Borland cradled a glass as he sprawled on his swaybacked sofa, a half-bottle of whiskey on the coffee table in front of him. Too tired to do more than zip open his Variant Squad jumper for a bit of relief. His belly bulged out and up toward the cracked ceiling like someone was inflating it. Coming out of retirement was thirsty work . He had set himself up under a dim lamp he kept on the cracked veneer side table in his living room. The television sat across from him. He’d already turned it on, but only got a bright blue screen. Since his reinstatement as a Variant Squad Captain he’d found enough extra money to hook up the broadband again. The fact that he’d ordered it four weeks ago and the television was still a blue screen with nothing on it gave him something to chew about at coffee break if anyone would listen, but he didn’t really care. Borland never watched much broadband anyway. Getting drunk and arguing with a blue screen made as much sense as yelling at the news. But hooking it up in the first place seemed like something that a normal person with responsibilities would do. Stay focused. You rattled some chains . He’d been on his feet all day talking to recruits so he’d grabbed his bottle when he got in, stuffed a couple pillows and an old winter coat against the arm of the couch and propped himself in a drinking position. There was still time to get a bit of a glow before bed—and he found he slept better with a few solid slugs in him—at least for the first half of the night. Also, the triple-meat sub sandwich he’d had for supper would start to react with the whiskey if he was stupid enough to lie down too soon. Borland was not a fan of heartburn, especially now that he was on the road to recovery. He’d never be healthy, and he’d never be young again. But at least he could be watertight. He had just finished reading a Team Omega comic book that he took from Zombie’s locker at the Stationhouse. Two days after quarantine ended, the other baggies were cleaning out his personal effects when Borland happened by. The young man’s involvement was weighing on him. Not so much from guilt—he’d do it again in a minute, the sacrifice had been worth it—but he was stricken with an intense curiosity about the young man who picked the shield-name Zombie. Borland had walked past a second time as the locker’s contents were being stuffed into a box. Zombie’s parents had been told what happened to their heroic son, and would be anxious to get their hands on his possessions: just toiletries and T-shirts, underwear and hairbrush. But it was Zombie’s stuff, their little boy’s gear. The third time Borland walked past the lockers, the box was sitting there unattended so he reached in and grabbed the comic. He didn’t think mom and dad would miss it. And if things continued with the new Variant hybrid the way Brass’ scientists were predicting; they’d soon have too much on their minds to worry about their dead son’s possessions. Hell, they might even come to envy the boy in time. Beachboy had said Zombie read re-issues of the actual Team Omega comics. The originals were published decades before, but had been re-released with upgraded artwork and re-purposed as graphic novels. Borland couldn’t have cared less about the history lesson and he told Beachboy as much, but he could understand the novelty of a full-color paper version of something, over the insubstantial virtual incarnations that were flickering on e-readers and tablets everywhere. He left the comic book on the coffee table for weeks—forgot about it for a time when other things came up. Distraction from hell ... The comic was ragtag, the paper worn from many readings. There was a picture of a kid eating radioactive waste on the cover. But Borland had been pleased to find that the issue included Zombie’s namesake, Zombie the superhero. He turned out to be some dreamy character all in white and glowing green