“You the boss. Mind if I play some music, since you don't sound like you up for talking?” the driver asks, putting his cab into gear. “Federal City's a hell of a drive from here.”
“Go ahead,” I say, leaning back and closing my eyes. I'm not sleepy, but I still semi-doze as the cabby drives me to Federal City, lulled by the sound of the RnB. I come back to full awareness when he pulls over and turns around. “I'm good, I wasn't sleeping.”
“All right man, but you need to give me more directions than Federal City. This is a pretty big place, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, go along General Meyer here a bit,” I say, recalling what I know about Federal City, “I need some clothes and stuff. Let's find a mini-mall or something, you can drop me there.”
The cabby shrugs and we drive for about a mile before he finds a strip mall with a hardware store, a dollar store, and a pizza joint. Pulling over, the cabby looks at his meter. “That's forty-five dollars, my friend.”
I pass him three twenties out of my wallet, keeping Andrea's hundred for later. “Keep the change, man. Thanks for the ride.”
“Have yourself a good afternoon,” he says, and I get out of the cab, watching him pull out. I look down at the clothes I'm wearing and realize I need to get rid of it. The name brands, the custom tailored gear... that was the old Jackson DeLaCoeur. The new Jackson... he's not that sort of guy.
My first stop is the hardware store, where I find a pair of carpenter's jeans that's way too baggy, but as I change in the bathroom, transferring my wallet and phone to them, I feel somewhat comforted. They remind me of jeans that Katrina would wear, the same sort of functional bagginess, even down to the fact that I cinch the waist tight with a friction buckle web belt. I chuck my pants in the dumpster outside, and toss my button-down shirt behind it, leaving me in just my tank top undershirt. Going down the mall's sidewalk, I stop in the dollar store and buy a two pack of plain black v-neck t-shirts which ironically costs seven dollars, strange for a place calling itself a dollar store, along with a cheap mesh backpack for ten bucks. I peel off my tank top and pull on one of my new t-shirts, but keep the shirt, tucking it into my backpack. I'm down to sixty dollars, and I don't care.
Content that I won't be recognized as Jackson DeLaCoeur any longer if someone's looking for me, I take out the address from my wallet along with my phone, and do a quick GPS search. My phone still works at least, and I see that I'm about a half mile away, the address being next to the river, in a line of warehouses it looks like. As I walk, I feel myself walking faster and faster, hoping that whoever or whatever is there, maybe there’s a future for me.
The building is like I expected, although it looks like the former warehouse has undergone some renovations since the BRACing of Federal City a few years ago. The main door's got a security system along with a line of mailboxes, like a lot of office buildings, or maybe artists’ flats. I hit the button for the second floor. “Hello?”
There's no answer, and I start feeling panicked. What if Nathan was fucking with me? What if whoever gave him the address was fucking with him to fuck with me? I take a deep breath and hit the button again. “Hello? I was given this address. Can someone inside help me?”
There's a click on the intercom and then the door buzzes, and I yank at the handle, pulling it open before whoever's inside can change their mind. I step inside and take a deep breath, looking up the narrow, steep staircase. It switches back before reaching the second floor, and I start up, my steps echoing off the painted concrete walls. Ten steps, and then a mini-landing, where I turn and go up another ten, and then another five to reach the landing for the second floor. There's a single steel door with a pane of security glass in it. The glass has been painted over though, clearly a leftover from the days of the building being used by the military.
I see another intercom button and hit it, finding out that it's a buzzer as well. There's a click in the door and I try the handle, finding that it opens easily. Inside, the room is dark, and near the far wall, which has a window that looks like it leads to a fire escape and overlooks the river, is a tall, dark figure. “Hello?”
“Enter, Jackson DeLaCoeur. You have come to the right place,” the figure says, and I can tell right away that whoever it is, they're using some sort of voice distorter, there's a clear electronic hum to their voice.