Lucky reluctantly turned her gloves back over to Winters and headed for Chandler's place to get a shower; Promethean returned to base for much the same purpose. As I hadn't been in the thick of things and was entirely soot-free, I hung around the scene for a while and then decided to walk through Chinatown. Winters' words about the killers were still on my mind. After about an hour of wandering I stopped at a noodle shop for lunch and got a seat where I could look out the window, thinking over recent events, giving myself a mental pat on the back for the morning's work, worrying less than usual about things. When am I going to learn?
    He walked past the window, just a few yards away from where I sat. I don't remember if I actually dropped the spoon, but I'm pretty sure my heart stopped beating for a couple of seconds. He walked calmly through the crowds on the sidewalk, a full head and shoulders taller than just about everyone around him, so I got a good enough look to know that I wasn't mistaken no matter how long ago it had been—it was Travis. A man who someone—not I—had known at Berkeley. Had, in fact, been going out with for a good two years before they broke up and she moved to Boston. Had come perilously close to marrying. Who, as far as I understood what was going on inside my head, shouldn't exist.
    I dropped a twenty on the table and followed him. It wasn't hard. After a while he went down into the Orange Line station, dropped a token in the turnstile and joined those waiting for an inbound train. I haven't taken the T anywhere in months and found myself, impatiently, in line. A train pulled up. The line started going more quickly as people tried to make it. Three people ahead of me, two, people were boarding... I didn't know what to do, decided against calling attention to myself.
    "How many?" the woman in the booth repeated testily; I hadn't heard her the first time.
    "One, please." I handed over a dollar and didn't bother with the change. The doors were closing; I jammed a hand between them and squeezed on when they reluctantly opened once more. I was pretty sure I was a few cars down from his, moving from one moment to the next without thinking. I won't say I was compelled to follow, but I do think I was moving more under instinct than any thinking impulse.
    He got off at Downtown Crossing and headed down the connecting tunnel to the Red Line. I tried to get a lock on his aura, afraid of losing him in the midday crowd, but a flock of punkishly outfitted highschoolers surged between us and blocked my line of sight. I fought down an adrenaline-fueled impulse to just bring up my shields and shove them all out of the way and instead pushed through them more slowly before I could catch sight of someone I wasn't entirely sure was him, some distance away. I ran, unpleasantly aware of how quickly my heart was beating, of the fear in the back of my mind that I was imagining this.
    As we reached the Green Line section of the station the crowd cleared away—mainly, I noticed a bit belatedly, because a train was headed up the track at a good clip. I dashed across the track a couple feet ahead of it, my quarry in sight once more. He turned, as did others in the area, at the sound of the train's horn; his glance passed over me with no sign of recognition.
    One check on the mental list; whoever she is or was, she doesn't look like me. Or else... or else this is far more complicated than it appears at first glance.
    This time I wasn't distracted, got a firm lock on his aura as he headed down the stairs toward the Red Line. He felt real, for whatever good that does—human, in good shape. Now that I needn't fear losing sight of him I got on a few cars behind, on a train heading out for Cambridge, and tried not to speculate on whether I was losing my mind—again. I would follow him and see where he went, and then decide what to do.
    That was the plan, anyway. Crossing the Charles, my phone rang.
    "What?" I answered, quietly, aware of the glances of people around me. It was Lucky, someone had called in a 2113 at an antique store in Cambridge, not too far from Harvard Square, judging by the address. That's the code for giant robot, by the way. Second one this month, I thought resignedly, then, Gosh, but I'm getting blase about this job.
    "Where are you?" she asked.
    "On a T train. I'll be right there." I signed off and glared at nothing, muttered, "Shit." Not that it makes that much difference—if it really was him, however that might be possible, I'd bet money to marbles he was heading for MIT. There were plenty of ways to track him down, and it's not as if I had any real idea what I would do when he reached his destination. If it was him. What if it wasn't? What if it was? I took off from the Kendall stop and headed for the address she had given me.

| Top |