Episode 18

By the Virtual Season Staff

Teaser

Once upon a time I noted that all the women in my life have left me. Turns out I was wrong on that score. A'course the one that stuck around I never wanted in the first place. Or at least that's what I kept telling myself - 'til the day that Claire was stolen from us, along with my best chance at living a normal life.

I guess novelist David Eddings was right when he wrote in King of the Murgos, "No day in which you learn something is a complete loss." Well, I've learned that I need my brother-the-mad-scientist's old girlfriend. Maybe she didn't exactly leave me, but I still almost lost her.

"Our Middle-East agenda is going forward as planned. Once again the norms were efficiently manipulated into making the exact moves we anticipated. You will receive regular updates, but unless something drastic changes none of you should be required to foster any additional divisiveness in your sectors," Philippe stated in a smooth voice with only a hint of a French accent.

He was here on behalf of Sharon, the ageless leader of Chrysalis, imparting information from the hierarchy at this semi-annual meeting of Sectors E, F, and G North America. Fidgeting in her chair, Tabitha, the new head of Sector G, let her mind wander from the official business at hand to wonder a bit about the man before her.

Rumor had it Philippe had been handpicked by Sharon when he'd been no more than a child and groomed for the position he currently held. He was of neither her predecessor Stark's generation of Chrysalis, nor her own. Instead Philippe was one of the many in-between generations the breeding and camp programs had produced. He appeared to be in his late 20s and would retain his handsome features and brilliant green eyes for many years to come.

Like Philippe, those lucky enough to be born Chrysalis, while not immortal, enjoyed a greatly increased life span with aging arrested at maturity. Long life and beauteous youth for decade upon decade was theirs while those with normal years built into their genetic structure wilted and withered upon the vine in the blink of an eye.

Refocusing on the current discussion, Tabitha was chagrined to realize she had been asked a question, which she had failed to hear. "My apologies, Philippe," she began in a lightly accented voice. Somehow the patois of her Haitian heritage lingered even though she had grown up in a standard Chrysalis training camp. Her programming had apparently included the local languages for Sector E, which had also been where she'd been assigned until moved, by Sharon herself, into the seat of power in Sector G. She glanced pointedly at Stark who did his best to look bored at the routine meeting. "I was considering some changes in the command structure of my sector."

Philippe inclined his head slightly to acknowledge her subtle admittance of inattention. "Is Farsight on schedule? We had reports of problems, including a power failure at your main office."

Tabitha made a point to keep her look perfectly composed even as she seethed inside. She damn well knew exactly why her office had suddenly found itself the target of multiple lightning strikes causing not only the main power, but the back-up generators to overload. Thankfully she'd ordered her technicians back up all the computer systems twice a day when she'd sensed the animosity between herself and Stark escalate in recent weeks. His removal from certain key positions, which he had held for many years, plainly triggered some primitive need for retaliation on his part. Just more proof that his generation was flawed beyond salvaging.

"Only minor problems, nothing that has interfered with the schedule. We hope to arrange one last test prior to the end of the season." Tabitha noted the hint of a frown that crossed Philippe's features. "I'm afraid we are still dependent on the proper natural weather conditions for the tests." She turned to look at Stark, who sat directly across from her with his latest favorite, a hulking brute with a penchant for violence.

Philippe swung his full attention to Stark.

"Testing is on schedule. The enforced reliance on existing weather patterns will be eliminated as per the timeline. That I can assure you." Stark's cheery and overconfident tone was quite obviously forced to Tabitha's ears, but she was fully cognizant of the fact that Stark was actually ahead of schedule and might very well have the next evolution of the trigger device ready for preliminary testing during the next quarter.

For all that he was a thorn in her side, the man was very, very good at getting the most from those under him -- whether his elder cronies or his ever-growing cadre of lost boys. Though why they insisted on flocking to him instead of those of their own generation was beyond her comprehension.

Philippe tapped idly on the tabletop before him, almost as if aware of the animosity between herself and Stark. "Good. Sharon wants monthly updates from both of you. The Farsight Project must be completed on schedule." He glanced from Tabitha to Stark, convincing her that not only was he fully aware of the current problems within her ranks, but that Sharon certainly would be too once Philippe had reported back to her. That is, if she didn't know already. "Next on my agenda: I have a mandate that affects every sector. Security for the Library facilities will be upgraded across the board. Details will be forthcoming within the week. Too many facilities have been compromised through accident or design in recent years."

The fact the Philippe failed to look at either Tabitha or Stark told her the losses incurred within Sector G were a main factor. The loss in Sector L, Asia, had been a case of sheer bad luck. An earthquake, a natural one, had compromised a medium-sized facility and caused the loss of nearly two dozen indexed volumes. Replacements were already being sought out.

"Tabitha, we require an additional acquisition in your sector." Philippe held out a file, which was passed down to Tabitha. Opening it, she recognized the image that graced the first page. The special circumstance notation caught her attention.

Tabitha allowed a hint of a grin to cross her lips. "Are you looking for specific information or just a general idea of what she has been doing in recent years?" She knew of one person who might - might - be able to break the good doctor.

"Details are in the file. You have 12 hours only. While we would find it useful to have the specific information, it is not required. She is to be indexed undamaged." Philippe waited until Tabitha gave him a curt nod. "I understand you have very recently appointed a new head of Acquisitions?"

"Yes, Anthony Cortez." Tabitha turned to face Stark who was no longer smiling, his face a mask of dark anger. "I felt the former member in charge of the division could be better used elsewhere."

Philippe got to his feet. "Tomorrow I will hear the quarterly report for Sector E." With a last sweeping gaze over all the seated members he turned and left the conference room.

There were a few minutes of idle discussion among the various members, but before long Tabitha and Stark were left alone except for their seconds.

"Minor damage? You consider having to rewire 3/4ths of that building minor?" Stark commented in an oily voice. "It would seem lightning does indeed strike more than once. How many was it? Four, five? Shame about all the lost data."

Tabitha laughed softly causing Stark to frown. "What lost data, Jared?" She closed the file, picked it up, and stood. The sound of the chair scraping across the floor was loud in the soundproofed room. "If I find another of your little toys anywhere near one of my facilities I will make sure to rock your world," she lowered her voice to a deadly hiss, "until the foundation crumbles beneath your feet."

Subdued whining thinned the restful, late-night dark that muffled the Keeper's townhouse.

A protesting groan came from the bed. When the yips continued, the blond head burrowed into its pillow, murmuring crossly, "Quiet, boy." Instead of decreasing, the barking rose in pitch. Doggy toenails clicked rapidly out towards the stairs. Claire pushed up on her elbows, not bothering to brush tangled hair out of her face. "Pavlov, come here!" The barking dropped back to its steady whining, but the tiny dog didn't return. Claire sighed and changed her tone. "Come here, baby. What is it? Come to mama. Come on."

After a long moment, the whimpers faded and the quick clicks came back towards the bed. Claire dropped a hand over the edge of her bed, where a tense little head butted into her palm. The furry nuisance was still making tiny growls in his throat, and he paid almost no attention to her gentle scratching behind his ears. Claire sighed in exasperation, reaching down to scoop up the fluffball and settle him on the blankets next to her. "It's sleepytime, silly. Shhhh." Pavlov snuffled at her forehead and seemed to decide all was well. He curled up, still alert. Claire listened for a moment, wondering what had gotten him so worked up, and then began to drift back into sleep.

The siren wail of her high-tech burglar alarm jolted the Keeper back to wakefulness. Pavlov lunged off the bed, his frantic yipping barely audible over the noise. Claire found herself crouched beside the bed, one hand groping in her nightstand drawer. The revolver's heavy grip in her fingers woke her completely, focusing undirected adrenaline into conscious action.

She scanned the bedroom, combing hair out of her eyes, then turned for the stairs, nudging a frantic Pavlov out of her way with one bare foot. A draft met her, coming up the stairs to swirl beneath the hem of her silky nightshirt. Feeling suddenly very exposed, Claire bent over the railing to check the doors. The faint glow of the nightlight in the kitchen was bright enough for her to see that the main door was closed and still deadbolted. The patio door was also closed.

The metallic scream had begun to grate on her nerves. Claire hoped, as she felt her way quietly down the steps, that it had done the same for who or whatever had set it off. Probably that bloody stupid tomcat, she fumed mentally. Though that thought was preferable to other possibilities.

Still keeping one hand solidly on the gun, Claire reached for the panel beside the door and hesitated, skipping the first switch in favor of the second. The alarm cut out instantly, bringing blessed and disturbing silence, but a swift-blinking light on the display promised Claire that the signal was still going out to the monitoring station at the Agency. Just in case.

Claire listened again, hearing only her own breathing and Pavlov's whimperings. Who would want to break in on a night when she was home? Arnaud was presumably somewhere far away doing, well, terrorist things. The local branch of the SWRB?no, that particular type of explosion was fairly permanent. Older faces crossed her mind, from years before in the DOD...but that was silly too.

It was probably only some bungling burglar, after all. Wanting her silver or whatever she might have in her home safe.

Finally deciding to turn her back on the door, Claire turned and paced through the first floor of her townhouse, checking windows and doors without turning on the lights, keeping her ears open. The kitchen and living areas were empty. What do I have in the safe? The Keeper hastily made a mental list, relaxing when she realized that, for once, she had brought very little work home with her. Certainly nothing to excite those seeking classified information.

Pavlov finally got up enough courage to come hopping down the stairs to join her search efforts, nosing into every dark cranny and growling at couch cushions. Everything seemed clear, but Claire kept her revolver in hand as she went back upstairs to retrieve her robe before anyone requiring her to be decent arrived.

She had barely reached the top of the stairs when a soft tap on the door made her jump. Criminals don't knock, she told herself. The gun was still in one hand as she pulled her robe closed with the other and trotted downstairs. But the faces through the peephole were familiar, if concerned. Claire hastily slid the deadbolt back and opened the door. "Agent Collins, Agent Heyes. That was fairly prompt."

The younger agent, Collins, grimaced. "It's 4 a.m. No traffic."

"Glad to see you're all right, Dr. Keeply." Heyes looked very relieved.

Claire impatiently waved them in. "Let's get this over with. All I can say is, if it's that cat again, I'm calling Animal Control."

"Personally, I hope that's all it is." Collins stepped back to check the outside of the building, while Heyes followed Claire inside.

The Keeper sighed and nodded.

While the agents checked over the alarm system and the outside of the townhouse, Claire turned on the kitchen lights and made herself tea. Jittery with adrenaline, she tried to sit, then paced ? nearly tripping over Pavlov, poor baby ? through the first floor, and sat again, listening to the efficient movements and low conversation of the agents.

Finally they trailed in to give her a report.

"Sorry that took so long." Heyes leaned up against her counter with a sigh. "Something tripped the alarm, obviously, but I'd definitely guess human rather than feline, given the footprints on your patio and beneath the back window."

"We think," Collins chimed in. "It's hard to tell exactly when the prints were made."

"No idea who it might've been?" Claire frowned at one, then the other.

Collins fidgeted, but Heyes just raised an eyebrow. "As far as I know, you're not on anybody's target list right now."

"So who told the psycho criminals that?" Claire muttered, rubbing a hand across her face. "Thank you for checking it out."

"Our pleasure," Collins assured her, his words undercut by a barely stifled yawn. "Do you want us to stay for the rest of the night?"

Claire stared down into her cup of cooling tea. "Don't bother. I wouldn't be able to sleep now anyway." She rose decisively, placing the tea on the counter and showing the agents to the door. "Give me half an hour, and I'll be ready to come into work."

"Yes, ma'am."

As Claire was plodding up the stairs towards a warm shower and more decent clothing, something occurred to her. "Darien," she muttered half-aloud, "if you've been prowling around again, there'll be hell to pay." There was no answer, not even a breath of freezing cold air ? but Claire took more modest care over her shower than usual as the sky outside began to lighten.

::Cue Theme Music::

There once was a tale about a man who could turn invisible. I thought it was only a story, until it happened to me. OK, so here's how it works: There's this stuff called 'quicksilver' that can bend light. My brother and some scientists made it into a synthetic gland, and that's where I came in. See, I was facing life in prison and they were looking for a human experiment. So we made a deal; they put the gland in my brain, and I walk free. The operation was a success... but that's when everything started to go wrong.

::Music Fade Out::

Act One

Manicured fingernails lightly tapped on the desk. The five agents resisted the temptation to squirm under their leader's intense scrutiny.

"I assume there is an explanation forthcoming," Tabitha spoke quietly, but the threat in her voice was enough to kick the agents' sweating up a notch.

When no one answered, she slowly pushed back her plush upholstered chair and stood. "Well?" she tilted her head sideways.

After a moment's hesitation, Jamison took a hesitant step forward. "She had a better security system installed since our last recon."

Tabitha blinked. "That's it?"

One of the others piped up helpfully. "Her dog alerted her to our presence, too."

The formidable Head of Sector G flicked her icy gaze at the offending creature before closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. "Get out of my sight," she ordered.

The assembled agents glanced nervously at each other before heading for the office door.

"Not you," she addressed Jamison. He halted mid-step and smartly turned around to face her once again. She gestured for him to close the office door and approach the desk.

"This was a simple retrieval operation," her words fairly dripped disdain. "If it weren't for your exemplary record, I would have demoted you before you left this office."

He remained at attention, no trace of his shame showing on his handsome features.

"This kind of gross incompetence I can expect from Jared's people." Jamison blushed slightly at Tabitha's mention of the former head of Sector G. "I know you to be fully capable of handling tasks eminently more complex than this, so I am giving you one more chance." She rounded the desk and lightly rested her hand on his shoulder. "You may speak freely with me."

His blush deepened, and he blinked as he quickly composed his thoughts. "I have been involved with missions from... before... " He paused, alluding to the previous head of the sector. "Any time the Agency became involved, they always managed to frustrate our efforts."

Tabitha smiled and removed her hand to flick an infinitesimal speck of dust from her blouse. "Jared's constant underestimation of those people led to his demotion. I will not be so quick to overlook their resourcefulness."

She returned to the other side of her desk and picked up the file she had on Claire. She flipped it open and once more scanned the information they had gleaned on their latest target. Claire's quick intelligence and brilliant scientific acumen had brought her to the attention of the Librarians. Such a talented woman was certainly being wasted in her current position.

Tabitha paused in her musing and glanced over at her agent. "When's your next retrieval window?"

"This afternoon ma'am, sooner if she leaves the building for lunch," he replied with conviction.

"I have complete confidence in your ability to succeed this time," she replied, her tone implying the dire consequences should he fail again. "You may go."

Dismissed, he quickly strode out of the office. Tabitha made sure she was known for her fairness, but if anyone under her command ever let her down, her punishment was swift and uncompromising. Her people knew they definitely didn't want to be on the receiving end of her wrath.

"Well, Doctor 'Keeply', I'm looking forward to your addition to our collection," she murmured to herself as she continued to peruse the file.

Yawning, Claire leaned closer to her computer terminal, shrugging her shoulders in an attempt to loosen the crick that had a strangle hold on the back of her neck. The early morning wake-up call was taking its toll. It was only 11:35 a.m., and already she was exhausted, cranky, and knotted up.

Maybe a few stretching exercises would do the trick.

Without getting out of her ergonomically incorrect chair she slowly swiveled her neck around, feeling that satisfying snap and crackle as tension released from her vertebrae. Singing Olivia Newton John's '80s hit Physical in a loud soprano she extended her arms. Enthusiastically circling her limbs she unfortunately knocked over the half cup of double mocha espresso that had been sitting on the mousepad.

"Bloody hell!" Claire swore vehemently, leaning over to mop up the spill with her too small Starbucks napkin. Straightening with the intention of going for the entire contents of the paper towel dispenser she knocked her head on the computer keyboard.

Not sure whether to laugh or cry, Claire contemplated her fate. Either she was bound to slowly demolish her lab and possibly permanently injure herself at this rate or she needed to get out of the room for a short period of time. Maybe 45 minutes at the San Diego Athletic Club would do the trick. Perfect! A hard ride on the Exercycle and then a few laps in the pool would put her in the mood for one of their lovely berry blast smoothies with the extra vitamin C and a tomato and cheese sandwich. The whole package would improve her spirits, coordination and wake her up far more effectively than the heavy dose of caffeine had.

With a lighter heart she quickly dispatched the spilled coffee and shouldered the gym bag that resided in the lab closet.

After a bracing ride in front of a scenic video of the British countryside and a refreshing swim in the pool, Claire showered, rolled her long wet hair into an improvised French twist, and lunched watching the weight lifters go through their paces. She had a bounce in her step as she sauntered back to her Cherokee, singing snatches of No Doubt's latest chart topper, Underneath It All.

The drive back to the Agency was a short one, but she enjoyed the sunshine and the wind coming in through the car windows. Maybe the weirdness of the pre-dawn hours hadn't been some strange portent of doom as she'd originally imagined but just one of those oddities that never got completely explained.

Not really paying much attention to the other cars around her, Claire attempted to make a right turn but the dark car in the left lane suddenly shot in front of her, blocking her way. Leaning on the horn, Claire frowned with annoyance. It wasn't until then that she noticed another dark sedan on the left and, looking in the rear view mirror, saw one directly behind her. That car began to creep up on her tail, urging her to go through the intersection when the light changed.

Her heart suddenly accelerating, Claire put her foot on the gas pedal, wondering if she could somehow race around the car in front and still complete her right turn. That idea stalled when a black car turned in from the right, forcing her into the middle lane. In a matter of seconds Claire's Cherokee was surrounded by four unmarked cars like the four horsemen of the apocalypse. She was scared. Where were Hobbes and Darien at a time like this? This was the sort of thing that was supposed to happen to trained agents, not a scientist with a string of doctorates behind her name.

A man wearing sinister black sunglasses in the car on the left made a sharp gesture, indicating that Claire should turn to the left when they came up to the next light. Since she was in the center lane, this was an illegal move, and she greatly hoped some bored policemen watching for moving violations to make his quota would move in to give her a ticket.

Unfortunately, there were none of San Diego's finest in the vicinity, and Claire twisted the steering wheel around to the left, entering a narrow street. The single metallic green SUV surrounded by four black sedans must have made a strange sight, but no one raised an alarm, and Claire set the brake with a dry mouth. Because of the narrowness of the one-way street, the cars on her left and right were unable to join the rest and she was left with only the two in front and back.

"Get out of the car, miss," a flat, unaccented voice commanded.

"What do you want?" Claire certainly wasn't about to abandon her safe haven without some answers, at least. She scanned the surroundings but the view didn't inspire any confidence. The building on one side appeared abandoned, the fire escape rusty with disuse. The edifice on the other side was a white stuccoed wall with an ancient advertisement for Coca-Cola plastered nearly the entire length. She was trapped.

"Just get out of the car." The owner of the voice was a neatly dressed man in a black suit and black Ray-Bans with nearly black hair combed perfectly smoothly and parted on the left. On the lapel of his jacket was a delicate gold pin twisted in the familiar double helix of a DNA model, the symbol Chrysalis used to designate its higher-ranking members.

Claire looked frantically around her car, hoping for a weapon, but unless the Chrysali had a phobia for sweaty bike shorts, there was nothing for her to use. She owned a gun but didn't keep in with her at all times like Bobby or Alex did. Maybe that was a habit she should cultivate.

"Get out or I will shoot." The black suit held a tranquilizer gun in one hand, and Claire had a brief giddy memory of Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith in Men In Black shooting all the aliens. She knew it was a tranq gun because she had a similar one she used to use when Darien had gone Quicksilver mad. At the time she had had no qualms about using it on her Kept, but now she found that she didn't really want to be on the receiving end of the thing.

"I'm coming." Claire opened her door cautiously. Since the Cherokee was a much larger vehicle than the two sedans she could easily see over the heads of the men standing by her car. MIB number one had been joined by two identically attired men.

Wishing with all her might that the aforementioned police officer would cruise by, Claire glanced behind her at the main street. No helpful denizens of the law appeared as if by magic, and Claire was just about to put her life up to fate and step completely out of the SUV when a loud honk startled the man holding the gun.

"Hey, buddy!" The bright red and white of a Coca-Cola truck eased into the entrance of the street, its horn blaring. "Move your car, I gotta get this load to the distributor."

In less time than it took for Claire to smile gratefully at her belligerent savior, the three Chrysali scattered. Both black cars roared off, the one blocking the delivery truck almost taking his bumper off in his haste to leave. The brick building didn't incur any damage, but the black sedan was left with a noticeably identifiable scrape down the passenger side.

Claire jumped from her Cherokee, running down the sidewalk to try and get at least a glimpse of the fleeing car's license plate but she only managed to identify a 2 and the letters Z and M.

Claire watched as Hobbes' and Darien's arrival filled the Official's office to maximum capacity. Chronically late as always, Darien and his partner were now left to scramble for the last available chairs, pilfered from the conference table at the far end of the office.

"Nice of you two to join us," the Official's dry comment managed to convey his annoyance at their tardiness.

Hobbes at least had the good grace to look chagrined. His partner on the other hand, slumped deep in his chair with an attitude that practically screamed peevishness. Claire sighed, wondering if she was ever going to see a genuine smile from her Kept again.

"Well, you see, sir," Bobby began, only to be cut off mid-sentence by the imperious wave of the Official's hand.

"Save it, Agent Hobbes," the Agency's perpetually ill-tempered head interrupted. "We have a situation," he added. "Where were you last night, Fawkes?" he asked Darien, who looked up from his apparent examination of the floor tiles sulkily.

"Well, let's see... First I went to the gas station out at Blacks beach to fill up that gas guzzler you make me drive," Darien responded with his best punky attitude. "See, Hobbes turned me onto that place - they have the lowest prices in town. And since your latest penny pinching mandate was that we get to pay for our own gas now, hell if I'm gonna fork over $30.00 a tank when that Agency motor-pool piece'a crap gets a whopping 14 miles to the gallon," he announced. "Saved me over $6.00 bucks," he added as an aside, and Claire saw the spark of fiscal interest light Albert's pale blue eyes.

"Fawkes," the Official warned darkly.

Darien glared back at Charles Borden with equal ill will. "I spent the night doing my laundry, OK?" he snapped. "Mrs. Larson from #17 and me spent three hours playing dryer tag. You looking for an alibi, she'll give me one."

Hobbes stole a glance at his partner, worry creasing his forehead, and Claire sighed again. "Someone tried to break into my house last night," she spoke up.

Both agents' attention focused on her instantly. She recognized the flash of instinctive paranoia in Hobbes' eyes before his expression became carefully hooded. Darien too looked vaguely concerned, and she tried to squelch the little surge of relief she felt at something other than dull anger directed at her from him. Still, she couldn't help but wonder whether the concern was for her as a person, or as a scientist. Lately, the only times Darien had initiated a conversation with her was to demand to know what progress she was making on the gland removal issue. It was becoming increasingly difficult to stave him off with deliberately unspecific answers.

"And a kidnapping attempt was made on the Doctor this afternoon," Eberts took up the thread of the story.

Hobbes straightened in his chair so fast Claire was surprised he didn't give himself whiplash. Even Darien looked suddenly focused, keen intellect brought to bear on the situation. It was moments like this that made her realize what a long way Darien had come from his days as a green agent.

"By who?" Darien asked intently, turning to stare at Claire.

She scowled as she considered how best to answer. "My impression was it was Chrysalis," she said at last.

She watched the blood drain out of Hobbes' face, fierce anger glowing in dark eyes. "Chrysalis?" he repeated voice rough with concern. "Why the hell would they be after our Keeper?" he demanded.

Eberts cleared his throat hesitantly. "I'm afraid I may have inadvertently been responsible for that," he admitted uncomfortably. "It's possible they may intend to include her in their cryo-project."

"What?" Hobbes hissed.

Eberts glanced at his superior, the infinitesimal nod freeing him to continue. "There have been certain... signs... of an information leak from the Agency in the past few months," he started, and all ears focused on the nervous accountant. "While nothing of particular sensitivity has been compromised, I deemed it wise to try and pinpoint both the source of the leak and the ultimate destination of that information." Eberts paused and swallowed. "When I brought it to the Official's attention, he authorized me to take whatever action was needed to determine this."

"What did you do, Eberts?" Hobbes asked dangerously.

Claire saw Eberts pale slightly at the tone in Hobbes' voice.

"I arranged for certain misinformation to be 'available' to our possible mole in the hopes that by seeing where that data ended up, we could determine who the recipient was. Having done a probability analysis of the most likely destinations for that leak, I tailored my... misinformation to Chrysalis, the SWRB, and Arnaud, as well as the Chinese..." he admitted at last.

"You set her UP?" Bobby demanded, half-rising from his chair before Darien stopped him with a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Enough, Hobbes," the Official interceded. "Eberts has already been reprimanded. I think it's safe to say he'll secure authorization in the future before he risks an Agency asset in this manner again," Borden finished with a wall-eyed glower at his assistant.

Hobbes subsided reluctantly, and Claire asked the question that had been gnawing at her since her narrow escape a few hours before. "So what do we do now?"

"We put a detail on the Keepy," Hobbes insisted. "She needs 'round the clock protection 'til 'James Bond', here -"that epithet was punctuated by a lethal glare at Eberts "- finds a way to clean up his mess."

"Arrangements have already been made," the Official said quellingly. "Doctor, you'll be moved to our safe house until we can guarantee your safety."

"Uh, I hate to be the wet blanket here," Darien interrupted, waving a hand in the air to get the Official's attention. "But we don't exactly have a safe house anymore. The SWRB blew up one and compromised the other."

The Official gave Darien the evil eye. "We've made other arrangements, Fawkes," he harrumphed. "We've managed to 'borrow' a location from one of our sister agencies. Doctor, you'll be escorted there directly after work. We've already dispatched Heyes and Collins back to your house to pack what you need for the next few days while you're being kept under guard."

"House arrest, you mean," Claire muttered unhappily.

"Hey, maybe you can wear that real attractive little ankle bracelet like I had to," Darien snarked vindictively at her complaint. "I bet Hobbes would be up for some 'home base' duty," he added with a sarcastic wag of eyebrows in Hobbes' direction.

Hobbes glared back. "Watch it, Gland Boy," he warned, patience clearly strained.

"Hey, well, better you than me," Darien retorted snidely.

"Actually," Eberts interrupted the budding argument as he rummaged in the top drawer of the Official's desk, "I've arranged to incorporate a tracking device into this necklace. It will allow us to trace the doctor's whereabouts at all times, in the event something ...untoward were to occur." He held out a small heart-shaped locket to Claire.

"Untoward this, Eee-berts," Hobbes growled, as he rose to snatch the locket from the accountant and fasten it around Claire's neck. Claire tried to ignore the brief touch of his hand on her shoulder, but the implicit reassurance warmed her.

"Doctor, Agents Miller and Sanchez are waiting for you in your lab. They'll be within earshot at all times. As soon as you're ready to go, they will escort you to the safe house. You are not to go anywhere else. Do I make myself clear?" he commanded.

"Yes, completely," Claire agreed eventually. She might not like it, but the restrictions on her freedom were meant to ensure her safety. She could only hope it was temporary. An indeterminate stay in a safe house held no appeal for her at all.

The Official glanced around at his agents. "Questions?"

Hobbes and Fawkes shook their heads in the negative.

"Good. Dismissed," Borden barked, dispersing them to their own devices.

"That attitude you got is starting to get on my nerves," Hobbes commented quietly as he stood and glared down at his partner before turning on his heel and stalking across the office towards the exit.

Claire watched as Darien unfolded himself from the chair, following Hobbes towards the door like a sulky child, sarcastic mimicry of his last words silently distorting Fawkes' otherwise handsome face. She could only hope that the cloud of animosity Darien had surrounded himself with these days would eventually disperse to reveal his normally sunny disposition.

Act Two

Back when I first started this government gig, I tried spying on The Keeper in the hope of digging up some useful dirt on her. That's when the great 21^st century philosopher Bobby Hobbes advised me: "Enjoy the ignorance, my friend. It's bliss." At the time, I thought it was the stupidest thing I'd ever heard in my life. Since I've found out that my Keeper dated my brother, that she knew all about me when me met and never bothered to share that little fact, I can see how right he was. Of course, now all I keep hearing from him is that I should forgive Claire and let bygones be bygones. To which I quote Jack Kerouac, another modern-day deep thinker and professional pill popper: "I don't know. I don't care. And it doesn't make any difference."

Two heads - one dark, one blonde - hovered over two white cardboard take-out cartons at a large plank kitchen table covered with more cartons, foil hot bags and aluminum take-out containers.

"Thanks for bringing dinner," Claire said for the tenth time that evening, twirling some long strands of lo mein noodles around her chopsticks and feigning a few bites. "But are you sure you brought enough? It looks like you're trying to feed an army."

"No problemo," Bobby answered, too brightly for the tension that hung in the air of the small cabin like the heavy scent of shrimp toast, General Tso's chicken and other assorted Chinese delicacies. "And no, no army, just Fawkesy. Feeding an army'd probably be cheaper - and easier." He picked up a full container and waved it in the direction of the living area, where Darien slouched on the couch, silently shoveling food into his mouth in front of the small black and white TV. "Hey, I got a second container of Firecracker beef here, if you're ready for it."

Without breaking the rhythm of his chopsticks, Darien grunted and shook his head, still seemingly fixated on a fuzzy repeat of Iron Chef currently airing on the cabin's tiny, bunny-eared TV set.

Rolling his eyes, Bobby replaced the container amidst its brethren.

Claire picked up yet another container, this one a round foil tin that hadn't been touched yet and brought it over to the couch. "Here," she offered it, "Steamed wontons in peanut sauce. I know you like these."

"S'not me," Darien answered gruffly around a mouthful of beef. "Fried."

"What?" Claire asked, confusion evident in her voice and stance as she remained fixed, still holding out the food.

"It's not me." Darien's voice was suddenly quite loud and clear. "I like my wontons fried, not steamed. You must have me confused with someone else," he explained, giving her a frigid stare as he shoved his chopsticks into the bottom of his empty food container and casually placed it on top of the proffered tin. "Gee, I wonder who it could be," he added with snide smirk before returning his attention to the frantic TV chefs.

Claire's face blanched at the jibe. She returned to the table, dropping the empty carton into the trash on the way. When she didn't sit down, Bobby looked up and quirked his eyebrows at her. She heaved a great sigh, pushed her hair back from her face and rubbed her neck. "You know what? I think I'm going to turn in early. It's been a long day, and it's a bit chilly in here for my blood."

Bobby frowned. "Alright, sweet dreams, and don't worry. Mohal and Greer took over at 9, but I'm thinking we can hang for another shift if it'll make you feel better." His frown morphed into a lopsided grin. "Gotta keep the Keepy safe, you know?"

"Speak for yourself," Darien mumbled caustically, "some of us prefer to sleep in our own beds."

"Good night, Darien," she said, her lips set in a firm line as she met Bobby's intense gaze. "Good night, Bobby, and thanks," she murmured before heading to the bedroom.

Bobby continued to stare at her retreating back until the door shut. Then he contemplated his shoes for a moment, before storming over to the living area. He picked up a buffalo plaid woolen afghan and tossed it at his partner's head, which hadn't moved to acknowledge Claire's retreat or his approach.

Still without breaking his focus on the TV, Darien adroitly caught the blanket in one hand. "What do you want, Hobbes?"

"Oh nothing," Bobby answered, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Nothing at all. Just thought you might need that to keep warm after the cold shoulder you been giving Claire all night, Mr. Freeze. You know, I thought we were supposed to keep her from getting frozen, not help the process along."

Darien covered himself with the blanket, taking obvious care to tuck himself in, seemingly oblivious to Hobbes' vexation. "Yeah, well, it's none of your business. Not to mention that our shift was over 25 minutes ago, so I guess as soon as you're done eating we can get the hell out of here."

Halfway through Darien's tucking-in process, Bobby audibly blew air through his nose, then pulled the blanket off his partner. "Alright, enough is enough. Listen up and listen up good. Claire cares about you; she proved that when she gave you the cure for the madness and again when she fixed Adam up. She made a mistake; she's human. Now it's time for you to forgive and forget."

"Forgive and for ...?" Darien's hard gaze finally snapped off the TV screen, descending instead on his partner. "Forget? That I've been nothing more to her than her dead boyfriend's lab rat from the very beginning? I don't think so. Now just drop it, Hobbes. You don't understand."

"Oh I understand. I understand perfectly. It's because she ...," Bobby hesitated for a moment, "'knew' Kevin, isn't it? You're jealous, pure and simple."

"No, I am not jealous ...."

"Sure you are - just like you accused me once. You got the hots for the Keeper, and now you're pissed 'cuz you found out your bro got there first. Well, suck it up, my friend, just like the rest of us had to."

Through clenched teeth, Darien ground out another denial, "I am not jealous, and I do not have the 'hots' for Claire. It's not like that."

"Sure it is. You think I don't know, but I know. That stuff on the dock that time - that had to come out of somewhere, red-eye or no red-eye ...."

"Would you cut the crap, Hobbes!" Darien's hushed tones skirted the edges of soft shouting. "It's not about her and Kevin; it's about her and me. And it's not about jealousy; it's about trust and betrayal. Just like it's always been between me and Kevin," the name slid out before he could stop it, and he gave a quick shake of his head, "Claire," another quick shake and a sigh, "anybody. She should have told me," he slammed a fist into a palm. "Right then, when we first met -- she should have told me that she knew me. Jesus, haven't I had enough people playing with my head for one lifetime? I just wanted one person to be straight with me from the beginning. Is that too much to ask?"

"I've been straight with you. We may not always have seen eye to eye," Bobby gave a rueful chuckle, sat down on the sofa's arm and clapped Darien on the shoulder, "hell, we still don't always see eye to eye..."

"Not unless you're standin' on a ladder," Darien scrubbed a hand across his chin stubble, hoping to deflect Bobby's attention with the gibe.

Despite a slight pursing of his lips, Hobbes refused to rise to the bait. "But you know you can count on me to call it like I see it. And I'm telling you now: Maybe you're right, maybe Claire should have told you right from the beginning, but she didn't know how you'd react, didn't know you. Capish? Claire may have known of you from Kevin, but she didn't know you.

"You don't have that excuse. We've all known each other for something like three years now. We've been through a lot of crap together, and we've become friends, if not family. Don't you think you could at least give her the benefit of the doubt?"

Darien snorted. "Oh, you mean like you all gave me the benefit of the doubt not two months ago? Like that, huh?" He stalked over to the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of Heineken and opened it with such violence it spurted up and over his arm onto the floor. Slamming the 'fridge door so hard it rattled the remaining Heinekens, he banged the bottle on the counter, causing another eruption, and palmed a wad of paper towels. Bending down to wipe up the spilt beer, he whinged, "Great, just great. Another mess for me to clean up. Seems like that's all I do these days - clean up messes."

"Then maybe you should stop making them," came the retort in clipped British tones as scarlet-painted toenails peeking out from cream silk drawstring pants stepped into Darien's view. "You know a mop might make quicker work of that." Claire opened the utility closet next to the refrigerator and began pulling one out.

"Thanks, but no thanks." Darien rose to his full height, stared down at his pajama-clad Keeper, then casually pitched the dirty wad over the fringes of her tousled chignon and into the trash can. "I'm done here. C'mon, Hobbes, either you leave with me now or you can catch a ride back to the Agency with Mohal and Greer in the morning when the next shift takes over." Darien turned out of the kitchen and headed for the door, giving Hobbes a rough shove in the same direction as he passed.

Hobbes didn't budge. "Look, Claire, you want I should stay?"

"No, Bobby, thanks, actually I want you to go..." Claire started as she padded into the cabin's living area.

"Oh, uh, OK, then, uh ..." Bobby stammered, chagrinned, tripping slightly over his own feet as he turned to follow his partner.

"...because I need your help," Claire finished.

Bobby was back in the cabin's main room with three quick steps. "What's the matter? What do you need? Did they hurt you?"

"Leaving now," Darien catcalled from the front step.

"It's Pavlov," Claire raised her voice to carry outside.

The sound of Darien's feet crunching on the gravel walk was replaced with a beleaguered groan, and Darien stepped back inside the door. "What about Pavlov?"

"The pooch? Whatsa matter with the pooch?" Bobby visibly relaxed his stance, the tension sliding out of his shoulders.

"In all the rush to secure me here, nobody bothered to remember Pavlov - not even me. You would have thought they'd bring him when they got my clothes, but they've left him home alone," Claire's voice trembled ever so slightly, "I'm a terrible mother."

"Well, we all have our crosses to bear," Darien deadpanned.

"Shut up, Fawkes, would ya? Can't you see she's upset and stop being such a yutz for a minute?" Bobby took Claire's hand. "Don't worry about a thing. I'll stop by and feed the little guy - even take him for a walk a couple times a day."

"Thank you, Bobby, but he's never been left alone for more than a day before. Poor baby's probably terrified. Couldn't one of you maybe take him home?" she pleaded.

Bobby dropped Claire's hand. "Oh, sweetheart, listen, I would if I could but I can't. My condo doesn't allow any pets. Not like Fawkesy's dump there," he said pointedly.

"Please, Darien. For Pavlov's sake, if nothing else."

Under the scrutiny of Bobby's cognac-colored eyes and Claire's liquid grey ones, Darien grimaced, ran his hands along his chin stubble and cracked his neck. "Oh, alright, alright. The mutt can crash at my place. Though who's gonna watch him while we're out chasing the bad guys is anybody's guess."

"I got a candidate in mind," Bobby said, heading for the door, all action now.

Darien watched his partner pass, then turned to leave without a backward glance, shutting the door silently on Claire's murmured thanks.

The next morning found Darien walking through the Agency halls heading toward the office he and Hobbes shared at a bracing 10 a.m. While he was late by most people's standards, it was actually an unusually early start for the notorious sleepyhead, thanks to the voice of his partner playing Jiminy Cricket in his brain all night.

Even as Darien reached for the doorknob, the office door swung open, and Hobbes walked through it so quickly that the two men crashed into each other. Despite his height advantage, the taller man was the one who ended up with his butt on the floor.

Hobbes hardly even spared Darien a glance. "The Official wants to see us in his office, now."

Darien stood, brushing off his pants where he'd landed. "Well, hello to you too."

Hobbes ignored Darien's sarcastic tone and continued walking down the hall.

Darien decided that Hobbes' mood indicated something bad had occurred. "What's going on?" he asked, following his partner down the hall.

"Don't know for sure, but judgin' from the Fat Man's tone it ain't gonna be good."

When they arrived at the Official's office, Hobbes didn't bother taking a seat. "What happened?"

The Official gave the two agents a stern look. "The Keeper is missing."

In any other situation, Darien and Hobbes' synchronized "Aw crap" might have been funny.

Darien spoke first. "What happened? When'd they grab her?"

Eberts, hovering in his usual spot behind the Official's right shoulder, was the one who responded. "We discovered the abduction when Pippens and Simone checked in to begin their 7 a.m. shift. They found Mohal's and Greer's," Eberts' face turned the color of pea soup, "... remains in the woods."

"So, Chrysalis offed 'em, eh?" An additional fire lit Bobby's eyes at the news of his fellow agents' demise.

If anything, Eberts grew even greener. Swallowing hard, he coughed out, "We, ah, believe so. It seems some, ah, wildlife got at the bodies. We think it was bears."

"You think so, you don't know?" Hobbes fairly shouted.

"We'll know better after what's left of the agents' bodies have been examined and a time of death set," Eberts squeaked back defensively. "But from the immediate evidence it appears she was taken somewhere between 10 p.m. and 1 a.m."

Hobbes glared over at Darien. "I told you we should wait, but no, you just had to--"

"Don't you dare blame me for this!" Darien snapped, returning Hobbes' glare with even more intensity.

Hobbes looked like he wanted to hurl more accusatory comments at Darien, but turned his attention to Eberts instead. "We need to get her back, ASAP. Is the tracker workin'?"

"It has been activated, but Chrysalis appears to be utilizing some form of jamming technology that is dispersing the signal. I've only managed to narrow the location down to the north end of town...." Eberts looked down at the ground, ashamed.

Darien frowned. "We don't exactly have time to go door-to-door, here. After the Keep gets put on ice, we've got just 48 hours to defrost her. She's the only one who really knows how to thaw human popsicles after then. And if she was grabbed at 10 last night, we're already 12 hours in."

The Official chose that moment to break his silence. "I don't care how you find the Keeper. Just get out there and do it!"

Darien rolled his eyes. "Oh, that's helpful."

Eberts cleared his throat. "I might be able to make a modification to the tracker that would refine the signal, but it would only be short-range."

"We'd have to be right on top of her for it to work, huh?" Hobbes asked. Eberts nodded, and Hobbes groaned. "That's just perfect. Chrysalis has used every front from a winery to day care. She could be anywhere, and we've only got 36 hours before she takes up permanent residence in the frozen food aisle."

"As I recall, Robert," Eberts said, seeing his chance to inflict some verbal damage on his budgetary nemesis, "you claimed your superior tracking skills as the basis for a performance bonus last year."

"So that's why they pay you the big bucks," Darien jibed, following Bobby to the door.

"Yeah, well then who's been getting my check?" Bobby asked absently and even from the back Darien could see that Hobbes' nose was already to the ground.

Hobbes stalked down the corridor from the Official's office, half hoping his own urgent tension would rub off on his partner. The kid kept up easily with that long stride, but he was too nonchalant for Hobbes' taste, hands crammed loosely into his pockets, a consistent half-step behind. This was a serious situation. "Damn techies," Hobbes muttered, for lack of anything else to say. "No idea what it takes to run a proper investigation."

"Time," Fawkes said shortly. "Which we don't have much of."

Hobbes snorted. "Yeah, not even enough to start the search." He turned to go downstairs, but Darien grabbed his sleeve and pulled upwards instead. "What??"

Darien rolled his eyes and turned to take the steps two at a time. "Hobbes. Are you telling me you can't think of any way to narrow the search without wasting that time?"

He was already halfway up the flight. Hobbes sighed and followed, apprehension prickling his stomach. "I've told ya not to watch that Star Trek crap, time travel isn't remotely possible...."

"Smart people don't need a starship to save time." Darien's voice floated down the upper hallway.

In a few steps Hobbes had caught up with him, and looked quizzically from his partner to the office door in front of them. "Good idea, but Monroe's out on loan...."

"That's how I like it." Darien whisked his picks and tension wrench out of a back pocket and knelt, peering at the lock.

Hobbes stared for a moment, then crouched down to look him in the face. "You're breakin' into Monroe's office?" Maybe the kid was more upset than he'd given him credit for. "You gotta see someone 'bout that death wish, Fawkes."

Fawkes didn't laugh. Or look at him. "Forgotten how to watch your partner's back?"

After glaring good and hard at the shock of dark hair bent over the doorknob, Hobbes rose and scanned the hallway in both directions. Clear and quiet?though who could guarantee either in this place? "You know she'll kill us if she finds out we was in here," he casually reminded his partner. "She's got some real professional techniques...it could take - oh - two weeks, give or take. Why don't ya just ask her for whatever Chryalis stuff you're lookin' for?"

"Gee." Fawkes readjusted one of the lockpicks. "Well, for one thing, she's out on loan, therefore inaccessible. She doesn't like to let on that she has more information than the rest of us. Oh, and," he gave the pick a last twist and the knob turned in his hand. "'It is easier to get forgiveness than permission.' Stuart's Law of Retroaction, Murphy's Law, Book Two." He shoved the door open and strolled in.

Hobbes trailed behind him. "Didn't know Murphy wrote a book." He paused just inside the door, eyes seeking out potential hiding places, half convinced Monroe would appear and demand to know what the hell they were doing in her office.

Fawkes went straight to Monroe's workstation and booted up her computer. After another scan of the room, Hobbes closed the door and joined him, just soon enough to see him type something in. Monroe's blue and gold desktop blossomed on the monitor.

"How'd you get her password?" Hobbes demanded.

Darien looked smug for a moment, but seemed to think better of whatever cocky remark had come into his head. He settled into the cushioned office chair and stared pensively at the screen. Clicking on a folder at random, he started to scroll through the contents. "It was one year ago last week. The anniversary of her, you know, giving up James?" he added, after seeing his partner's blank look.

"Oh." Hobbes shot a glance at the younger agent, who was trying to look unconcerned again. "Didn't remember that. She didn't handle it so well, huh?"

"Hey, this might be it." Fawkes opened a folder, using yet another password. "She just seemed kinda down, so I thought she could, I don't know, use someone around."

"An invisible friend?" Hobbes raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"You want her having panic attacks again? It's worked before," Darien protested.

"Yeah," Bobby snorted, "on an eight-year-old girl."

Darien ignored this, pointing to the text that filled the screen. "Looks like a list of Chrysalis front operations."

Hobbes reached over and grabbed the infrared mouse. "Nah, look, she's got'em listed as 'potential locations.' As in, 'not confirmed.'" Determinedly he flipped back to a different window on the desktop. Darien shoved the chair back with a sigh and let Hobbes handle the search. After a moment, Bobby spoke up, still looking at the monitor. "Anybody else you been keepin' an eye on lately?"

He felt Fawkes stiffen.

"Not Claire, obviously. Why the hell not, Fawkes? You can spend the time to look after our five-star independent agent, but not?"

"She's supposed to be my Keeper, not the other way around!" Fawkes jerked up from the chair and shoved into Hobbes' personal space. "Quit trying to lay the blame on me. Damn it, Bobby, this is not about me and Claire, all right? It's about Chrysalis and -" Darien blew out a long breath and rubbed a hand over his face, then backed off and sank into his seat. His tone was absolutely dry. "You're the one in love with her. Why else would you accuse me of the same thing? Why'd you leave last night, huh?"

Hobbes whirled on him. "Claire is my co-worker, nothing more, and I was doing my job, as ordered!"

"So was I." Darien inched his chair close to the screen again.

"And she asked me to go." Hobbes swallowed and turned back to the monitor, wishing he hadn't said that.

"That ever stopped you before?" Darien shook his head, then studied the screen, tapping a section of text with one finger. "Hey, where'd you find this? Isn't that address on the north end?"

The older agent took a couple of deep breaths and turned back to the screen. "Yeah. This list was in a linked folder. See, all these are labeled 'confirmed for surveillance.'" He scrolled down the list.

In all, they found nine locations that Monroe seemed sure were fronts for Chrysalis, all located in various neighborhoods in and around northern San Diego. Hobbes printed out the addresses on each, while Darien wandered over to the printer to grab the sheets as they were spat out. "Nine fronts in this portion of the city seem like a lot. You suppose there're more of these guys than we thought?"

"Don't be a pessimist," Hobbes told him. "We're the best of the best. We'll get her back."

Fawkes laughed incredulously. "We'd better. There's still this little gland problem I have...."

Hobbes reached over and snatched the printouts before Fawkes could.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?"

"You're a jinx with anything related to the printed page," Hobbes snapped. "It's a sad day for the profession when the senior agent is reduced to handling his junior partner's paperwork."

"Then why are you still with the Agency?" Darien rolled his eyes as he returned to Monroe's computer and shut it off. "I learned to deal with a copy machine, and a computer printer isn't half as bad."

"You want to explain busted equipment to Ebes, my friend? Be my guest." Hobbes opened the door a crack, peered out, then opened it wide onto a still-empty hallway.

Fawkes followed him, carefully locking Monroe's door behind them. Then he turned a quizzical look to his partner. "It just occurred to me...who were you going to pawn Pavlov off on while we're checking out these locations?"

Hobbes grinned. "Tell you what, let's take a run over to your place to pick the pup up, and then you'll see." Bobby headed purposefully for the stairwell.

Darien, on the other hand, remained frozen outside Monroe's door. "Ah, yah, about that. He's, ah, actually still at Claire's." Darien absently rubbed the back of his neck and winced.

"Dammit, Fawkes, what do you mean he's still at Claire's?" Bobby marched back to invade his partner's personal space and poke the taller man in the chest. "You told her and me you'd look after the pooch. You saw how upset she was last night."

"Gimme a break. She couldn't have been that upset or she wouldn't have forgotten about him in the first place," Darien retorted, trying to regain the high ground.

Hobbes went dangerously still, anger simmering in his eyes. "Whatever your problem is with the Keeper," he said softly, "I can't believe you'd be so low as to take it out on her dog."

"I didn't take anything out on Pavlov, 'kay?" Darien huffed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. "I stopped by Claire's place after I dropped you off at the van here last night just like I told you I would. He was safe and happy in his own puppy bed surrounded by his own puppy toys, and I just figured why get him all in an uproar by packing him off to my place."

"And how was he when you went by this morning?" Hobbes' apparent appeasement by Darien's reassurance of Pavlov's well-being was short-lived. "You did go by this morning ..."

"Oh, crap," came the hapless answer.

"Precisely," Hobbes headed for the stairwell once again. "And you're cleaning it up..."

Darien hustled to catch up with the charging bull. "Hey, he's prolly just fine. I mean, he's a dog, right? How traumatized could he be?"

They rode in tense silence over to Claire's townhouse. Bobby pulled the van up to the curb, killing the engine.

Darien studied the house, noticing that it seemed lifeless without Claire's presence, though he'd been too angry to sense it last night.

"Fawkes?" Hobbes' voice goosed Darien back to the here and now.

"Huh?" came the intelligent reply as Darien watched Hobbes open the door and exit the vehicle.

"Are we gonna get the critter or not?" Hobbes asked with a vague hand motion at the stairs that led up to Claire's front door.

"Yeah, yeah," answered Darien clambering from the van.

They approached the house, and Bobby keyed open the door, revealing the silence lying thick in the air. The two entered and stood in the front hallway.

"Where is the little yipper?" Hobbes muttered, and Darien shrugged in reply. "Pavlov?" called Bobby, voice echoing. He listened for the sounds of small dog footsteps and heard none. "Pavlov," Bobby tried again, stretching the syllables. "I swear to God, Fawkes, if something's happened to him, I'm gonna use you as a chew toy."

Darien wandered from room to room, trying to spot the 'yipper' as Bobby had called him.

"Anything, Fawkes?"

"That'd be a negative," Darien's voice echoed back.

"So much for your puppy parenting skills. Upstairs," Bobby ordered with a jerk of his head towards the staircase.

Darien nodded and followed Bobby up the carpeted steps. Then they split up, peeking into different rooms.

"Fawkes! In here," called Bobby, slightly muffled.

"In where?" Darien called back, not wanting to have to wander about looking for both his partner and Pavlov.

"The bedroom," Hobbes replied, his voice, if anything, even less distinguishable than before.

Darien entered the bedroom to see his partner half under the bed, whispering something.

"Hobbes?" The passing thought that Hobbes had gone flying off the deep end went winging through Darien's mind and was quickly disregarded. One thing Darien knew was that Hobbes had a reason for doing everything. Even if it seemed to make no sense at the time.

"He's under the bed, and he won't come out," explained Bobby, backing out from his position under the furniture. "Probably terrified at being left alone thanks to you."

Darien gave Hobbes a withering glare, then smirked and reached into his coat pocket, withdrawing a small, crinkly, foil and cellophane baggie. At the sound a small black nose poked out from under the dust ruffle. He shook the bag again, and a fluffy body followed.

"That's a good boy," cooed Darien, dropping a treat on the floor between himself and Pavlov.

Pavlov crept forward and snapped up the morsel. Darien took another treat to the floor, watching as Pavlov continued forward and ate the second. After the third treat Darien bent down and scooped up the animal.

"Lucky son of a gun," said Bobby, shaking his head as he watched Pavlov try to nose his way into the treat bag. "Where'd you get those?"

"Kitchen," Darien replied smugly as he left the bedroom and headed down the stairs, dog in hand.

"Come on, Eberts," Bobby said, stressing the name.

"But I...I don't think I should." Eberts looked oddly terrified as his eyes flicked from the two men to the small dog.

"Just until we get The Keeper back," replied Bobby. "We will get her back."

"Yeah, come on Ebes, we're on a time limit here," said Darien plunking the small dog into Eberts' hands as Bobby removed the tracking device from the assistant's grasp. Eberts looked at the small animal he now unwillingly held, as if unsure of what to do.

"Oh, and here," Darien added as he pulled the treat bag from his pocket, much to Pavlov's excitement, and tucked it into Eberts' hand. "Give 'im some of these, and you'll be his friend for life."

"Gotta go, have fun," called Bobby as he headed down the hall with Darien in hot pursuit.

Act Three

"I will only ask you one more time. How did you successfully defrost Adam Reese?" Forrest, Sector G's resident inquisitor, said tightly, leaning down to invade Claire's space. She pressed back against the unforgiving chair, breathing rapidly, but said nothing. Raising his hand, Forrest brought it down as if to strike her. Claire flinched against her restraints, turning her cheek so his target was nothing but long, rumpled fair hair. With a snarl, Forrest jerked his hand away at the last minute letting just the breeze from his back swing hit her face. "You're lucky I'm still in a good mood," he hissed into her ear.

Claire pressed her lips together, swinging back to stare angrily at him. "I don't know what you want me to tell you. I'm just a medical doctor. My name is Claire Keeply. I suture wounds, hand out pills, give injections, do physicals, that's all," she doggedly repeated what she had been saying since he'd started the questioning hours before.

"Save it, Doctor, the polygraph says otherwise." Forrest strode out the door into the adjoining observation chamber. Through the two-way mirror, he could see Claire still seated alone in the interrogation room, bound to her chair across the waist and under her arms, sensor patches from the lie detector apparatus stuck to her fingers and chest between full breasts. It was a shame he didn't have the luxury of time and the full arsenal of his trade to bring to bear on the stubborn blonde. He would have enjoyed the challenge.

Reluctantly, he turned away from the view of his mulish subject and focused his attention on the room he now occupied. It was furnished somewhat more luxuriously than the Spartan style of the neighboring room. There was a table with a computer and the remains of the meal he'd periodically come in to pick at whenever Claire's obstinate refusal to cooperate fueled his appetite. He hunched over the computer and punched in a code with sharp jabs of his forefinger.

Tabitha's calculating visage appeared after a moment. She finished a sip of tea with a Mona Lisa-esque smile before speaking. "Yes, Forrest? I take it you are calling because you've finished with the good doctor and now have all the pertinent details in hand?"

"She's tougher than we were led to believe, ma'am," Forrest replied via the videophone, glancing through the one-way glass at the blonde scientist sitting tensely in the interrogation chair, her rigid posture and strained expression revealing the amount of tension she was under. She hadn't cracked, and they'd been at it for seven hours without a single shred of useful information. Either Claire Keeply wasn't as intelligent as Tabitha claimed or she was smart enough to deflect the intense grilling he'd honed over years of interrogating prisoners. "I just don't have any leverage in the situation, and she's not going to give up anything unless we use more...," he smiled at the nasty thought, "more extreme methods of questioning."

"No," Tabitha shot back, her commanding presence no less forceful for being on a TV monitor. "My superiors want her unharmed. A blow to the head could damage her brain, and we need what's stored in there. You have the new truth serum we've been testing, don't you?"

"Ma'am!" Forrest protested. "The doctor says that any drugs in her system could alter the anti-freeze necessary to preserve her for long-term cryo." As he watched Claire tested her bonds surreptitiously.

"Then she's no use to us at this point. Our time is fast running out. Perhaps a few years in a frosted coffin will put her in a more chatty mood," Tabitha snarled. "My superiors stressed keeping her in useable condition. If the attempt to get her to talk failed, we were to send her straight into cryo."

"If I just had a little longer I could break her spirit. I have techniques...no blows to the head, but very effective. Subtle things that don't even leave bruises," Forrest persisted. "We still have five hours left on the twelve hour time limit."

"Don't waste any more time and energy on that one, I doubt she's worth it. There are other places to get hold of the information she's carrying." Tabitha frowned, taking another sip from her Wedgwood teacup. "Just the fact that we got her away from the Agency is victory enough. Prepare the cryo chamber at once." She chuckled sardonically. "By the time she awakens in the future her reasons for keeping secrets will be long dead. Her information will doubtless be obsolete, but hopefully she'll be trainable for our own purposes."

The videophone went abruptly black. Forrest wrestled with his need to finish off the job versus a direct order from Tabitha, all the while watching Claire's increasingly active efforts to loosen her restraints. She avoided looking in his direction through what she obviously knew was a two-way mirror, turning her face away to shield her expression behind uncombed hair. Forrest growled low in his throat, flipping the switch on the intercom. "Prepare a cryo chamber for Dr. Keeply," he said with authority.

Hobbes pulled Golda up in front of a squattish two-story brick building in the midst of a relatively residential neighborhood and glanced over at Darien.

Darien checked the building's address, then the first on the list they had printed up. "This is the place."

Hobbes raised an eyebrow as he grabbed the handheld and got out of the van, eyeing the unassuming structure skeptically. "Teknik Labs, huh? Not what I woulda expected. And not where I woulda expected. Ain't this near your hovel?"

Darien shrugged as he exited the van as well, tucking the list into his pants pocket. "What, you wanted skyscrapers? Can't always expect Chrysalis to go for show. They have this thing for wanting to stay unnoticed, ya know. And leave it to Stark to hide out in my own backyard."

Hobbes walked through the front door into the empty receptionist's room. "Yeah, well, it's Chrysalis. Woulda at least expected the receptionist to be on duty."

"Maybe she called in sick... or maybe they don't need one," Darien said, surreptitiously nodding toward the security cameras that had been placed in strategic points around the room.

"Maybe not," Hobbes acquiesced.

"Oh, and check out the wall decoration," Darien said, motioning toward a small plaque that had been set up behind the receptionist's desk. "'Proud to be sponsored by Stork Fertility Clinics.' That's your Chrysalis connection, right there."

"OK, OK, you made your point." Hobbes walked to the far side of the room and glanced down at the handheld. Its reading was as vague as it had been before they entered the building.

"You got anything?" Darien asked anxiously.

"No." Hobbes had to work hard to keep his voice from showing the full range of emotions he was feeling at the moment; enough of his disappointment was leaking through as it was. "I hope Eberts got this thing right, 'cause if he didn't I'm gonna kill him."

"Hey, Ebes knows what he's doing."

"Didn't seem too sure of himself, though, did he?"

The second address proved just as fruitless as the first, and the drive to the third was made in silence. In Hobbes' opinion, there wasn't really much to say. His friendship with Darien might have begun to mend, but there was still a ways to go before they reached their former level of mutual trust.

Of course, he was partly to blame. The one time he hadn't lived up to his famous motto of not bailing on his partner had nearly cost them their friendship, particularly after Darien's innocence was proven. And while the evidence Arnaud had stacked against Darien had been damning, Hobbes should have known the younger man was incapable of murder. When he really thought about it, he wasn't at all sure he could have been as forgiving as Darien had been in the face of such disloyalty.

Perhaps that was why Darien was being so hard on Claire. His partner seemed to have taken all the hurt that recent betrayal had caused him and directed the heat of his anger towards his brother's old girlfriend, exacerbating the rift that had grown between Keeper and Kept once the secret of her relationship had been revealed. Now that break was the size of the Grand Canyon and almost as insurmountable - if Darien even wanted to try.

Hobbes pulled into one of the few parking lots open in the financial district, looked up at the formidable glass-paned building awash in the last blazing terra cotta flares of the setting sun and noted: "Now see, this is more like it."

A sign over the main doors was emblazoned with the words 'Cerberus Security'. The building was nowhere near as large as the main offices for the company had been, but it was still big enough to staff five times as many people as those who were regularly employed by the Agency.

"Yeah.... It is closer to the norm," Darien acknowledged. "Guess they have a more of a thing for hiding in plain sight than for hiding in the shadows."

"Must be somethin' hinky going on here, if Monroe had the place tagged for her personal surveillance," Hobbes said.

"What about Chrysalis isn't hinky?" Darien asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Hinkier than usual," Hobbes amended. He pulled out the handheld and started to walk toward the building, but stopped abruptly as his eyes widened and he yanked Darien back behind the van.

"Hey!" Darien protested.

Hobbes held a finger to his lips to indicate that Darien should quiet down, then said, "Check out the goon comin' out the front door."

Darien gave Hobbes a poisonous look, but leaned around the side of the van long enough to see. He whipped around quickly, his reaction was similar to what Hobbes' had been. After all, it wasn't every day they saw Stark's big, burly right-hand man walking around town. "It's him, it's... it's the spidey-sense guy!" Darien glanced over at Hobbes. "You ever find out his name?"

"Connor," Hobbes stated matter-of-factly.

"Well, it's him!" Darien's eyes narrowed. "And when he's around, Papa Bear must be nearby."

Hobbes gave a quick nod. If Stark was around, it made it that much more likely Claire was being held here. He peered around the van again. "OK, he's gone. Let's check the place out."

Darien and Hobbes crossed the street quickly, Hobbes keeping an eye out in case there were any more Chrysalis employees he recognized. They slipped into the building without incident, although Hobbes got a few strange looks from the receptionist, since almost every other person inside the building looked to be under the age of thirty.

"Better make this quick," Darien muttered.

"Yeah. For an invisible man, your face is pretty well-known." It wasn't what Darien had meant, Bobby knew, as he had drawn more attention than Darien so far. But he had been unable to resist the ribbing.

The two men walked over to the least populated part of the hallway. Hobbes turned toward the wall so no one would be able to see what he was doing and pulled out the handheld.

After a couple of minutes, Darien hissed through clenched teeth, "Hobbes, people are starting to notice us."

"We need to go further into the building," Hobbes said.

"What does it say?" Darien asked, looking over Hobbes' shoulder.

"We need to go further into the building," Hobbes repeated, stubbornly refusing to believe the negative read-out even though he was seeing it with his own eyes.

"She's not here, Hobbes." Darien's voice was quiet, but insistent.

"Just a little further," Hobbes insisted, not willing to give up yet. "The building's not that small; she could be in a back room or something." He knew they had to be close before the handheld would register that Claire was nearby, but he wasn't sure how close.

Darien's brow furrowed. "Hobbes.... She's not here. Let's move on to the next address before Stark finds out we're visiting his little playhouse, OK?"

Hobbes wanted to protest, wanted to argue that Claire was here, had to be. But Darien was right. If they stayed too long at any location, Chrysalis might figure out what they were doing and move her to another location that would be even harder to find.

Hobbes glanced down at the handheld one more time, hoping against hope that the readout might have changed. Then he took a deep breath, tucked the handheld back under his jacket and turned toward the door. "Alright, let's go." He followed Darien out of the building into the deepening night, his shoulders slumped with despair.

They wheeled the gurney towards the open doors down the hall. One trailed behind carrying a large plastic Ziplock bag bulging with personal effects: a belt, a few rings, shoes and a small heart-shaped gold locket on a delicate chain.

The woman veered away from the others as they passed through the doors and entered a room filled with lockers. She handed the bag to a man who jotted down an identification number on his clipboard, tore off the bottom and handed it back to her with a nod. She left the room and passed through the doors into a long hall.

Shining silver walls stretched off into the far distance of the warehouse. Fluorescent lighting illuminated row upon row of cryopods, all shut and sealed save for one standing open and ready 45 feet from the double doors.

The woman approached the handful of her fellow technicians.

One looked up when he heard her approaching. "Did you get the identification number assigned to her things?" he asked.

"Yes. Here," she replied as she handed over the slip of paper. He nodded his thanks and punched the string of numbers in the small keyboard on the side of the cryopod. He then continued to enter in codes as the other three prepared to move the unconscious woman lying on the gurney to the interior of the pod.

The female tech who had brought the ID number from the storage room gathered up the woman's long blond hair so that it wouldn't tangle in anything during the transfer. Two of the men positioned themselves at either end of the gurney and smoothly raised the slumbering woman and lowered her into the pod. The one with his back turned to the technician punching in the codes swiveled and gave a terse nod.

"She's ready to go," the female lab tech announced when she had secured the subject's hair in a net reminiscent of those used by food service workers.

"Good. Just one more thing, and we'll be able to grab some lunch," he replied as he tapped the final three numbers.

The two other men guided the gurney back to the front of the room to await another volume transfer while the woman and her partner watched the cryopod activate. The interior filled with an icy mist, and almost immediately the glass lid began to frost.

One the cycle was completed, the two turned to leave. The woman hesitated and looked one final time at the slumbering occupant of the pod.

"Welcome to the Library, Doctor," she murmured, and followed her companion out of the room.

Act Four

I've never been real patient, which is probably why I became a thief. I mean why spend your life working for money when you can just steal it, right? I felt the same way about school. Why waste your time studying books when they make Cliff Notes? Of course, the best book of them all -- the Bible -- tells us that patience is a virtue. Which I guess makes Job one of the most virtuous dudes ever, 'cuz his patience is legendary. He's also the guy who said, "Speak to the earth, and it shall teach thee." Unfortunately, they didn't make Cliff Notes for what the earth was about to tell me.

The buff-colored van cruised to a silent stop, camouflaged despite the noonday sun behind a high row of dumpsters on the cross street at the far end of a remarkably average alley. Diagonally across that alley stood several crumbling brick warehouses. The one that Bobby trained his binoculars on, about mid-way down the block of well-worn loading docks, appeared to be just like its brethren save for the bright yellow lightning streak proclaiming "Thunderbolt Wrecking" across its freight bay doors.

"Looks quiet, just the first five we've seen," Hobbes noted behind the binoculars, "and all of 'em too quiet if you ask me. You getting anything on that tracking gizmo?"

"Not even FM," Darien replied haplessly, tapping his forefinger against the faceplate of the handheld.

Bobby dropped the spyglasses and grabbed the GPS unit from Darien. "Gimme that -- you break it, and we lose any hope of tracking Claire down. Now, you may not care if we ever get her back, but frankly I do." Bobby's back stiffened.

"I never said I didn't care, Hobbes," Darien groused, exiting the van.

"Yeah, well, actions speak louder than words there, junior," Hobbes retorted as he jumped from the driver's seat, "So put your gland where your mouth is and let's go."

"All of a sudden Bobby Hobbes super-spook needs help to go in under the radar?" Darien's eyebrows flew up. "I can count on one hand the number of times you've wanted to do the invisible thing. Why now?"

"'Cuz time is of the essence, my friend. We got this joint, plus two more to check and one of 'em's all the way out in Del Mar. Might as well be all the way in L.A. considering we only got a few more hours left before Claire becomes the Ice Queen. So it's time to get creative. 'Sides, now that we don't gotta worry about you going red-eye, you can afford to be generous with the juice." Hobbes linked arms with Darien as they turned down the alleyway. "C'mon, make with the cellophane...."

"Would you let go of me, Hobbes!" Darien pulled his arm free, "Somebody's gonna get the wrong freakin' idea here. And what if they have thermals? Ever think of that, huh?"

"Then we do it the old-fashioned way." Bobby patted the gun at his hip. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. But first we're gonna put some of that taxpayers' money stuck inside your thick skull to work." Hobbes held out his arm expectantly.

"Great," Darien gritted out, "now I've got you treating me like I'm a frickin' fountain." He grabbed Hobbes' arm roughly and let the Quicksilver envelop them both.

"Stop it, you're breakin' my heart," Bobby shot back as Darien dropped his now-invisible arm, "and you know, you could do worse than me...."

"Hobbes, would you just shut up before they hear us?" Darien glowered.

Even invisible, they approached the building cautiously, alert to any sign that the few people dotting the alleyway could see them. But none of the workers wore any kind of eyewear - indeed, they were all dressed in standard construction attire: hard hat, jeans, oversized shirt and work boots. Even the three sitting on up-ended wooden crates in front of the loading bay doors didn't seem to be overly interested in anything other than their card game. For all intents and purposes, the employees appeared to be standard issue blue-collar employees - except that they were all male, and none looked older than 25.

As Darien and Hobbes approached, one of the loading bay doors opened and disgorged more workmen, who quickly traded places with the poker players. The original three went inside the building, Darien and Hobbes silently slipping in after them.

"Man, this is something like out of a James Bond flick," a very visible Hobbes noted as they entered a large storeroom lined with what appeared to be computers hooked to clusters of barrel-shaped devices. The two agents had shed their Quicksilver coating two floors above when they'd realized that the in-house security consisted of the skeleton crew manning the warehouse up top.

"Nooo," an undercurrent of mounting anxiety drew the word out of Darien's mouth as he stood turning in a tight circle, staring from one bank of silent machinery to the next, "if this were a Bond movie there'd be at least some lights blinking and a babe in a bikini. Not to mention a hell of a lot more security. Something's not right here, Bobby."

"Oh, you mean like one of them femmebots," Hobbes observed, casually pushing at random buttons and turning knobs.

"Would you stop that?" Darien slapped Hobbes' hands away in a gesture eerily reminiscent of Claire. "And no, not a femmebot - they're from Austin Powers. I'm talking Bond girls here. You know, the classics, like Ursula Andress. Now she was hot."

"What, and you're saying Elizabeth Hurley isn't hot?"

"No, she's hot; she just wasn't a femmebot."

"Sure, she was."

"No, she wasn't."

"Was too."

"Was not."

"Wanna bet?"

Darien let out an exasperated sigh. "I don't have to bet, Hobbes. I know she wasn't a femmebot. She was the frickin' co-star of the movie, man."

"The first movie," Hobbes exclaimed, grinning like a cat who'd just eaten a canary and wagging his index finger in Darien's face. "But in the sequel, she turned out to be a femmebot."

Darien stood stock still, thumbs crooked into the pockets of his low-slung tan khakis, hands resting on his slim hips as he closed his eyes and cocked his head. Finally, after a moment or two, his eyes opened. "Ah, man, you're right," he admitted with the disillusioned air of a child who'd just learned the truth about Santa, "Liz Hurley was a femmebot. No wonder that English dude dumped her. Hugh ...."

"Carey," Hobbes said knowingly. "And don't ever try and argue spook trivia with Bobby Hobbes, my friend. 'Specially not about hot British chicks...."

"Yeah, well, you know what? It's a potentially ice-cold British chick I think we should be worrying about now. You getting anything?" Darien asked. As Hobbes checked the GPS unit, the younger man sauntered over to a map of the United States scattered across with red pushpins and covering almost one entire wall. "Hey, you think these are library locations, maybe? And all this equipment is for monitoring the geek-sicles?"

"Maybe," Hobbes mused, toying with the controls on the GPS. Finally he looked up from the device and announced, "Same as upstairs; I ain't getting anything. She's not here." He stepped up to take a closer look at the map. "Nah, no, negative on that library idea, Fawkesy. Here, look here," Hobbes drew an imaginary circle with his finger around one of the largest concentrations of pushpins located in Southern California. "All these, right here, they're right on the San Andreas fault. Nobody's gonna be putting long-term storage on a fault line, I don't care how crazy they are. 'Sides, like you said, this place is too quiet to be a monitoring station. Where's the security, where are all the dweebs who run this stuff, where are all ...."

"The pretty blinky lights?" Darien finished. "So then what are those?" He left the map and began examining one of the barrel-shaped machines. "You know, these needle thingies kind of look like lie-detectors, except they're round and there's nowhere to hook anybody up .... Oh, crap."

Hobbes flicked his eyes from the map to his partner. "What? Oh crap what? Don't start with the 'Oh crap' shtick, 'cuz that ain't never good."

"I think I know what these things are. When I was in ninth grade, our earth sciences class took a field trip to a monitoring station for earthquake activity. These things are seismographs, Hobbes, for detecting tremors and measuring how bad a quake is."

"So you're telling me Chrysalis is monitoring earthquakes now? What for? 'Sides, look at this map - these markers are all over the freakin' place. I mean, whoever heard of a fault line in Missouri," Hobbes pointed at a large cluster of pins smack dab in the middle of the country, then swept his arm eastward, "or Jersey, for Christ's sake?"

"That just proves my point, Hobbes. See, right here," Darien returned to the map and drew his finger along the line of red dots in the center of the map, "that's the New Madrid fault line. Three of the largest earthquakes ever recorded occurred there, and it's still active -- potentially more dangerous than any of the faults here in California. And over there, on the East Coast, are some of the oldest mountains in the world. Where there's mountains, there's fault lines."

"Sheesh, and my friends were worried about me moving to California...," Hobbes rubbed a hand across his head, smoothing his few remaining strands of dark hair. "Looks like nowhere's safe according to this map. So why the hell are our unnatural friends at Chrysalis so damn interested in natural disasters anyway, huh? First that lightning crap, now this."

"Sounds like a question for the Keeper," Darien admitted sotto voce as he leaned over one of the cylindrical monitors, staring at the rat's nest of wires leading into the silent machinery. "What are you up to now, Stark?" He tried to follow along the wires in an attempt to make some sense of the intertwining connections, accidentally tugging too hard on a blue one and pulling it free. "Uh, Hobbes," he began, turning around with the frayed wire ends still dangling from his hands, "I think maybe...."

Suddenly a bank of computers sprang to life, lights blinking and alarms beeping loudly.

"Oh that's just great, Gilligan," Hobbes admonished, grabbing Darien's hand and placing it on his own shoulder. " Now do that voodoo that you do and get us outta here."

Dropping the wire from his other hand, Darien let the Quicksilver flow down his arm and onto Hobbes, then covered himself. By the time the security guards had entered the room, both agents had disappeared from view.

"We gotta stop doing this," Darien bent and whispered into Hobbes' ear, "people are gonna start to talk...."

Buildings flew past Darien's view, the red wind chimes hanging from what seemed like every other awning blurring into one long streak of vermilion. "You sure you know where we're goin', Bobby?" he asked, holding onto the roof of the van as Hobbes pulled a sharp right turn. "Maybe you should slow down a little; these streets are kinda narrow."

"Bobby Hobbes knows Chinatown like the back of his hand, my friend," Bobby answered, swinging into another hard right that almost put the van up on two wheels. "'Sides we gotta make up some time. Frickin' rush hour back from Del Mar was a bust, and that funeral procession we just spent half-an-hour wading through didn't help any."

Darien twisted his head to get a better look at the street they'd just left. "Hey, isn't this near that bar you took me to?"

"Yeah, that's like three blocks down on the left."

"That was a good bar. We should go again sometime...," the younger man suggested tentatively.

"Oh, no - not after the scene you caused last time. Took me weeks to get Katrina and Heidi to speak to me again."

"Well, excuse me. Like it was my fault the Chinese were chasing you 'cuz they thought you could go invisible. I shoulda let 'em capture you," Darien noted wryly, trying to hang onto his current bonhomie.

"As I recall you did let 'em capture me."

"Now that's my fault too?" Darien grumped, his mood souring. "Nobody told you to come to your own funeral, Hobbes."

"Hey, I wanted to know what my so-called friends really thought of me. You tellin' me you wouldn't be curious to know if you were in that position?"

Darien crossed his arms and kicked his legs up against the dashboard. "I was in that position. And I found out just exactly what you all thought of me after my arraignment, remember?" he shot back bitterly.

Hobbes gave a low whistle as the tension level in the van suddenly shot up to Code Orange. "You're really gnawing on that bone there, ain't ya?"

Darien stared, pouting, out the window, steeling his resentment to withstand another onslaught of Hobbesian logic on the nature of friendship and duty. When it hadn't come by the next block, and then when the van passed right by the Chi Lee Laundry, he figured it was safe to resume their work banter. "You better take another look at the back of your hand, Hobbes, 'cuz we just passed the joint." Darien turned and found himself the subject of his partner's intense scrutiny.

"Look, Darien ...," Hobbes began.

"Uh, hey, there's a parking spot on the right." Darien intentionally ignored the use of his first name.

Hobbes slowed to pull into the space but refused to be dissuaded. "We need to talk ...."

"The only thing we need to talk about is how we're gonna get inside." Darien opened the door and jumped onto the sidewalk while the still moving van was still a good six inches from the curb.

Bobby brought the van to a jerking stop, the tail end protruding dangerously into the narrow street. He slammed the door and stepped up on the curb next to his partner. "Fine. But we're not done with this, not by a long shot."

"Yeah, we are," Darien muttered under his breath, leading the way down the building's back alley with long, lanky strides.

"What was that?" Bobby asked, hurrying to catch up.

"I said the back door's over here," the junior agent eagerly turned the conversation to the task at hand. He tried the handle and found it locked. Automatically glancing first left, then right, he pulled a slim black case from his pocket, dropped to his knees and inserted his lock pick of choice into the doorhandle. "Here's hoping nobody's putting in any overtime."

A quick second later, the door swung open to reveal silence within.

Piles of white towels, sheets, and shirts lay strewn haphazardly about the floor of a large room, Hobbes' black sport jacket sticking out like a sore thumb atop one random pile. A wheeled canvas bin spewed yet more laundry, the piles growing like the snow-capped Alps under the onslaught. A deep grumbling from somewhere within the bin was the only audible sound aside from the soft plop of the laundry as it landed.

"What?" Darien asked, casually perched on the edge of a long table half piled with folded laundry as he observed the bin's eruption, his long legs crossed at the ankles.

Like an ostrich pulling its head out of the sand, Hobbes popped his head out of the laundry bin still holding the GPS tracker in one tight fist. "I said a little help here would be nice."

Darien remained reclining. "Help with what? Sorting your whites from your colors? It's a freakin' laundry, Hobbes; she ain't here. They're trying to freeze her, not put her through the spin cycle."

"Yeah, well, the GPS is singing a different song." Hobbes waved the hand-held device in front of the younger man's nose.

"That signal's fuzzy. She could be three doors down for all we know. We're running short on time here - we got something like 15 more minutes before Claire's got permanent brain freeze. We need to check out the other buildings next door before it's too late," Darien rose and headed for the door. "This'll go faster if we split up."

"She's here, Fawkes; I know it. The GPS signal may be fuzzy but the 'ole Bobby Hobbes radar is coming in loud and clear. Claire is somewhere in this joint."

"Where? She ain't in that bin you been digging in for the last 10 minutes, and we've checked all the other rooms here. It's a laundry, not some branch of a supersecret scientific library. The worst threat this place holds for world domination is putting too much starch in everyone's shorts."

"Well, maybe you could get the lead out of yours and help me look," Hobbes asserted. He left his bin and began scanning the laundry's main room again.

"We've already been through this place," Darien whined.

"Then we go through it again, only this time you pay attention. Where's that famous thief's eye you keep telling me you've got?"

The professional gauntlet thrown down by his partner roused the ex-con in Darien. He joined Bobby in examining the room more closely - not just the bins and obvious exits, but the floors, walls, and even ceilings. He knew from past experience that people were apt to hide their valuables just about anywhere, and Chrysalis most certainly considered the scientists they'd hijacked among their most prized possessions.

Something about the northernmost wall caught his eye. He couldn't say what at first, but it was enough for him to reconsider his earlier assertion that all was as it appeared. He ran his hand along the seemingly seamless plaster and caught a small puff of cooler air coming from the top left corner, next to the niche where a chubby bronze Buddha sat smiling surrounded by curls of incense. An image of the Official in similar garb and position flashed giddily through his head, and he remembered a standard Oriental folk tale about rubbing a Buddha's belly for luck. Impetuously he put his hand on the statue's protuberant girth.

With his touch, a slim section of the wall in front of him slid away, revealing a thick steel door with a heavy-duty digital lock sealing it.

"Ah, I think I found something," Darien understated.

Alerted by the sound of the panel retreating, Hobbes was already examining the door. "Good work there, partner." He reflexively low-fived Darien, then returned his scrutiny to the newest barrier they faced. "That looks pretty hi-tech there; think you can open it?" He quirked an eyebrow at Darien, who shook his head dismissively.

"Lucky for us, so am I," Darien replied with a smug grin as he put his hand to the lock and let the Quicksilver frost it. "How many times do I gotta tell you? I am the best," he boasted, pushing the door open and snapping the frozen lock.

Bobby bolted for the opening, but Darien threw an arm out to stop him. "Hold on there, Lone Ranger. Don't forget your trusty steed," he quipped, placing a hand on top of Bobby's head, "Hi-ho, Quicksilver, away!"

Bobby surged down the steps two at a time, leaving Darien to follow as best he could. By the time the younger agent had hit the bottom stairs, Hobbes had already grabbed the first of two technicians seated in front of a row of monitors not unlike a central nurses' station in any hospital's ICU. He flattened the unsuspecting young tech with a right hook, but, separated from the source of the Quicksilver, he returned to visibility before his victim had even hit the deck.

Shocked by the sudden incursion, the other tech rose from his seat and attacked. "What the...."

"Whatsa matter? No ticky, no Keepy?" Darien gibed, stepping in front of his partner and slamming an invisible fist into the assailant's face. The tech fell to the floor, along with Darien's Quicksilver coating.

"Let's find her," Hobbes ordered, racing into the warren of cryopods. "Fast," he amended as Darien stalled, snagging the first tech's abandoned Butterfinger and Coke.

"Gimme a break," Darien grouched around a mouthful of candy, "We've been on the hunt for a day and a half, and you haven't wanted to stop for a meal since the Chinese food back at the safehouse. I'm hungry."

He entered the maze of frozen scientists, weaving through the rows of cryopods and peering into each, all the while munching on bites of candy bar and washing them down with swigs of Coke. He'd just left chocolate-covered fingerprints on yet another of the countless, nameless glass faceplates when he was brought up short by Bobby's whoop of glee.

"Found her!" Hobbes crowed, then sobered as he checked his watch. "Damn, 22 minutes; seven minutes over." He leveled his gaze at his partner, who had joined him at Claire's icy bier.

"Look, is it any gonna help if we wait any longer?" Darien argued. "Get on the cell -- call Eberts! Tell him to have an EMT squad here and ready to treat a hypothermia patient pronto!"

"Dammit," Hobbes cursed as he put the small phone to his ear. "No signal down here!"

"Then get upstairs!" his partner pushed him towards the stairs.

"I should be here when she wakes up...," Hobbes countered.

"You don't get that ambulance here, she ain't never gonna wake up," Darien reminded, "Go! Call now! And tell Ebes to send a backup security team too!"

With one last worried backward glance, Bobby bounded up the stairs.

Darien returned to face the unit, calming himself with a deep breath, then holding that breath as he keyed in the sequence he'd seen used on Kate and then used on Adam, locking the boy away until Claire found a cure. The lid slid open, and he stared down at the sleeping face of his Keeper. Her expression was so peaceful a shudder ran through his body as he impulsively pictured himself in the role of Prince Charming dropping a soft kiss on her blue-tinged lips. That had been his brother's role, he remembered sharply, lifting her out of the frozen berth. Cradling her in his arms he allowed himself one last pang of sympathy and then carried her up to her salvation and their inevitable separation. As he did so, he heard Charlie Fogarty's words ring in his ears: "You start out hating her. Then you find that all you want to do is touch her."

Tag

Claire was struck by an odd sense of déjà vu as she entered the Official's office to find Hobbes, Darien, Eberts and the Official himself waiting for her. All of them looked as tired as she felt, worry and weariness still etched in the faces that turned to greet her. It seemed far longer than the two days since she had been put into protective custody, shunted off to a safe house that had been far from safe.

"Hey, Keepy," Bobby smiled at her, the stress lines around his mouth easing.

"Bobby," she returned the greeting, taking a chair from around the conference table rather than move towards the one Hobbes had half-risen from.

"Welcome home, Doctor," the Official said gruffly. She chose to read it as a genuine sentiment, still too exhausted by her brush with Chrysalis' cryopods to treat him with her usual skepticism.

"Thank you, sir." She settled into her chair and waited for the interrogation she suspected was coming.

"Doctor..." the Official began, then hesitated a moment. "I realize you've been through the ringer in the last few days, but we need to know... what you told them," he finished.

And there it was, she thought to herself. The real threat of Chrysalis' attentions. "Thanks to Eberts' misinformation campaign, there really wasn't anything I could tell them. None of their questioning had anything to do with my current lines of research," she assured him, glancing at Albert to see the tiny flicker of relief in the assistant's eyes. "It left me with essentially nothing more to converse about than 'name, rank, and serial number,'" she managed a small smile.

"Name, huh?" Darien spoke up for the first time. "So what did you tell them?"

"Fawkes, that's need to know," the Official intercepted the change of subject neatly.

"Hey, can't blame a guy for tryin'," Darien excused himself, and Claire smothered her amusement. It was simply so 'Darien' to try and find a way around expected limits. She'd begun to realize over the past few years that it was as much a reflex for him as breathing. Darien simply considered himself the exception to the rules. Pushing acceptable boundaries was a part of his makeup, just like scientific inquiry had been for his brother. She found it both aggravating and refreshing, though she doubted she'd ever confess that to him.

"So you were able to keep your current research confidential?" The Official pressed. She recognized the subtle cues by this time, the ones that told of Charles Borden's abiding obsession with the invisibility project begun by his friend Peter Donovan so long ago.

She nodded, knowing exactly what he was worried about. "All of their questions centered on my successful resuscitation of Adam Reese." This time her gaze flicked to Darien, and she saw the tiny flinch that signaled a direct hit.

"You, uh, didn't tell 'em where he was, did you?" Darien asked, the tension in his voice and musculature betraying the sudden grim seriousness of the situation.

"They didn't want to know where he was," she replied to Darien directly. "They wanted to know how I defrosted him, and even more than that, how I... solved the hormone balance problem."

The Official frowned, not losing track of the ultimate relevance of that line of questioning. "I thought you said they didn't ask about anything related to your current research," he snapped sharply.

"They didn't," Claire affirmed. "My research involving Adam isn't current," she reminded him carefully, trying to ignore the increasing suspicion from Darien that radiated like heat from a furnace.

"Whoa. Now wait a second here," Fawkes spoke up, his concern unmistakable. "Adam is current, lady," he insisted warily.

"Yes, he is," Claire assured her Kept without batting an eye. There really were times she hated the lies she was forced to tell him. It was no wonder he had come to mistrust her. "But the techniques I used to defrost him were based on the information we obtained from Chrysalis in the first place. There was nothing I could tell them they didn't already know," she reminded him. He and Eberts, after all, had been the ones to liberate that information from Cerberus Security.

"What about the virus?" he asked tensely.

"What I did was change the hormone balance in Adam to allow me time to solve the problem of how to defuse the viral trigger," she reminded him. "Without Adam, they can't reverse engineer the virus, or create a cure or vaccine, and since I don't know where he is... exactly, I was simply of no help to them. They seemed to question me with a great deal more restraint than I would have expected, actually," she commented, glancing at the Official.

Darien eyed her suspiciously. "What, no rubber hoses and thumbscrews?" he quipped, then subsided when Hobbes whacked him on the back of the head sharply.

Claire knew Darien wasn't satisfied with her answer, but without going into things she'd been ordered not to discuss with her Kept, there was no way to provide him with any reassurance. "Albert, did you make any progress in identifying your mole?" she asked, deflecting further comment from Darien.

Eberts sighed quietly, obvious frustration in his posture. "Unfortunately not, Doctor," he answered. "While I was able to tailor misinformation to specific recipients, I was not successful in designing my... trap to do more than isolate a general pattern in the information that has been leaked. Whoever our informant is, they are not highly placed in the Agency," he concluded regretfully. "I suppose it's fortunate that we were at least able to identify the destination as Chrysalis," he added, then flinched as Hobbes scowled at him.

"'Fortunate?'" Hobbes mimicked nastily. "So you're telling us that this place has more holes than the Titanic, and you still ain't spotted the damn iceberg?"

"Agent Hobbes," the Official's reprimand was unmistakable. "You're overstating the seriousness of the situation," he added in unexpected defense of his assistant. Claire didn't miss the quickly suppressed surprise on Eberts' face. "We've retrieved the Doctor, no serious harm has been done, I suggest we let it drop."

Hobbes' expression was mutinous, but he contented himself with a muttered, "'No harm?' Tell that to Mohal and Greer," followed by a stream of what she assumed was invective. Claire was only too aware that the Official's rush to table the issue had nothing to do with the genuinely serious threat posed by a mole and everything to do with his reluctance to discuss the type of information he most feared compromising. And her new gland research was at the very top of that list.

"Eberts, how many of the recovered cryopods have you been able to ID?" the Official went on.

"Don't you mean ID the people-sicles they're holding?" Darien interjected pointedly, ignoring the disapproval directed at him from the Agency's head.

Eberts retrieved a file from the Official's desktop, paging through it as he answered. "We've made positive IDs on four of the occupants. Our people are still sorting through the personal effects of the rest in search of clues to their identities. Some of them..." he looked up at them unhappily, "seem to have been taken quite a while ago based on the outdated nature of their personal possessions. The earliest one we've been able to narrow down seems to have been in Chrysalis' possession since the late '70s." He shuffled through the papers again before continuing, ignoring the look Hobbes and Fawkes exchanged. "We've made arrangements to store them at the same desert facility where we sent Adam initially," he announced. "At least for the time being."

The Official nodded once. "Good work, Eberts." The rare praise left the rest of the room's occupants nonplussed. "Doctor, for the moment, we'll leave the security detail in place around you. Just in case we haven't heard the last from Chrysalis in this matter." With that, he turned his attention to something on his desk, the implicit dismissal unmistakable.

Claire stood, her movement seeming to break the spell of consternation that held the rest of the group motionless. She had experiments to check on and the residual drug hangover from her near-permanent freezing to try to cope with. As she headed for the door, she could hear Darien and Bobby's cynical commentary on the events of the last few days.

"Good work Eberts? Good work?" Hobbes complained. "We're the ones who found the Keepy," he went on.

"Well, Ebes did give us the chance to play hide and seek with Chrysalis," Darien reminded sarcastically.

"Keeper, Keeper, who's got the Keeper," Bobby muttered to his partner as she escaped out into the hall, the two agents a few steps behind. "I swear, he ever does something that bone-headed again, I'm gonna personally give him a refresher course in agent training. The part on withstanding torture, 101," she heard him warn his lanky partner before she turned the corner, heading for the quiet safety of her lab.

She made her way downstairs, curiously comforted by the familiar squabbling amongst her coworkers. It reminded her of childhood, for some reason, and the arguments she'd had regularly with her siblings. Stepping through the heavy steel door into the Keep, she gazed around, reassured by the protection the thick walls promised. She suspected it would be a very long time before she would feel safe anywhere else.

Darien stood in the deepening twilight on the front steps of Claire's townhouse, a small paper bag clasped tightly in his hands. Twisting the neck of the bag, he paced the short width of the stoop to and fro, head down, arguing with himself. After a few minutes of this, he caught sight of Claire's neighbor peering at him from behind her front window blinds across the street. Realizing he needed to make a decision before the neighborhood watch was alerted, he took a deep breath, steadied himself, and pushed her doorbell.

A moment later the newly installed security intercom crackled to life. "Who is it?"

"It's me," he said. When the question came again, he recognized his mistake. Stepping closer and leaning down to the intercom's microphone, he depressed the white button and repeated, "It's Darien."

Soft footsteps came to the door, then the subtle swish of a peephole cover being slid away. Finally, the door swung open to reveal a kimono-clad Claire. "Darien? It's late. Is everything alright?"

"Hey," he said softly, "ah ... Pavlov left something at my place." He pulled a bright yellow and red rubber dog toy out of the crumpled bag. "Couldn't let my li'l buddy go without his favorite squeaky cheeseburger, now could I?" He squeaked the toy once for emphasis, then handed it to the jumping dog, who promptly dragged it to his favorite chewing spot on the white leather couch in the living room.

"He never had a cheeseburger," Claire noted archly.

"Yeah, well, that's something we need to talk about. I mean, a tennis ball is a pretty sorry excuse for a dog toy. Couldn't you have at least sprung for a blinky ball or something?"

"I can see you're an expert on the care and feeding of the Chinese Crested Powder Puff breed now," Claire laughed lightly. "Would you like to come in? I've just put some tea on." She stepped away from the door, inviting him in.

Darien hesitated for a moment - somehow that one small step over the doorjamb and into Claire's hall seemed as far as from the earth to the moon. To make that leap, he'd have to jettison all the betrayal, anger, and bitterness he'd been carrying around with him. And if he let go of that armor, he'd be left in exactly the same state he'd sworn he'd never be in again: vulnerable.

Friendship had always been a losing proposition for him; Manny Merrick was living proof of that. But then, Bobby Hobbes was proof otherwise. And Claire? What was Claire? Darien shook his head clear of his indecision as a happy squeak from Pavlov spurred him to motion. He sure as hell wasn't going to find out standing on her stoop.

"Yeah, I'd like that," Darien said, stepping inside the foyer, then impulsively added, "just so long as you're not gonna try and serve me any peanut butter and bologna finger sandwiches with it."

Claire laughed out loud as she shut the door. "Ah, no. Though I understand you were partial to something called a 'fluffernutter?'"

"Ooooh, yeah," Darien smacked his lips. "I haven't had one since I was a kid. You take peanut butter and this marshmallow spread, and smoosh 'em together, see...."

"Egads, sounds dreadful; we never had peanut butter in Oxfordshire. I just don't understand the fascination. Now chocolate I can understand. My favorite growing up was Cadbury Flake."

"Cadbury what?" Darien asked suspiciously.

"Flake," Claire giggled. "Never had any?"

Darien shook his head.

"Well, then, you're in for a treat. Grab the ice cream and prepare to be dazzled by my culinary excellence," she grinned.

For once Darien did as he was told without argument, grabbing the carton of Haagen-Dazs French Vanilla Mousse out of the freezer. Watching Claire scoop out two giant bowlfuls, he mused, "I'd have thought you'd only be interested in eating hot food for a while."

"Oh, please, it'd take more than Chrysalis to put me off ice cream." She pulled two packages of what looked like long, dark breadsticks out of a yellow and blue canister. Unwrapping first one, then the other, she broke half of the milk chocolate confections over the two bowls, then stuck the two remaining halves jauntily into each serving. "Though I daresay I'd like to see a thawing trend in some other areas of my life."

"Yeah, about that," Darien said sheepishly as he accepted one of the bowls. "I guess that's something else we need to talk about, Keep...."

"Claire," she gave him a soft vanilla-mustachioed smile, "my name is Claire."

"So not only did you lose our newest acquisition, but 13 volumes that cannot be easily replaced." Phillippe's face had flushed to a shade of red that Jared had not seen very often in his lifetime and, while he found that amusing, the look on Tabitha's countenance was vastly more satisfying.

She stood before Philippe her shoulders slumped in obvious submission even as she met the man's eyes, her look tight and defensive. Jared had to admit the child did indeed have a backbone, but considering the magnitude of her failure... It would be best for her, best for Chrysalis, if she admitted her imperfections and stepped down.

Instead she straightened her shoulders and all but snarled her response. "If Library security had been upgraded after the first breach in this sector occurred, I might not have gotten stuck with the fallout."

Jared noticed with idle interest that her accent had fled along with her calm. He made sure to take no notice of the glare she shot his way. It had been Allianora and her unwelcome attachment to Fawkes that caused the first breach and nothing that he had done.

"Security is not the issue," Philippe said in such a cold voice that Jared knew the man's temper had snapped. "That location had been secure for nearly two decades and in less than 48 hours your ineptitude has placed us in an even more dangerous position than before."

Jared tipped his head down to observe the pen he toyed with as an excuse to gain some control before the smile could find its way to the surface. He bit down on the wolfish grin that desperately wanted to escape in anticipation of Tabitha being demoted. It had been astoundingly easy to allow the misinformation about the good Doctor Keeply to filter its way through channels and to those who ultimately made the decisions about who and when new acquisitions were indexed into the Library. Given that until a few months ago he'd been in charge of collecting said volumes, he knew all the right buttons to push and the exact information that would trigger an unscheduled freezing.

While he had fully recognized the fact that the information he had gained was intended as nothing more than bait, he had seen the potential and seized the opportunity to show Sharon that Tabitha could handle the Agency, and more importantly Fawkes, with even less success than he'd achieved. There had been little chance the Agency would allow their precious Keeper to remain in the possession of Chrysalis, and even less that Fawkes would.

It had gone perfectly. The Keeper was free, though at the cost of a branch of the Library, and Tabitha looked like a fool for not seeing the potential dangers. If it had fallen upon Jared to take the Keeper, he would have had her out of the country, perhaps in one of their European strongholds, and indexed her there. So far out of the Agency's purview that she would have never been retrieved.

Jared tried to keep the smug look off his face as the verbal standoff between Philippe and Tabitha continued.

"Philippe," Sharon said softly, which caused him to stop before what Jared was certain would be the next set of imprecations about Tabitha's lack of skills passed his lips.

Jared glanced up at the large video monitor that held an image of Sharon in her office, backlit by a night scene of Paris, the decoratively lit Eiffel Tower easily seen over her left shoulder.

"It would appear that the intelligence suggesting that this would be the optimal time for acquiring The Keeper was inaccurate." For an instant Sharon's eyes seemed to bore into Jared's own, and he had the sudden concern that Sharon knew he had planted the information himself. "Return to the original schedule for her indexing."

"That would be 2008, Sharon," Philippe stated for the record as well as reminding her, since she had no need to memorize the date. "Do you want a recovery team to retrieve the volumes currently in the Agency's possession?"

Sharon leaned back in her chair, one pale pink nail tapping on the surface of the desk before her. "Non. Even with the files and successful thawing of subject Reese, it is unlikely they will rush to revive their new trophies... unless we give them a reason to. Non, allow them to become complacent, to believe they have won this minor battle. We have time."

Philippe nodded tightly, his temper cooling only slowly, Jared noted dispassionately. A volatile temperament was a minor flaw of that particular generation, one that had been swiftly corrected in the succeeding ones.

"The threat of the Agency to our local interests should be reevaluated immediately," Sharon ordered in a dangerous tone.

"I will see to it, personally," Tabitha responded, finally finding her tongue.

"Oui, you will." Sharon was obviously not currently happy with her carefully groomed pet. "Coordinate with Jared. He has the most detailed dossiers on the Agency."

Jared's hand tightened about the pen he still held, very nearly snapping it in half in irritation. This had not been part of his plan. Tabitha was supposed to be demoted and himself returned to where he belonged - in charge of Sector G. Not forced to work with her. The last thing he wanted to do was share his information with Tabitha, and he most certainly did not want it revealed exactly why Agent Monroe had such an interest in Chrysalis in general and himself in particular.

Forcing a pleasant smile on his face he glanced from Tabitha to Sharon. "Of course, Sharon. Anything to prevent another incident like this one from occurring." Jared caught the glare Tabitha leveled at him and vowed to give her no more than the barest hint of the true danger the Agency potentially represented to their organization. With a bit of creativity he could use this unexpected turn of events to his advantage and force Tabitha into making more and even greater mistakes in the future.

"Bon. Philippe, I look forward to your report upon your return." On those words the screen went momentarily dark, the Chrysalis logo appearing after a few seconds - a butterfly bursting forth from its cocoon, ready to take its place in the world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"A Chinese philosopher once had a dream that he was a butterfly. From that day on, he was never quite certain that he was not a butterfly, dreaming that he was a man."

In some ways Chrysalis is the epitome of this, but you know what? I don't really care what they think they are. What I care about, what worries me when I lie awake in bed staring through the darkness at my ceiling in those long lonely hours is: when they come crawling outta that cocoon they've surrounded themselves in, what are they gonna be?

End