Seth

As I said, Wendy dated a lot of people. But whether you date one or one million, there will be a last. And her last was a guy named Seth.

Before we get too deep into who Seth is—or maybe as an alternate means of deeper exposition—let’s talk about Horace.

Horace is my best friend. We met as kids and have gone on together ever since—not without friction, of course.

One source of relatively early friction was Wendy. I wonder how many people have that as part of their own history? Anyway …

I’ve told you well enough this time and in detail before about how my friend Plum wanted me to ask Wendy out, how Wendy picked me instead, and all of that. So that’s when Horace fell for her, too. Not right then at that exact moment, but later on.

It was a strange thing to know your best friend is in love with your girlfriend, but it didn’t really bother me. I was arrogant (was, right?) and thought there was no way she would leave me for him. I was right, but that’s not the point. And I was wrong that she would never be into him. She was, quite a bit. Like maybe more than anyone.

Anyone but Seth, who I promise we will get back to in a hot sec.

There was a time and place in Soma when Wendy and Horace lived together. They lived in this huge house near the center of town. This is way before he met Ada, of course, and so even longer before he met Dole, his second wife.

Wendy was trying to go straight, trying to get her life together. She was having a go at the narrow life that most normies live. The house and the fence. The pets. The husband. Kids, eventually. It was not a natural fit.

It was for Horace and that is what he would eventually go on to have … well, with a major caveat, but that’s not relevant right now.

He has great instincts, though, and could sense that she was not well-suited for the life he wanted. So when she asked for a bigger commitment, he said no. I was proud of him, honestly, because she was a walking drama storm and would only ruin his life. She nearly did, in fact, a couple of times. But that’s another story for a different time.

So Seth.

Seth was, we all thought, a made-up guy. No one had ever seen him. No one knew anyone who knew him. He was from out of town—not a Somatic—so no roots either. Didn’t go to school there, no relatives, that kind of thing. I probably knew where he was from at one time, but honestly I didn’t give a shit, so I’ve forgotten if I did.

We thought Wendy made Seth up as a jealousy trap for Horace, a lure by which to reel him back in. Seth did have that effect, and Horace went on a bit of a rampage, but again, not salient here.

So back in the day, everything we knew about Seth was anecdotal and sourced from mutual friends of ours and Wendy’s. We’d hear about him, but when pressed, the source would always say that Wendy had told them. You get the idea.

But I met Seth. At the funeral.

They had gotten married, I guess, and were settling down into that life that she wanted. But then she died. Was murdered.

Wendy’s ghost appeared, and said, “Bitch, Seth did not kill me. He adored me.”

We ignore her, and I keep filling you in on Seth as we continue our drive to his house.

He was an ordinary looking guy, as I recall. Rather tall, like Horace, but with a plainer, less memorable face. He was thinner, too, and seemed, I dunno … skittish. Not necessarily about anything—but maybe—rather as his default way of being in the world. Full recognition, though: he was at his wife’s funeral. So. That’s tough, no matter who you are.

The weird thing in retrospect is that I didn’t put together that he was Seth at the time. I knew this guy was her husband, but I had assumed they would’ve broken up ages ago—you know, if he were real, which I didn’t really believe he was. So maybe it’s not weird, actually, that I didn’t know it was him; but, it was weird no one ever said his name.

I found out it was him years later when I was deep in the secrets trade, and I found him in a stern net. If you don’t know what any of that means, don’t worry about it. Not relevant. What matters is, I found a profile of him, and had an oh-shit-that’s-that-guy moment. Maybe you would have been more curious about him, but I truly wasn’t, so I just moved on with whatever it was I had been doing when I came across the info.

He lives in Soma still. Never moved. He’s still in the little country house they had bought with the intention of starting a family there. That’s all I know. I could have learned more, I guess, but really let’s just talk to the guy, cross him off the list, and move on, m’kay? Detective work is such a slog.

You may really dig it, playing detective, in which case your enthusiasm infects me a bit, and I turn on some music and start singing along.

As we near the westside, you can see the walls of the city. They are jagged and ruined—still there, yes, but not really functional as a defense. They’re just a landmark, an artifact of some earlier period in the city’s life. Outside them is the wild Jungle, proper danger and terror, yeah, but also the only real peace this place has to offer. Folks who live out there seem to find their share of both.

The thoroughfare leads us past the tower, which I point out and say, “There’s the tower,” as we whir past it.

If you don’t know what that means, you can ask, and I will tell you a little story involving it.

If you already know, you just nod and go, Ah, okay.

Shortly on, we break off the thoroughfare onto what turns out to be part of a labyrinthine network of Jungle byways. Dense, thick growth scrapes the sides of the car, and even through the noise-canceling cabin atmosphere, you can hear strange screeches and yelling out there.

“Longtails and fatty sheaths,” I say. “It’s not like a proper nightmare, though. Or, I guess it can be. We’ll get to that, if we haven’t, when I am made to remember.”

You can ask what the hell I’m talking about, but it’s right as another song is coming on, and I turn it up and sing with it.

After awhile, we reach a grove. Therein is a house, with a bit of light inside.

“This is the place,” I say, and bring the car around. “There are a lot these little bungalow-style houses littered out here in the bush. People built them, I dunno, in the Seventies and Eighties, I guess. Tryna capture dat dream. But that’s not who lives in them now. Never is.”

Vengeance creaks to a halt, and I realize you probably don’t know that’s my car.

I look indignant. “Yes, I name my cars.”

Vengeance? you ask.

“Look, I was young, okay? I thought it sounded cool.”

We get out, step into the humid air so thick it’s almost solid feeling. It’s hot, yeah, but the darkness cools it some. Not much, mind you. Not much at all.

“You can lead this time,” I say.

Vengeance? you ask again.

“Gimme a break, babe,” I say. “So if you want, you can lead. Or if you’d rather I do the talking …”

You say what you’d prefer.

If you want to do the interview, skip down to the play procedures.

Otherwise, I go, “Okay,” and do a little two step, walk toward the house.

The porch is creaky when I step on it.

Also, there is a droning sound. It’s loud—like, rather loud.

You ask what it is.

I say, “What’s what?”

You say that droning sound.

“Oh,” I go. “Bugs.”

The spy camera doorbell is there, I can tell it isn’t working. So I go old school and knock.

We can hear his footsteps. Then we can see his shadow through the frosted glass panel near the front door. He opens the door, then, Seth.

“Yeah?” he goes.

“Hey there,” I say, “I’m Teresa Anderson and this is my, uh, partner. We’re looking into the death of your wife.”

His eyes sink deeper into sallow skin. Or maybe it just looks sallow in the light, which has an brownish-yellow cast to it.

“Wendy?” he says.

I nod. “Yeah, Wendy.”

“She’s been dead for thirty years. You guys are finally getting around to doing something about it?”

I didn’t want to get into how I wasn’t technically doing anything about it, since Wendy and I hadn’t really worked out the details exactly of just what I’ll do once we know who killed her, but. No need to worry about any of that right now.

“May we come in?” I ask.

He looks me up and down. “You’re Ministry, aren’t you?”

I used to be, but I don’t say. I just smile.

“Yeah, c’mon,” Seth says with a wave. He turns and makes way for us to enter.

I do wonder how he knew I was Ministry since I wasn’t dressed for the occasion. Maybe he’s had dealings? Something to think about. Or maybe nothing. In fiction, there is never mention of anything that isn’t significant because—I guess—it’s seen as taxing on the reader’s mind, derailing to the story, and blah blah blah. But in life, there are many things that never pan out. Many hints and clues and whatever that aren’t really hints or clues; they’re simply details. People don’t like that, I’m told. So am I insulting you by putting them in anyway, knowing this? Or am I respecting your intelligence? Which way is more insulting really?

But never mind all that. Let’s just go into Seth’s house and interrogate the poor bastard about his dead wife he was married to for, like, a year thirty years ago.

As we cross the threshold, you very well may ask me what all this Teresa Anderson business is about—meaning, isn’t my last name Van Santana?

But I just shake my head and wave it away.

Inside, the place smells better than it looks like it would. And it’s tidier, too, though rustic. I mean, c’mon. Dude lives in middle-of-nowhere jungle, ‘s gonna be rustic.

He leads us to the living room—a straight shot from the front door.

The beamtube is on, and he’s got some kind of super hero movie going. He turns it off once we sit down.

He rests his arms on his knees and laces his fingers together. “What do you want to know?”

“You don’t happen to know who killed her, do you?” I ask with a cheeky smile.

He humphs, then says, “I have my theories. But nothing I can prove.”

“Well, maybe we can,” I say.

“I always thought it was her stepmom.”

“Interesting,” I say, even if it’s not very original. But I guess murders often aren’t.

“Cinda, right?” I ask.

“I always knew her as Lucinda,” Seth says. “But, yeah, I think Wendy called her that.”

“Is she still in the same house?” I ask.

“No. She and Magne split up at some point,” Seth says.

“Magne is Wendy’s dad,” I whisper to you. It’s pronounced like Maine, so you may have to reread the last coupla lines to make it sound right.

“I don’t know where she is now,” Seth says. “We weren’t close.”

No shit, I think, but I don’t say it. You can know I think it, if you want, since I’m telepathic—or, you know, will be, at some point in the stories.

Seth looks patient, but in the way a tired person who is resigned to their fate looks patient.

“We won’t take any more of your time today, Seth. Thank you for talking with us.”

We stand up at that point, and he does, too.

“Sure,” he says, seeming a bit stunned.

I offer him my gloved hand for a shake, and he shakes. With my other, I hand him a holocard, which he takes.

“Blow me a Bubble™ if you think of anything else, m’kay?”

Something about reading the name on the card triggers something in his memory. He looks at me—in the eyes, this time—and says, “You’re Tracy.”

I look at you, somewhat awkwardly, and then back to him, and say, “Yes, I am.”

He nods, still staring at me, his jaw looking tight now.

“Thanks again,” I say, and gently hurry you out the door and back to the car.

If you look back at the house, you see Seth standing there on the porch in the yellow light, bugs screeching in the dark, staring after us.

What was that about? you might ask.

Don’t worry about it, I say. It’s nothing.

You might complain about the scene being to short, the interview not having enough questions and responses to make the rhythm right.

To which I will go, Psst, who cares. We got what we needed.

Then we get in the car.

When I start the car, music cuts on automatically, filling the cabin:

I smile, wait for a second, then maneuver Vengeance back to the little path that led us here.

Play procedures:

• If you want to conduct the interview with Seth, you will find he is generally cooperative, so long as you are straightforward with him. If he believes you are being cagey or tricky in any way, he will utter the classic screenplay writer’s line, “What is this all about?” and will become less cooperative. Two instances of this, and he will become obstinate and unhelpful. Each time you make a mistake, you may roll some trait like charm, persuade, or soothe and improve his mood one level. If you don’t have any trait like that, you may assign them now. Note that more hard-boiled traits like intimidate, coerce, or threaten will not work well on him. He will become scared maybe, but he has a counterphobic fear style, so he will fight and antagonize you rather than cooperate. If you complained about the way I did the interrogation—or would have—make sure you have the proper number of volleys and responses or I will tease you about it.
• Once we are in the car again, you can make a memory check. If you haven’t assigned a score, you may do so now. Success means that you remember the Hozier song from this post. Great success means that you are able to draw an inference that the two posts are somehow connected.

Story path:

Wendy 1 < 2 < 3 > 4 > 5 > 6 > 7 > 8 > 9 > 10