent, which in turn, gives Phoenix time to reflect.

First Light. He'll never forget it. He doubts anyone will forget an inter-dimensional breach that killed millions and caused a select few, later known as Radiants, to manifest with abilities that until that moment, belonged in videogames. It's not a nice feeling, bursting into flames while walking through London, and then reconstituting yourself out of the ashes. It's neat to keep the clothes you're wearing, but still, immolation is actually quite painful. So is throwing fireballs and the like. So bad enough that he goes through the whole "I'm burning, please someone help me!" moment, but worse, some wankers take notice and give him a choice. Join an agency dedicated to restoring order to a world gone weird, or spend the rest of his life in sedation.

He still remembers the moment he made the choice. He also remembers his real name, even if it's never used. Officially, the person he was died that day. The person he is now is an agent who's a pyrokinetic, smooth with guns, and a man with a sound operational record. Venice aside.

"Alright," says Sir. "You can't die. Not unless someone pops you off again after reconstituting."

"Which hasn't happened," Phoenix says.

"Only has to happen once," murmurs Sir. "But if there's anything you want to add before we make our decision, now's the time."

"Oh yeah. Sure." Phoenix folds his arms and puts his legs on the desk between him and the glass window. "First thing is, I really don't want to be sedated."

"Duly noted. And?"

"And I want to get even with Knife Girl."

"Revenge doesn't become you, agent."

"Then call it justice. Or vengenace. Or payback. Or-"

"Agent..."

"Right Sir. Duly noted Sir. I'll await your final report Sir."

Sir doesn't say anything. Somewhere, on the other side of that wall of glass, Sir is making a decision that'll affect Phoenix's life forever. What little of it can be said to exist. For a moment, he thinks that maybe sedation won't be so bad. But only a moment. Because his d-pad has had an image sent to him, and he has no delusion as to who. He smiles - the agency is going to keep him on. He knows it. He'll be back in the field soon enough, ready for a second round against Knife Girl.

Or, as the dossier on his pad tells him, Jett...