Darien's opening words of wisdom:
"Hamlet once told his buddy Horatio: 'There are more things in heaven and earth than can be dreamt of in your philosophy.' You know, it's funny how I'd never really understood that until recently. But then, it's not all that surprising to see how your view of the world changes after a little brain surgery..."


Thursday, 8:30am
An impromptu meeting is being held inside The Official's office on an unusually hot and muggy morning. Luckily, Eberts was able to procure a rotating fan on a stand, and it was blasting full bore on the overheated occupants of the room.

"The..." whirrrrr "...information that..." whirrrrr "...secured has..." whirrrrr "...makes Him" The Official "nervous," Eberts helpfully clarifies.

The group he's addressing includes The Official, Monroe, Hobbes, and an Agency operative standing guard at the opposite end of the room from The Official's desk.

He shoots His assistant a nasty look, under which the reticent man blanches slightly as his gaze falls.

"That can't be good..." Hobbes mutters as Darien and Claire enter, she having just finished taking some of his blood for testing. They are closely followed/herded by another Agency guard, who shuts the door behind him as soon as they are in the room. The first Agency guard comes from the front of the room and joins the other at the doors to physically block them.

"What can't be good?" and "Couldn't you wait one freakin' minute for me to get a Band-Aid?" Claire and Darien ask simultaneously.

He's holding his right arm folded up against his chest. Two fingers of his left hand are pinched in the elbow's fold, holding a small gauze pad in place.

Monroe is perched on the edge of The Official's desk, quietly conferring with Him on some notes He had recently scribbled on a notepad. Hobbes is sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk with his feet propped up on the other one. Eberts is at his customary position, behind and to the right of The Official.

"Heh-hey guys, wha's up?" Darien suddenly grins, offering his left hand to slap five with the one guard.

The man doesn't move, except to cock his head a little as if to say 'You must be shitting me'. The gangly man drops his arm as his forced cheerfulness withers.

Meanwhile, Claire moves to sit down in the chair beside Hobbes. When he looks quizzically at her, she unceremoniously shoves his feet off of the chair and sits down with a little "huff".

He looks innocently hurt, as if to say, 'Whaaaat? What'd I do?'

Darien swivel-turns around to face The Official, asking lightly, "So what's with the muscle, boss? We in a state of emergency or something?" He flexes his right arm a little, glancing to see if it's all right to take his fingers away, and then tosses the gauze into the wastebasket that Eberts quickly holds up for him.

Claire hands him a Band-Aid that she just found in her pocket.

"Something like that..." Hobbes mutters in reply to Darien's inquiry.

Claire looks at him questioningly, and he nods his head somberly towards Monroe and The Official.

Darien swings his head around to bestow a troubled glance at Hobbes. "What? What's going on?"

"I believe you should be telling me that," The Official snaps.

Baffled, Darien begins to stride towards the others, and stops when he senses the two guards swiftly stepping towards him. "What the hell are you talking about?" he brusquely demands as he scowls over his shoulder at the two men... each with cautious hands on their guns.

They resume their original positions with a jerk of The Official's head.

Darien tensely looks around for a place to sit, but of course, there isn't. So, he hops onto the table behind Claire and Hobbes and sits cross-legged (Indian style).

Just as irritated, The Official snaps, "Where were you the other night?"

Insulted, his head rears back a little. "Out. With Bobby. What's it to you?"

The Official's eyes dart to Hobbes. "Is this true, Hobbes?"

Put on the spot, he hesitates. "Yyyees."

"Where?" He growls with increasing impatience.

"Like I said, out," Darien retorts as he glares at his partner to back him up.

He tilts his head back in Darien's direction. "Yeah... shopping."

"What for?" Eberts pipes in matter-of-factly.

Darien scowls first at The Official and then Eberts, just a bit insulted that they were treating him like they had when he first arrived at The Agency.

Hobbes answers reluctantly, "Gear."

"What kind of gear?" The Official demands.

"The kind I use for deep sea fishing," Darien quips sarcastically. At the boss's gimlet glare, he expands belligerently. "I was getting stuff for work. Y'know, a lock pick set, climbing cables..." he waves his hands, illustrating what he felt was obvious.

Hobbes nods slightly, and adds in a low voice to Claire, "Yeah, stuff he thinks he needs so he can 'keep in practice'." He sounds as if he's dryly paraphrasing his friend from a previous conversation.

Darien jerks his head back a little. "'Keep? In... practice'?"

He bobs his head to the side quickly. "Ya know, so you don't lose those amazing skills of yours..."

Darien thumps his partner on the shoulder, not really taking the jibe seriously. "Hey, I was a helluva good thief..."

"You would've been a whole lot better if you'd lost the conscience..." comes the rejoinder in a low and sarcastic tone.

"Alright, alright, that's enough!" The Official barks, smacking His palms down on the desk to break off the lighthearted bantering before Darien can retort. "Now. Hobbes. You and Fawkes were together for how long the other night?"

He absently picks at his fingers as he thoughtfully tries to remember. "Well, went out for dinner, then the Outfitter's; after that, hung out at Fawkes', watched some movies..."

"What was the timeframe, Robert?" Eberts prods.

Hobbes shoots him an irritated glance at the interruption. "I was just getting to that, Eeeberts." He returns to his tallying, eyes thoughtfully concentrating on a spot in the air. "...Supper around seven, at Fawkes' 'til about... when? Two?" He glances at Darien, who nods a terse affirmation. "Two..." he mutters, continuing to tick off the mental list on his fingers, "I'd say, around seven... seven and a half hours," he finishes, looking back up evenly at The Official.

"You're sure," He contends in an unrelenting tone.

"Of course he's sure," Darien replies in a snide tone. "What else would he say?"

"Anything to cover your ass," Monroe comments dryly.

"Not if it means his ass," he shoots back.

Hobbes looks confusedly thoughtful as he tries to figure out whether or not he should be insulted or complimented by what's being said about him.

The Official's momentarily stalled (but still looks belligerent), so Claire is finally able to get a word in. "Would someone please tell us what this is all about?"

Eberts opens his mouth and takes a breath to speak, but is silenced by the sharp cutting gesture of The Official's hand. He waves the guards out of the room with the same hand, dismissing them. As the door shuts behind them, He then curtly nods to Monroe, indicating that she can begin speaking.

Eberts has a slightly pained expression on his face.

Monroe starts, unaware of his reaction to being cut off... again. "There was a break-in at a research facility in Virginia the other day. The place was firebombed, but they managed to salvage some of the security footage. Eberts?" She glances at the man questioningly, tilting her head in a voiceless request for his assistance.

Having smoothed away the outward expression of his feelings, he swings a TV/VCR cart around and starts shutting the shades.

She stands, walks over and places a tape in the VCR. She picks up the remote, returns to the far side of The Official's desk and pushes play just as Eberts finishes closing the blinds. He then retires to his spot behind Him.

At first, there's static and broken footage, but then the picture calms and clears to show various camera angles of people being knocked down, shot, and then of a limp, sheet-covered figure being carried out of a smoking building and laid into a waiting helicopter by...

nothing.

Claire's reaction is a sharp intake of breath, her brief expression of shock smoothing to one of concerned yet piqued curiosity, while Hobbes lets out a long, low and almost silent whistle.

Darien stiffens, his eyes widening a little in realization.

"Arnaud..." Hobbes breathes in disgust.

"Son-of-a-bitch," Darien mutters, rolling up his eyes as he tilts back his head.


Thursday, 9:15am
Darien and Hobbes are arguing in Claire's lab. The door slides open, and Monroe enters with a carry-on bag slung over her shoulder. She looks increasingly impatient. "Hobbes, let's go. We don't want to miss the plane."

Darien continues to argue with Hobbes, pausing only to shoot a cryptic glare at her before glancing pleadingly at Claire for support. "Tell me again why you two get to go, and I've gotta stay here?"

Hobbes looks guiltily at Claire, who shakes her head and turns her back on the whole scene, pretending to work on some of her research on her computer.

"Like I said, partner, I want you to stay here and check out what spots you think your ol' buddy Arnaud would hang at..."

"He's not my 'buddy' Hobbes," Darien snaps. "And what if he's still there in Virginia? You might need me to help find him..."

He puts up both hands in an effort to mollify his friend. "He's not in Virginia anymore," he answers confidently.

Monroe breaks in with some added warmth in her voice. "All the evidence we have points to de Fehrn moving the stolen research somewhere on the West Coast; possibly Nevada, New Mexico or even here."

"So?" Darien breaks in, exasperated.

"So, it makes sense for you to stay here and look for him," she finishes.

Hobbes nods. "Right! And all we're doing is a little information recon so we have a better idea of what our not-so-good Doctor is up to this time."

Monroe breaks in again. "It's not worth wasting your..." she pauses, thinking of the right PC words to say, "... special skills... on."

Claire comments from her chair without taking her eyes off of the computer screen. "Plus, I'd feel more comfortable with you staying close to the lab for now. Your blood work from this morning has me a little concerned."

His head swings around at the mention of 'concerned'.

"... aaand I want to monitor you more closely over the next few hours..." she continues.

"'Concerned'? What's that supposed to mean?" He backs up a step and raises a hand to the back of his head, rubbing it absently. "Please don't tell me there's something wrong with this thing again."

Claire swivels her chair around, quickly stands up and walks over to him. "No, no ..." she lets out a quick, sharp sigh, "...well, not... exactly." Looking him straight in the eyes, she continues. "I'm concerned about these abnormal hormonal levels. This is simply precautionary, Darien. I just want to be sure you're all right."

Meanwhile, Hobbes has been surreptitiously inching towards the door where Monroe awaits, tapping her fingers on the doorsill. "Yeah, so, there you go. Look, I'll see you in a couple days, Fawkes. Hey, Keep," he nods at Claire, "you take good care of my partner now, okay?" And with that, he practically shoots through the door.

Monroe follows after she rolls her eyes at his seemingly cowardly behavior.

Darien opens his mouth to protest, but the door slides shut behind the other two agents.


Thursday, 2:30pm
Monroe and Hobbes are getting off of a small airplane on a little used runway at the edge of the Newport News/Williamsburg International Airport in Virginia.

She swiftly walks over to a car with government plates sitting on the runway. There are two soldiers waiting/standing guard near the car, who snap to attention when they see her. Hobbes follows a little more sedately as he takes in his surroundings. He looks as if he's searching for something specific, other than the two guards.

She opens the trunk of the car and tosses her bag inside. She pushes the lid down until it's shut (but not latched), and notices his behavior as she opens the driver's side door. She leans on it and asks with a note of resigned-to-suffering patience in her voice, "What are you looking for?"

He absently turns his head towards her and responds, "I thought we were meeting someone here."

She shakes her head and gestures impatiently for him to get into the car. "No, we're meeting the agent in charge at the facility. Would you get in the car Hobbes, we're running behind schedule."

He picks up his pace, and deposits his bag in the trunk before climbing into the passenger seat.

She's already seated, belted, and has turned on the car while he's closing the trunk. Once he's in and belted, she drives off of the small runway and down an unpaved access road towards the highway. The uniformed soldiers step back to the edge of the runway and blankly salute Monroe as she drives by. She smiles and politely waves an acknowledgement back to them.

Hobbes gives her a darkly inquisitive/pensive look that goes unnoticed. It's plain that he's thinking that she must have her fingers in quite a lot of pies.

As they enter the highway, the onramp shows the route number(s) - 143 [to 64 to 134], and they almost immediately pass under a set of the green signs stating the next few exit numbers and names. The sign in the middle says 'Langley A.F.B., 10 miles'.


Thursday, 10:30am
In the lab, Darien is sitting in one of The Keeper's chairs, with it tilted back and his feet propped on the left rear edge of the fish tank table. Her computer is almost parallel and to his right. He's deep in thought, tossing little pieces of scrap paper at the wastebasket at the end of the tank's table that he's facing.

Claire walks in, reading the top sheet from a sheaf of papers. She looks up briefly, then momentarily stops just inside of the door as it slides shut.

He's so deep in thought that he hasn't looked up.

"Darien, what are you doing here? I thought you went home over an hour ago."

He tosses another wad of paper at the basket. It circles the rim of the almost-full can before it falls in. He looks up at her as if wrenching his thoughts back from a thousand miles away and somberly replies, "I wanted to see if you had anything more on those tests you're doing."

She slowly shakes her head as she continues her way in to the room. She walks towards the fridge and places the test results on the exam chair. She opens the cooler door and pulls out a small white container with a spoon. Turning back to the chair as the fridge door swings shut, she picks up the papers in her other hand and walks over to her computer.

"Not just yet. I won't have anything for another couple of hours. I told you I would call as soon as I had something," she gently chides.

She sits down by her computer, and sets the papers on the counter to her left. She then opens the small plastic container, and spoons some of the contents into her mouth.

He glances over at her, his face scrunching up in a moue of distaste. "Do I... want to know what that, stuff is?"

"Tuna salad." She waves the empty spoon at the computer. "I do have a little more on your blood work, but I was waiting for the latest results before talking to you."

He drops his feet to the floor and swivels the chair around to face the computer. "So, what's up?"

She sets the tuna salad on the top of the monitor and types a little, bringing up a chart on the screen. "You remember that the gland is chromosomally female...?"

He nods a little sheepishly, remembering the incident with the invisible 'Yeti'.

She continues. "The latest results show a significant increase of estrogen in your bloodstream, which makes me wonder about a few things."

He scrutinizes her from the corner of his eye. "Like, what kinds of things?"

She absently tucks a wayward lock of hair behind her right ear, quickly pops another spoonful of tuna salad in her mouth, and resumes typing on the keyboard. A word file opens on the computer screen: notes from the study of the gland before it was implanted in Darien.

She scrolls through some of the document before pausing at a specific paragraph, stopping, and turning her head to peer closely at his face.

He reads the paragraph, seemingly unaware that she's studying his face intently. He's looking a bit flushed. As a matter of fact, he's just to the point of breaking out in a fine sweat.

She tilts her head a little, and begins to raise the back of her right hand to his forehead.

He flicks his eyes to her and asks a little breathlessly, "Claire... what?"

She hesitates, and then finishes raising her hand to feel his temperature. "Have you been feeling... warmer than usual, lately?"

He blinks, thinking. "Yeah, a little bit. It's nothing; I figured it was a cold or something, with the weather changing like it's been."

Her eyebrows furrow slightly. She looks back at the computer screen and types a few commands, bringing up another window and document.

He cranes his head a little to see what she's looking at, since her head is blocking the screen.

She glances at him again with a pensive look. "As you know, there was some speculation as to what effects the gland would have on various areas of the brain... as we discovered when it reacted with your pineal gland..." she trails off, since she notices that he's starting to look worried.

"Claire, would you please just spit it out?"

She hesitates a moment before almost blurting, "I think... somehow, the gland may be sending you into something much like... 'heat'," she ventures cautiously.

There's a split second of silence. Then, Darien snorts in laughter, his head almost hitting hers with the force of his amusement.

She raises an eyebrow, understanding the humor he perceives in her words, but she's a little too concerned to join in just yet.

He calms down briefly. "Ya know, Hobbes *is* quite a dish. Do ya think he'd find me attractive?" he wistfully ponders as he twists a strand of his hair.

A 'Who farted?' expression washes across her face.

"Nah, he wouldn't even notice me." The thought sets him off again, and he futilely attempts to suppress his laughter.

Lips slightly pursed and one eyebrow raised, Claire stands and steps over to the examination area. Picking up an ear thermometer, she stands by the exam chair and pats it lightly, indicating that he should come over and sit down.

He shakes his head, wipes the one or two tears from his eyes, and rises. Still snorting softly, he strides over and plops down on the chair. With a huge shit-eating grin on his face, he asks her, "So, after telling me that, you think it's wise to start playing 'Doctor' with me? You think it's... safe?"

With an irritated grimace, she ever so un-gently sticks the thermometer in his ear.

He flinches a little, muttering "Hey..." as the lab door slides open.

Enter The Official, looking as He always does... constipated. "So, how's my star agent doing?" He asks with false boisterousness.

Claire shrugs slightly, craning her head to look at the read-out on the thermometer.

Darien gives up his lamentable effort at looking serious. "I dunno," he grins. "You'd better sit down for this one, Chief."

The Official glances at Claire, puzzled.

She answers with reluctance. "I'm not quite sure what to say. Darien's fine, for now, but the gland... Well, it seems to be stimulating his hormonal production in such a way..."

Darien involuntarily interrupts with a soft snort when she says 'stimulating'.

She shoots him an increasingly impatient glare. "That's not what I meant..."

"What didn't you mean?" The Official glowers.

Darien shakes his head a few times. "Go ahead, tell him." He notices her escalating annoyance at his juvenile behavior. "C'mon, Claire, you gotta admit, it does sound a bit silly..."

She rolls her eyes, turns, and coolly slaps the thermometer down on the rolling tray table holding her other testing instruments.

The Official shoots a quelling glare at Darien, who in turn meekly drops his head while raising his legs to leisurely wrap his hands around his knees. The Official can still see a smile peeking out, though.

"So, what's the problem?" He asks, ignoring Darien.

"The gland seems to be interfering with his hormonal production, and could be sending him into, well... heat, ...not unlike an animal," she responds.

He blinks. Now it looks like He might be trying to quell some amusement that's attempting to rise in Him. Either that, or some gas from that Chinese stuff He ate earlier... "And how will this affect him over the long run?"

She hesitates before venturing, "I'm not sure. That's why I want him to stay close to the lab for now. Hopefully, with a few more tests, I'll get a better picture of what's going on over the next few days."

"Do you foresee any difficulty with his use of the gland?"

She shakes her head thoughtfully. "Again, I can't be sure until I run some more tests."

"Will he be able to run his... 'errands'?"

She nods slowly. "Yyeess... As long as he checks in every few hours or so, and if he can manage to keep from going invisible."

Darien's amusement fades over the course of the discussion. He looks a bit vexed at being discussed as if he weren't even in the room, so he swings his legs over the side of the exam chair and slides off. He starts towards the door, but Claire stops him with a touch on his shoulder.

"What?" he asks a bit abruptly.

"Darien, please remember to call me later. I'll have more information on your blood work then, so..." she trails off, noting that his thoughts have drifted far away.

"Yeah, yeah, I know the drill." He waves absently at his Keeper and meanders towards the lab door.

As it opens, The Official calls out, "Fawkes, where are you going?"

He turns and shrugs his shoulders slightly. "Where else? Gonna kick over some rocks and see if Arnaud's crawled under any of 'em."

The Official and the Keeper exchange cryptic looks as the door slides shut behind him.

Thursday, 1:30pm (according to Darien's watch)
Darien leaves a store with a to-go cup of cappuccino in his right hand. Lunchtime pedestrian traffic has lightened in the business district. As it turns out in an amazing "coincidence", he's not far from the new Cerberus Corporation Headquarters.

He ambles down the street, occasionally sipping from his cup and munching on some item of food. He seems to not have noticed the two men in casual suits following almost a half block behind him.

He passes by the Cerberus offices without pausing, nor shows any sign that he was familiar with the place. He walks for another one to one and a half blocks, casually tosses the empty cappuccino cup and food wrapper into a trashcan, and suddenly ducks into a doorway as he Quicksilvers.

The two men following him immediately break up when they lose visual contact, with one crossing the street and the other continuing as he was. They also casually pull sunglasses out of their pockets once Darien's ducked out of sight, and put them on. As the one man passes by the doorway that Darien had dodged into, he turns his head to scan the entranceway and the shop within, but there are no thermal variations out of the ordinary.

He turns to the other man across the street. Their eyes meet, and he minutely shakes his head. No Darien.

The other man nods a confirmation, indicating that he can't "see" Darien either.

Meanwhile, the in the alley, the back door of the shop next to the one Darien entered swings shut. There's no one there.

He briefly un-Quicksilvers in the alley behind the Cerberus offices as he crouches to look thoughtfully at the alley exit-door's lock. He pulls out a lock-picking kit with a little smile (remembering the argument with The Official over his choice in field gear), pulls out two small picks and inserts them into the lock.
A little scraping noise is heard, then an audible 'click', and a green light goes off on the panel beside the door. The picks smoothly Quicksilver, followed by the rest of his body. The door swings open, and then shuts softly.


Thursday, 1:45pm
Darien enters the third floor of the Cerberus building from the stairwell. He walks past a series of closed doors until he sees, off to his left, a door slightly ajar. It opens to an intimate, comfortably decorated conference room emitting the sounds of a lively conversation. One voice is the head of Cerberus, Jared Stark, another is female, and the last sounds lamentably familiar.

Oh, great, he thinks. Arnaud...

He peeks through the door opening and catches a partial glimpse of Stark standing to the right of a young woman sitting stiffly on an overstuffed couch with her legs tucked up under her (and looking very uneasy). A Quicksilvered Arnaud de Fehrn stands a little off to the woman's left and is facing Stark.

Darien eases the door open a little. Their voices become more audible, and he can understand almost everything that's being said.

What the hell is he doing here?

Seen in profile, the woman looks fairly short (app. 5'). She's in her late twenties to early thirties, and is overweight without being obese. She's wearing thermal vision sunglasses (as is Stark), oversized medical scrubs, and has wavy collarbone-length auburn hair mostly tucked into a baseball cap (and a pony tail hanging out of the back opening). There's also a nasty bruise on her left cheekbone as well as a dressing on her right biceps - bandage for a gunshot wound. The sleeve is rolled up above the bandage so as not to rub at or bind it.

She has a melange of emotions rolling over her face: caution, fear, mistrust, confusion, pain (caused by a furious migraine and a variety of unseen bruises, as well as the gunshot wound), exhaustion, and a seething rage that just breathes from her entire body.

de Fehrn is becoming increasingly agitated, as evidenced by the lit cigarette jerking around in mid-air.

Stark looks to the young woman expectantly, and nods his head towards the other man with a raised eyebrow. She tilts her head to the side, her brows furrowing in momentary non-understanding. Then she obviously gets the inferred meaning and reaches out a hand towards the mercenary's Quicksilvered profile. She makes physical contact with his arm as she speaks softly and firmly to him. Darien can't make out what she's saying.

Unnoticed is a small, bright spark that flashes when they touch. She jumps a little at the brief shock, withdraws her hand with a frown, and jerks it a couple of times as if she were shaking off water.

de Fehrn stills at the touch on his arm, gazes down at the woman, and then flops down beside her on the couch. "Oh, all right!" he mutters angrily.

The cigarette glows brightly, then it's dashed out in a nearby ashtray. Smoke sighs from his invisible lips.

Drama queen, comes Darien's acidic thought on the mercenary's grandiose behavior.

"Now then, why don't we table this until we can get Mrs. Daniels settled in?" comments Stark, looking quietly satisfied with what had just occurred.

Sitting in a chair on the other side of a coffee table across from de Fehrn and the young woman (Daniels), Stark picks up a small ring of keys and a thin folder. "These are the keys to your car and apartment... at least until you get settled in. Then you can find something more to your liking, if you wish."

"Right now, anything is better than where I was." She shivers slightly from a painfully vivid memory, then continues, realizing something about what Stark had just said.

"Did you... actually get the car I told you about? I didn't think you were, you know, serious..."

He cuts in. "Well, I was. During your stay with us, you will receive all of the standard benefits we give our employees, which include a car and fully furnished residence. Mrs. Daniels... may I call you Amanda?"

She nods demurely, murmuring, "Technically, I'm a miss. Now."

He frowns in puzzlement, and she explains. "Widows in my family commonly go by their maiden name. And mine's MacKenna."

He nods in acknowledgement. "All right. Amanda, we want to ease you back into public life as smoothly as possible, and that means we'll do whatever is necessary to make you feel comfortable."

Could he sound any more like a salesman? Darien thinks with contempt.

"I don't know what to say," she begins, stunned by the generosity.

"A thank you would be in good form," de Fehrn replies dryly.

She twists her head towards his Quicksilvered form and squints her eyes at him in mild amusement. "Of course," is her light reply. "But..." her expression clouds. "I hope you can understand why this is so overwhelming for me. To be treated, like this... after being in there for so many years..."

Stark raises a hand, interrupting her. "Please, don't bother. Now, why don't we let the Doctor here direct you to your new home so you can get settled in? I'm sure you're quite tired after the... 'excitement' of the past few days." He grins lopsidedly.

A tiny smile ghosts across her face, and disappears. "I... have two more questions." She hesitates, then continues after Stark nods for her to go on. "Is there some sort of... a pond, or a large pool near the apartment?"

He nods. "As a matter of fact, the previous tenant had a fountain installed in the backyard. There's a privacy fence with trees and shrubbery around it, so you shouldn't have anything to worry about."

She ducks her head a little. "Thank you."

"And what was your other question?" He queries amiably.

She stares directly into his eyes. "Why?"

He frowns. "Why what?"

"Why me? What do you want, with me?" Her battered face braces for the worst.

He quietly regards her for a moment, and Darien notices that she's becoming more and more unsettled.
"I won't lie to you; we do have a vested interest in the research you're involved in," he begins. "But I found your living conditions quite distressing. You should have more control over the procedures, and be rewarded well for your contributions to the research."

Her jaw slackens in disbelief while he's speaking. She's at a complete loss for words.
She wasn't expecting *that*.

"Now, then, Doctor, would you like to show Mrs. ... Miss," he corrects himself with a small bowing nod, "MacKenna to her car? I'm sure you two have much to discuss during your drive."

He stands, followed by de Fehrn and (more slowly) MacKenna. He hands the key ring and the folder to her, and she regards them with bemusement, as if she were expecting to wake up from a dream at any moment.

Darien quickly backs away from the door, and retreats behind an unlocked closet door partway down the hall. Meanwhile, he overhears de Fehrn and MacKenna saying their farewells to Stark before they leave the conference room. They start slowly down the hall in his direction. She's limping a bit, as if she was recently in a hell of a brawl, or something like that...

He quickly and silently pushes his door almost shut as the two pass by on their way to the elevator at the end of the hall.

After they've passed, he pulls his door open slightly to see if the way is clear. It seems to be, and he comes out of the room and returns to the alley he entered the building from. As the exit door swings shut, he un-Quicksilvers two-thirds of the way down the alley to the street.


It's 2:10pm. He peeks around the corner of the building. Seeing no obvious Chrysalis agents about, he steps out onto the sidewalk and strides quickly in the direction that de Fehrn and MacKenna went. He walks around the corner of the building, which is at an intersection.

Almost a block away, he sees MacKenna seated in the driver's side of an emerald green Volkswagen Bug and just closing the door. The passenger door swings shut a moment afterwards. The car turns on, and she haltingly pulls out as if this were the first time she's driven in a long while. Then, as she accidentally cuts off another car (it honks), she peels out into traffic and is almost immediately swallowed by the traffic.

"Great, she drives like Hobbes," Darien dryly comments as he darts across the street towards his own car. He gets in and follows her.


Thursday, 4:00pm
In Virginia, Hobbes and Monroe arrive at the Shop a half an hour late. They pull up to the front of the main building, where two men are standing by the front door. One is oddly like Eberts in looks and demeanor, and both are obviously lifetime government servants.

As Hobbes starts to open his door, the Eberts-look-alike takes the handle and pulls it open deferentially. He waves his free hand at Hobbes, who steps out of the car. He regards the man with amusement, while the other waits for Monroe and then raises his hand to shake hers.

"Agent Monroe?" he asks, shaking her hand before he turns towards Hobbes. "And Agent Hobbes?"

Hobbes dips his head slightly in acknowledgement, and the other man continues.

"I'm Agent Barnes. This," he waves his left hand at the Eberts look-alike. "is Agent Noble, my assistant. I'm the Director of this facility, at least until our superiors in Washington appoint a new one."

Monroe walks around the front of the car with Barnes. The four agents merge and walk through the front doors of the building.

They walk through a lobby bustling with agents in suits and plainclothes, carrying boxes, cleaning supplies and various pieces of equipment. The place looks eerily new.

"So, what exactly went on here?" she asks as she watches an older woman pushing a laundry cart full of smashed electronic equipment and appliances. The woman notices her regard, and nods tersely to her as she passes by.

"And what happened to the old Director?" Hobbes quickly adds before Barnes can answer.

Monroe shoots him an irritated glare, but Agent Noble answers smoothly, "Actually, there's an answer to both of your questions..."

"Yes, but let's wait to discuss this in my office. This way, please," Agent Barnes finishes as he leads them down a short side corridor to a door with a piece of paper taped on it with the words "Barnes, Director Pro-Tem" written in permanent marker.

As they all walk in, Monroe and Hobbes see that the "office" is more like a storage room, with some boxes and stacks of papers shoved roughly aside to make room for a chair, a small desk and a set of two chairs in front of it.

Agent Barnes walks behind the desk and sits down.
Agent Noble waits for the other two to sit down in the chairs before he closes the office door and takes up his spot beside the desk. He rifles through a small stack of files on top of some boxes, and comes up with two folders - one very thick and full to the point of rupturing, and the other very thin. He hands them to Barnes, who quickly puts them down and flips open the thin one.

"I apologize for the clutter, but we're still cleaning up after the incident a few days ago."

Hobbes casually leans back in his chair, crosses his ankle over his knee, and asks, "So, what... exactly did happen with this... 'incident'?"

Barnes pauses, and Noble answers carefully, "I would like to remind you that everything you see here, including this facility, does not exist. Whatever you may find during your investigation may only be divulged to Agent Barnes, or myself."

Hobbes looks slightly bemused. "Meaning that whatever we don't learn, we tell no one else of?"

Noble nods.

"Not even The Boss?"

He shakes his head. "Not even The Official may know."

Monroe asks, "So why would you ask our Agency to investigate this?"

Hobbes adds, "Yes. Why us?" with a practiced look of modest curiosity.

"There aren't many others better at maintaining a low profile," Barnes replies.

"Don't you usually have people in house to take care of your... sticky situations?" Hobbes asks a little suspiciously.

"We did," Barnes starts.

Noble continues. "But most of them were either killed or wounded recently."

"From the break-in," Monroe clarifies.

"From the break-out," confirms Noble.

"Hence, our dilemma," Barnes finishes as he shoots a cryptic glare at his assistant.

Noble turns his head slightly away, chastised for giving out more information than his boss wanted to at the moment.

Hobbes jumps on the verbal slip-up. "What do you mean by 'break-out'? I thought this was an infiltration from the outside, not the other way around."

Monroe cocks her head to the side and shoots him a baleful look.

He ignores her, keeping his eyes locked on Barnes and waiting for an answer.

Barnes looks down at the contents of the thin file laid out in front of him, closes and hands it to Monroe. Hobbes tries to intercept it, but she jerks the file away from his outstretched hand and opens it. She begins to scan the contents while he cranes his head to take a peek. Barnes begins speaking, satisfied with his redirection of Hobbes' attention.

"Most of the project information is classified, so I had Agent Noble assemble that file," he indicates the file Monroe is holding, "for you."

She finishes her quick scan of the file, shuts it, and casually hands it to Hobbes as she looks at Barnes. "There's not much in there for us to go on."

Noble nods as Barnes casually hands the thick file back to him. He replies as he takes it in hand, "Because of security concerns, right now only the Director and I know the complete details on this project."

"And it's best that we divulge as little as possible... for the moment," Barnes finishes.

"Ah, need-to-know," Hobbes winks at Monroe, who rolls her eyes at the inside reference.

"Exactly," Barnes replies non-chalantly. "So for now, what we can tell you is that all of the computer files, as well as a member of the research staff, were stolen by an unknown person or group. You watched the security footage I forwarded to your office?"

The agents both nod. "Yes, and we believe we might know huh..." she begins, but Hobbes cuts her off.

"Actually, we already have a few leads that we're investigating right now, but we won't have anything narrowed down for another couple of days or so."

While he's speaking, he shoots her a quelling look from the corner of his eye. She's looking at him with questioning annoyance.

Barnes and Noble (teehee) exchange practiced neutral looks.

Noble pulls a small notepad and a pen from his inside coat pocket as he remembers something he wanted to ask. "Wasn't there supposed to be another Agent with you?" he asks, opening the notepad. He flips a few pages over, and reads from some notes he had made earlier. "An Agent... Fox?" he finishes.

"Fawkes... F. a. w. k. e. s," Hobbes corrects the other man's pronunciation. "He couldn't make it."

"Unfortunately," Monroe expands, "Agent Fawkes developed an inner ear infection, so..." she trails off with a shrug.

Barnes and Noble both nod.

"Perfectly understandable," Barnes states affably. "I remember taking a flight to Boston one year, and didn't realize I had an ear infection until we were near 2500 feet."

Hobbes does this little disgusted shaky-thing as he imagines what it must have felt like. "eeeheuw."

Barnes glances at him in bemusement. "Exactly," he replies with a small smile. "We had to do an emergency landing at BWI. I was lucky I didn't rupture both eardrums."

Hobbes repeats the disgusto-shake as Barnes stands, followed by Monroe.

Noble comes around from behind the desk and opens the office door for them.

She pauses momentarily to see if Hobbes is going to get up, then edges around his legs (with a grimace) and walks to the door. Barnes waves deferentially, and Hobbes shuts the folder, stands, and follows Monroe.

The Director follows them to the door, saying, "If you have any questions, or you come up with anything new, call this number," he hands Monroe a blank business card with a phone number and the word "Barnes" printed above it.

"It's a direct line, so you can call at any time."

She asks, "Before we go, would we be able to take a look at the crime scene?"

He nods and waves a hand to Noble, who steps away from Barnes' side to walk a few paces down the hallway. "Certainly. There's the lab as well as the heliport out back. Agent Noble will show you around. Good luck... and, thank you."

She shakes his hand. "We'll call in with a preliminary report tomorrow at five, Director." She begins following Noble down the corridor towards the front lobby.

Hobbes quickly shakes Barnes' hand, asking surreptitiously, "So, you get paid overtime for that kind of..."

"Hobbes!" Monroe snaps from the hallway, cutting him off.

He winces a little, drops his hand from the Director's (who has a small amused smile on his face), and trails Monroe, muttering, "What? It's a fair question to ask..."

It's 4:20pm. Noble leads the agents out of the back of the building directly onto a helicopter-landing pad. Most of the area is cordoned off with yellow ticker tape, and there are numerous indicators showing where human bodies had fallen on the black macadam. Crimson stains on the ground in and around the chalked outlines have yet to be washed away.

He removes a section of tape so that Hobbes and Monroe may enter. "Please watch your step," he advises. "We've left everything here and in the lab untouched since the 'incident'. ...Except for the removal of the bodies," he adds with an uneasy look. "All access has been denied, except for the Director and myself."

Monroe asks without looking at him, "And neither you or the Director have touched anything?"

He shakes his head. "No."

Hobbes walks the inside perimeter, running calculations in his mind. "So the kidnappers hijacked the chopper?"

Noble looks embarrassed. "Yes. We were all completely taken by surprise."

Monroe notices a small pile of what looks like debris near the center of the heliport. She carefully goes to it, stepping around the outlines of human bodies. She crouches down and closely inspects the contents of the pile.

"Were you here that night?" Hobbes continues his inquiries from his vantage point.

Noble drops his eyes and somberly regards his shoes. "Yes. I was the previous Director's assistant as well. We were working late reviewing case particulars."

"How'd it all go down?" Hobbes notes the other man's reactions from the corner of his eye.

"One of the projects was being transferred to a better equipped facility," Noble begins.

"Which one was that again?" Hobbes interrupts, hoping that the assistant slips enough to reveal more information. Sorry, Bobby. No such thing.

"The one that we're asking for your help on," Noble replies in a bland tone before continuing. "The helicopter was almost loaded when numerous explosions simultaneously went off throughout the facility. The Director and I ran out to see what was going on, and that's when the gunfire began." He stops suddenly, with a haunted look in his unfocused eyes.

Monroe raises her head to sympathetically regard him before calling to Hobbes in a low voice. "Hobbes, come here and take a look at this."

He tilts his head to one side. "What's up?" He carefully strolls over to where she's crouched and glances over her shoulder at the pile of debris.

"Are those what I think they are?" he murmurs to her.

She nods. She's lightly dusted off something with a metallic glint to it, but her and Hobbes' bodies obscure most of the view.

By now, Noble's noticed their change in demeanor. "What's the matter?" He takes a few hesitant steps towards them.

Hobbes turns completely around to face the other man, and scans the rest of the area with a practiced eye. "There wasn't anything left here that might be considered a security risk? Anything you wouldn't want those without the right clearance to see."

Noble begins to look puzzled. "No. Why?"

"You're sure?"

Noble still looks puzzled, but there's a strange, hard gleam now in his eyes. "Again, no. The Director and I did check, but other than removing the bodies of those killed during the incident, nothing was disturbed. The intruders took all of the files and relevant data. Why? What did you find?"

As the men are conversing, Monroe tugs a pair of gloves and an evidence bag from her shoulder satchel. She hands the evidence bag to Hobbes, who turns and holds it open for her as she carefully inserts the metallic item(s). She then seals the bag and carefully places it back in her satchel.

"It looks like the kidnappers might've dropped a few things. It's okay if we run some tests on them, right?" Hobbes rises, turns and cuts Noble off before he can reach Monroe and see what she's holding. He turns and guides the assistant back to the yellow tape.

"I'll have to check with the Director..." Noble looks uneasy.

"Now, you both did mention we could take anything from the crime scenes that would help our investigation. And this could be the break we need to ID these people," Hobbes interjects smoothly as Monroe stands and follows them to the perimeter. She's tied the satchel tightly shut, and slings it back over her shoulder.

Hobbes looks over his shoulder at her and asks, "Ready to check out the lab?"

She nods and takes Nobles' arm in her hands with a warm smile. "I know it's been hard on you, but could you tell us some more about what happened that night?"

Hobbes follows them back into the building as Noble continues his recollection of events.

He leads them down the remains of a long corridor sloping down gradually into the earth. The farther down they go, the worse the damage gets. There's temporary lighting strung up on the walls, which casts an odd glow on the fire-damaged corridor. Hobbes begins to look nervous.

"Man, this is really starting to creep me out," he comments to Monroe, who's walking in front of him.

She turns her head back briefly to look at him. "You can always wait for me in the car," she replies in an innocent tone.

He looks insulted. "No thank you. It's not like I'm scared, like some little kid..."

She snorts softly.

"Hey!" he snaps. "It's just these lights don't help me thinking I'm walking into a morgue, or one of those horror flicks; you know... with the guy... and the chainsaw... all hacking up kids too dumb to run away..."

"Here we are," Noble interrupts smoothly.

They come to a stop at a doorway that looks like an insane rhino charged through it from the inside.

Monroe steps into the doorway and looks inside the room.

"Be careful what you touch," Noble cautions. "We're still having problems with structural instability in this part of the complex."

Meanwhile, Hobbes is closely inspecting the blasted doorway. He runs a cautious finger down the buckled frame, brings it to his nose, and lightly sniffs a few times. "Plastique. Nice..." he mutters.

Noble glances at him, a little surprised. "That's right. We found traces of it at every entranceway they used in entering and exiting the facility. How did you know?"

Hobbes puffs up a little, glad to boast about one of his, many... talents. "I know everything about explosives. I can usually tell what was used just by the smell."

"Don't be too impressed," comments Monroe from inside the room. She's carefully picking her way through the debris. "More times than not he's wrong, even if he won't admit it."

He reddens at the jibe. "Hey... I may not be an expert on everything, Monroe..."

"You got that right," she comments in a low voice, while,

"... But I've never missed an ID on explosives or incendiaries," he finishes, uninterrupted. "And how would you know if I was ever wrong?" he continues. "You haven't known me long enough... " He cautiously enters the room. It's clear that the fire in this section of the building had originated inside.

Other than the indications of where walls had been/are, anything in the room that might have been something was no longer recognizable as such. Monroe is crouching next to the remains of a wall on the right side of the room, and looking at something poking out from the debris. Hobbes carefully picks his way through the rubble, looking all around for signs of imminent collapse. He stops just behind and to her left, and she glances up at him briefly before returning her gaze to the object(s) of her attention.

He gazes over her shoulder and down at the pile. He tenses, and turns slightly to look at Noble over his shoulder. "This's the lab the experiment was in, right?"

Noble frowns in puzzlement, unsure where this line of questioning was leading. "Yeeess."

"Were they using live test subjects?" Monroe asks without looking up.

Noble nods a bit hesitantly. "Yes, they were."

She stands, and she and Hobbes exchange pointed looks. She walks away from the wall, to reveal the twisted remains of a metal hospital gurney/cot with shreds of fabric hanging from where restraints are typically attached.

Hobbes tugs on the bed a little, but the crumpled metal doesn't even budge. "Wow, that was some helluva blast," he mutters absently under his breath. He turns to once again run a practiced eye over the remains of the room.

There's the faint groaning of the building's weight shifting above them.

Monroe carefully picks her way back to the doorway, where Noble still stands with an inquisitive look on his face. She nods to him, and turns to watch Hobbes' regard of the room.

"Bobby, you ready?" she asks. "We need to check in at the motel."

He drops his arms, finished with triangulating possible trajectories in his mind. He wrenches his mental focus to the here-and-now, and turns to look at her. He hesitates for a moment as he gives the room one last cursory look. "Yeah, I got what I need." He turns and carefully walks towards the door.

Another slight, ominous groan comes from the remaining supports to the broken ceiling above.

He steps up his pace, and the three return to the front of the building.

Agent Noble stands at the entranceway as Monroe and Hobbes say their goodbyes and get into their rental car. He raises his hand in an absentminded wave and turns to go back into the building as the two agents drive away.

There's silence for a few moments in the car, then Hobbes speaks up. "Am I right in thinking something hinky's going on here?"

Monroe furrows her brows. "'Hinky'? What kind of word is... 'hinky'?"

He looks slightly abashed. "What? You never heard that word before?"

She shakes her head in amusement. "No. Where on earth did you pick that up?"

He opens his mouth to answer, but she cuts him off. "You know what? Never mind, I don't think I want to know."

Still amazed that she never heard the word 'hinky' before, he mutters, "I can't believe you never heard the word hinky before."

"Hobbes, focus," she orders with a small smile.

He gives his head a slight shake, and then cranes it to glance at her satchel carefully resting on the back seat.

"So, what do you make of that?" she asks, nodding her head towards the bag.

"I dunno, but whatever it means, I got a bad feeling about this," he replies somberly.

"You always have a bad feeling about something."

"Yeah, and I'm always right, too."

She shakes her head once. "Not all the time."

"Oh, really? And doesn't something always seem to go wrong during a mission?"

"Yes, it's usually because of something you or Fawkes screws up," she teases.

He snorts derisively before thoughtfully gazing out of the passenger window. "You notice how Barnes wouldn't answer me when I asked him to explain about it being a 'break out' and not a 'break in'?"

She nods as she checks her rear-view mirror.

"And what's the deal with that big folder they had?" he continues.

"It probably had all the stuff in it they didn't want us to know," she replies, changing lanes.

"Like they were daring us to try and read it." He then murmurs scathingly, "Jerks."

"I think we scared Agent Noble a little back there on the heliport," she comments, wisely ignoring his spirited outburst.

"Yeah, too bad I can't interrogate him." He pops his knuckles gleefully. "I'd crack him like an egg."

Monroe glances disdainfully at him from the corner of her eye. "I wonder if Fawkes has managed to dig up anything," she comments pensively.

Thursday, roughly 2:45pm
Darien sits in his car a little ways down the street, watching MacKenna and de Fehrn enter her new apartment through his binoculars.

"What are they doing at Alianora's old place?" he wonders. For a few minutes, he sits and vainly attempts to observe their movements from inside his car. But then he decides to get out and sneak to a closer (and hopefully better) vantage point by one of the windows.

Luckily, she prefers fresh air as opposed to recycled, and is opening every single window and door in the apartment.

"... hope you don't mind, but I can't stand to be in air-conditioning right now," she's speaking over her shoulder as she fumbles open the window next to the one Darien's crouching by.

He instinctively flattens himself against the building, holding his breath.

He hears de Fehrn speaking, as if he were in another room. The exact words are indistinguishable.

"I really appreciate your help, Doctor."

"Please, call me Arnaud," comes the gracious (and insincere) reply. "We might as well be on a first name basis since we're to be working together," he finishes as she enters the living room.

Darien settles by another window near the outside door in the living room. The lace curtains are still drawn, but he's able to make out the two inside fairly well.

"Then call me Amy," she replies. "I'm going to check the fridge. Would you like anything?"

A cigarette floats up from a pack, and is lit with a lighter. The tip brightens momentarily, and then the cigarette drops down as a small cloud of smoke puffs out from his invisible mouth. "Thank you, no," he replies dryly. The couch acquires a human-shaped indentation as he sits down.

"Be right back." She walks towards the kitchen and Darien hears her mutter, "Damn could I use a stiff drink."

de Fehrn slowly draws in another lungful. "Actually, my dear, I'd love to get this farce over with," he grumbles as he impatiently breathes out smoke.

"You say something?" MacKenna asks, re-entering the room with a beer bottle in her left hand.

Before he can answer she comments, "It's so weird... the fridge and cabinets are all full. Is this how Mr. Stark treats all his people?"

She flops down on a chair next to the couch and rests her feet on the coffee table. She grips the bottle between her knees and pops the lid off of the bottle with her left palm. She takes a long pull from it, swallows, and then gazes thoughtfully at the liquid contents.

"I haven't had a drink in eight years," she comments absently. "It's so hard to accept all of this. Hunh, I haven't thanked you for getting me out..." she trails off, glancing up at the spot where de Fehrn's sitting.

The cigarette is dashed in an ashtray on the coffee table. "No need to thank me, my dear. I just hope you'll be able to assist me with my particular... dilemma."

She sets her beer down on the coffee table and perches on the edge of her chair. "Yeah, well, I'll do my best.” She inclines her head to the side. She ponders for a few moments, then, "Mr. Stark said something about you needing to get more of the records from the original experiment."

"Yes. Unfortunately, it's in a secure area of the building, and..." he stops when Darien's cell phone begins to ring.

"Aw, crap!" Darien fervently mutters sotto voce. He instinctively Quicksilvers as he quickly looks down and frantically reaches inside his coat to turn off the offending device.

At a sound from inside the apartment, his head jerks upwards just in time to see de Fehrn's Quicksilver-outlined foot crash through the screen window into his face. The resulting thud is heard as the mercenary tritely comments, "Hello, Fawkes."

...........................

Darien blearily opens his eyes to find himself lying on his back with his wrists, knees and ankles heavily duct-taped together. His right cheekbone feels like it's on fire, and the rest of his head throbs in commiseration. He carefully raises his head to get a look at his surroundings.

"Well, it's about time you woke up from your little nap," the voice comments from the armchair adjacent to the couch.

"Nice to see you too, Arnaud," Darien replies caustically as he gingerly drops his head down on the couch. "So, what now? Torture? Gunshot to the head?"

de Fehrn chuckles. "I wish. But that would scare away my little friend here, and I couldn't have that now, could I?"

MacKenna limps into the living room from the kitchen. She stops when she notices that Darien's awake, and glances uncertainly at de Fehrn's chair. "I called him," she states quietly. "He's sending someone over for him in a few minutes." She nods towards Darien. "So, what should we do 'til they get here?"

de Fehrn sighs heavily. "Nothing much, since you're so squeamish about killing him."

She trudges to the armchair at Darien's head, and lightly perches on the edge furthest away from him. It's as if she's anxious that he'll try to jump her. She adjusts the bandage on her arm with a small wince.

She also seems a little irritated at de Fehrn's jibe. "I obviously don't mind killing... certain, people. But we've done enough of that over the past few days. I thought you understood that," she returns intensely.

"Sorry, I was just joking with you," he attempts to soothe her.

It doesn't work.

"I'm not laughing," she retorts. She sighs and raises her hands to her forehead and lightly massages her temples. "As soon as he's gone," she nods towards Darien, "I'm gonna hit the sack. God, I'm so freakin' tired," she finishes under her breath.

"Uh, don't mean to intrude, but, what exactly is gonna happen to me here?" Darien asks, apprehensive at not knowing what they were going to do to him.

She regards him thoughtfully for a moment as she continues to rub her head before questioning de Fehrn, "Is it okay to tell him?"

After a glass of wine is picked up, drunk, and lowered to the coffee table, his voice responds from the depths of his chair. "I don't see why not; he'll find out soon enough anyway."

She dips her head in acknowledgement before swiveling to regard Darien. "Mr. Stark is sending someone over to pick you up."

"And take me to Chrysalis?"

She nods.

"And then what?"

She shrugs nonchalantly. "Whatever they do with people like you. At the moment, I couldn't care less. I just gotta get some sleep."

"What'd they promise you to work for 'em?"

"They didn't hire me, they rescued me," she replies, her brows furrowing in confusion.

"From what?"

Her expression hardens as painful memories surge. Her hands slowly ball up into tight fists before she consciously relaxes them. "Hell," is the crisp response.

Something clicks in his mind. "You're not the one Arnaud took from that lab in Virginia, are you?" he asks, the realization in his voice.

"My, aren't we astute today," de Fehrn muses cynically. "Give the boy a star."

Darien ignores him, craning his head to look MacKenna in the eyes.

She's lurched back into the chair, and now quickly rises and retreats from the couch. The color drains from her face as she begins to panic. "How did...? Oh shit, they did send you! I can't stay here... I-I've gotta go..." her head swings from side to side, like a hunted rabbit searching for a bolthole. She lurches towards the door.

The impression of de Fehrn on the other armchair lifts, and he lopes towards the woman.

Darien Quicksilvers his eyes in time to see de Fehrn grab her left arm and get right into her face.

Again he notices a sizable spark, larger than the first, flash between the two when de Fehrn seizes her arm. They seem too preoccupied to notice.

"Calm down, girl! They have no idea where you are now; and we won't let them take you again... so would you, please... just... calm ...down!" de Fehrn now has hold of both of her upper arms, and shakes her with each pause. Her breath catches in her throat at the pain he's inflicting on the gunshot wound. She wrenches her arms out of his grasp with a small cry of pain, and seizes his face between both hands. A sizable spark flashes between both of her hands and his temples.

"Don't you... ever... touch me... again!" she growls savagely.

His body becomes rigid as she speaks, and he doesn't move until her knees suddenly give out as she drops to the floor. Slowly, she sits up and takes three very slow and deep breaths while tilting her head down to her knees with her eyes closed. She trembles violently for a few moments as if she's having a seizure.

Almost unseen/unnoticed are droplets of blood coursing from her nose into a tiny puddle between her knees.

As she sinks to the floor, de Fehrn emerges from the hypnotic state he was plunged into. He gazes down at her for a moment. Abruptly, he turns, stalks to the couch, and punches Darien in the stomach. Hard.

Once he stops coughing and is able to draw a breath, Darien cracks open his now un-Quicksilvered eyes. "What the hell was that for?"

de Fehrn eases back into his chair. "Well, it certainly wouldn't've been very sporting to do that to an ally, would it?" He waves a hand at MacKenna, who hasn't moved. She appears to have missed what had just happened.

A moment passes where everything is quiet, so Darien takes the time to see if he can still breathe.

Luckily, he can, but his ribs are on fire, and they stab him with pain every time he tries to take anything other than a shallow breath.

de Fehrn ignites another cigarette and deeply inhales.

MacKenna opens her eyes, the panic in them replaced by exhaustion, and sneezes. Her face scrunches up in a moue of distaste when she notices the lit cigarette. "Do you have to smoke those filthy things in here?" she asks, blowing a plume of smoke away from the front of her face. "They smell like pig crap."

She barely stifles another sneeze as she slowly rises and leans heavily on the coffee table. She falls into the armchair, too tired to be paranoid about Darien anymore.

de Fehrn agitatedly dashes out his cigarette and stands. The pack of cigarettes and a lighter lift into the air, and hover towards the door. "Fine, I'll go outside. I could use some fresh air anyway," he snaps. He mutters under his breath as he leaves the room, "Little brat was likely raised by pigs."

The screen door is jerked open and slammed shut, startling her. She sighs deeply as she rests her head against the back of the chair, her eyes once again closed.

Darien studies her, now noticing how ragged she seems. There is gauze wrapped around her wrists and ankles, and deep, dark circles under her eyes. The bruise on her left cheekbone extends all the way from her temple to the side of her nose. There are two butterfly closures holding closed a small ragged gash in the center. It looks like she was kicked in the face, instead of being punched or slapped. She's no longer wearing the hat and sunglasses, and Darien sees that the bruise extends over her swelling eye to end a smidgen above her left eyebrow. Small curly wisps of hair that have escaped the ponytail float softly against her face. At the moment, she looks much older than she is.

Taking advantage of de Fehrn's absence, he tries to get some information from her. "How did you get those?" he asks with soft empathy in his voice, indicating her visible bruises with a jerk of his chin.

She opens her eyes and regards him thoughtfully. "They weren't too thrilled with me 'checking out', so they made sure I had some lovely parting gifts to remember 'em by," she snorts softly. "...As if you cared," she finishes with weary sarcasm. She nods her head towards the door, where de Fehrn is standing outside. "Look, I know all about you and your 'Agency'. He told me they sent you to bring me back."

"To the... what is it? The, 'Shop'?"

She blinks. He notices how just even the mention of the place makes her nervous. "Hmm," she nods. "You might as well know: I'll never go back there, dead or alive," she finishes with quiet determination.

"What's the deal with this place, anyway? I never heard of it before."

She tilts her head to the side. "You trying to tell me you weren't sent to 'retrieve' me?"

"Not you, exactly," he frowns, thinking. "We're supposed to find the information he," he nods towards the door, indicating de Fehrn, "stole from a... lab... " he trails off thoughtfully, and then looks sharply at her. He's made another connection. "Hold on a sec. So, if you're the research assistant, then how come you're so chummy with Arnaud and Stark?"

Her eyes widen in amazement. Slowly, a smile creeps across her face, and she snorts softly. "Is that what they made you think?" she sniggers. There's a note of mania in her voice. "I was the research assistant? Oh, that's rich!" She barely manages to stifle her laughter before continuing. "I used to be an assistant years ago! Ever since, I've been the research, and Arnaud and Mr. Stark broke me out!"

He watches her expression change from almost manic amusement to tormented recall. She absently rubs the back of her neck in a manner disturbingly similar to his.

Her situation appears similar to what he's always feared would happen to him: locked away in a secret lab and being poked and prodded as a specimen instead of being treated like a human being.

"Okay, so..." he interjects, thinking rapidly. "Arnaud broke you out, but did he say why? And what does Chrysalis have to do with this?"

The brief outburst of humor gone, she again regards Darien quizzically. "You weren't even told the whole story, were you?" She zones out, plunging deep into thought. "Well, duh, of course they wouldn't tell him... I'm supposed to be dead anyway, remember?" she murmurs. Her face contorts in an effort not to cry.

Darien feels a twinge at the back of his head; he can tell that he'll need to get his shot... soon. And man is he feeling really, really, hot.

Wait a minute... I shouldn't need a shot yet. It's way too soon...

"Look, I'm not here to take you back," he speaks softly, understanding that she probably wasn't kidding when she said she came from Hell. "I'm supposed to find Arnaud, and then wait for my partner to get back."

Her eyes refocus on his face. Instead of tears, they expose a haunted and aged look. "All I know is that Arnaud and Mr. Stark are working together, and that Stark's funding Arnaud's research..."

"'Research'? For what?"

"A cure to his," she pauses, wondering how exactly to phrase it, "visibility problem?"

"He's gotta want something in return, though," he ponders.

She tilts her head a little to the side. "Well, yeah. You."

His face falls in disgusted realization. "Crap," he mutters as his head plunges back onto the cushion.


Thursday, roughly 5:45pm
Claire is on the phone, waiting for someone to answer. The Official and Eberts are also in the room, waiting. She hangs up when Darien's voice mail message starts. She looks very anxious.

The Official observes her hang up the phone, and asks, "So?"

She looks up at the two men, frowning. She shakes her head. "He was supposed to have checked in over six hours ago. His phone is on, but he's just not picking up."

Unsettled at seeing her so worried, Eberts carefully studies the patterns on the ceiling so he doesn't have to see her fretting. "If we need to find him quickly, I could try to triangulate his location... but only if his phone stays active..." he suggests helpfully.

"Can it, Eberts," The Official rumbles. He paces over towards Claire's computer, and taps the screen lightly. "What's the latest on those tests?"

She turns, sits down in her chair, and types a few commands. A chart comes up on the computer monitor, showing a graph with a line rising in increments.

"Unfortunately, it looks like I was right. His hormonal levels are steadily increasing, and I'm worried about how it's affecting his system."

She types a little more, and a picture replaces the graph. "I took some live cells from the gland, and treated them with the counteragent. It seems that the increased levels of estrogen he's producing is absorbing, and therefore blocking the effects of, the counteragent."

The Official's face grows grim. "So, if he uses the gland..."

"It will only make things worse," she replies firmly.

Eberts gazes over the doctor's left shoulder at the computer monitor. "When was his last shot?"

She glances up at him. "Three days ago."

"So, depending on how much he uses the gland, he could... go, at any time," The Official murmurs thoughtfully.

She nods. "I'm afraid so."

Eberts' expression shifts from concern to reflection. "Aren't there ways of blocking the production of specific hormones?"

Claire taps a couple of keys, and the computer screen clears. She swings her chair around to face the two men. "Yes, but in this case it's mainly used for women, and I don't know how the gland, or Darien, would be affected."

The Official straightens and turns to leave. "Work on it. Eberts," He waves for His assistant to follow him. "Let's see if you can find Fawkes."

"I'll try to get a hold of Bobby and Alex," she informs His retreating back.

A beaming Eberts follows Him out the lab door. For once, He's actually taking one of my ideas seriously!

Claire picks up the phone and starts dialing.


Thursday, 4:30pm
Darien is still tied up on the couch, while MacKenna is relaxing in her armchair with her eyes closed.
The screen door opens and quickly slams shut. She jerks, startled out of a light doze. Darien's head swings around to see who's entering, but the room is empty.

"Sorry," de Fehrn apologizes insincerely. "Just thought you'd like to know they're here for Fawkes." His voice steadily approaches the couch and chairs as he speaks.

She nods, rubbing at her eyes with the palm of her left hand.

Suddenly, Darien's cheeks look like they're being squeezed between de Fehrn's middle finger and thumb.

"Are we weady for a wittle dwive, Dawien?" he mocks.

He yanks his head back from the mercenaries' grasp and replies scathingly, "Why don't you go to hell."

"Too late, hombre'... already there," is the saccharin reply. He looks down at his hand, and recalls that he can't see it. "Eeeeuch!" he exclaims in disgust. "Are you coming down with something? You're sopping wet!"

"If I am, I hope it's contagious," Darien shoots back, realistically faking the beginning of a sneeze. "Aaahhh... aaaaaaaahhhhh..."

A scuffle is heard as de Fehrn tries to retreat out of the blast zone.

"Chooooo!" Darien blows as much air and spit as he can in the other man's direction, and then smiles innocently.

"Excuse me," he apologizes in a small voice. "*sniff*"

MacKenna chuckles softly, knowing he faked the sneeze. "Boys, boys, can't you be civil for a few more minutes?"

de Fehrn makes some more small nauseated noises as a Kleenex is lifted from a box on the end table at the far end of the couch. It sweeps and jerks through the air as he wipes off his shirt and pants.

Darien, remembering that he only has moments left until Stark and his goons enter, scrutinizes the woman with pleading eyes. "You do realize they're going to kill me."

Finished rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she straightens and looks down at him. "Not my problem," she replies evenly.

There's a shadow at the door, then the screen door opens to reveal Connor, a black dude, and Stark standing behind them. They all have slightly smug looks on their faces, like sharks do right before they feast on a buffet of surfers.

Darien notices the men entering the apartment, and begins to look alarmed. He smoothes his expression as best as he can, but his eyes give his true feelings away: he's terrified.

"Hey, guys! Welcome to the party!" he greets them with false cheer. "Sorry I didn't let you in myself, but I'm a little tied up at the moment."

Connor smiles at the attempt at levity. It isn't a nice smile... nor is it pretty.

The muscle-men step aside to let Stark through. He takes a few steps into the apartment, gives it a once-over with his eyes, and turns to look at MacKenna.

"Ah, Miss MacKenna," he smiles winningly at her.

She moves as if to stand, and he raises a hand while shaking his head. "No, please, stay seated. You should be resting right now," he chastises mildly, "And anyway, we won't be very long here." He waves a hand nonchalantly at Darien, who is trying to loosen the duct tape binding his hands without the others noticing. It doesn't work... In either case.

The exhausted woman relaxes gratefully back into her chair as she carefully tucks her legs under her.

Stark ambles towards the couch to stand on the other side of the coffee table. He visually assesses Darien's bonds, and satisfied that they'll hold, he swivels and nods for Brute and Dude to come get the incapacitated agent.

They approach the couch.

He then compliments de Fehrn and MacKenna on their choice of restraints. "Duct tape. Interesting, and effective. Nice. Good work."

de Fehrn's voice wafts over from behind the other chair that he was sitting in earlier. "It was actually Amy's idea... it's proven to be very effective over a wide range of... temperatures."

Stark turns his head and nods kudos to her, and she shrugs faintly. She winces in pain, since she temporarily forgot the need to keep her right arm as still as possible. She raises her left hand to check the bandage and then gingerly rearrange her shirt.

Connor and Dude roughly pick up Darien from the couch - Brute at his head and Dude carrying his legs.
He again attempts to appeal to her for help. "Did Arnaud tell you that he's a mercenary, and a murderer?"

Her brows furrow slightly as she cocks her head to the left while attempting to stifle a cavernous yawn. It's clear that she's thinking: 'What's this guys' angle, anyway?'

"And that he executed my brother?" he continues darkly.

"This is a waste of time," de Fehrn returns with contempt.

Stark nods his agreement, and Connor and Dude haul Darien towards the door. "Hey, c'mon guys, careful with the hair," he complains at the rough manhandling.

As they go outside, he hears MacKenna ask Stark a question. "So, what are you going to do with him?"

"Never mind that," he replies firmly, dismissing what he considers unimportant for her to think of and/or know about. "Why don't you get some sleep now? Give me a call tomorrow when you're ready. I'll have one of my men pick you up, and we can go over a few more things then."

"A-Alright," she replies quietly.

"Would you care to join me Doctor?" He courteously waves for de Fehrn to precede him out the door.

"I wouldn't miss this for anything," the invisible mercenary replies with a cheerfully malicious tone in his voice.

The men walk out the door to the waiting limousine, where Brute and Dude have secured Darien in the seat directly behind the driver's window. Stark waits politely for de Fehrn to enter the back of the limo while Dude shuts his front passenger door. Brute spies Darien's phone still lying on the ground as Stark seats himself next to his associate. He finishes closing his bosses' door, walks over to the phone, scoops it up and drops it into his coat pocket. He then gets in the driver's door and starts the limo.

He hasn't noticed that the phone is still turned on.

MacKenna stands at the doorway, looking thoughtfully after the limo pulling out on to the street. She turns, shuts and locks the door behind her as she goes in to bed for the night.

Late Thursday night, roughly 12:45am

Hobbes and Monroe wearily enter The Official's office. Eberts is rapidly typing on his laptop, which is set up on the circular table on the other side of the room from the desk. The Official is standing behind him, scrutinizing what he's bringing up on the screen.

His eyes flick up as first Hobbes and then Monroe enters.

"So? How was the trip?" He asks smoothly.

Hobbes affects a fatigued pose, with the back of his hand on his forehead. "We have traveled far, and suffered much..."

Monroe pinches his shoulder with a wee grin on her face.

He flinches with an utterance of "ouch!", while The Official rolls His eyes in irritation at the two agents' behavior.

"I don't have time for your shenanigans," He almost barks.

They drop all pretense of joking around and get serious.

"Did you find anything useful for us?" He finishes, with a minor emphasis on 'use' as he peremptorily gestures at them.

Hobbes nods, replying, "Yeah, you could say that..." as Monroe tugs her shoulder satchel around to dig out the contents.

"Explain."

Monroe carefully pulls out an evidence bag (the one that she filled at the heliport), and carefully deposits it on the table beside Eberts.

The assistant's gaze has, until this moment, been focused on his computer screen. As Monroe places the evidence bag beside him, he smiles and exclaims, "Got it!"

Then he glances at the evidence bag.

It contains a set of four interconnected shackles with what appears to be blood on parts of them. They look like they've been severed in the middle by a bolt cutter.

"What, in the world, is that?" he asks with a note of mild repulsion in his voice.

"That my friend Eberts, is a set of shackles that're used on convicts," replies Hobbes matter-of-factly. He seems to derive some humor from the man's nauseated response to the sight of blood.

Monroe comes around the table to look at the computer screen, adding, "We spoke with the interim Director and one of the agents there. They couldn't tell us very much..."

"You mean they wouldn't tell us," interrupts Hobbes sarcastically.

She shoots him a quelling glare while continuing. "And they were very... insistent about us not divulging details of the case... with anyone."

The Official blinks. "'Anyone'?"

She stops behind Eberts' right shoulder, and looks over him at the computer screen.

"It means, sir, that they don't want us talking to even you about this," Hobbes replies, looking slightly indignant at the thought. "They want this kept very much on the Q-T, you see."

The Official grimaces. "Hogwash. As if I couldn't be trusted."

Eberts glances up at Him. "I would think that you, sir, would understand their position on this, more than anyone else."

"Shut up, Eberts," He snaps, and the assistant's head drops down to his computer.

"About those shackles..." He brings the other's attention back to the bag on the table. "What are they from?"

Monroe bestows upon Hobbes a particularly pointed glare, as if to say 'Don't even think about telling him... we're under orders,' but he blatantly ignores her.

"From what was left in that lab; of which there was very little, I might add; looks to me like they had someone in there."

"Like, a prisoner?" Eberts asks lowly.

He glances down at the assistant. "Yeah, sort of; and it didn't look like it was under friendly circumstances either, if you know what I mean."

"Explain," The Official grunts.

Monroe gives up glaring at Hobbes, figuring she might as well contribute to the discussion now that he's let the cat out of the proverbial bag.

"There was the remains of an old hospital bed, with remnants of restraints on it. With all the smashed equipment being hauled from the building, Hobbes and I figure they're performing human testing for at least one project."

"I think it's got something to do with Arnaud's little problem with his gland," Hobbes adds.

"Maybe, but I wouldn't rule out other possibilities," she returns levelly.

He opens his mouth to say something, hesitates, and then closes it. He's forgotten what he was going to say. In a vain effort to cover his verbal trip-up, he looks around for his partner.

"Eberts, what are you doing?" Monroe asks, tapping the monitor's casing to get his attention.

At the same time, Hobbes asks, "Where's Fawkes?"

Eberts swings his head back to the computer at Monroe's question and taps at a point on the screen. "I've been attempting to triangulate Agent Fawkes' location through the signal to his phone. It took a little more time than I thought..."

"Why? What's up with Fawkesy?" Hobbes interrupts, frowning.

No one answers. Eberts and The Official unobtrusively find something else to look at other than Hobbes.

"What is it, Eeeberts?" Hobbes demands, this time with an edge to his voice.

The Official's face is grim. "He hasn't checked in since he left this morning."

"What's he been doing?" he asks earnestly.

"What else? Looking for de Fehrn," He replies matter-of-factly.

Monroe shrugs, still gazing at the computer screen. "So what? He probably took a long lunch. I'm sure we'll hear from him by tomorrow morning."

The Official shakes his head. "It might be too late then. We need to find him, now."

Eberts helpfully expands. "The Keeper was running some tests on Darien's blood, and came up with abnormally high hormonal levels. She asked him to check in with her every couple of hours, but he has yet to call once."

Hobbes looks concerned. "He must've run into some trouble. I know my partner; he wouldn't forget to call Claire if she asked him to."

"So what kind of problem would these 'abnormal' hormone levels create?" Monroe asks, straightening up.

The Official replies dourly, "What we're talking about is Fawkes going Quicksilver mad much earlier than expected."

Hobbes looks slightly alarmed. "We'd better hurry then." He looks at Eberts' computer. "You said you got a lock on his twenty?"

He nods. He types a few commands, and then hits enter. A printer spits out a piece of paper. He tears it off and hands it to Monroe (since she's closest). "Here's the address."

"Then let's get a move on, Monroe," Hobbes urges, already halfway out the door.

"Wait!" The Official stops them before they've gone. "Check in with The Keeper first. She said she might have something to help you out."

"Thanks," Monroe replies, since Hobbes is already down the hall at the elevator doors. She closes The Official's office door behind her and follows.


The laboratory door slides open. Claire is at her workstation, filling a hypodermic with some sort of liquid. She looks up as first Hobbes and then Monroe enters. She looks harried.

"Good, you're back," she utters wearily. "We don't have much time left."

She palms the hypo she just filled, and then adds a second from the counter to her right. She holds them up for the others to see. The contents of the hypos are of two different colors.

"I've color-coded them so you can tell which one to use," she starts. "This one," she indicates the green colored liquid, "is a sedative, in case Darien goes Quicksilver mad before you get to him. The other," she then indicates the clear colored liquid, "is a hormone blocker so the counteragent can work effectively."

Monroe takes the green hypo while Hobbes carefully pockets the clear one.

Claire strides to the refrigerator, and opens it to grab another hypo with a tiny amount of the familiar blue counteragent inside. "The rest of the batch isn't ready yet, but hopefully this will suffice long enough for you to bring Darien in. I'll be ready by the time you all return."

Hobbes takes the counteragent and puts it in a separate pocket. "We'll bring him home safe and sound," he confidently assures her.

"What exactly is wrong with him anyway?" Monroe requests.

Claire turns to her and quickly responds, "Since we're pressed for time, I'll give you the short and quick version."

Monroe nods, indicating that the doctor should continue.

"The gland is causing the production of abnormally high levels of estrogen, which are impeding the effects of the counteragent. Until we can get those levels under control, it'll be as if Darien never got his shot three days ago."

Monroe's eyes widen slightly as the impact of the doctor's words sink in.

Hobbes quickly treads to the door, catching the other agent's arm as he passes.

She's pivoted around as he declares, "Let's get moving, Monroe. Time's a wastin'."

She pulls her arm free with an irritated grimace. "All right, Hobbes. You don't have to herd me," she mutters as the door slides shut behind her.


They pull up behind Darien's car at roughly 2:00am. Hobbes parks the van, and he and Monroe get out to check the car. Before he closes his door, he pulls out from behind his seat the headgear he uses to see his partner when he's Quicksilvered. He settles it comfortably on top of his head as he joins Monroe at the car.

He shines a small flashlight over the interior of the car as she feels the hood.

He straightens up with a shake of his head, indicating there's no sign of Darien inside, and she comments lowly, "Hood's cold."

He replies just as quietly as he jerks his head in the direction of the apartment, "You wouldn't know this place, but one of Chrysalis' agents used to live here."

"Which one?" she asks.

"The Lady of The Lake," he replies thoughtfully.

She looks quizzically at him, not recognizing the reference.

He expands. "Alianora."

"Ah," she nods. "We should check and see if he's inside."

They quietly head down the block towards the apartment, splitting up with Monroe circling the front of the house, and Hobbes taking the rear.

The apartment is dark, except for a soft light left on in the living room.

Coincidentally, Hobbes is peeking through the same window that Darien had stood at just a few hours before.

He peers inside the living room, and spies the sleeping form of MacKenna curled up in a loose fetal position on the couch. She is lying partially on her left side with her right arm cradled against her chest. Her left arm is bent at the elbow, with the back of her hand resting lightly on the cushion next to her left cheek. There's a light blanket draped across her legs, and her clean hair is spread out on the couch pillow, as well as partially obscuring part of her face. Her worn features look almost peaceful, as if this was the first real bit of rest she's gotten in a very long time.

After scanning the rest of the room visible to him, Hobbes notices the broken screen. On a hunch, he pulls out and turns on his penlight to scan the ground surrounding him. A yard or so away, he comes across a scuffled and torn up patch of grass and dirt. He bends and lightly examines the area.

At a barely noticeable scuff on the ground behind him, he whirls around with his gun drawn.

It's Monroe, quickly putting up her own gun as she recognizes him.

He holsters his own gun as she nods towards the back door of the apartment. He nods in agreement, and they open the screen to check the door.

It's locked. He raises a hand in frustration, and she shakes her head. She pulls out a lock-pick set from her jacket, and starts to silently work at the lock.

Hobbes dips his head, again impressed with her versatility.

Monroe finishes picking the lock, and she gestures for him to cover her as she opens the door. He pulls out his gun as he enters the apartment behind her.

MacKenna hasn't moved. The two agents scan the room, and seeing that it was empty except for the three of them, they again split up.

Monroe stays in the living room to keep an eye on the sleeping woman and the door, and Hobbes silently makes his way through the rest of the apartment. As he leaves the living room, he pulls the eyepiece of his headgear down and activates the thermal vision goggles.

A few moments go by, and he re-enters the living room on his way to the stairs. He's gone for a few more minutes, with only a soft scuffle here and there as evidence of his movement. He returns to the living room, deactivates the goggles, lifts the eyepiece from his face, and shakes his head. No Darien. Or anyone else, for that matter.

Monroe indicates the sleeping woman, and he nods. He comes to the foot of the couch, and she crouches down a few inches from MacKenna's head.

She reaches out a hand to wake her, but suddenly MacKenna's hands shoot out to seize her face. "You can't move," she commands, her green eyes intensely focusing on the female agent's.

Monroe twitches, paralyzed. Her eyes are wide, not understanding why she can't make her limbs move.

"Freeze!" Hobbes shouts, aiming his gun between MacKenna's eyes. "Don't make another move, girlie, or I'll...!"

"What?" she replies harshly. "Shoot me? Go ahead." She slowly turns her eyes towards him with a feral smile. He sees the panicked determination in them, and fights the urge to ease back a step. She looks like a woman with nothing to lose, and he knew that made her especially dangerous right now.

The air was fairly bristling with tension, and the seconds ticked away like hours.

Thinking furiously, he finally comes to a decision.

He slowly aims the barrel of his gun at the floor.

Her eyes narrow suspiciously at first, but when she recognizes that he's backing down, she (also slowly) pulls her hands away from the other woman's face.

MacKenna sits up in a lotus-like position, and rests her hands, palms up, on her knees. So now Hobbes is able to see them, but they're also not far from the other woman's head.

"Now what?" she asks evenly.

"What'd you do to Monroe?" he demands.

"Gave her an order she couldn't refuse."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you'd better tell me what the hell you're doing here, before we do something you'll both regret."

She winces in sudden pain and sways momentarily before straightening herself. Her whole body shudders convulsively. She touches her nostrils with trembling fingers and pulls them away, suddenly covered in blood.

Hobbes starts in surprise.

"I've been doing this way too much the past few days," she thinks out loud. "If Arnaud wasn't such a dick, I'd've been in better shape for this." She lightly pinches the bridge of her nose. "I'd appreciate it if you threw me that box beside you," she finishes dryly to Hobbes.

He glances over to his left, and spies a Kleenex box on the end table. He reaches over and lightly tosses it towards her.

She snags it out of the air and pulls out a wad of tissues. She presses it up to her nose, but unfortunately some blood had already flowed down to her chin and dripped onto her black sleeveless tank top.

"Well, then, it seems we're at an impasse," she comments mildly from around the tissues.

"Guess so," he replies, unsure of how exactly he should proceed.

A moment of silence passes before he eases down into the chair behind him with his gun resting on his knee. "I'd say this calls for a little exchange of information. Agreed?"

MacKenna nods slightly. "Okay."

"Ladies first."

She snorts in amusement at the politeness. She touches her nose again, wondering if the bleeding's stopped. Satisfied that it momentarily has, she lowers the soiled tissues to her lap. "Name's Amanda MacKenna."

"Bobby Hobbes. And Agent Alex Monroe." He indicates Monroe with a nod of his head.

Her eyes narrow in suspicion at the mention of 'Agent'. "Who sent you?" she asks sharply.

"We work at The Agency."

She frowns and cocks her head slightly to the side. "Wasn't expecting that. What're you doing here?"

"Looking for my partner. Name's Fawkes," he replies, wondering what answer she had expected.

Her eyes widen in surprised recognition. "That's it?"

He straightens in his chair. "So he was here. How long ago?"

She shakes her head. "Huh-uh. My turn. That's the, only, reason you're here?"

Now it's his turn to frown. "Pretty much... yeah."

"And you weren't sent to take me back."

"Back? Back where?" he asks in momentary bewilderment, until something nibbles at the back of his mind. "Where are you from?"

She blinks as she regards him. Her eyes unfocus for a moment before she gives herself a small shake. "Never mind. Look, I don't have much patience for games. If I let your friend here go, will you put that freakin' gun away and tell me what the hell is going on?"

He regards her thoughtfully for a moment, and then curtly nods. "As long as you're straight with me, and don't be trying any funny stuff."

"Deal." She raises her hands to show him that she's going to have to touch Monroe in order to free her.

His eyes narrow and his hand tenses, but he releases/leaves his gun on his knee and nods for her to continue.

She shifts her weight slightly, and gently cups Monroe's face between her hands. Her eyes once again bore intensely into the other woman's, and she asserts quietly, "You can move now."

Abruptly, Monroe's muscles relax, and she plops down on the floor sucking in great gulps of air.

MacKenna shoots Hobbes a challenge with her eyes. He nods and holsters his gun as he rises and strides over to help Monroe up.

Her legs asleep from being immobile so long, she leans heavily on his arm for support as he guides her towards the chair he'd just vacated. She glares at MacKenna. "What the hell did you do to me?"

"Ever read Stephen King?" is the weary reply. She rubs the tight muscles on the back of her neck with her left hand as she leans her head back. "It's similar to what the little girl's dad could do in Firestarter."

"That doesn't explain very much," Monroe snaps.

"I know," MacKenna replies quietly, her eyes shut.

"Alright," Hobbes breaks in, "When was Fawkes here?"

She cracks open one eye to look at the two agents. "I made his acquaintance around three thirty this afternoon."

"And where is he now?"

She shuts her eye. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" demands Monroe, lightly shaking the feeling back into her legs.

"Exactly that," MacKenna replies evenly. "They took him about an hour later, and didn't feel I needed to know much more."

"They," Hobbes probes.

She sighs heavily before sitting up straight as she opens her eyes to look at the two agents. "Look, this guy Stark and his two bodyguards took your friend somewhere around four thirty or so. They didn't tell me where; and frankly, I didn't want to know. Okay?"

Monroe stands up, having finally gotten most of the feeling back in her legs. She begins to pace in a tight circle. "No, it's not 'okay'," she snaps. "Do you realize that they're going to kill him, if they haven't already?"

Hobbes, having plunged deep into thought when MacKenna mentions Stark's name, suddenly snaps his fingers. Both women start in surprise. He looks up at first MacKenna, then Monroe. "Makes sense. Chrysalis owns this apartment; Mandy here's working for 'em..."

"Amy," MacKenna interrupts coldly.

"What?" Hobbes asks, distracted by the sudden interruption.

"Not Mandy. Don't ever... call me... Mandy. Amy, or Amanda." she asserts vehemently. "But never 'Mandy'," she adds with a shiver.

Hobbes assesses her physical state with a piercing eye. "So what happened to you?"

Her expression becomes guarded. "What else? I tangled with some nasty people."

"This just isn't as important as finding Fawkes is right now," Monroe impatiently interrupts. "So, if you were Stark," she addresses Hobbes, "where would you take him?"

"HQ," is the thoughtful reply.

"Or, they'd shoot him and dump the body in an alley somewhere," MacKenna adds with a tiny note of sarcasm.

"Will you shut up," Monroe snaps menacingly. She places her hand on the butt of her gun, indicating that she's perfectly ready to shoot the other woman right here and now.

MacKenna tenses on the couch, her eyes narrowing. "I've been threatened by people a helluva lot nastier than you, sweetheart," she growls, her eyes glittering. "And you don't even come close to scaring me."

"Cut it out," Hobbes steps in between the women's glowering. In doing so, he momentarily turns his back on MacKenna. "Look, maybe we can work something out with this," he confides in a low voice to Monroe.

"What do you mean?"

"Like us calling Stark and suggesting an exchange of 'prisoners'. Hm?"

Monroe nods, her face brightening. "Not bad, Bobby," she compliments.

Hobbes dips his head slightly in acknowledgement, then turns around to face MacKenna.

Only she's no longer on the couch.

He freezes as the point of a very sharp and wicked knife pricks his Adams' apple. She carefully spins him around to shield herself from Monroe, who whips out her gun and aims it between MacKenna's eyes. The other woman carefully removes Hobbes' primary gun from its holster, and then lightly pats down the parts of him she can easily reach. She removes another gun, and tosses it across the room.

"You'd better drop that gun," she orders Monroe as she slowly backs him away... towards the door.

"And you'd better stand still; unless you'd like another nosebleed," Monroe replies evenly, the barrel still unwaveringly aimed between the other woman's eyes.

They narrow into blazing slits. "You're not taking me back there, so go ahead... shoot me. Please."

"'There'?" Hobbes grunts. "Where's... there?"

The knife presses deeper into his throat until a small bead of blood forms. His gun is firmly planted in his lower back.

"The Shop," MacKenna hisses into his ear. "I'd rather die than return to that hole!"

The agent's eyes widen in sudden realization. Monroe's gun wavers ever so slightly as she blinks her surprise. They weren't expecting this.

In that split moment, MacKenna cocks and levels Hobbes' gun at Monroe's head. The safety is off. "Drop it! Now!" she barks.

Monroe hesitates, torn between action and acquiescence.

She slowly bends down and stiffly places her gun on the floor at her feet. Without prompting, she kicks it away from her while uttering softly, "We're not here to capture you. Right now we just want to get Agent Fawkes back."

"Yeah, right," MacKenna growls.

"Fine, but it's the truth," she returns evenly.

MacKenna swallows hard as an invisible lightbulb goes off in the back of her mind, and then slowly removes the knife from Hobbes' throat. She secures it in a hidden sheath at the small of her back, and gently places her now free hand on his temple. She closes her eyes briefly, concentrating.

Monroe shoots Hobbes a questioning look, which he returns with a facially expressive negative.

MacKenna reopens her eyes, and speaks softly in his ear. "You can't lie to me."

He blinks suddenly unfocused eyes, momentarily entranced.

Her body sways as she removes her hand. Her nose begins to bleed again.

Hobbes lightly shivers off the remnants of fog from his mind. His eyes refocus on Monroe, who asks knowingly, "Bobby?"

He nods once, "Yah, I'm fine," and turns his head to look askance at MacKenna.

Her eyes are closed again, and he can see her desperately trying to quell the uncontrollable twitching of her muscles. The gun somehow remains fairly steady and is still aimed at Monroe, with only slight twitching coinciding with the worst of the seizures. As they fade, she reopens eyes mirroring the pain and exhaustion she feels. She clenches her teeth, and asks Hobbes, "Were you sent to bring me back?"

"No. We're supposed to find out where you are, and then call in a report," he replies.

"To whom?" she grits out.

"Agent Barnes," Monroe answers quietly.

She shoots a quelling glare at the other agent. "I wasn't asking you."

Hobbes nods once. "It's true."

She sprouts an ironic little smile. "So the little bastard's in charge now. Hunh... figures."

"He said the guy before him died the night you broke out."

"Oh, yeah. I wanted to make sure that that freakin' sadist went out with a bang," she growls with a feral grin.

Something clicks in his mind, and he thinks out loud, "So, if you're the one Arnaud busted out, and you're with Chrysalis now, that means..."

Monroe blinks, coming to the same conclusion. "Means," she interrupts, "that de Fehrn and Stark are working together."

"Oh, this sucks," he mutters woefully.

MacKenna lightly shoves him away from her. He spins around to face her, and takes a couple of steps backward until he's beside Monroe.

The gun is still pointed at the two agents. "Is there any way I can convince you to not tell Barnes where I am?" she asks desperately.

Hobbes nods/shrugs noncommittally, and Monroe looks at him as if saying, 'You can't do that.'

A moment passes, and MacKenna suddenly lowers the gun. It clatters to the floor, and she sways wildly as her knees buckle.

Being closer to the woman, Monroe catches her before she can hit the floor.

Hobbes hesitates as she begins to fall, then moves to help Monroe guide the exhausted woman to a chair. They gently set her limp body down, and Monroe checks her pulse. He fetches some paper towels from the kitchen for MacKenna to clean the blood from her face and shirt.

She studies them, being conscious the whole time. "I guess I don't have much of a choice, now," she comments weakly.

Hobbes regards her thoughtfully for a moment, and then taps Monroe lightly on the shoulder. She glances up at him, then rises and follows him a few steps away from the chair. She cocks her head questioningly, and he quietly comments, "She needs a doctor. We'd better check in with the Fat Man."

Monroe nods. "You do it; I'll see if she can remember anything else that'll help us find Fawkes."

Hobbes returns the nod, and walks out the door to make the call.

Friday, 2:30am
In The Official's office, Eberts is rapidly typing on his laptop, while He paces restlessly. They're both looking pretty rough around the edges, with their ties loosened and the top buttons of their shirts undone.

The phone rings, startling them both out of their respective reveries.

The Official strides briskly over to His desk and picks up the phone. "This is He," He answers gruffly. He listens as Hobbes discloses his 'sit-rep', nodding and emitting a "Hm," at various intervals.

Eberts cocks his head questioningly, and The Official mouths 'Hobbes' to him. The assistant nods, looking inquisitively anxious.

The Official waves for Eberts to go out the door. Understanding the unspoken request, he shoots out of his chair and heads to the lab to fetch Claire.

They enter the office a few moments later. She's rubbing the sleepies from her bleary eyes.

The Official waves Claire over to Him. He's sitting in His desk chair, occasionally scribbling notes in shorthand. She shoots Him a questioning look as she leans on the edge of His desk.

"Hold on, Bobby, I want Claire to hear this," He interrupts Hobbes, then pushes the phone's speaker button as He hangs up the handset.

"Hey Keepie," Hobbes greets Claire warmly. "How you holdin' up?"

"I'll feel better when Darien is back safe and sound," she replies wearily. "What's going on?"

"Well, like I was telling the boss, we've come across some pretty hinky stuff here," he starts, but then Monroe's voice murmurs something unintelligible in the background. "Oh, give it up Monroe, it's a perfectly valid word," he complains, and is about to continue, but The Official cuts him off.

"Never mind that. Keep going."

"Well," Hobbes continues a little huffily. "We found the chick Arnaud busted out of that lab in Virginia. Turns out the 'good Doctor' has shacked up with Chrysalis."

Eberts and Claire exchange disturbed looks, but The Official doesn't seem fazed.

"And Amy here was actually some sort of experiment from that lab in Virginia. She says it's known as The Shop," Hobbes continues.

"What?" barks The Official, palms pressed flat down on His desk as He half rises from His chair. He seems as upset and nervous at the mention of The Shop as He was when dealing with the Man With No Name during the initial incident with Dr. Gaither.

"Yeah, we got ourselves the start of one helluva list for a human experiments' support group here," Hobbes comments wryly.

Once again Monroe's voice is heard murmuring in the background.

"All right, all right," he replies in irritation. "So anyway, Amy says Fawkes showed up at her place this afternoon around three thirty. Unfortunately, the 'Doctor' was 'in', and he managed to knock Fawkes out. An hour later, Stark shows up with his goons to pick Fawkes up. Arnaud went with them, but Amy isn't sure where."

"So what's your next step?" The Official asks as He sinks back down in His chair.

"Dunno, boss," Hobbes replies heavily. "We thought to check at Chrysalis HQ, but they probably figured we'd check there, and would've gone somewhere else."

"Bobby, do you and Alex still have the vials I gave you earlier?" Claire asks worriedly.

"Yah. Don't worry Keep, we'll get 'im back... somehow," he replies with false confidence.

She doesn't look very comforted. "Bobby, by now Darien could very well have gone into Phase Three madness. At the least. There's no more time; we need to get him back... now."

He sighs in frustration, and Eberts' face suddenly brightens as he has a revelation. "Robert, did you happen to find Darien's phone there?"

There's a moment of silence before he replies, "No, we haven't seen it anywhere. Why?"

Eberts looks thoughtful, and eagerly explains, "There may be a chance that Darien still has his phone, and if it's still on..."

"So?" The Official grumbles distractedly.

"Yeah, Eberts. So?" Hobbes echoes The Official, albeit a bit more impatiently. "How can that help us find... Oh-ho!" he exclaims as he finally understands what the man was getting at.

Claire is looking hopefully at the assistant. "Do you think you could track Darien again, through the signal?"

He nods excitedly. "As long as the charge hasn't worn out on the battery."

The Official claps His hands down decisively on the desk. "Eberts, you and Claire track that signal. Hobbes, you and Monroe bring this woman in. I want her in protective custody until all this is sorted out."

"Got it, boss," Hobbes replies. "Just one problem."

"What," He snaps, unwilling to bear one more complication.

"A: She doesn't wanna come with us, and B: if we do get her in there, Claire's gonna have to take a look at her."

She glances questioningly at the phone, having already halfway crossed the room to Eberts' worktable. "Why? What's the matter?"

"It's a bit complicated to go into right now," he replies cryptically. "Just be sure you have a couple pints of O-positive blood ready... just in case."

Her brows furrow together in concern. "Bobby, you didn't..."

"No, no," he reassures. "She just has this problem with... nosebleeds."

She's not buying it. "A nosebleed wouldn't necessitate..."

"Just trust me on this," he interrupts quickly. "We'll explain when we get in. ETA's twenty minutes."

"Got it," The Official verifies. "And I don't care if she doesn't want to come. One way or another, you get her in here... capiche?"

"Yah, got it Chief. See you soon," Hobbes replies, then hangs up.

The Official cuts off the phone and looks up at Claire and Eberts. "Let's get moving, people," He orders wearily.

They nod, and she sits down next to him as they pull up his previous calculations on the laptop.


A few moments after he finishes speaking with The Official and the others, Hobbes re-enters MacKenna's living room from the kitchen area.

She's arguing with Monroe as he rejoins them, tucking the phone inside his jacket. "Look, I'm not going with you. There's absolutely no reason for me to..."

Monroe is standing a few feet away from the chair with her arms crossed. "No, there's every reason for you to come," she returns firmly. "When Stark finds out you've been talking with us, he's likely to kill you himself."

MacKenna shakes her head. "He told me to expect a visit from your precious little Agency," she retorts. "If anything, he'll send me somewhere else where I can finally have some peace and quiet."

"Yeah, it's called a graveyard," Hobbes comments dryly as he joins the 'discussion'.

MacKenna swings her head to glare at Hobbes. "Ha ha... very funny," she snaps.

"I'm not kidding," he returns calmly. "Stark has absolutely no tolerance with his people 'consorting with the enemy'. He shot the last woman who lived here himself when he found out she and Fawkes were... involved."

"What do you mean... 'involved'?"

"They'd been... dating?" Monroe clarifies, glancing at Hobbes uncertainly.

"Sort of," he answers.

"Oooooh," MacKenna breathes knowingly as she shakes her head a little. But her amusement fades as his second to last sentence sinks in. She looks sharply at both agents. "Waitaminute. Why would Mr. Stark do that?"

"Like I said, no tolerance," Hobbes comments with a small shrug. "There was this other guy from Chrysalis, too: didn't like some of the stuff they were doing to kids, and contacted us with the info. Stark found out about the leak, and plugged it."

"Permanently," Monroe adds.

MacKenna's expression becomes troubled.

"Not to mention Stark's own wife turned on him when he told her he'd rather see their kid die before letting us take him back to his real family," Hobbes adds, oblivious to the effect his words would have on Monroe. She turns her head away, hiding her reaction to the mention of her son.

"What was her name?" MacKenna asks thoughtfully.

"Stark's wife?" Hobbes prompts.

"No, the woman who lived here," she replies quietly.

Monroe dons her coat while he replies, "Alianora."

Her eyes widen slightly in recognition. "I've heard that name mentioned. Never around Mr. Stark, though. I guess now I know why," she murmurs, still looking troubled.

"So will you please come with us now?" Monroe asks, impatient and wanting to go.

MacKenna nods slowly, deep in thought.

Hobbes holds out a hand and helps her to stand. She sways, still weak from blood loss, and he steadies her. He nods to Monroe, who precedes them to the door.

"Wait," MacKenna stops at the door. "Shoes."

He stands close enough for her to lean on him if necessary. She pulls on a pair of tennis shoes and grabs another shirt from a chair beside the door.

Monroe holds open the door, and they exit the apartment. She closes the inner door, and the screen door silently swings shut behind her as she walks towards the van.


Friday, 3:00am
The door slides open to The Keeper's lab, and Monroe enters with MacKenna leaning heavily on her arm. She's changed into the clean shirt. Monroe leads her to the "demented dentist's" chair and helps her onto it. She leans back and closes her eyes, looking extremely pale.

"Does he drive like that all the time?" she asks a little breathlessly.

Monroe walks over to the sink, picks up a clean glass and fills it with cold tap water. "I'm afraid so," she replies wryly. She turns, walks back to the chair and hands the glass to the other woman. She accepts it without opening her eyes and takes a few small sips before handing it back to Monroe with a murmured "Thanks."

The lab door slides open, and Hobbes, Claire, Eberts and The Official all enter.

MacKenna cracks open an eye, and wryly comments "Well. Hail, hail, the gang's all here."

Hobbes and Monroe shake their heads slightly, amused. Eberts' eyebrows twitch in inquiry. Claire and The Official, however, don't look like they have much of a sense of humor at the moment.

Claire strides over to MacKenna, and begins to check her vitals. She seems moderately concerned with how the woman looks.

"You look horrible," she exclaims as she picks up a blood pressure cuff and fastens it around MacKenna's uninjured arm. She inflates the cuff, and listens intently for a moment. Then, she re-inflates the cuff two more times, not believing what she's heard.

"Flatterer," MacKenna quips, exhausted. She leans her head back on the chair, once again closing her eyes. "I guess you could say I've traveled far, and suffered much," she murmurs as the cuff is inflated for the third time.

Monroe and Hobbes each raise an eyebrow, remembering that he'd facetiously uttered the same sentiment hours earlier.

Meanwhile, Eberts has positioned himself at the partial wall separating the lab from the exam room.
The Official stands at the foot of the chair, and regards MacKenna darkly. "How did she get like this?"

"Well, she has, this, thing, that makes her have nosebleeds," Hobbes starts.

"And seizures," Monroe adds.

The Official and Eberts simultaneously cock their heads to the side in puzzlement. "I don't follow," He grunts.

"It's not that difficult to understand, Mr. Borden," MacKenna speaks up, opening heavy eyelids to regard him with moderate amusement. She smiles wearily at his shocked expression. "One tends to pick up tidbits of information when doctors and guards don't know or care if one's listening," she explains. "Your name's popped up a few times in conversations... yours too, Agent Monroe," she nods at the 5-star agent, whose eyes widen in surprise. "... And over the years, I've learned to keep track of it all up here." She points to her head with her right hand, wincing at the twinge from her wound. "You both have, interesting, track records," she finishes, smiling knowingly.

The Official stands stiffly, blinking in astonishment. He gives Himself a small shake and warily regards her. He opens His mouth to utter something, but just then Claire pipes up.

Turning to the fridge, she calls over her shoulder, "Bobby, would you bring that IV stand over to the chair, please."

He complies, contemplating the ramifications of MacKenna's last comment.

She opens the bottom of the fridge to pull out a bag of blood.

In the corner, Eberts blanches when he sees it. He turns his head away to intently study the fish tank over in the other side of the room.

She comes back to the chair, and hangs the bag up on the stand. "Thank you Bobby," she says absently as she inserts the IV needle into MacKenna's arm.

He gets that small, infatuated smile reserved only for Claire.

MacKenna doesn't react at all to the puncturing of her arm. She bemusedly watches as the blood begins to flow into her vein.

"I could barely get a reading on your blood pressure," Claire mildly scolds. "How is it that you could've lost so much blood from just a nosebleed?"

The woman blinks, and brings her attention back to the here-and-now. Looking the doctor in the eyes, she replies, "They aren't nosebleeds, necessarily." She pauses, and explains further as Claire frowns in disbelief. "My brain tends to hemorrhage when I overuse my... gift." She rolls the last word around in her mouth as if it tasted like feces. "The doctors installed a shunt into my sinuses, which helps minimize pressure on my brain. The seizures are a side effect from excessive production of certain neurochemicals."

"Oh, that made sense," Hobbes mutters.

Claire's expression changes slightly, becoming more thoughtful.

"Have you read any Stephen King?" MacKenna continues to Claire.

She shakes her head. "I'm familiar with his work, but I don't take much time for that kind of recreational reading."

MacKenna smiles her understanding. "Do you know the basic story line in Firestarter?"

Eberts pipes up. "Ah, yes, I do. It's about a couple that volunteered for an experiment while they were in college. They had a child a few years later, who could start fires with her... mind." His face twists apologetically at the seeming farfetchedness of the notion.

"Eberts," The Official growls quellingly.

He ducks his head, but MacKenna states, "Can it, Charlie." Her gaze returns to Eberts as she continues. "Exactly. You remember that both of the girl's parents got their own 'abilities' from that experiment?"
He nods as he rapidly accesses old memories.

"Wasn't the mother telekinetic?" Monroe interjects.

MacKenna nods while Eberts continues. "And the father could make people, do things..." he trails off as he tries to remember the rest of it.

"I didn't know you liked that kind of stuff," Hobbes mutters in an aside to Monroe.

"There's a lot about me you still don't know, Bobby," she murmurs back suggestively.

He just grins.

Meanwhile, MacKenna is smiling tentatively at Eberts. "Yeah, that's it. He referred to it as 'pushing'. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?" she directs her last comment to Hobbes and Monroe, who each respectively look thoughtful and slightly unnerved.

MacKenna gazes at Claire, who's trying to interpret the logistics behind the medical procedure(s) performed to achieve such an outcome.

"Believe me, this ain't something you figure out in a few minutes, Doctor. It took them nearly eight years of fiddling to get me working this well."

"'Fiddling'." The Official mutters.

"Yeah, as in surgery. And lots of it," she replies, obviously repulsed with the memories.

"I wonder what exactly they did," Claire quietly thinks out loud as she prepares to place a thermometer in MacKenna's mouth.

The woman closes her eyes again as she sighs deeply. "It's still a pretty sore subject for me, so I'd rather not talk about it for a while. Like, maybe... never? ... But if you'd like, sometime I'll show you the scars from where they cut me open."

Claire frowns as she checks MacKenna's pulse, unsure of whether or not she's being facetious. She moves to place the thermometer in the woman's mouth, and MacKenna warns, "I run pretty hot, so don't be alarmed when you see my temp." Then she glances up at the others and talks around the thermometer in her mouth. "Anyway, aren't you guys supposed to be out looking for your other friend?"

"Ah! Yes!" Eberts exclaims, suddenly remembering something important. "I've... we've," Eberts corrects himself, nodding to Claire, "made some progress in tracking Darien's whereabouts."

The Official cuts him off. "Not here, Eberts. Doctor, stay here and keep an eye on our guest. People, follow me." He strides towards the door, and Eberts, Monroe and Hobbes follow; kind of like ducklings following Papa Drake to the pond.

"I'd be better able to care for you if I knew more about your history," Claire begins explaining to MacKenna as the lab door slides shut behind Hobbes. She's slightly turned away from the chair, checking for air bubbles in the bag of blood. When she turns to look at MacKenna, she realizes that the battered woman has passed out.

She removes the thermometer and glances at the reading. It's 102.6F. She frowns and places a gentle palm on the woman's forehead. Reluctantly at first, she smoothes away wisps of hair from the pale, hot face. A moment passes as Claire enigmatically regards the sleeping woman. Then she turns and covers MacKenna with a warm blanket before wearily returning to her computer on the other side of the lab.


A few minutes later, the Official's office door opens, and Monroe, Eberts and Hobbes start out into the hallway as they finish their discussion on how to find and rescue Darien.

"So you're sure this's right," Hobbes asks Eberts as the door opens.

"It's the same program I used to triangulate his location earlier, Robert," he replies a bit acerbically.

"Yeah, well, look how accurate that was," Hobbes mutters, just loud enough for the assistant to hear.

He opens his mouth to take offense, and Monroe intervenes. "Bobby, stop pestering Eberts. He's done remarkably, especially so late in the evening."

"Thank you," Eberts gleams, pleased that she's sticking up for him.

"We're all tired," The Official utters from His desk, "And taking your frustrations out on each other doesn't bring Fawkes home any sooner."

Hobbes reluctantly drops his eyes from Eberts', muttering "Sorry, Eberts."

"It's all right, Robert. I'm worried about him, too," he returns magnanimously as he pats the other man on the shoulder.

Hobbes glances coldly at the offending hand, of which Eberts quickly withdraws.

Monroe ignores Hobbes, and gently takes a sheet of paper from Eberts' hand.

"You've been a huge help, Albert. Thank you," she expresses warmly. "C'mon, Bobby, let's go." She turns to leave, but Hobbes stops her.

"Hold on a sec. I wanna check on Claire and Amy first."

"Hobbes..." Monroe protests, irritated at what she felt was an unnecessary delay. "Let the woman rest. Claire's got a handle on things in there."

He ignores her, and enters the lab.

Claire is sitting at her computer with her back to the door, her head resting on her arms. She's just fallen asleep.

MacKenna is still sleeping in the lab chair, with the blanket pulled up to her collarbone. The transfusion is almost finished, and it's made quite an improvement on her complexion. The color has begun to come back into her cheeks, and her sickly pallor has almost completely faded.

As Hobbes and Monroe quietly step into the lab, MacKenna's eyes snap open. The paranoid panic in them begins to fade as she remembers where she is. She opens her mouth to speak, but Hobbes puts a silencing finger to his mouth, indicating the slumbering doctor with a jerk of his head.

She glances at Claire, and then nods an acknowledgement. She raises her chin, wordlessly asking the two agents to come closer.

Once they're beside her, she softly asks, "So, you know where he is?"

Hobbes nods. "Yeah, we're just leaving."

MacKenna nods, and begins to sit up and remove the blanket.

Monroe stops her with a hand on her arm. "What do you think you're doing?"

As she opens her mouth to answer, Monroe shakes her head in anticipation of what she thinks the other woman is going to say. "No way. You're in no shape to go with us."

Hobbes blinks, mildly surprised that MacKenna was interested in joining them. "Why?"

She flips the blanket completely off of her legs, and carefully swings them over the side of the chair. "I've been thinking ever since we left the apartment," she murmurs. "And I think I've figured out a few things."

"Like..." Monroe prompts.

"Like the fact that I've been asked to 'push' Arnaud," she motions with her hands as if she were holding someone's head between them, "a lot over the past few days."

"Why?" Hobbes wonders.

"Mr. Stark explained that Arnaud had become unstable since he went, you know, see-through, and that my... 'special talent' was exactly what they needed to keep him from completely going off the deep end," she replies.

"I'd say it's a little too late for that," he mutters sarcastically.

She grins. "Hmm. You might be right there. That man has more unfocused rage than I do."

"That would explain why you were so tapped out after we showed up," Monroe comments thoughtfully.

MacKenna nods. "Usually it's pretty easy imposing my will on others, but with Arnaud, I dunno... it's been... different." She frowns, rubbing her fingers as she remembers the shocks, then continues. "Mr. Stark thought that might have to do with our... modifications."

Hobbes nods, intrigued with what he's hearing.

"I'm just not ready to trust anyone... yet. Including you," she remarks thoughtfully. "Anyway, I figure it'd be easier for you to get Agent Fawkes back if you had me there to trade."

"I think we can handle this without putting you in any more danger," Monroe returns.

MacKenna shakes her head with an ironic smile. "I doubt that very much, Agent Monroe. If what you said about Mr. Stark is true, he'll terminate me the first chance he gets anyway. That's one too many special interests out for my head, so I'd rather just settle this now."

Hobbes and Monroe regard her thoughtfully for a moment.

"Give us a second," Hobbes tells her, taking Monroe aside for a private conference.

MacKenna nods, and turns her attention to carefully removing the IV needle from her arm.

"What do you think?" he asks Monroe.

She shakes her head, unsure if this was such a good idea. "For all we know, this whole thing could've been a setup from the start. I just don't have a good feeling about it."

Hobbes smiles in irony. "Gee, that sounds familiar."

She shoots him a 'Ha ha, you're sooo funny' glare, and continues as if she hadn't heard him. "Even if she was on the level with us, she'd still be a liability in a fight. I'd feel more comfortable if she stayed here."

Hobbes shakes his head. "I think she's legit. She's coming."

He turns and approaches MacKenna, who looks up at him questioningly.

In an exasperated tone, Monroe mutters, "Why did you bother to ask my opinion if you weren't even going to listen to it?" and remains where she is with arms folded and resisting the urge to strangle him.

Meanwhile, Hobbes is saying to the other woman, "You can come with us, but you have to stay out of sight, and do everything we tell you. Got it?"

She snorts in amusement. "Yes sir." She jauntily salutes him, smiling at her private joke before glancing at Monroe. "Don't worry, Agent Monroe. I've learned how to take care of myself. I won't hold you back."

"Whatever," Monroe murmurs dryly. "Let's get moving before they decide to move him somewhere else." She heads out through the lab door, followed by MacKenna and then Hobbes.

As the door slides shut, Claire's seen still fast asleep in her chair.

Hobbes' van pulls up at the end of a stately brick warehouse around 3:45am. With only the parking lights on, he stops just outside of the circle of light cast by the warehouses' floodlight. There's a large brass plaque at the corner of the building, designating it as "#4".

"This is it," he murmurs quietly, double-checking the map that Eberts had given them earlier. He carefully sets the paper down on the floor in between the front seats. "Are we clear on the plan?" he directs his question to both women.

They nod, and MacKenna replies, "I stay here in the van with this," she holds up a cell phone, "and listen for signs of trouble on your end. Any problems, I hang up immediately and call Charlie for backup."

Monroe nods from the passenger seat. "Make sure to keep your head down. Keep at the back of the van in case any sentries come by."

MacKenna nods affirmation. "Got it. Hey, do you think I should have a gun?"

Hobbes and Monroe answer simultaneously with a vehement "NO."

She shrugs. "I guess it's better if I stick with my knife." She instinctively touches the wicked blade sheathed at the small of her back. "You guys'd better get a move on. Who knows what they're doing to your friend."

"Right." Hobbes takes the keys from the ignition and tucks them in the visor above him. He turns to glance at MacKenna and warns, "Don't leave the van for anything, got it?"

She nods, and he continues. "Monroe'll call you on her phone a minute or so after we're around the corner there," he gestures at the edge of the warehouse, approximately ten yards away. "Whatever you do, don't say or do anything that'd give us away."

"Okay, got it. How will I know if you're in trouble?"

"You'll hear gunfire," Monroe replies dryly as she opens her door and slips out.

Hobbes exits the van, and joins her at the front. MacKenna observes them use a couple of hand signals and head gestures before moving towards the corner of the warehouse.

"Good luck," she murmurs as she makes herself comfortable at the back of the van.

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*

Hobbes and Monroe carefully make their way to a stack of pallets a few feet from the door of the warehouse.

There's a man smoking a cigarette and obviously guarding the door. No one else seems to be around.

The two agents glance wordlessly at each other, and Monroe nods as she pulls out a tranquilizer gun from her coat pocket. She takes a moment to aim between the pallet slats, then fires.

*Pffft!*

The man raises a hand to slap the mosquito he thinks has bitten him. With a 'What the...' look on his face, he drops to the pavement.

Hobbes comes out and quickly drags the man behind the pallets, while Monroe pulls out her cell phone and calls MacKenna.


The phone in her hand rings, and MacKenna opens it. "Yah," she murmurs.

"We're going in," Monroe replies just as quietly. "Whatever you do, don't make any noise, got it?"

"Got it. Luck," she whispers, and keeps the phone to her head as Monroe carefully places the phone in her other coat pocket and pulls out her gun. She switches off the safety and nods to Hobbes, who is just finishing tying and gagging the Chrysalis agent. He rises with Monroe and silently cracks open the door. She quickly steps inside and sweeps the interior with her eyes and firearm.

Nothing.

He enters just behind her, careful that the door swings quietly shut. They note a long hallway (about 90 yards long) with a few doors on either side.

He looks at her as if he's saying 'Now what?'.

She shrugs slightly, and takes the lead down the hall. She puts her ear on the first door she comes to. Hearing nothing, she pulls away and shakes her head to him. He proceeds to the next door on the other side of the corridor, and mimics her actions.

Again, nothing.

They slowly make their way down the hallway, listening at each door they come to. At the end is a stairwell going up, and to the left are the closed doors of a freight elevator.

This time she covers him as he silently opens the door and edges into the stairwell. He looks up to see if anyone is on the stairs above him. After a moment, he nods to her that the way is clear, and they carefully make their way up to the next floor.

The stairs end at the second story, and he listens to the stairwell door before slowly opening it. He pops his head through the doorway and quickly scans the area inside. Waving to her, he strides in to another hallway, but this time it's much shorter.

To their left is the lift, open and waiting for someone to send it down. To their right the hall ends at a lavatory and cleaning closet. In front of them are two giant wood doors, with one ajar about a foot or so.

There are faint voices coming from inside.

They each position themselves on either side of the doors, with Hobbes holding his gun as if to pistol-whip someone. Monroe exchanges her firearm for the tranquilizer gun. They listen intently to the voices for a moment, hearing if anyone was coming their way.

One voice sounded like it was.

She aims the tranq. gun at the point where the person would first show in her sights, and he tenses for the inevitable struggle.

"I'll see how Aaron's doing," the male voice comments, and the door pushes open another two or so feet. Dude appears, still looking over his shoulder. As he clears the doorway, Hobbes cold-cocks him behind the ear. Making sure that Dude stays down, Monroe fires the tranquilizer gun the same time that Hobbes strikes the man.

With nary a peep, Dude drops like a stone.

The two agents catch Dude before he hits the floor, and drag him to the cleaning closet. She keeps watch while he quickly trusses and gags him. Hobbes closes the closet door on the sleeping Chrysalis agent, and they sneak back to their previous positions at the double doors.

Hobbes listens intently, and raises a finger for each individual voice he hears.

One... two... three...... four... five?

Edging his head around the open door, he sneaks a quick peek of the interior, and then jerks back. Monroe looks at him expectantly, and he shakes his head.

He mouths that he'll count to three, and then they’ll storm in and surprise the people inside the room. She nods her understanding, and he lifts one, two, three fingers...

They rush through the doors, and simultaneously shout, "FREEZE!"

All movement in the room ceases for a moment, and then all hell breaks loose.

Stark and two Chrysalis agents scramble from a table on the left side of the room as they free their guns and start firing.

The two agents split up and run for cover.

He darts to his right, and positions himself behind a set of file cabinets.

She's caught out in the open with no useful cover, so she drops to one knee and starts picking off men just like the shoot-the-duck booth at a carnival.

Hobbes keeps Stark occupied so he doesn't have a chance to shoot her.

In the middle-right of the large room is an impromptu operating theatre encased in plastic. Inside, seemingly oblivious to the firefight around them, are two figures on either side of an operating table.

Guess who's getting sliced?

The gunfire halts for a moment, and a voice is heard screaming, "Would someone please get me the HELL OUTTA HERE?!!"

The agents are momentarily distracted, realizing that something disastrous was about to happen to Darien. He suddenly thrashes on the operating table. The two figures on either side of him step back, and then close in as the seizures stop.

Stark takes the opportunity to reload his gun, rise and aim at Monroe's head.

Hobbes notices the movement, quickly aims his gun and fires.

Stark shoots just as the bullet from the other man's gun rips through his shoulder. He falls over backwards, his gun flying.

Monroe cries out and falls to the floor, clutching her thigh.

"Alex!" Hobbes shouts and, still keeping his gun trained on Stark's immobile form, bolts over to her. He kneels down and carefully moves her leg so he can get a better look at where the bullet hit her.

She reflexively swings a fist at him, clipping him on the shoulder. He staggers back a step, then grabs her fist and forces it down. He holsters his gun and fiercely whispers to her, "Quit it and let me look!"

Monroe forcibly calms herself, and allows Hobbes to check the wound.

"It's nothing... just a flesh wound," she grits out between her teeth. "Go... Get Fawkes... I'll be fine!" She puts a hand on the entrance wound and presses down as hard as she can.

Hobbes hesitates for a moment, and she glares at him. "Go, Bobby! I'll cover you!" She picks up her fallen gun with a surprisingly steady hand.

Nodding, he pulls out a handkerchief and helps her tie it on as a temporary bandage. Then he rises while pulling out his gun. He takes a few cautious steps towards the operating theatre, and a familiar voice calls out a warning.

"I suggest you stay where you are, Agent Hobbes. I have quite a few very sharp instruments at hand that can damage Darien horribly," de Fehrn states smugly.

"Just wait and see how I use them on you," Darien calmly threatens, his head rearing back to smile murder at the mercenary.

"Yes, well, I suggest you lie still and let the anesthetic do its work," de Fehrn warns. "It's not very pleasant listening to the screams of the person you're operating on."

"Don't even move towards that gland," Hobbes growls from the other side of the plastic.

"What are you going to do, shoot me?" de Fehrn laughs. "I wouldn't recommend it, since my colleague will just kill your partner if you do."

Hobbes squints and takes aim at the mercenary's head as Monroe calls out, "Hobbes, you take de Fehrn. I've got the assistant."

"Well, well, the indomitable Agent Monroe isn't dead," de Fehrn comments. "It sounded like Stark had shot you."

"He shoots like a girl," she comments with a feral grin.

Darien begins to seize again.

"I guess this means that once again we'll have to reschedule our little date, so that I can... finally... kill you." de Fehrn sadly drops his scalpel on the rolling tray beside him as Darien collapses back down on the table.

Hobbes carefully edges through the heavy plastic, his gun never wavering from de Fehrn's head. "You even move like you're going see-through, and I air out your brain," he darkly threatens as he steps closer to the head of the table.

Darien is lying face down, with his head tilted at the optimal angle for gland extraction. His shirt had been removed, and, judging by the bruises darkening all over his torso, he'd been used as a human punching bag earlier on in the evening. Straps firmly secured his wrists, upper back (at the armpits) and his ankles to the table. Blood's crept out from under the straps, where his skin is rubbed raw from both the seizures and his struggles to free himself.

He's lying ominously still.

Hobbes touches him on the shoulder. It's scorching hot.

"Hey, partner, wake up. Time to check out of this dump," he quips in an effort to lighten the heavy feeling in his gut with humor.

It doesn't work.

And Darien doesn't move.

"It seems the anesthesia has finally kicked in," de Fehrn notes wryly.

The assistant just stands there with his arms raised in surrender.

"Monroe, we got a problem," Hobbes calls out. "Fawkes's out cold."

"Well, don't ask me to carry him," she snaps. "We'd better get out of here, in case Stark has reinforcements coming."

"Well, well, whatever will we do now?" de Fehrn asks with a shit-eating grin on his face.

"Just shut up and let me think..." Hobbes starts, but is interrupted as Darien's arm suddenly Quicksilvers and shoots out at the mercenary’s midsection. de Fehrn grunts, blanches, and looks down. He's puzzled to see a scalpel sticking out of his side, with blood already oozing around the deeply embedded blade. The blood flow increases as he moves to touch it.

Darien pushes himself up with an evil grin on his face. He watches as de Fehrn goes into shock, and comments blithely, "Remind you of another 'date' we had?" Then he twists his torso in order to free his other hand. Unsuccessful, he glances at his partner and queries, "Are you going to stand there with your mouth open all night? Or are you going to help me with these?"

Hobbes' stomach clenches as he stares into his partner's eyes.

They're red and black.

"Ah crap," he mutters, and stays put.

"Robert? Helloooo," Darien's voice drops menacingly. "You'd better help me with these things, Robert, or I'll have to be angry with you, too." His eyes glitter with malice as he strains to unbuckle the restraints first at his chest, and then at his feet. Hobbes resists the urge to fall back a step... or ten.

Something splats softly onto the floor.

Hobbes' eyes dart to where de Fehrn is standing.

Correction... was standing.

The synthesized skin, gloves and doctors' smock are all lying in a pile on the floor beside the operating table. There's a tiny puddle of blood partially covered by the discarded items, and a trail of blood spatter heading towards a door in the back of the room.

"Double crap," he mutters in frustration. When Fawkes's back in his right mind, he's going to be so pissed that Arnaud got away... again. "Why is it that every time we run into Arnaud it feels like some kinda bad soap opera?" he grumbles as he turns his gun on the assistant.

The terrified man raises his hands even higher, stammering, "Don't shoot, p-p-p-please don't shoot me!"

"What's the matter?" Monroe calls out.

"Arnaud's gone," Hobbes calls back in disgust.

"Crap." She sounds a little weak. "Stark's gone too. de Fehrn must've carried him out."

"I am, very, disappointed in you, Robert," Darien murmurs huskily.

Hobbes lowers his gun and snaps at the assistant, "Go and see if Agent Monroe needs any help."

de Fehrn's assistant hastily backpedals until he's clear of the plastic and hurries over to Monroe, who is starting to feel a bit woozy from shock.

Holstering his gun, Hobbes turns back to Darien. "Alright, Fawkesy, let's get you set up..." but is interrupted by hands suddenly clenching his windpipe.

Darien has managed to free himself from all of the restraints, swing his legs over the side of the table, and is now focusing all of his pent up rage on Hobbes.

"Fawkes, kkkkkkhh... quit it, willya? kkkkkkkhh..." Hobbes manages to sputter out. His fingers reflexively claw at his friend's in a vain effort to loosen them.

"You let him get away... again, Robert. Why is that, do you think?" Darien re-centers his thumbs on his partner's windpipe. "Maybe you and Arnaud worked out some sort of an 'arrangement', hmmm? He scratches your back, you scratch his? Well, never again, you hear me?!" He bears down on his friend, who is quickly turning a dark shade of purple.

A hand snakes around Darien's shoulder, plunging a hypodermic needle into the side of his neck. The hypo hisses slightly as it dispenses the sedative into his bloodstream.

He suddenly releases Hobbes, begins to Quicksilver, and whirls to strike the dumbass that...

"Don't be a peckerhead," MacKenna murmurs just before she grabs his head.

There's a crackling sound, as if from a lightning strike, and the two jerk like puppets on strings before collapsing bonelessly to the floor.

MacKenna’s eyes roll up into her head as she begins to thrash violently in the throes of a grand mal seizure, while Darien twitches uncontrollably as he tries to grab his head in agony.

Hobbes hoarsely bellows to Monroe as he hurries to keep the two from hurting themselves, "Alex, call Claire! We need her, NOW!"

Monroe yells at Arnaud's assistant, "Help me up!"

The man assists her as she simultaneously pulls out her cell phone and limps towards Hobbes and the others. She first disconnects, and then speed dials The Keeper's direct line.

"H-hello?" Claire's voice answers the phone. She sounds as if the ringing of the phone has jarred her awake.

"Claire, we need you down here yesterday," Monroe grits out. The pain in her leg is making her dizzy, and she clutches the man's arm. He's trying very hard to hold her up without them both toppling over.

"What's the matter? What's happened?" she asks, worried, her fatigue burning away as the adrenaline surges with the pounding of her heart.

"No time to explain. Bring your medical kit; Darien and Amanda are in serious trouble here," Monroe gasps between the waves of pain shooting up her body.

"Are you hurt, too?"

"Yeah, I've been shot in the leg. Just get down to the warehouse district. We're in Secure Storages' commercial lot, building four, in the back, upstairs."

"We're on our way," she replies briskly, and the two hang up just as Monroe and the assistant reach the plastic curtain.

He reaches out and parts the plastic. She staggers into the operating theatre, grabbing the table to steady herself. He stands frozen, staring at the now limp bodies of the two experimentals. MacKenna's ears and nostrils steadily stream blood, and Darien's nose has a tiny rivulet of red softly dripping onto the floor beside him.

Hobbes glances up as Monroe and the assistant enters, and is taken aback at how pale she looks. He rises quick as a shot, reaches around the operating table and catches Monroe as her knees begin to buckle. He helps her onto the table, snarling to the assistant, "Elevate that leg, make her comfortable, then get over here and help me!"

His tone snaps the man out of his shocked daze, and he carefully raises the lower third of the table so that her legs are elevated above her heart. She twists her head to watch as Hobbes checks the other’s pulses again.

A tense moment passes.

He looks back up at her, hesitates, and nods bleakly. Both of their heartbeats are there, but they're very faint. Returning his attention to Darien and MacKenna, he checks the rise and fall of their chests.

They're barely breathing.

He busies himself by untangling the two from each other, while checking for anything they might have broken when they fell.

The assistant, seeing an opportunity as soon as the two agents' attention becomes totally focused on their fallen comrades, slowly edges backwards to the plastic. Steeling himself, he whips around, darts out from the operating theatre and disappears through the back door.

Hobbes half rises from his position beside Darien when he notices the assistant making a run for it, hesitates, and decides to let the man go.

He drops back down, fishing out the one vial the Keeper had given him earlier. He snags the hypo that MacKenna dropped and exchanges the empty sedative bottle for the one full of the hormone blocker. He looks for a viable vein in Darien's arm, and injects the serum. He then gets the other tube from Monroe and carefully injects the small amount of counteragent directly into the gland.

The lanky man doesn't even twitch.

There's a flurry of movement at the front of the room, and Hobbes dives through the plastic, lands on one knee, and aims his gun...

At Claire.

"Oh, knock it off, Bobby," she admonishes him testily. "Where are they?" She searches the room with her eyes.

The Official and Eberts enter the room with two other agents, their guns drawn and ready for a fight.

Hobbes quickly deflates in relief (much like a punctured beach ball) at the arrival of reinforcements, and holsters his gun. "Behind the plastic. Monroe's on the table, Fawkes and Amy're behind her on the floor."

Claire and the other men hurry over to the injured.

The adrenaline begins to fade, and Hobbes begins to feel really tired as he attempts to rise. Eberts hurries over and takes his arm to help him up. He peers up at the subordinate, puzzled by the show of concern, and gratefully utters, "Thank you. Eberts."

The assistant smiles wearily, and automatically brushes some dirt and lint from the back of Hobbes' suit jacket. He jerks away and strides over to see what he can do to help Claire. Eberts trails along behind him, un-offended at his abrupt reaction. They part the plastic, and Claire looks up from Darien's prone body. He, MacKenna and Monroe have all been wrapped securely in blankets. She raises a finger, indicating that she needs a moment more of silence. Gently lowering Darien's wrist to his chest, her eyes refocus on Hobbes.

"Did you give him the sedative?"

He nods. "Actually, Amy did it. But I did give him the blocker and counteragent."

"What happened to them?" Claire asks worriedly.

Hobbes opens his mouth to reply, but...

"Never mind," she cuts him off. "Tell me on the way back to the lab." She rises and begins to give orders to the other agents. "You," she points to the man standing by Monroe. "Please take Agent Monroe to the hospital."

He nods, gently picks up and carries the weakened woman out of the room.

"The rest of you... help me with them," she gestures to the other four men, and turns back to her two unconscious charges.

Hobbes and Eberts each take one of MacKenna's arms, carefully pick up and carry her out of the room in between them on their interlocked arms. She briefly rouses, mumbling something unintelligible before lapsing back into oblivion.

The remaining agent picks up Darien in a fireman’s carry and follows the others out of the room.

Claire opens up her mouth to admonish the agent on how he's handling Darien, then glances at The Official. He shakes His head as if saying, 'It's not that big of a deal.' She purses her lips in disapprovement, and then joins him in hurrying out of the warehouse.


Friday, 8:30am
The morning sunlight gleams through the narrow blinds onto The Official’s desk, where He sits with His head leaning back in His chair. His eyes are closed, resting.

Eberts is sitting at the table across the room, busying himself with nothing in particular. He seems to feel better during a crisis when he's doing something useful and efficient.

Monroe is slumped, half-asleep, in one of the chairs in front of The Official’s desk with her feet propped up on the other chair. There's a bulky dressing directly over her right knee, with her pants leg cut off at the top of her thigh.

The office door opens, and Claire closes her eyes as she leans on the sill, exhausted.

At the sound of the door opening, everyone snaps alert and focuses their gazes on The Keeper. She sighs deeply as she runs a hand through her disheveled hair.

The Official actually looks upset and worried. "Well?" He asks pointedly, with what feels like a million questions and concerns contained in that one tiny word.

She opens her bloodshot eyes and replies huskily, "They've stabilized, for now..." she trails off, reluctant to tell them the rest of the news.

"And?" Monroe’s picked up that she isn't telling them the worst of it. "What's the bad news?"

Eberts has half-risen from his chair, and still has a form in his hands. He unconsciously begins to wring it.

Claire raises her eyes to look at first The Official and then Monroe. "They're comatose." The words drop like bombshells.

Eberts sits back down numbly in his chair.

"How bad is it?" The Official's voice is husky.

"Whatever Amanda did to Darien, it's shorted out most of his brain. His blood pressure has finally risen to an acceptable level, but only after I gave him two blood transfusions. I don't know what kind of damage, if any, was done to the gland."

"And how's she?" Monroe questions.

Claire shakes her head. "One minute she's flatlined, then suddenly there's activity throughout her brain."

"What can we do now?" Eberts manages to ask. He looks ready to collapse.

"I've done everything I can for them." Claire fixes The Official with a defiant glare that dares Him to try and protest. "I need help with this."

The Official had dropped His eyes to gaze sightlessly at the top of His desk. There was a moment of silence before He raises His eyes to answer her request. "Eberts, make sure she gets everything she needs," He orders resolutely. Both Eberts and Claire break out in wearied, yet surprised, smiles.

Monroe simply nods her agreement and closes her eyes.

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*

In The Keeper's lab, Hobbes is resting in one of Claire's office chairs between two gurneys. His chair is turned slightly more to the right... towards Darien's bed. His head's drooped until his chin is resting on his chest. He's deeply asleep.

MacKenna and Darien are hooked up to all of the life support equipment normally seen on coma patients: oxygen; IV's; heart and blood pressure monitors; and electrodes carefully positioned around their heads, with wires leading into various monitors. Pictures of their respective brain activity, or lack thereof, are currently showing on the TV screens above their heads.

~ End of Part One ~

DISCLAIMER: Most of the images from this site are originally manufactured and owned by Stu Segal Productions, Studios USA, and NBC/Universal. I just played with them in Photoshop for my own amusement, and derive no profits from them, other than the satisfying eye candy. Nope, not selling, not making any money, and I break out in hives at the mere mention of laywers.