Your name is too familiar on his lips.
"Come on, Garrett Helton, don't stonewall me here. I know you. What are you thinking about?"
"Life," you say, avoiding his gaze. Too intense, but so is the thundercloud of static next to you. You feel uneasy standing next to someone whose actions you can't predict, so you look back reluctantly. It's safer if less comfortable; this way, you will have time to react if he makes a move. Pretending to be normal is a delicate balance. Looking at his face but not his eyes, or that spot on the horizon right over his ear. You should never have removed the mask; behind those opaque lenses, nobody noticed whether you were making eye contact or not.
You wonder if he ever realized how much effort went into a simple conversation, planning your gestures and reactions as thoroughly as if it had been a fight. No, a fight would have been easier.
He's shifted position now, leaning against the guardrail, looking at you.
Does it bother him that he has to look up at you now that you've stopped slouching? Or are you overthinking things again? You focus on the details of his face instead, deconstructing it to scenery, no different from the rocks in the ocean and just as unreadable. Is that a frown? Or just the sun in his face? You have to admit you're getting used to the mustache; it's a handy reminder that time has passed. Nothing is like it used to be.
"Not death?" The question is light, but he's frowning. "Considering what you keep staring at."
"What?" You blink, forcing yourself to pay attention to the discussion. Staring? What were you staring at? Him probably, but you can't tell him that. You blink again, eyes narrowing against the brightness, the ocean glittering, the small waves like reflective glass. On the horizon, you can see the gutted strip of land that is Rolling Hills, where… "Oh." You look away, reflexively slumping, making yourself less noticeable. As if that ever worked.
"Ten years, right?" Ortega rubs his right arm. You can see the discoloration of his skin where the grafts never fully took. You remember his flesh breaking open, the skin peeled back and devoured by the hungry nanovores, exposed when he reached out to drag Elyise to safety. You remember his mods flaring wildly, the surge of electricity unable to fry the nanovores fast enough to stop them.
The same panicked surge of electricity that put Elyise out of her misery. You wonder if Ricardo planned it that way. You wonder if he noticed what happened. Did he decide that a quick death was better than a slow one? Was he capable of that? You don't know. Maybe it was just a mistake. Maybe he was just trying to be a hero. Trying to save a friend. Nearly doomed them both. You wish he'd learned.
"It feels longer," you say, voice dry like summer grass. The Nanosurge. The incident that made the Rangers respect you, even if the media still saw you as a sidekick. When you saved him. Saved everyone.
Is it ironic that you're now using the nanovores to your benefit? Fitting?
"It used to. Lately, it's been feeling like yesterday." Ortega hesitates, and you can't help but think the pause is a meaningful one. "…I'm glad you're back in my life."