This choice: Reminisce about the last three years • Go Back...Chapter #6The Waste Land by: imaj   Three Years Ago
You'd needed a holiday.
That had been your first decision as soon as the adrenaline had worn off. You'd barely navigated the stolen Fane van out of Manchester before it all started to sink in on you. Minnie might have let you run, but the rest of the Stellae weren't going to be so forgiving. Rosalie would send someone after you for sure. If she had any sense - which she most certainly did - it was going to be Rick.
So you ditched the van as soon as you could - Fane would be sure to be looking for it too - and then switched from stolen car to stolen car till you bought a train ticket to Paris. Everyone had been so kind to the sweet little old lady face you'd worn on the journey to the Gare du Nord.
From Paris, travelling across the rest of Europe was easier, no borders or passport checks to work your way around. You’d hit a half dozen capitals in the north and east of the continent, and a half dozen different random faces, just to shake any particularly determined tails. Then, fancying something warmer, you’d headed south to Italy.
And when you got there, you decided on a whim there was an old friend you wanted to catch up on.
Tracking down someone that doesn’t want to be found is hard, doubly so when all you have to go on is a name and decade old memory of what they looked like. You’d wanted the challenge though, an insight on your own circumstances. And while you had advantages that most did not, you knew that Rick had even more. You figured that it would help you learn just how deep you needed to hide.
And now you were standing outside the door of a shabby second floor apartment in southern Firenze, waiting for the occupant to open the door. There is a shuffling behind the door, a hint of darkness through the peephole as someone presses an eye against it and a sense of emotion - an odd mix of curiosity and panic. The door opens a crack and a suspicious face appears in the gap.
“Yeah?” The voice is guarded and surly.
You recognise it though. The hard face and flinty eyes have barely changed in the intervening years, just gained more lines. Perhaps more lines than it should have. The muscles in what you can see of his body have softened, but the man still looks in good shape for his age
“Bobby Anderson?” you ask, your voice soft.
“I don’t know you lady,” he replies in lightly accented Italian, tensing. One arm shifts behind his back. Reaching for a gun tucked into the waistband of his pants, you guess.
Eldibria springs to your command, radiating calm to ease his suspicions. “Arabella Idoni,” you reply. One of your oldest faces, and perhaps a risk given Rick would recognise her. But when in Tuscany… “I’m a friend of Siobhan Connor,” you add.
“Anyone coulda heard that name,” he hedges, still wary. You sense his grip tightening on his gun.
“I’m sorry she couldn’t bring her daughter along to visit,” you sigh. It feels odd to talk about your Siobhan persona in the third person. As if you are finally admitting she is gone, that you can never go back.
It seems to be the right thing to say to the man though. He relaxes, though only a little. “How old’s she now?”
“Just turned eighteen,” you explain. “Started university in Glasgow.” You don’t mention what happened in Manchester. He doesn’t need to know what happened to Bea, or what happened to you.
“I’m Anderson,” he says quietly. The door closes and you hear the rattling of a chain being drawn. Then the door opens and he beckons you in.
You duck in behind him and close the door behind you. Bobby leads you through the rundown apartment to a small lounge, where you sit on a fraying couch. The air is warm, despite the open windows and the faint noise of angry commuters driving badly can be heard outside from the streets below.
“How’d you find me,” asks Bobby.
“Same way any of Siobhan’s friends would,” you reply. He grunts in acknowledgement. For a brief moment you wonder how Hal tracked him down, all those years ago. A memory of Hal flickers - the look of surprise, the splatter of blood - then it fades. “Been here long,” you ask as you regain your composure.
Bobby takes a seat opposite you. “Not long,” he answers, pulling a carton of cigarettes from a pocket. “Mind if I…It helps sometimes...” You nod in assent, watching as he lights one and takes a long draw. You catch hint of a shudder as he continues. “Sometimes I move if… they… get close. I thought they’d stopped looking, but something stirred them up real good a few weeks back.”
You, probably. Better not to mention that though. “It’s been years since Joe and Rosalie’s wedding,” you state, ignoring the nauseous feeling the mention of the names stirs in the pit of your stomach. “I’m surprised Fane cares.”
He winces at the mention of the name. “Some of them were real vindictive back in the day. Or maybe they figured out I talked. Or maybe it’s just shit luck. But I gotta ask: Why now? Why wait so long before finding me again?”
The question gives you pause. Why? It doesn’t take long to work it out, but the sudden comprehension leaves you reeling. “I think there’s something I need to know. A question you can answer.”
“Something I can answer,” he laughs bitterly. “Go on, shoot.”
“Was it worth it,” you ask, surprised at the uncertainty in your voice. More surprising is the desperate certainty that you need to know. “Turning your back on your team, walking away from it?”
For a moment he looks shocked, then he cocks his head to the side. “You hear that?”
“I can’t hear anything,” you reply, puzzled by the question.
“Yeah, that,” he explains, extinguishing his cigarette. “Every damn day nothing but the noise of crazy Italian drivers. But now, nothing.”
You jump from your seat and press your face against the window. Bobby does the same at your side. Two stories below, two black SUVs have pulled up by the sidewalk on the otherwise empty streets. A dozen black suited bodies pile out, armored vests and sidearms clearly visible. One gestures to the others and they break up, moving to surround the apartment.
“Know how to use a gun,” asks Bobby.
You know as well as he does, thanks to your collection of stolen imago. “I might surprise you,” you smirk. Odd that the prospect of imminent violence has shifted you out of your funk.
Bobby leans over a chair and pulls out a pair of automatic pistols. He hands you the smaller of the two and you heft it experimentally before clicking off the safety with practised ease. Not bad, not bad at all.
“You asked me if it was worth it,” says Bobby, gesturing for you to move back from the window. “Yeah, I’d do it again. Even knowing all this.”
To stop reminiscing, attend to Fi's reports in "A Short Hop" 
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