Oh man, that Peter has amnesia au is killing me slowly in the best way. Any chance we could get more?
I take it you guys enjoyed that one, then?
Part 1 | Part 2
Peter stares at the door long after it slams in his face, clutching the envelope like a lifeline.
This shouldn’t bother him. It might be slightly embarrassing, perhaps, but it shouldn’t bother him. It shouldn’t matter.
His chest shouldn’t splinter when he hears a broken sob through the thin walls.
It’s jut a con, after all, if one that went sour a little too quickly. He got what he needed, and now he can move on. He doesn’t need to linger on Mars for long– a few quick heists, and then he can be on his way. The faster he gets to work the faster he can leave.
No matter how often he tells himself that, he can’t seem to make himself listen, even when he leaves the apartment building behind him.
Instead he wanders aimlessly through the streets of Hyperion City, lost in thoughts that keep drifting back to Juno Steel. It was wrong what he did to the lady, of course, but when has that ever stopped him before? When has he ever spared a second thought for such trite niceties? Why should Juno Steel be any different from anyone who’s come before?
Hours pass in contemplation, until he’s thoroughly walked off the breakfast Juno made him (did he already suspect, when he put that meal together? Or did he prepare a breakfast with the hope of sharing more in the near future? Peter isn’t sure which is worse). His stomach is starting to growl, and so he follows his feet down an out-of-the-way avenue. He doesn’t even know why he’s going there– this is a warehouse district, not any place that might serve food. And yet there it is, nestled between a truck rental and a storage facility: a Brahmese cafe.
It’s an odd stroke of luck– perhaps he smelled it without noticing?– even moreso when he finds that they actually make quite excellent plumb rolls. It’s always a chore to find a place that can make them properly.
It’s the taste of home that does it. He put Brahma behind him, and he can do the same for Juno Steel. And so, emboldened, he takes out the envelope and finally takes a look.
And then stops chewing.
That can’t be right. Because the date Juno wrote down is next week. Peter would assume that they’re merely coming up on the anniversary of the event, if Juno hadn’t included the year. This year.
Is this part of Juno’s fixation? Is he really so deranged that he got the year wrong? Though he isn’t– no matter how much Peter wants to believe that Juno’s some kind of stalker, he knows beter. Could it be some kind of code, then? A reference to something else? A warning?
Peter glances at the calendar on his comms to see if it corresponds with something– but the year is off on his comms, too.
He rises from his chair and grabs a neighborhood newspaper from the front of the store. It’s there, too: the wrong year. Perhaps Mars is off– some kind of overzealous tribute to Old American Daylight Savings Time?
Or perhaps it’s more simple than that: he’s wrong.
Yes. That must be it. He must just have the year wrong. Maybe he’s been travelling so long that his internal calendar is off. Yes. It’s just the travel getting to him. He’s probably been writing down the wrong date for ages. He does a quick internet search for his last heist, just to recalibrate his expectations– but it’s oddly difficult to find. He has to do some digging before he finds the headlines, buried under far too much old news. It was an excellent heist– it should have made headlines. It should have shocked the archeological community for weeks, at least.
And then he finds the headlines, like a fossil under too much sand: ancient history.
The year on the article is precisely the year he thought it was: last year. It’s a year old. But that can’t be right. He pulled that heist days ago.
But a second news feed corroborates the story, and then a third, and a fourth. And then, as all news streams will, they tire of the story and move on to something more interesting. And while that happened, he was counting his money from a newly-fenced golden record on his way to Mars. The journey should have taken a little more than twenty-six hours, perhaps another one or two if he accounted for security and delays.
Somewhere in the course of that flight, he lost a year.
Peter checks the date on his comms again, almost compulsively. It’s irrational, he knows– the only time he’s losing is the handful of hours he spends asleep, though the dreams are fitful and they don’t do anything to calm his fraying nerves.
He’s searched for every database, every system, every social media stream, and all of them come up empty. Of course, if he was easy to find he would be long dead by now. And yet there has to be some trace, somewhere. But there’s nothing. No matter how he looks or where he turns, there’s nothing. He might as well not have existed at all, and that frightens him in an entirely new way.
Frantic and thorough, he checks every lead, cross-references every alias, until he’s exhausted every option.
All but one.
And so he pockets his comms and takes a deep breath, and he opens the door of the Juno Steel Detective Agency.
The secretary greets him with a throaty giggle. “Hello again, Agent Glaaaaaaass.”
He doesn’t recognize the name, and so he has no persona to attach it to, but he makes do with what he can. She is charmed, and so he is charming.
He sweeps into a bow to hide his glance at her name plate. “My dear Rita, we meet again.”
It’s the right tactic, judging by the way she giggles. “Are ya here to see the boss?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Is he available?”
“He says he ain’t, but you go ahead. He could use a good case to cheer him up.”
Peter raises his eyebrows into a caricature of concern. “Is he alright?”
“Sometimes he just gets like this,” she says. “But it’s been pretty bad lately. I think maybe somethin’ happened, but don’t try and ask about it. That just makes him mad.”
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”
She taps something into her keyboard and the door slides open to reveal a glowering Juno Steel. To be perfectly honest, Peter’s surprised to find the detective at his desk. Given how things ended last time they met, he half expected Juno to try climbing out of his window to avoid this conversation.
But Juno is past trying to run. His bionic eye flashes dangerously. “I told you to get the fuck away from me.”
Peter steps closer, and the door slides shut behind him. “Juno, I know you’re upset–”
“This conversation is over. You have ten seconds to turn around and walk back out that door, or I’m throwing you out the window.”
“Juno–”
“Five seconds.”
This isn’t working. So Peter tries something different. “Four years ago, I stole the collected notebooks of Jasmina Seth Hill from a museum on Perseii Four. The curator of the exhibit was Ruslan Clemens Lawerenz, and their assistant was Eiríkr Barker, who was smuggling weapons to the resistance. On the night I went to steal the notebooks, the head of security was Éimhín Lefèvre, and the other members of her shift were Fionnghuala Kozlowski, Bearach Langdon, Den Phoebe Vigo, and Antonina Chaves, and every sixteen minutes they went on their rounds in two pairs while one remained at the security terminal. The passcodes I used to get in were, in order, Alkatraz, 4869974351, and password1234. The floor plan–”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Juno demands– and probably for the best, because all of that was a mouthful.
“If I’d forgotten the slightest detail, my life would have been over,” Peter says firmly. “My life and my livelihood depend on my memory.”
“And you were so busy keeping track of the important stuff to bother remembering me.” He’s already reaching for the panel at the door, and a chill goes down Peter’s spine. For an irrational moment, he’s certain that if Juno shuts that door between them, he’ll never see the detective again.
“You’re not all I forgot, Juno,” he blurts out. “I’m missing time.”
“Try putting down the bottle. That’s what they tell me.”
Juno isn’t even looking at him anymore, and it sends a flare of desperation through his blood. “Dammit, Juno, something happened to me, and you’re my only hope of finding out what it was. I need your help.”
For half an instant, that seems to get through to him– but only for that half an instant. Just as quickly, Juno’s resolve hardens. “Not my problem.”
“I’ll pay you.”
Juno’s eyes narrow. “I don’t want your money.”
Of course not, not when Juno can afford a bionic eye. But Peter is desperate. If Juno walks away from him now, he might never get another chance to find out what happened. So he tries again: “It’ll make us even.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Juno says. The sudden stiffness in his spine says otherwise.
“For whatever it is you did to me. That thing you’ve been blaming yourself for all this time. Do this for me, and we’re even.”
It’s a gamble, and Peter knows it. The muscles tighten in Juno’s arms; his hands ball into fists. Push too hard, and Peter will be walking out of here with a concussion. “You said you forgave me for that.”
“But that isn’t enough for you, is it?” Peter presses. “Not when I don’t remember what I forgave you for.”
“Because you were just telling me what I wanted to hear.”
“You’ve already made your apologies, Juno. Perhaps this will give you closure.”
Juno grunts. “Who needs closure when you have scotch?” He pauses, waiting for a reply.
Peter isn’t sure exactly what he’s expecting-- a laugh at his sad little joke? Further protests? Begging? A desperate confession of love that they both know is a lie?
Peter stands his ground, utterly silent, as the seconds tick away between them. Whatever it is Juno’s after, he can’t give it to him.
Finally Juno sighs. “Goddammit. Fine.” He reaches into his desk, and for a moment, Peter expects to see him pull out a bottle. Instead it’s a notebook and a pen. “Sit down, Nureyev. I’m taking your case.”