My reflection stared back at me from the surface of a splintered, grimy mirror. Different than what I was used to seeing. Eyes cold and piercing, face chiseled into something hard and dangerous.
"Hello, Mike."
"For the last time, it's Mick. And what the hell, Hunter? What's up with the mirror tricks?"
It didn’t seem possible, but his eyes grew even icier. "Come on, Mike. We don't have any more time to play games. You know exactly what this is."
I swallowed. "So, it's true then? You really are…"
"I'm you, Michael. The better half, in fact. Free of the pretenses, the guilt, the grief that hampers you. You are reason; I'm pure instinct. Where you balk at the morality of your orders, I obey without question. All this time we've been operating in tandem — you just didn't know it. And together, we've nearly taken over this Haven."
I took a step closer, trying to see the murky reflection. "What the hell have you done, Hunter?"
"Hunter?" A thin smile touched his lips. "We're past Hunter now. Past Mick Trubble. We don't have a choice anymore. We can only stop Kilgore if we're whole again. No more lies, no memory blackouts, no separate lives. If you can't see that, you might as well put that muzzle in your mouth and pull the trigger."
"Can't do that."
"Then do what's needed."
"How?"
"You forgot all about the drive port, didn't you? All HSSC agents have one installed for communication and mission enhancement. How do you think Faraday was able to insert his program into your mind? So long as it remains, our consciousnesses will remain split. Remove it, and we become one again."
My hand drifted behind my ear, fingers grazing the skin, where they froze on a slight protrusion, barely noticeable. All this time, I'd told myself it was a benign cyst, nothing to worry about. Then again, I'd always been great at lying to myself.
"What will happen to me if I do this? Who in the hell will I become?"
"The person you always were. The person you always will be: Michael Trudo. There's no escaping who you are, Mike. No matter what you do, no matter how you try to run away, your reflection will always be in the mirror, looking right back at you. So finish what you started, or watch as everything and everyone you love is burned to the ground."
I pulled a knife from my pocket, raising the blade to the back of my ear. A quick slash, a drop of blood, and my fingers peeled back the skin. As expected, the port was there, with Faraday's drive installed: everything that made me Mick Trubble and kept me separated from what I hated about myself. Faraday's gift that allowed me to start a new life.
I looked into the mirror. Hunter's face stared back at me, a tiny smirk on his face.
"Do it. You know there's no other choice."
A quick push ejected the tiny drive from the port. I yanked it free, gasping as my brain capsized, flooded with repressed memories. My knees buckled; the room grew hazy, white light flashed across my vision as faces from the past haunted me like fretful ghosts…
A gun muzzle jabbed against my temple, instantly focusing my thoughts like only imminent death can do. A deep voice spoke in my ear.
"Turn around, and you're gonna need a whole new head."
I swallowed. "Ethan Kilgore?"
"Who's asking?"
My name is … Mike. Michael Trudo. I'm here to speak to Max. I'm a friend."
The muzzle jabbed harder. "Prove it."
"She made a request when she received this mission. Asked that I be put on the detail. I didn't find out until later. Command denied it. That's why I'm here."
"Command doesn't change its mind."
"That's right. I'm through with them. I'm here on my own accord."
"Max doesn't need that kind of heat coming down on her."
"The heat is already on her. That's why I came. Command thinks she's working with the enemy. They're planning on liquidating her operation."
The muzzle finally moved away from my head. I resisted the urge to rub the bruise.
"Turn around."
I obeyed, getting my first look at Ethan. He was tall with a slender but athletic build, a chiseled face, and a permanently angry expression.
Slipping the handgun into his jacket, he gave me a weighing look. "So you're the whiz kid, huh?"
"I guess."
"Yeah — Max is always talking about how smart you were in the Academy. I hope for your sake that you live up to your reputation, Mike."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Because I'll say this only once: if you do anything stupid, if you jeopardize Max or the mission in any way, I'll kill you."
I gasped, reliving the disturbing memories that I'd begged Faraday to erase, the shame and guilt of past actions slamming into me like merciless punches to the head from a heavyweight fighter. From my ruthless upbringing to my training, assignments, betrayals, and assassinations — I remembered everything. Every repeated lie, every dirty deed done in the name of serving the interests of the United Havens.
And most of all, I remembered Maxine. I saw her again and again: slender but fierce, prone to unpredictable humor and shyness. Large, expressive eyes, mischievous freckles, quirky lips. I recalled our intimate moments together, how hard I had to work at gaining her trust.
Only to tear it apart like soggy paper.
I had no idea how long I laid on the dirty floor, chest heaving, blinking rapidly while my consciousness rebooted itself, assimilating past with the present: Mick Trubble, Hunter Valentino and Michael Trudo. It could have been minutes. It could have been weeks.
But when I finally staggered back up, I knew everything had changed. There was no one else in the house, no phantom voice haunting me. In the tarnished surface of the mirror, I saw only my reflection: haunted eyes, haggard face, resigned expression.
For the first time in ages, I knew exactly who I was. And to my growing horror, I realized what I'd been doing with my free time in the last twelve months.
The ride to the hospital was fifteen disorienting minutes of my entire life melding together into one cohesive unit. I laughed, cried, and screamed in rage as the memories flickered into place, transforming me by the second. By the time Maxine skidded to a stop, I didn't know where Mick Trubble ended, and Mike Trudo began. Maybe it didn't matter.
In the end, I still had a job to do.
The tenement building at the edge of the Flats district looked like any other on the block. Dull, battered, and tacky as hell. But as the old folks would say, it was the inside that counted. And on the inside, it wasn't an apartment complex at all. Not on the entire lower sections, anyhow. It was the Mercy Center, a secret hospital for select members of the criminal underworld. Not only was it the best place to get patched up, but it was also a neutral territory with strict rules. If you were admitted, you were untouchable. No weapons, no grudges, and no killing allowed inside.
The blare of sirens still cut the air, mourning the tragedy that took place in the heart of the city. Red and blue seemed to be the only colors as enforcement and emergency vehicles whipped by on the ground and in the air, bathing the streets and buildings in flashing light. In all the racket, I barely heard Natasha's voice call out my name.
"Mick. Over here."
She waved me over from across the street, where she stood by a silver skimmer wagon fashioned with the retro curves of the Tatra 87 if memory served me right — which it always did. I couldn't help but eyeball it as I crossed the rain-slicked avenue.