I'd kept the sweatshirt, Jesus, how many years now? Three? No, four. It had been almost four years since I'd come home, naked and vulnerable. I ran a hand over the worn material, faded with bleach spots here and there. It was barely more than a rag, held together by prayer and a few stubborn threads that refused to give up the ghost. Niko had tossed it in the garbage on more occasions than I could count, but I fished it back out every time. I talked big about not clinging to things; material possessions only slowed you down when you were on the run. You had to be ready to leave it all behind at a moment's notice. You had to lead a disposable life, and for the most part I stuck to that rule. Why this one sweatshirt was such an exception wasn't easy to understand.
Maybe it was because it had been the first sign of normality in a suddenly strange and foreign world. While the greater part of me wasn't even aware I'd been gone, there'd been a tiny corner of my subconscious that had been all too in the know. It was the part that had me practically foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog when I'd reappeared. When Niko had gotten the clothes out of the trunk for me and helped me pull the sweatshirt on, it was like… like I was putting a human suit back on. It wasn't an exact fit, the shirt or the humanity, but I'd held on to both throughout the years with a desperately tight grip. The shirt reminded me—reminded me that I was home and reminded me there was at least a part of me that was human. Sometimes… hell, more often than not, I needed the reminder.
There was another thing it brought to mind as well. It was what I'd worn the day I'd started running. And to bring things full circle, it would be what I was wearing the day I stopped. Stripping off the gray sweater I was wearing, I put on the sweatshirt. It was still too big. Niko always had been taller than I was. It was just one more thing for him to lord over me in the manner of all evil older brothers. I gave myself a halfhearted grin, but didn't succeed in cheering myself much. They say those who don't learn from the past are doomed to repeat it. What they don't say is what happens when you forget it totally. What did the Grendels have planned when they made me? Had I escaped from them or had they let me go? And if they had, why were they chasing one now? Could it be they weren't so much chasing me as keeping track of my location?
A thousand questions and not one single goddamn answer. It got old, it really did. For every fear of what I would discover, there was an equally strong need to know, to finally know. Sucking in a deep breath, I blew it out and then stood. Leaving the bedroom, I joined Niko and Robin in our living room. "So, you ready to slap the whammy on me or what?" I asked with dark cheer.
"You've decided, then." It was a calm statement of fact. Niko had resigned himself to the idea that in this instance I was the master of my fate and captain of my soul. I was sincerely hoping the metaphorical ship didn't go down, dragging its captain with it.
"Yeah, I have." Crouching by the sofa where Niko sat, I let my hands dangle over my knees. "I feel pretty good about it, Cyrano. No worries, all right?"
"Good" was an exaggeration, but I did feel determined.
"Easier said than done," Niko said dryly. "But I'll take it under consideration. Still, I do feel somewhat better about it. I've been discussing the hypnotic procedure with Goodfellow."
"Grilling me is more like it," Robin corrected with a wounded expression. "The Spanish Inquisition had nothing on your brother. Put him in a red smock and funny hat and he'd be employee of the month."
"Regardless," Niko said pointedly, "as it stands now, I'm more confident in your abilities. I don't believe you'll turn Cal's mind into pudding."
"Damning with faint praise. Is that only a motto to you or do you actually have it tattooed on your ass?" Resting his chin in his hand, he flashed a bright rapacious grin. "And if so, can I see?"
"Whoa, don't even," I cautioned, holding up my hands as Niko threw me a look of sheer malevolence. "You're the one who called him. You have no one to blame but yourself." Pausing, I cocked my head and added with mock sincerity, "Oh, and your hot little tush of course."
Niko shifted his attention back to Robin. "Exactly how long can you leave him under? Days, weeks, a decade or two?" Poor Nik, caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. I was damn glad I hadn't given voice to that particular thought. God only knew what kind of wordplay Goodfellow could've twisted that into.
"Family, the gift that keeps on giving." Despite the cynical inflection Robin gave the words, I had a feeling the sentiment was genuine.