I picked up the picture. "You can say his name, Fats. I think Mick would have loved the new look."
In the picture, Fats had an arm slung around Mick's shoulders. I stood in front of them with Mick's hand around my waist. All of us had huge smiles on our faces. It was one of the rare times Mick actually looked happy. Mick smiled all the time, but usually it was the weary kind, a sly grin, or a devilish one. But the snapshot captured Mick the way I would always remember him: eyes bright, smile wide, face free of the stress that he carried most of the time.
Feeling my eyes moisten, I quickly changed the subject. "Yeah, I hear the new Council is thinking about reverting the Haven's name back to New Orleans. That or Crescent City, another old nickname. The name New Haven is already taken by a city in someplace called Connecticut, wherever that is."
"Wherever anything is. All this time, I've been stuck in New Haven when there's a whole stretch of Territories to explore." He shook his head. "First chance I get, I'm going on vacation. Gotta see what's out there."
"It doesn't frighten you, Fats?"
"What?"
"The unknown. Everything out there. All I've been doing is watching streaming video, trying to catch up on everything. Distrustful Territories, the United Havens, synoids, and cyborgs … hell, in this world, the HSSC are the good guys. It's too much. Sometimes I just curl up in bed and sob like a baby."
"Tell me about it." He opened a bottle of bourbon on his desk and poured it into two glasses. "It's a lot to take in at once, kid. Just take it one day at a time." He slid one of the glasses over to me.
I picked it up, smelling the strong scent that reminded me so much of Mick. "I'm trying, Fats. Just wish I could handle it as well as you have."
He chuckled as he downed his shot. "Don't let the cool attitude fool you. Deep inside, I'm scared outta my mind."
I laughed at the idea. "Hard to picture, Fats. Did you … get the procedure?"
"Not much of a procedure, really. Good thing, too. At least Faraday made things easy. Maybe he knew this was gonna happen eventually."
"What do you remember?"
He grew somber, eyes distant. "A lot. Family I'd completely forgotten about. My childhood. And things … a lot of things I'm not proud of."
I didn't press the issue, recognizing tender wounds when I saw them. "I just had it done today."
He gave me an empathetic look. "And …?"
"Not much. I was practically raised in the Haven. What I remember are just fleeting memories. Childhood stuff. I still have no idea what my folks were running from when they came to New Haven. I don’t think my father ever told me."
"That's not so bad, Natasha. Just means you're free to do what you want without suppressed memories coming back to haunt you."
"Yeah, I guess. With the police force suspended from the government takeover, I'm out of a job. I'm converting the Luzzatti building to a hotel since it looks like tourism is going to be the main source of income from now on. Most of my tenants turned out to be synoids anyway." I laughed weakly. "Not that I have to worry about money. A substantial deposit appeared in my account, already converted to UH currency."
Fats smiled. "Mick?"
"Who else? Taking care of me like he always did."
He poured another shot and raised his glass. "To Mick: a good man to the end."
I raised mine. "To Mick." Downing the bourbon only made me choke a little bit.
Clearing his throat, Fats rummaged beneath his desk, and hefting a gleaming square metal box, he set it on the table with a thump. "Speaking of, he left this for you."
I eyed the box warily. The last time I saw it was in the Spire, where Mick and Kilgore went to their deaths fighting over it. "How in the world did you find that?"
"Insurance policy."
"What?"
He shrugged. "Something Mick did last-minute, I guess. I didn't know anything about it. A day after the explosion, I got a ping on my holoband. It took a while to realize it was a homing beacon. I followed it until I found the box half-submerged in a creek made by the floodwaters, nearly a mile away from the Spire. The water had washed it away like it did everything else."
My eyes never left the storage case. "Do you know what's in it?"
"Haven't the slightest. Don't wanna know. I found out a long time ago that discretion is a wise man's tool. Whatever's in there, I could care less. All I know is he wanted you to have it."
"How do you know that?"
"He left a couple of messages on the panel. I played the one he left for me. There's one for you too. Don't worry, I didn't play it. Like I said: discretion."
I hesitated, suddenly anxious for some reason. Fats seemed to understand. Standing up, he smiled. "I'll give you some private time." He gently patted my shoulder when he passed, shutting the door behind him.
I stared at the mystery box. The lights from the room glimmered across its alloyed surface in polychromatic hues, and a green light pulsed softly on a small panel. I took a deep breath and pressed it.
The panel hummed, then projected a holographic image of Mick: life-sized and so realistic that I gasped. Only the slight flickering blue light around his frame stopped me from believing he was right there. He looked as I last saw him: dark trousers, white shirt, armored plate over his chest, overcoat and fedora on. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, unlit.
"Hey, sweetheart. I know you didn't expect to see me like this, but what can I say: it is what it is. If you're watching, then I didn't make it. Don't go all soft on me — I had a nice run. Shooting trouble is a short-lived occupation, anyhow. Didn't expect it to last forever. Don't bother feeling guilty about anything — none of this was your fault. I had a reckoning coming for a long time. In a way, I stole a chunk of time I would never have had otherwise. I'm just glad you were a part of it."
I smiled, feeling a teardrop slide down my cheek.
He continued. "About the case: The only thing you need to know about it is that it's dangerous. I trust you, so I know you'll do the right thing. Someone is gonna contact you, probably sooner than later. Her name is Ms. Sinn. Don't worry about the name — she's one of the good guys. You give her the case and forget you ever saw it. Live your life, Natasha. Find whatever you want to do and do it. Be happy — that's what your folks wanted for you. That's all I ever wanted for you. Be happy. I wish you nothing but the best."
He paused, a wry smile on his lips. "Okay, that's enough gabbing. You know the rest, anyway."
The hologram flickered out of existence, and the world became that much smaller. I sat there for a long time, thinking about my time with Mick Trubble. His visits with my family, coming over for dinners, he and I dancing in a cramped safety room. The first and only time we kissed. And all the time after, when he carefully watched over me through my trauma, taking care of my affairs and making sure I never wanted for a thing. Mick was always there, a solid presence in my life. My dark angel, my protector, my friend.
"I love you too, Mick," I whispered.
Yesterday, she showed up.
I was in the lobby of the Luzzatti, overseeing the renovation. Like Fats, I decided to busy myself with work to keep my mind focused. The Art Deco architecture of the Luzzatti fit well with the history and style of New Orleans, but I still made a few changes in the furnishings and other touches to reflect the newfound culture.
"Excuse me, Ms. Luzzatti."
I don't remember leaving the doors unlocked, but she was inside, standing on the newly installed mosaic of a golden fleur-de-lis in the center of the black-tiled floor. The stylized design was popping up everywhere, throwbacks to the unofficial symbol of the pre-Cataclysm city. The woman regarded me with such a self-assured manner that for a second I felt as though I was the intruder. I knew then that she was the one Mick spoke about in his recording.