TW: past character death mentioned, suicidal thoughts briefly mentioned


Chapter Two

Libby

It was nice to finally be out of the pressurized airplane cabin.

Sure, the BNA terminal wasn't exactly a sweet-smelling field. But after a five-hour flight, anything was better than breathing the same stale air all the way from San Diego to Nashville. Accustomed though I was to travelling, I still found the necessity of sitting in a seat for the mind-numbing duration of a cross-country trip almost unbearably stifling.

I was born to move. No one quite knew how psychic abilities worked: whether my particular talent developed out of who I was as a person, or if my personal habits were shaped by the ability I happened to have. Either way, as a Kinetic Tracer, I had always lived my life in motion. My family joked that I was like a shark that needed to keep moving in order to absorb oxygen out of the water that passed over its gills: I had to stay in constant motion, or I would risk suffocating.

Needless to stay, having to sit on a plane for extended periods was torture to me.

I much preferred to drive, but with the distance I needed to travel, the bike was out of the question. And with gas prices high as they were, it had been more economical to fly in, much as it pained me to leave my custom-fitted fully tricked-out SUV parked beside my RV back in Sacramento.

At least I had a family reunion to look forward to once I reached my destination. And I promised myself a nice long road trip afterwards, to get the wind back in my hair and my heart beating in time with the thrum of wheels on open road.

Entering the arrivals gate and walking down the concourse, I enjoyed stretching my legs. Coming into the main terminal though, I slowed my pace. Carol and Sharon had promised a colleague would be here to pick me up. My psychic/anchor cousins were in the middle of a case and had to be in town to lodge evidence this morning, so they had sent someone named Tyson to collect me and drive me to their workplace. They had sent me his picture so I'd recognize him, but I couldn't see him yet.

As usual, an undeniable compulsion urged me to keep going forward, even though I had no idea where I should be going. So many people walked through this terminal on a day to day basis. The place was practically lousy with traces, old and new, which I was one misstep away from fixating on. Strong emotions buffeted the edges of my perception, tempting me to latch on to a stranger's past footsteps and experience what they had. Though I had lived all my life compelled to walk in other people's paths, I still got easily disoriented.

I slowed down as much as I could, taking small steps while keeping in motion, hoping I would spot Tyson or he would spot me before I had to figure out which way I should go while hundreds of conflicting footfalls demanded that I follow them.

"Liberty Palmer? Hi, I'm Tyson Parata."

I turned towards the voice, finding a man standing a few feet ahead of me. His hand was raised in greeting, but he made no move to approach any closer. Huh, that was nice. Carol and Sharon had obviously briefed him on how my ability worked and what he should do when he met me.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed smartly but comfortably in a sports coat and button-down paired with jeans and sensible-looking boots. The jacket and jeans were fitted enough to hint at muscle underneath.

It was my professional habit to look people over, and I was impressed. He looked fit and toned without being a gym junkie, more like incidental exercise kept him in shape.

I respected that people came in different shapes and sizes; I would never scoff at someone whose fitness level didn't match mine, especially when my status as an incurable fitness freak put me in the upper echelons of the protein-sipping pavement-pounding crowd. I had worked with plenty of administrative staff and office-based professionals before. I respected what they did, and had no inferiority complex about being the one out in the field doing their legwork; nor did I feel in any way superior because I was personally sweating it out while they stayed in their climate-controlled conference rooms.

Still, when I met someone who looked like they could keep up with me, I couldn't help feeling impressed.

It was fortunate, since I had been told that Tyson would be my liaison and accompany me round town during the professional aspect of my stay. I knew I unwittingly wore people out with the pace I lived at, and though I tried to make allowances for company, I had a lot of trouble making myself slow down. I hoped Tyson was up for a few weeks in the fast lane, as I intended to fully earn my pay check while I was with Psy.

His hair was dark, but some spots near his temples and the edges of the scruff on his chin were tinged lighter, as if he went out in the sun a lot. That was a good sign; he seemed like my kind of person. He was only supposed to stick by me during work hours, but I wondered if he could at least point me at some good local hiking trails while I was in town.

I had seen the photo Sharon had sent me, but it had showed Tyson sitting at his desk, unaware that he was being photographed as he frowned at his computer monitor. With his hair buzzed in at the sides to form a faux-hawk and his steely gaze trained straight ahead, he had looked kind of intimidating, as an imposing officer of the law should. But in person, I could see the way his tanned skin softened at the corners of his mouth as he smiled, and laugh lines creased the edges of his warm brown eyes.

"Welcome to Nashville," he said across the distance between us.

I came to a complete stop, adjusting the bag strap over my shoulder. I was glad he had appeared when he had; his presence allowed me to get my bearings. "Please call me Libby. I'm happy to be here, and it's nice to finally meet you in person, Tyson. Thanks for coming to pick me up."

"No problem. I'm glad to meet you, too. Carol and Sharon have already told me so many stories about you, I feel like I almost know you already."

I smiled, looking forward to seeing my cousins again. We had grown up close, but with all the travel I did, we didn't see each other in person often enough. "Only good stories, I hope."

"All good, I promise. The one about the childhood fashion show you put together with the cat walking the catwalk in doll clothes is one of my favourites."

Tyson's smirk told me he was teasing, but there was nothing malicious in his expression. Even if the incident from my childhood he had just mentioned was mortifying for me as an adult. I was supposed to be here in a professional capacity, yet my over-sharing cousins had already pulled out the metaphorical embarrassing photo album before I even got here.

I huffed in annoyance, though I couldn't help but smile with affection for my family, even if they did occasionally drive me up the wall. Maybe I also smiled a bit in answer to Tyson's mischievous smirk. The way the light dusting of freckles on his face shifted slightly as his nose crinkled was impossible not to smile at. "Of course Sharon shared that little titbit. I'll have to make sure everyone hears about the time she lost her bathing suit mid-swim at summer camp to pay her back for it."

I felt a little bad for shit-talking my cousin in front of her colleague, but Tyson's outright guffaw of laughter erased a lot of my guilt. "I'll be a willing audience for your revenge embarrassment, and any other entertaining stories you want to tell. I'm parked nearby, once we collect your luggage we can head into town."

"This is all I have with me," I informed him, lifting my duffle by the strap to show him it was the entirety of my luggage. Some folks claimed that women couldn't travel light, but I proved them wrong all the time. Even with all my possessions packed up in the RV with my bike on the back, I wasn't a pack rat. With all the travelling I did, it was convenient to be economical with what I owned.

"Great, shall we go then?"

"Let's go." I paused however, and he likewise made no move towards the exit. Evidently we both knew the next step. I was grateful that my cousins had briefed Tyson before sending him to collect me. "Did Carol and Sharon explain about me? It would be easier for me to step on your trace before we go any further, if that's alright."

"Of course. They told me what was involved, and I've been looking forward to seeing it in action."

"It's not much to see, though it would help me out to get a feel of your trace from the get go, especially if we'll be spending time together at work over the next few weeks."

"Makes sense. Do you need me to do anything?"

"No, just stand where you are, please. I'll let you know when I've got your trace and I'm ready to move on."

He patiently watched as I came forward, turning to keep me in his sight as I stepped around him. "I walked along the seam between those two lines of tiles," he said, "if that helps at all."

I stopped a moment, touched by his consideration. Sharon and Carol had instructed him well. "Thanks, that really does help." I wouldn't have to criss-cross the floor searching for is path, making onlookers think I was behaving like a restless cat pacing until I found just the right place to sit. Given how my ability sought out invisible tracks on the ground, it wasn't an inaccurate comparison.

I approached the line of tiles from the side, then deliberately set my foot down on the seam between the rows, upon which Tyson was still standing.

Like the yellow brick road appearing at my feet, Tyson's path sprang up in my awareness, glowing faintly. I could track where he'd walked in reverse order, dodging a family coming the other way laden with suitcases, bypassing the coffee kiosk near the entrance, traipsing five rows through the parking lot to where he'd left his SUV.

His errand was a simple one, so his emotions as he had walked this trail were calm and sedate. Practically soothing. Given how in my professional life I often pursued either guilty criminals with nefarious purposes or desperate people in a panicked state, it was nice to step on a trace that didn't induce urgency or endangerment. I had gotten used to experiencing second-hand trauma; most Tracers had to learn to lump it in the line of duty. So intentionally stepping on a trace that gave me nothing but a sense of purpose and anticipation - both sensations centred around my arrival, I realized - was a very welcome change.

Welcome, that was it, I felt welcomed by his trace. Safe, even. Not surprising, given how his trace held no hints of danger like the ones I usually followed. But that sense of safety seemed to come from him, not just the situation around us.

Carol had told me that Tyson often worked as protection detail. She had told me all about the case they had worked in McMinnville, hunting down a family of serial killers who targeted psychics and mediums. Two of my cousins' colleagues had been captured by the perpetrators and only narrowly escaped with their lives, from the way Carol told it; since she wasn't the type to embellish stories, the reality of the case had horrified me. She had told me that the police liaisons on the team, Tyson and Garrett, had been tasked with escorting two psychic kids to safe houses so they were out of the line of fire. I couldn't imagine what kind of monsters would take sick pleasure in hunting down a pair of innocent children.

Stepping on a trace told me where a person had been, as well as giving me a sense of who they were. Tyson's trace felt… steady. Standing on his path somehow made me feel safe and protected. Even though his path only led a relatively short distance through a casual setting, that still felt somehow… significant. He must be good at his job, and I wondered if his co-worker Garrett had a similar trace. If the people whom Tyson escorted to could feel the sense of ease his trace emanated, they would definitely feel protected with him around.

I looked up at the man who owned the trace I stood on. He was watching me with curiosity and some amusement in his eyes. "Catch any embarrassing stumbles in my trace?"

I appreciated his humour, though he wasn't mocking what I did and letting me take my time getting accustomed to his trace's signature. What I did often confused people or made them uneasy: they thought my tracking of their past whereabouts was a violation of their privacy, or that it showed me all kinds of guilty secrets from their past. My ability didn't work like that, and being subject to inaccurate assumptions rankled with me. He seemed unbothered by what I did and open to learning about it, which was always a nice attitude to encounter. Made sense when the business he worked for was built around psychics.

"Nope, nothing embarrassing here. You didn't trip over your own feet or drop a full cup of coffee on your way in. You didn't even have coffee, in fact. Are you not a caffeine addict, or did you get your morning dose before you drove out here?"

He chuckled at my words. It wasn't the most impressive show of my abilities - it really was a short trace from his current location to the parking lot - but he didn't seem disappointed or disgruntled about my lack of insight. He was used to working with psychics, so hopefully he wouldn't treat me like a one-trick pony, as so many other people I'd worked with did. "I had a cup o' joe at home, then made myself a protein smoothie for the drive in. I need at least one coffee to get going in the morning, but too much caffeine makes me jittery."

What he said reminded me that I hadn't had a proper breakfast yet. "Mm, a smoothie sounds so much better than coffee! Though I wouldn't mind either right now. I refuse to drink the overpriced swill they serve on airplanes, so all I've had since I left San Diego is a granola bar. Mind if we stop at the coffee kiosk on our way out so I can get my caffeine hit?"

He laughed outright at that. I had only just met him and had only a small measure of his trace, yet his presence already felt so… comfortable. "Trust me, I know from experience that the kiosk also serves overpriced swill. How about I drive you into town for some proper coffee? I know a good place where you can get coffee, a smoothie, tea, breakfast, whatever you need after such an early flight."

His suggestion was music to my ears. "Sounds perfect. Lead the way."

He really was briefed on how I worked, as he took my instruction in the literal sense I meant it. He walked toward me until we were level, paused to take my duffle for me, then began to walk toward the exit. He glanced over his shoulder to check I was following, then continued on, outwardly not bothered that I trailed behind him like a creeper.

My ability was always seeking out past trails to latch onto, so when I was walking with company, it was easiest if I let them lead the way and followed in the wake of their trace. I could feel Tyson's amusement at playing follow-the-leader with someone he had just barely met, and his focus on navigating the terminal, which was now surging with people as a new flight disembarked along concourse D.

I strolled along behind him, approving of the pace he kept, casual but not too slow. I hated having to restrain myself to keep from running into the back of someone because my natural pace was to get wherever I was heading as fast as possible.

With half my ability's awareness on keeping track of where Tyson led, I let my conscious mind drift to my upcoming visit. I had gifts in my bag for my cousins, family news to swap with them, promises that they would take me to the best Italian place in town for dinner tonight…

Panic. No time. Find the car. Someone should be here with the car, where are they? Time is of the essence, don't they know that? An actual life is at stake, where the hell are they? Find the car, any car, there has to be a taxi rank, get there, have to be there in time, time is running out-

A strong hand caught me by the elbow and bodily hauled me away from the curb. A car horn blared; a cab streaked past, the driver glaring and gesturing pointedly at me.

No wonder he did so. I had nearly stepped right out in front of him.

"You alright?" Tyson asked, looking down at me with concern in his eyes.

So much for making a good first impression. This had happened so often, I should be used to it by now. Normally I would be more alert, but the effort of packing for a weeks-long trip straight after wrapping a case, combined with the early-morning flight, had eaten away at my concentration levels. Damn, he was so professional; by comparison I looked like a ditzy, clueless out-of-towner.

I patted my jacket down and tried to look calmer than I felt, my heart rate still slightly elevated from the near-miss. "I'm fine. Sorry, I should have been paying more attention. Another trace crossed yours and I started following it without realizing."

Tyson took in what I said, cocking his head as he considered the implications. He hesitated a moment, perhaps wondering if he was appropriate to ask, then asked anyway: "What were you following?"

It wasn't a client case and I hadn't learned anything of consequence that was personal, so I had no qualms about answering. "Another passenger, probably from a late flight last night. I didn't pick up an identity or many details, but whoever they were, they had someone close - probably a family member or spouse - in a critical condition at a hospital somewhere in the city. They came out of the terminal frantic to find a car that was supposed to be here to pick them up, and when it wasn't there they went to hire a cab instead. It was likely much quieter here last night, and they stepped out onto the street, desperate to get an unoccupied cab to stop for them. Hence why I almost involuntarily stopped one the same way."

"Yikes. I hope they got there in time." Tyson glanced around, as if expecting to see the back of a frantic person still trying to hail a cab, though the trace was from hours ago.

Then he turned back to me with the same concern evident in his expression. He looked like a tough guy with his buzzed-in hair, masculine style of dress and built physique, but I was starting to see evidence that beneath the tough exterior, he was a bit of a softie. "Sorry, did I walk too fast or get too far ahead? I know you were supposed to follow me, but I should have paid more attention to you instead of just forging ahead. I only looked back to ask if you wanted to stop by Sharon's place to drop off your stuff before we go get coffee, and saw you were about to step into the street. I should have walked closer and been more aware-"

"No, you were fine." I smoothed my hand over my ponytail, trying to appear unruffled and wishing I could sooth down his distress with the pointless gesture. "I tend to pick up the most urgent trace I come across, so even though I was following yours, I automatically switched to theirs when I crossed it. It was just a freak unlucky incident. If I had coffee in my system, I likely would have noticed what was happening in time and jumped back onto your trace. You didn't do anything wrong, neither of us had any way of knowing I'd walk over the path of the most distressed person to have passed through here in the last 24 hours."

My explanation seemed to reassure him. Had he actually thought that my hop into oncoming traffic had been caused by his negligence? "That was an unlucky break. My car is just a few rows over, let's get you safely in the passenger seat and on your way to coffee before we stagger upon anyone else's drama. It must be difficult, getting drawn into someone else's stress all the time."

I heaved out an exasperated huff. "You have no idea. I thought I would never have to deal with this again once I anchored. But ever since-"

I stopped short, as if I'd just followed a trace straight into a brick wall. I might as well have walked face-first into something, and that something was my grief.

Every time I thought I was dealing with Cally's loss, I got blindsided by it all over again, the pain of losing her as fresh as it the moment I had seen the semi-trailer bearing down on her. Every time I remembered, I relived how those first weeks had gone: vacillating between the hope she would pull through and the despair of knowing she'd likely not make it, repeatedly feeling the disconnected anchor bond where she was still connected yet unresponsive. The severing of the bond had been more painful than losing a limb would have been. Having to go through that, then relive it multiple times after the fact, made me wish more than once that I'd been the one to go under the semi.

I knew it was disrespectful to Cally to wish that, but I couldn't help it. Missing her never got less painful, and there were times when I'd do almost anything to make the hurting stop.

I managed to scrabble my composure back together, glancing over to find Tyson watching me. One look at his face showed me that he had been told about my past. About how I'd had an anchor, a kind and funny gloriously lovely woman of an anchor, and I had lost her thanks to a reckless driver paying more attention to his radio than the road, who had plowed into her motorcycle head-on.

How did I stop being a grief-stricken wreck? I wish I knew. But I also didn't wish I'd never had Cally. I didn't wish I could forget ever knowing her, having her in my life, loving her. I just wished it would stop hurting. But the only way for that to happen would be to have her back, and that was impossible.

Thankfully, Tyson didn't treat me like the wreck that I was. Though his expression clearly told me he knew what I had been about to say, he didn't address it out loud. Instead he just said: "This way, you can put your bag in the trunk. This time of morning, we should be able to beat the worst of the traffic into town. We'll get you that coffee in no time."

He turned in place, heading towards the parking lot again at an easy even pace, walking along the line where the edge of the curb met the pavement. Since he was following the visible line, it was easy for me to step back onto his trace again.

Instead of someone else's panic or my own grief, I felt his concern. Sympathy. Compassion. A spike of protectiveness and a determination to do what he could to set me at ease. A sense of comradery, which I could feel was already very close to developing into friendship.

I pushed a renewed wave of emotions down and started walking after him again. Damn lack of caffeine, making me fall to pieces. At least now I was back on Tyson's trace, I felt safe again, reassured that where we were heading, everything would be alright.

"Thank you," I said to his back.

He didn't respond other than to half-glance back and dig his car keys out of his pocket, but I felt his reassurance surge along the trace between us.


Author's note: Libby's ability is based on the main character from the book series 'The Stranger' by Max Frei (author pseudonym of Ukrainian author Svetlana Martynchik, the series is also known by its original title 'Labyrinths of Echo'). One of the many magical powers Sir Max has is to 'step on the trace' of a criminal and follow their footsteps until he catches up with them. I thought that would be a cool power for a psychic in the Jon universe to have, and gave it to Libby.

Thanks again to AJ for letting me play with her characters, and even giving me a photo of how she envisaged Tyson to look. If you head over to AO3, chapter two contains AJ's picture of what Tyson looks like.