"Not a photograph. Not exactly, at least. It's an oneirograph. A record of a dream. Several dreams, in this case, all from people who knew her."
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all the ghosts are real inside your mind
May 26th, 2024
Moses Howard Federal Building, Three Portlands
Robin Thorne studied their partner. In the ten years they had worked together, Kenneth Spencer had never looked quite as tired as he did now.
Some of that was to be expected — the Anderson Robotics raid had left them both working deep into the long hours of the weekend, pulling the kind of overtime that would have been illegal if their employer was anyone but the federal government. Some of it came from his recent promotion to Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the entire Three Portlands field office, with a commensurate increase in paperwork.
But some of it was just from getting older. From fighting the same battles, over and over, to the point that success or failure hardly seemed to matter anymore. From having to accept 'good enough' even when it wasn't good nor nearly enough. From having to choose, every single day, between what was right and what was necessary.
So they asked a question that they had never asked before. "Do you think we did the right thing?"
Spencer sighed. "I don't know, Robin. We just took down the most wanted paracriminal in American history. That has to count for something."
"Then why aren't we celebrating?"
He tapped the stack of files on his desk. "Because the work is never done."
"Is that really it? Or is it because we got burned in this deal? Merlo got her white whale, but what did we get, other than bad PR?"
Spencer raised an eyebrow. Over the last few years he had noticed a change in Thorne's attitude towards Sasha Merlo, and the Foundation as a whole, but he'd thought that the joint operation against Anderson had buried any negative feelings. Clearly, that was not the case.
"He needed to be stopped. It would have been nice to capture him ourselves, but that ship sailed six years ago. Merlo finally had a bit of good luck, and I won't blame her or begrudge her for it."
"Maybe you should," Thorne muttered, barely loud enough for him to hear.
Kenneth Spencer studied his partner. In the ten years they had worked together, Robin Thorne had never looked quite as morose as they did now.
They were prone to brooding — it seemed to be the favorite hobby of all wizards, probably something to do with the world-altering powers at their disposal. That was especially true at this time of year, as Thorne always started getting quieter around the third week of May and didn't usually perk back up until June. But he had never seen them in such a funk before. It was especially strange given that it was coming at a moment when, as they had pointed out, both of them really should have been celebrating.
"Robin, what's this really about?"
For a long moment, Thorne didn't answer. Finally, they said, "Mom."
"Ah." That explained it. He had never met the elder Thorne, and Robin only rarely spoke of her, but the shadow of Florence Thorne loomed over everything that they did. Her name and memory were everywhere in Three Portlands, but especially in the Federal Building. The woman had simultaneously run the Mobile Occult Operations Team and the local field office for almost a decade, and had left an indelible thumbprint upon both — as well as a few burn marks.
He also knew that his Thorne had never really grown accustomed to living in their mother's shadow. Everything that they did tended to draw comparisons, and while such comparisons were rarely openly unfavorable, there was always an unspoken tension that suggested the speaker had a preferred Thorne — and it wasn't the one still alive. The Anderson raid must have been attracting such comparisons at an unusually high frequency.
"Do you think she'd be proud of me?" Thorne asked.
He wanted to say 'yes'. Thorne clearly needed to hear a 'yes'. But it was obvious that wasn't the answer they were looking for.
"Is there any doubt?" He tried to smile reassuringly.
They bit their lip and looked over their shoulder at Crowe. The albino robin was perched precariously on the eraser-end of a pencil that balanced halfway off the edge of the desk — completely unaffected by the presence of the familiar. The not-bird seemed to take delight in demonstrating its lack of adherence to such fundamental forces as gravity.
"I missed the anniversary to do an op with the Foundation."
Spencer felt his heart plummet into his stomach. "Shit. It was the day before, wasn't it?"
They nodded. "May 23rd. I was too busy to visit the memorial."
"I'm sorry, I should have realized and had Merlo wait—"
"No." Thorne banged a hand on their desk, jarring the pencil and sending it careening off the edge. Crowe remained stationary, standing in mid-air looking indignant. "I didn't say anything. There were reasons why we needed to move then, and they were important."
"Are you telling me that, or yourself?"
Thorne glared at him. "Don't psychoanalyze me, Ken."
Spencer raised his hands defensively. "Look, your mom hated the Foundation, and not without cause. We all know that. But she still dealt with them when she had to. As much as they might pretend, they aren't a monolith, and Site-64 is almost halfway decent."
Thorne raised an eyebrow. "That's practically a compliment coming from you."
"Yeah, well, you used to be the one playing devil's advocate for the 64ers. What happened to that?"
They sighed, then bent down to retrieve the fallen pencil. "I used to think that Mom was too hard on them. That things must have changed since she worked for them — she never did tell me what they did that made her hate them so much, so it was easy to think she was overreacting. She did that a lot."
They started tapping the pencil against their knee. "But… I worry that she was right. And I can't help but feel like I betrayed her memory."
Their grip on the pencil tightened, so much so that it snapped. "Fuck, I can barely remember her face, Ken. I'm losing her again."
"You don't have any photos of her?" Spencer glanced over at his desk. He knew the answer, of course, but he needed to lay the groundwork for what he was about to do — especially since it was several months too early.
"Do you have many photos of yourself?" Thorne shot back.
"Only from before I was transferred to the Unit," he replied. Standard operational security for all UIU agents was to minimize the number of photographs taken of them — there were too many things out there that could use a photograph to target someone.
"She was the one who started that practice," Thorne said. "I've never seen a photograph of her in my life. I'm not sure there are any."
Spencer knew that this was true — he had spent several months confirming it. It was why he'd been forced to take a different approach to his birthday gift.
Opening a drawer on his desk, he pulled out a folder and offered it to Thorne. "Here."
Thorne eyed the folder skeptically. "What's this?"
"It was supposed to be your birthday gift. Or, part of it anyways. I was going to get it transferred onto something more durable."
They stared at him. "My birthday is in October."
"I like to be prepared."
They rolled their eyes. "You are such a fucking Boy Scout."
"Just open the damn folder already."
They did. Inside was a single square of film. And on that film was a photograph.
"Not a photograph," Spencer said, correcting the unspoken assumption. "Not exactly, at least. It's an oneirograph. A record of a dream. Several dreams, in this case, all from people who knew her. It wasn't easy — some of them were still in Paramax — but I wanted to have it be as close to reality as possible."
The picture of their mother blurred as tears welled-up in Thorne's eyes. Without making any decision to do so, they enveloped Spencer in a hug.
"Thank you. It's perfect."
Spencer hugged them back awkwardly. "Yeah, well, now I need to figure something else out for your birthday."
They took a step back and took another look at the oneirograph. On closer inspection, it was obvious it wasn't a true photograph. The background was indistinct, a chaotic mix of formless colors that captured emotion more than anything. As for the subject, Thorne was unable to attach the image of Florence to any specific time period from their memories — the Florence before them was an idealized, perfect form, the distillation of years and years of memories into a single snapshot. Still, it resonated with Thorne in a way that proved it was a true and accurate representation. If they ever saw their mother again, this is how she would appear.
Hopefully, she would be smiling then too.
There was one thing which struck Thorne as unusual. They felt their gaze drawn to the necklace Florence was wearing — the only piece of her attire which was distinct enough to see. There was enough detail for Thorne to count every link on the jewelry chain, and the gem set within burned with an invisible fire. Whatever this object was, it had to be important for it to appear so sharply in the oneirograph. In the dreams of those who had known her, it was just as much a part of Florence as her face.
Thorne could almost recognize it. Almost. They could feel hazy memories of the necklace at the edges of their recollection, but only in the background of other moments. It was so familiar as to be completely forgotten.
"Do you know what that is?" Thorne asked, pointing at the necklace.
Spencer shrugged. "I didn't know her. Though I can tell you that it was there in the first capture from Kartal. If you don't remember it, she might."
Thorne nodded. Aunt Kartal had been their mom's best friend since before they had been born. If anyone was likely to know this last of their mom's secrets, it was her.
May 27th, 2024
Little Avalon, Three Portlands
Thorne went to visit Virginia Kartal the next morning. It was a federal holiday, and they'd already been working through the weekend to deal with the aftermath of the Anderson raid. The rest of the Unit could do without them for a few hours.
The retired special agent lived on the edge of Little Avalon, in one of the liminal neighborhoods surrounding the Sidhe enclave that tended to attract those Portlandsers who were too weird for the rest of the Weird City — or not weird enough, as the case may be. In addition to the completely mundane former federal agent, Kartal's apartment block also housed the CEO of a major non-Veiled finance firm, an utterly forgettable member of the Kennedy family, and Shaquille O'Neal whenever he was in town.
"Little Bird!" Kartal's face lit up when they saw Thorne. "I heard about your great success! Come in, sit and tell me about it. I'll make tea."
"Hi Auntie Vee." Thorne smiled lightly and allowed the older woman to usher them into the apartment and onto a well-worn sofa.
"I actually wanted to talk to you about Mom," they said, watching as Kartal prepared two tea kettles — one to boil water, and one to steep the leaves.
"It's the anniversary, isn't it? I always find myself missing her most strongly at this time of year. As if she had just died, and I was yet to attend the funeral."
Thorne nodded. "I know exactly what you mean."
The water boiled quickly, as it tended to do in Three Portlands. As soon as it did, Kartal poured some into the kettle with the tea leaves, leaving the rest to be used later to dilute the tea to taste. She stacked the kettles on a tray along with two tulip-shaped glasses and carried the whole thing over to sit down next to Thorne.
Thorne fished the oneirograph out of their jacket pocket and placed it on the coffee table, next to the tea tray. "Spencer said you helped him make this."
"The whole thing was his idea, and he did all the legwork. All I did was dream, and suggest some others whose dreams might be useful." She studied the oneirograph carefully. "It's a good likeness. Better than a photograph, even. I'm glad I could contribute to it."
"It's what she looks like now," Thorne said.
Kartal shifted her attention to Thorne. They looked like they were about to cry.
"You're right," she said. She reached over and placed a hand on Thorne's shoulder. "We will see her again someday. Allah promises us this."
Thorne smiled. They didn't share Kartal's faith — didn't share any faith, really, except a vague awareness that there were uncountable higher powers, and a hope that a merciful God might be among them. But it was impossible to deny the conviction in the woman's voice. Even for those without it, the faith of the truly devout is a fire that warms the soul.
Kartal judged that the tea had finished steeping by this point, and poured it off into the two glasses, leaving room for water to be added for dilution. She added two cubes of beet sugar to her own tea, which Thorne declined. They did, however, use some of the hot water left in the first kettle to make their tea weaker.
"Do you ever remember her wearing a necklace?" Thorne asked, continuing the conversation while they waited for the tea to cool to a drinkable temperature. "That necklace, specifically."
Kartal looked at the picture again, then nodded. "I remember it well." She gazed off into space, stirring her tea aimlessly as she did so, clearly caught in the depths of a memory.
Thorne waited patiently for Kartal to break her reverie.
"She was holding it in her hand when I came up to talk to her," Kartal said. "This was just after the Mackinaw had pulled us out of Lake Superior. My impression was that she was deciding whether or not to throw it into the Lake."
"Why?"
Kartal blinked, seemingly remembering that Thorne was there. "It was a gift from your father, I believe, and he had hurt her quite badly. I think she was weighing what it meant to her and if it was worth preserving. You see, it was also the subject of a particularly complicated enchantment that your mother had laid upon it, which she wasn't certain she could replicate."
Thorne went to take a sip of tea to cover their surprise, only to find it still too hot to drink. Sputtering and doing their best not to swear, they cast a trivial evocation to immediately cool the beverage. They took another sip, savoring the relief it brought this time.
They set the glass back down and fixed Kartal with a fierce look. "Did you know my father?"
Kartal grimaced as if in pain. "Yes, but I would ask that you ask me no more about him. I made certain promises to your mother that I would prefer to abide by."
Thorne frowned, annoyed, but decided to let it be for now. They knew there was a reason why Florence had kept the identity of their father hidden, even after her death, and they had to trust that it was a good one.
"What about the necklace? You said it was enchanted? How?"
"That, I can shed more light on. As your mother explained it to me, the necklace — or rather, the gemstone within it — was enchanted to serve as a sort of journal capable of recording her thoughts and memories directly."
Thorne gaped. Their mother had kept a journal from at least the time she had left the Foundation, and they were only just now learning about it?
"What happened to it?" they demanded.
Kartal frowned. "After her death, it was taken into evidence — there was some hope that it might shed more light on the circumstances surrounding her murder, but if I remember correctly, it was encrypted in such a way as to be impossible for anyone but your mother to access. If it wasn't returned to you after that, then I would assume it's still in the evidence archives."
Thorne groaned. By all rights, the necklace should have been given to them years and years ago; that it hadn't been spoke to a high degree of either bureaucratic apathy, incompetence, or malice, any of which would make recovering the necklace now difficult, if not actually impossible. It was a mistake they'd seen made countless times before, but being on this side of the screw-up was a new experience.
No wonder people hated the FBI.
They looked back at Kartal. "I'm going to have to steal it, aren't I?"
The former Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the Three Portlands field office sipped her tea and smiled contentedly. "Oh, absolutely."
a ghost is just your own unfinished business
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