By the time I shove the gate—who was it that called this stupid blue door a gate again? Idiot. It's a door, just a fucking door—open and stomp through it, hell-bent on going straight to my apartment, I am fit to be goddamn tied.

Something about that little devil in a red coat behind me refuses to sit right with me, and the longer he exists in my vicinity, the worse it is.

I need out.

I can already hear that there's only one remaining set of boots behind me—steps heavy enough that I know it's Charon—by the time I near the Den, and at the last second, I veto going to the apartment, in favor of checking on Nicky, like I know I should.

Gotta see Amari anyway, no matter how antsy and pissed off I might be.

Fuck!

Gotta get this under control.

I toss a quick smile and hello at Irma on the way down, and though I can clearly tell she knows something's wrong, I send every good thought I have left toward her for not poking the wasp nest with a stick of unwelcome inquiry.

Good woman.

Smart woman.

I need to get her a gift or something. Maybe a new dress, or one of those fancy cigarette holders.

Distracted as I am, I turn the corner at the bottom of the stairs to a bit of a shocker.

Nicky's standing near the rear of the room, bathed in the harsh, clinical lighting of the lab, his entire upper half stripped of clothing... and all of the skin missing from his head and neck.

Logically, I knew this would be a part of the process, since I'd managed to get new skin from every part a standard gen 2 synth has, including the face.

Realistically, it's still a jarring sight to see the inner workings of your boyfriend's metal-encased, computerized skull.

Still, despite how surreal it is, I manage to note that his chest and arms are now finally whole again, and for what I want right now?

That's more than I need.

He's been staring at me from the moment I entered the room—whether in shock at my sudden arrival or embarrassment at his state upon said arrival, it's impossible to say, without being able to read his actual expression.

Ignoring his staring, I close the distance between us and collapse against his chest, wrapping my arms around his torso.

"Fuck, Nicky, I missed you so much."

It takes him a moment to return my embrace, but when he does, the warmth of him surrounding me sends some signal to my brain that I don't feel very keen on looking at too closely, and one by one, my muscles finally, finally start to unwind. I hear the gentle clicking of his aluminum vertebrae—much louder than I've ever heard it, but still familiar—as he turns his head above me, and I glance up just in time to see him looking off to the side and nodding his head toward me.

At his signal, Amari deigns to intervene, her hand gentle on my shoulder. "He cannot speak at the moment, General. If you'll wait until I can fit his face and tongue properly, it would be best."

I shake my head against his chest, tightening my grasp on him. "It's alright, I just want to hold him for a minute, we don't have to say anything else, Doctor."

Amari's voice holds hints of fond amusement as she replies, "Very well. Do be careful not to electrocute yourself, General."

Nicky gingerly snugs his careful embrace, one hand lifting to stroke the back of my head, a slight pressure from something solid touching to the crown of my head—what feels like some part of his exposed mouth mimicking a feathered kiss there.

I hum contentment as the itching in my brain recedes to a manageable level, one clinging hand releasing to rub up and down his back in gratitude for the comfort he provides, without question or complaint.

Something in the tender moment pokes, prods at, and at last unwinds the tourniquet of tension choking off the gushing of the wound in my mind—the gaping chasm of memory that exists there, like someone took a battle axe to my head and I'm still somehow alive, despite the utter devastation of necessary tissue that's somehow clinging to itself, slowly reforming connections and arcing sparks across the distance, like a marionette tugging the strings of my mind's archives to life—and after one last breath of what little lingers of Nicky's usual scent—smoke, coolant, oil, dust, musty clothes—I slowly release him, leaning up to carefully press a kiss to his metal chin.

"Better let the good Doctor work," I say, through a sigh that hitches a little more than I like, "we've all got things to talk about, and I have a feeling you're going to want all your skin for this."

He tenderly pushes me back, giving him room to lift his hands and sign, 'I don't need skin to talk, doll. What's going on? It's obvious something's up.'

I shake my head. "No, let... it can wait. Let's get you fully set up, then... then we'll figure this mess out."

'Shana...' he shakes his head, then continues to sign, 'what are you hiding?'

I close my eyes, the air from my lungs sinking to the floor from the weight of worry dragging me down with it. Slowly, I shake my head and open my peepers back up, taking in a thick breath. "I don't know, Nicky. I got... I don't know. Charon could tell you more. My head got scrambled up somehow, and I forgot something, and the more time goes on, the more important that something seems, and it's..." I sputter a single tight, slightly hysterical laugh, "well, it's just driving me a little crazy, that's all."

Before Nick can respond, Amari interjects herself into the conversation, her attention switching tracks from Nicky to me in an instant. "What did you forget?"

I hitch a thumb over my shoulder. "The ah... devil in a red coat back there. The Mayor. Charon seems to think he's as important to me as Nicky, but..." I snort, glancing back at Charon, who's long assumed a station by the doorway, "no slight to you, Charon, but I don't see it."

Nicky's signing before Amari can recover from her surprise. 'You forgot John? ...Well shit, doll, that's not good. Charon is right, John is every bit as important to you as I am. John's your... lover, too." He pauses, like he's reluctant to continue, but does anyway, 'You love him. He loves you.'

I stare at him in blank shock, tears spilling unbidden over lids that refuse to blink, and though Amari starts to say something, I can see her lips moving in my peripheral vision, I cannot hear a single thing.

I swallow and turn, walking from the room without thought.

Whether any of them follow or not, I have no idea, as my field of vision has narrowed to a tight space in front of me, only allowing me to see where I'm going, not where I've been.

I move in a trance-like state up the stairs and to the door, slowly pushing it open and passing through, only to stop directly outside.

A field of red and black blocks my view of the market square beyond, ripping my gaze from straight ahead to directly into the abyss of those eyes that heartily threaten to swallow me whole. I swallow again, and my throat is sore for some reason I can't name, making me wince in discomfort.

John Hancock—the man I apparently love, but can't remember; have probably kissed, but can't remember; have likely embraced, laughed with, maybe even sung to, but still can't fucking remember—stands not a foot away, watching me with something like a contained storm fighting to work its way out of him, and I have no idea what to do.

I take a breath, and my vision clears some—had I not been breathing? Fuck this shit's got my brain on a skewer—and venture a few words, "Nicky tells me you love me. And... that I love you."

I watch as he struggles to keep a grip on the mask covering his emotions at hearing that, cracks in his facade showing me the truth without his permission. Eventually, he manages a shakily even keel, and replies, nodding once, carefully. "Yeah, sunshine," he swallows, tightly, and a warm flood races down my entire back at the word, a puzzle piece slotting into place at last, "that's... that's about the shape of it. But you still don't remember me, do you?"

I look down at his coat and press a palm against the spot I'd prodded earlier. "I remember some things. More all the time. But not all, no." I tap a finger against the hard form inside his frock's breast pocket. "What is this? Something in here," I point to my head with my free hand, "seems to think it's important."

He looks up and to my right, an inquisitive tilt to his head, and I follow the line of his sight to see Charon standing next to me; slotting into place like a limb, an extension of my form, the Siamese twin I was always meant to be born with. He looks on edge, and why wouldn't he be? What I've been doing to him for the past hour is beyond criminal, and I should be prosecuted within an inch of every law that ever existed for it. He glances upward, then back down to Hancock, and nods.

Hancock dips his own head and tips it toward the alley to my elevator, waving for me to follow.

I weave my hand with Charon's and follow the strange man who is far from a stranger, all the way up to my apartment, Charon in tow.

Hancock sits in the desk chair, scooting it across the floor until it nears the bed, which he pats for me to sit on.

I crane my neck to seek guidance from Charon, but he just nods toward the bed, giving my hand a subtle squeeze before gently untangling his ragged fingers from my scarred ones. He presses his now freed hand into the small of my back, pushing me forward with careful ease until I take the hint and start to move on my own.

A few seconds later, I sit tensely on the bed, looking at Hancock with trepidation.

He sighs softly, then plucks his jacket from his chest and slowly reaches in, eyes on me the whole time, pulling out a tin of... mentats?

What?

I tilt my head in obvious confusion, which he almost smirks at, then gently opens the tin and takes a single tab between his fingers, closing the lid and holding the dose out to me. He nods at it patiently. "Take it. Chew it up. Swallow."

I do swallow, reflexively, but it's in nervousness. I glance at Charon but don't wait for him to say or do anything, instead reaching out and impulsively snatching the tablet from Hancock's fingers, chucking it into my mouth and chewing quickly, swallowing it down before I can think about it too much.

Here goes nothing.