Episode 21

By Suz and A. X. Zanier

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Teaser

June 27^th, 2033

A friend of mine, known for his... eccentric... take on the intelligence business and its penchant for secrecy, called it the 'old need-to-know'. I've spent the last 35 years in the intelligence field in various capacities, and in my time, I've come to appreciate Robert Hobbes' unusual insights. I've achieved things in my time that I can be truly proud of. And I can also lay claim to actions for which I may never be forgiven. Still, what I've done, I've done in the name of duty, loyalty and commitment to my country, just as Robert did in his own career. And through it all, the 'need to know' has governed the evolution of my position.

Now I'm the one who decides who needs to know what. And there are things here that I've come to believe do not need to be known by the vast national security machinery that purports to guard the country I and others have served, regardless of the personal cost.

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He unlocked the ancient file cabinet after a brief struggle with the old-fashioned mechanical lock, disturbing decades of dust that layered the gray enamel. It had been well over 15 years since the last time he'd visited the old archives. Most of the Agency records had been converted to electronic files long ago. But these, these old files he'd arranged to have omitted from the general housekeeping, of two minds about whether or not to include them in the public record. It had taken a great deal of soul searching to arrive at the decision to exclude them, but the cost to the agents he'd once called friends would have been far too great, and the benefit to the American people minimal.

So he'd arranged to sequester the old files in the antiquated archives that underlay the new Agency building. Now, with his retirement, he'd made the choice to remove the files that had constituted his earliest days at the Agency. They held some of the most controversial, as well as some of the most personal, memories of his career.

He opened the bottom drawer, flipping through the yellowed and fragile manila file folders that filled three quarters of it until he came to a single unmarked one with an old rubber-stamped 'Top Secret' designation from the last months of the 20^th century. He extracted it carefully from the drawer and opened it, eyeing the weathered arrest report that made up the first page.

The old deer-in-the-headlights mug shot of Darien Fawkes taken the night he'd been arrested, the night that had changed the former thief's life and the course of Agency history, stared up at him. He glanced over the rap sheet long since committed to memory before flipping the pages to the mid-point of the inch-thick file. The forensic report, brief to the point of being terse, heralded the end of an era in his life at the Agency, and past losses surged to the surface as if none of the intervening years had passed. Regretfully, he closed the file and placed it, as well as the four that had resided behind it in the drawer, into his battered and well-used briefcase. He repeated the process with three other file cabinets and then clipped the latches of his briefcase shut with a fair amount of force to fasten the old clasps. With a last look around his former domain, he relocked the cabinets and took a final deep breath of the dust-mote clogged air, then opened the door and stepped out into a hallway that gleamed with the currently-favored, full-spectrum, mid-intensity lighting countless studies had shown to increase worker productivity, a small part of him missing the faint hum and flicker of florescent tubes that had illuminated so much of his career.

Even here, in the most unused section of the Agency's headquarters, the new fad in lighting cast its benevolent glow along a marble-floored corridor. He strode along the cold stone, oblivious to the esthetically pleasing pattern of an endless double helix overlayed with a series of stylized ouroboros that ran down the center, patterning the floor in shades of luminous white and black-veined green.

It had never been his idea to use the Agency's nearly 30 year-old government logo as a leitmotif in the interior décor, but it was a battle he hadn't bothered to fight when the National Security Council had insisted on a headquarters suitable for one of the nation's - and the world's - most important intelligence agencies. At the time, far more serious things had occupied his attention...

He stepped into the elevator, keying in the access code that would be voided from the system within the next 48 hours. Nostalgia caught him by surprise as he recalled the years that had passed early in his career in a half-derelict old building without so much as an old-fashioned Otis elevator, let alone one of these newfangled multi-directional 'turbo-lifts,' as he'd privately christened them. He selected his destination, the ground floor some 7 stories over his head, and braced himself against the slight pressure of acceleration against the soles of his feet as the elevator whizzed upward at speeds he'd rather not contemplate.

He stepped out when the doors of the lift opened to the main lobby with its inset government mandala of hand-fitted stone in the shape of a stylized American eagle grasping a golden-hued DNA helix in its talons. The Agency's initially unofficial icon of the Ouroboros was coiled along the perimeter circle, fangs and tail-tip positioned dead-center in the helical strand, and he strode across it unhesitatingly.

The bustle seemed greater than usual, personnel striding purposefully through the impressively scaled Agency foyer that greeted every visitor. He was met with respectful nods as his secretary, an earnest young man that bore him no resemblance, approached.

"Director, they're ready for you," the younger man informed him solemnly, handing him a small, carefully packed cardboard box holding the last personal items to inhabit his soon-to-be former office.

"Lead the way," he nodded at his assistant fondly, then followed him across the echoing foyer and through the half-dozen security check points to the long hallway that led to the building's most secure exit. He hesitated only the merest moment before turning the corner to see his men, his agents, lining the hallway in their anonymous government-issue civilian business-wear, its intended purpose of camouflage spoiled by the uniformity of it when gathered like this.

He was both mildly amused and touched when they came to attention, posture tightening as heads turned towards him attentively. Pausing at the head of the double line of personnel flanking his final walk through Agency halls, he smiled at them.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began with a nod they correctly interpreted as an 'at ease.' "It has been my very great privilege to work with each of you over the past 30 years. The battle we've waged has been long and often fierce, and it has yet to be won. But with your help, we have at least managed to prevent further exacerbation of world tensions by working against the most serious global political threat to face us since the Cold War and the threat of radical Islamic terrorism. I wish to thank you for your dedication, your determination, and the willingness to risk your lives, health and safety to stop that enemy. I, and the citizens of the world, are in your debt. And I have no doubt that with your continued diligence, Chrysalis and all it stands for will one day become a threat of the past, as so many others before it have." He glanced down the line of agents, committing faces to memory. "Thank you," he said again, hoping his sincerity would be understood. An instant later, he began the last long walk to the active agent's exit, shaking the proffered hands along the way, returning well-wishes and regards.

He could see his successor standing in front of the triple bio-locked impenetrable Lexan doors, haloed in the mellow light of a San Diego summer evening. Coming to a standstill in front of her, he took the hand she thrust out awkwardly, and shook it firmly. "Best of luck, Director MacFarland," he said, hoping to reassure her.

"Director Eberts," she began, then swallowed. "We're going to miss you," she told him gravely. "It's not going to be the same around here."

He smiled a little at that. "It shouldn't be, Jan," he reminded. "It's time for a change. It keeps the opposition off-balance."

At that, she grinned, a quick flash of white teeth in dark skin, and impulsively pecked him on the cheek. "It's been fun, Albert," she whispered as she stepped back, turning away to personally open the door for him.

With a last glance at the men and women he was leaving behind, he smiled and took his first free step back out into a world he'd spent his working life protecting.

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Act 1

Early January, a few years from now...

The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone.

George Eliot (1819 - 1880)

What's strange is that once enough years have gone past even the sand seems to take on a golden hue, our memory coloring the past and making even the saddest moments ones to treasure. It's then that we begin to long for the sight of those angels who have yet to appear.

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'The walls are the same,' Darien thought to himself as he looked over the vertical surfaces in question, the same not-quite white that peeled, cracked and blistered if you stared at it for too long. The floor the same battered linoleum that no matter how much wax was used could never hold a shine. All of it exactly the same as when he'd first come to the Agency all those years ago. Okay, so not exactly the same. The big quake of '03 had trashed the Harding building beyond repair and forced them to find a new home in the form of the McKinley building. It was a near perfect mirror image of the Harding and situated a just a few blocks away from their former home away from home. The hassle of having to remember everything was flipped was a small price to pay to feel like they were where they belonged.

With a soft chuckle Darien realized their current location was the evil twin. Though, come to think of it, maybe the Harding had been the evil one since this one still stood, which, assuming that whole "good always triumphs over evil thing" held true, would mean the Harding building had lost the battle with the aid of Mother Nature. He was considering the ramifications of working in a building that had leanings towards the dark side... or not, when an elbow shoved pointedly into his side forced him to focus on the now. "What?" he complained, one hand rubbing the muscles over the ribs, certain there was going to be a bruise in short order.

"His head in the clouds again," Hobbes observed, turning to glance at Claire who walked along beside him thumbing through a file, the gold band about her left ring finger catching the light of the overhead fluorescent bulbs that buzzed and flickered, signaling a desperate need for replacement.

Claire snorted delicately and closed the file. "Speaking of clouds... I heard from Alex yesterday." She tucked an errant strand of strawberry blonde hair behind one ear and looked over at the two men.

"When did they get back in town?" Hobbes asked, sounding strangely relieved.

"Last Friday. She said the trip to South America went just fine," Claire filled in.

"Mission accomplished, eh?" Darien quipped. "Glad she's enjoying herself. Being a consultant seems to be treating her a lot better than the Fat Man ever did." Alex had bailed from the Agency a couple years back when a better offer had come up. A marriage offer to be precise, one which had come as no surprise to her friends. In fact, Darien had to wonder what had taken Mike so long to pop the question when it was obvious from the first time Darien had seen the pair together that Alex was head over heels for the older agent. She and Mike were happily traveling the globe playing spy games for anyone who needed their services and could afford to pay them. She kept in contact with the Agency and shared anything she learned about Chrysalis. The need to find her son James had never lessened, but the realization that the child wouldn't be one for much longer, that he was being raised Chrysalis, had tempered her search and changed her focus.

"Man, tell me about it. All the contacts and none of the hassles of having to answer to one boss," Hobbes said dreamily, sounding as moony-eyed as a schoolgirl over her first crush. "Wonder who I'd have to marry to get that set-up for myself?" he mused, one hand rubbing across the top of his completely bare head and through the little hair that remained along the back, which now had more than a sprinkling of salt through the black.

"Hmmm, I'd say the 'Fish, but I don't think you're his type," Darien said straight-faced. "Besides I don't think your wife would approve you marrying someone else without her permission."

"Fawkes," Hobbes warned.

"Now, now, boys, play nice or I'll be forced to use you in my next round of Beta-C series testing," Claire mock threatened, the smile on her face giving away the fact the threat was anything but. "I'm just glad Alex is happy; she deserves it."

"Damn straight she does," Darien asserted, knowing it was true. Their beginning may have been rocky, but they had all become very good friends over the years. "Wish she was around more often. I miss her." He sounded wistful and was sure the hey-day of the Agency had ended when Alex had chosen to walk away. Of course, that might just be because he couldn't yet leave, that he still had a... duty to stick around and finish something he'd agreed, albeit reluctantly, to help with.

Hobbes snorted in derision as he held open the door to the stairwell so Claire and Darien could pass through. "Like you need another woman chewing up your brain cell usage. Your girl's been back, what, a month now? When are you gonna ask her?"

"Darien, what on earth are you waiting for? You've shown me the ring at least a dozen times, don't you think it's about time you showed her?" There was far more concern in Claire's voice than admonishment. "Did things go poorly the other night?"

Darien paused before the door that opened-up on the second floor and ran a hand through his hair. It hung low over his forehead, but this no longer worried his friends; he'd let it grow out a bit and stopped wearing it upright for the most part. Every once in a while a mission would come along that would demand the return of his old look and he'd pull out his hair care collection and indulge in a trip down memory lane. The thick locks curled about his face and made him look far younger than his years.

"I just want everything to be perfect, ya know? I'd rather wait and do it up right than rush the job," Darien explained, his mind wandering off to the woman in question, who he pictured lounging about in next to nothing in that big bed of hers even though he knew she was at work.

"Oh, lover boy," Hobbes said at a sing-song.

Darien blinked and glared down at his friend. "Hey, you brought her up."

"Just so long as nothing else 'comes up,' Darien. You still have some control issues, remember," Claire chided gently, trying without much luck to not laugh.

"Gee, thanks for the reminder there Keep," Darien said drolly. "Please tell me we are not gonna use... that as the secondary adrenaline response trigger for the newbies?" Granted, it was the method that worked when he'd become inured to the standard fear response Kevin had used, but the long lasting side effect, in a word, sucked.

"I have no plans to, but I'm quite sure you could give an adequate demonstration of that particular response," Claire stated in that cool scientist voice she had mastered ages ago, and Darien could only hope she was kidding.

"Bet your sweetheart would gladly assist with the demo there, my friend," Hobbes added as he swung open the door to the Official's office.

"Oh no, you are not getting her involved with that," Darien grumbled, a hint of color coming to his cheeks. "Her jokes about it are bad enough, I am not gonna..."

"I was under the impression that we had settled the matter of you training the temporary hosts," Eberts stated from across the room where he was setting papers in front of the Official to be signed, and then removing them as soon as the motion was complete.

"Like you've given me much of a choice?" Darien complained with real bitterness. Even after all this time and all the reassurances by Claire and Hobbes, he still wasn't very fond of this plan, of actually implanting new glands into idiots who thought they could better do their duty by playing invisible spy for god and country. "The backpacks worked just fine and made you plenty of money, you don't need to go drilling into some schmuck's skull to get yourself some more invisible men."

"Fawkes," the Official barked, interrupting Darien's well-worn rant. "It's done and you will train the temp hosts and the receptacles or..."

"Or what? You'll fire me? Please," Darien sneered, warming up to the topic and looking forward to full-blown shouting match with his boss to blow off a little steam.

Hobbes burst his bubble with one quiet statement that effectively cut through the swiftly building tension in the room. "Fawkes, you'll still be the best."

"Yes, Darien, it is because you are an expert at the control needed that we asked you teach the new hosts. Your skill is beyond even Kevin's wildest hopes, which we have told you time and time again," Claire interjected as if knowing Darien needed the ego stroking, to know that even with the new and improved I-dudes on the scene he was still needed.

Darien knew they had a point, that this was just the second step towards Kevin's grand dream of having a cadre of agents capable of going invisible and doing their level best to save the foolish mortals of this world from themselves. "I know. I know, but I still hate the damn control set-up."

Claire shook her head, that lock of hair falling free again to hang in front of one eye. "Darien, it's designed to prevent misuse of the Quicksilver without harming the host in any way. The simulations and animal testing have gone as expected." She glanced over at the Official who didn't even lift his head up from the paper he was signing.

"Well, Doctor, have you made your choices?" he asked as Eberts took away the final signed sheet.

Claire stepped forward and set the file on his desk. "I narrowed down the list to five for the first round of trials. You wanted the final decision. All are volunteers and meet the minimum requirements."

"Good, good," the Official nodded, his jowls swinging from side to side. The fat man had continued to earn his nickname over the years, his chair creaking noticeably with every movement. "How soon can you be ready to implant?"

Claire was about to answer, but was interrupted by the office door swinging hurriedly open to reveal Agent Larson, who had been working reception today, and looked as if he had run the entire two flights to the office. "Sir...."

"Larson," the Official barked. "This is a private meeting."

"Yes sir, sorry sir, but there's a woman in the lobby...," Larson got out between panting breaths.

"Spit it out," the Official ordered.

"She claims to be Eleanor Stark, sir."

The sudden silence in the room was deafening.

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"This is crazier than the line she fed us before," Hobbes argued, not bothering to lower his voice one whit even though the woman in question sat just a few feet away. He shivered slightly in the chill of the room, but it wasn't Mrs. Stark or her tale giving him the case of the willies. Oh no, it was the boy who sat beside her, one of his hands grasped tightly in hers. The six-year-old who had for a short time gone by the name of James and been under the protection of the Agency until stolen away by the underhanded maneuvering of his biological mother. Far as everyone at the Agency was concerned, Alex was the kid's mom, period, end of story.

"It's no line," Eleanor insisted, her grip plainly tightening about the hand she held, though the boy didn't even flinch. "Jared sent us here for help because you managed to purge the nano-bots from Darien within days of first encountering them." She paused and shook her head. "The standard techniques for removal do not work and their purpose... That bitch has killed with them. She's using them to try to wipe out our entire line...."

"And we should give a damn about you killing each other off why? Far as I'm concerned the only good Chrysali is a dead Chrysali," Hobbes snapped right back, his temper momentarily getting the better of him.

Darien set a hand on Hobbes' shoulder, calming him with the simple gesture. The taller man's eyes had been locked on the boy from the first instant and hadn't strayed for more than a few seconds at a time. "Hobbes, James is just a kid," he pointed out softly.

"My name is Brandon," the child sneered, getting to his feet in pure belligerence. "I told my father this was foolish, that we could solve this ourselves, but, no, he'd have us turn to mere mortals for help. Perhaps Tabitha isn't so wrong about him."

"Brandon," Eleanor admonished, the shock in her voice sounding real. "If that were true, why would she infect you as well?"

Brandon turned on his mother, his surety fading quickly. "I... I don't know."

"But she does," Darien observed of Eleanor.

"I've told you everything I know about why Jared sent us here, what else do you want from me?" The desperation in her voice almost sounded real. Almost.

"The truth," Claire stated as she walked through the doorway followed by an agent rolling a cart with various pieces of medical gear upon it. "I will need blood samples from both of you to begin with."

"Anything," Eleanor instantly agreed and began to roll up her sleeve. "I'd even offer to take a lie detector test, but I'm immune to them."

Claire approached the pair cautiously; an agent was nearby just in case either the woman or child tried anything untoward. As she wrapped the rubber tourniquet about Eleanor's biceps Claire spoke in an eerily dangerous tone, "Oh, I might have something that will work."

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The security door to the basement cell slid shut, and one of the agent's standing guard outside keyed in the code to lock the system, then took up his position directly before it. Claire noticed the tape recorder was still running and pressed the stop button with a sigh.

"Any chance she could be immune to the Beta-C stuff?" Darien asked, his look distant and moody. After all these years, Claire could read him even when he did his best to hide what he was feeling.

"Doubtful," Claire answered as she pushed the cart forward, intending to head back to the Keep and begin processing the blood samples she had drawn earlier.

"Damn. I mean, we knew there's been something going on inside Chrysalis for years... but nothing on this scale," Hobbes commented, his voice hushed in the poorly lit hallway.

"It's genocide. The apprentices surpassing their masters. And you know who's gonna suffer for it?" Both Hobbes and Claire shook their heads. "Us, the norms, as they call us. You heard her, that big quake back in '03 was definitely their fault!" Darien groaned at the unexpected pun, then frowned grimly. "I mean, we've always suspected, but until now we didn't know how the hell they could have pulled something like that off."

"Darien, you had no way of knowing how they were triggering earthquakes," Claire soothed, wanting to erase those sudden worry lines from around Darien's eyes. They turned the final corner to the Keep and Darien moved ahead to key open the door.

"But we should've, Keep. We knew about that quake monitoring station, hell, we've been watching it for years. And we knew about the lightning research they were doing even before that. But how the heck were we supposed to tie that in, not to mention this crazy nano-technology?" Hobbes interjected, slamming a fist into the palm of the opposite hand.

"Bobby, it's over and done with. We have to deal with what is happening now," Claire pointed out as she parked the cart and set about cleaning the instruments she had used in the interrogation of Eleanor Stark. The new version of Beta-Chatazine3 had worked perfectly and without the potentially deadly side-effects of the original version. She handed the digital tape recorder to Bobby, who pocketed it with a look of consternation on his features.

"Now what?" Darien asked from where he stood leaning against the closet door, with his hands shoved into his pockets.

"Now, I start running tests to verify that they are indeed infected with nano-bots and if so, attempt to cure them," Claire answered as she headed to the centrifuge the blood samples had been set in prior to the interrogation of Mrs. Stark.

"You sure you wanna cure them? Helping the enemy, and all?" Hobbes was plainly not thrilled with this plan.

"Bobby," Claire began, only to be interrupted by the soft-spoken words of Darien.

"It's James, Hobbes. Can you even try to tell me you want Alex's son to die?"

"He's Chrysalis, Fawkes. You heard him yourself, spouting the party line like any good little brainwashed cult member," Hobbes countered, his voice lowering in anger.

Claire spun about to face Bobby. "And how many other Chrysalis children have we saved, deprogrammed and found homes where they are happy? James deserves the same chance don't you think?" She shook her head at the look of stubbornness on his face. "We're all too close to this one, Bobby. Just take a step back and try and see this as any other case involving children from Chrysalis, please," she pleaded softly and watched as Bobby sighed heavily.

"You're right." Hobbes turned to face Darien, his tone apologetic. "You too, partner. Let's get this tape upstairs and let the Chief know that one hell of a hot-potato just landed in our laps."

Darien nodded and shoved away from the wall, "Claire..."

"As soon as I know anything, Darien," she assured him and watched as they fell into step and left her alone in her lab. Turning back to the samples she muttered, "Let's see what we can see, shall we?"

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Hobbes reached out a hand and pressed the stop button on the tape recorder once the voice of Mrs. Stark had completed answering the final question. There wasn't much need to listen to the chatter that followed. He turned to face the Official who sat behind his desk with a frown upon his face. "Chief," he prompted.

"Do we have proof of these new nano-bots?" the Official asked, sounding unconvinced of the threat they could possibly pose.

"The Keep is checking on that as we speak, but I don't think it matters," Darien answered running one hand nervously through his hair and making it stand up as it used to for a moment.

"Why is that, Darien?" Eberts asked out of curiosity.

"I don't know, I just get this really bad Invasion of the Body Snatchers feeling when I think about it. We already know they can use 'em to spy on people, what's next? Mind control? Turn us norms into slaves via remote-control?" Darien tossed off the top of his head as he began to pace before the windows.

Hobbes snorted in amusement. "Click. Do the dishes. Click. Iron the clothes..."

"Click. Walk in front of a bus 'cause you pissed off the wrong Chysalid," Darien interjected. "For all we know it ain't anywhere near as farfetched as it sounds."

"True 'nuff," Hobbes muttered under his breath. "Never thought of it that way. This is trouble." He rubbed the top of his head with one hand. "We gotta nip this in the bud."

"And we will," the Official assured them. "Eberts, do we have anything on this Kendall Building?"

"I believe so, Sir." Eberts picked up what looked liked the strange melding of a TV remote control and an older model Playstation joystick. He pushed several of the numerous keys, which lowered a screen mounted on a wall opposite the Official's desk, closed the blinds on the windows to assure minimal privacy and turned on the video projector that hung from the ceiling over the conference table. After a moment the Fish and Game logo appeared on the screen as Eberts began typing at the computer on the table in the corner of the room.

When Alex had gone her own way from the Agency, she'd left a few toys behind and gifted the Official with yet others. This AMX system had been one of them. While outdated by some standards, it was still top of the line for the Agency and Eberts was always scrounging for more goodies to add to it.

"Neat trick with the window shades there, Ebes," Hobbes commented as he watched the logo on the screen be replaced by an exterior shot of a high rise.

"We had some extra funding in the office supplies budget," Eberts dissembled as he picked up a laser pointer. "We've known about this location for some time, but have not been able to penetrate too deeply inside. Chrysalis controls floors 10 through 25, but does not, to the best of our knowledge, own the building."

"What's the cover for this one?" Hobbes asked.

"Management company," Eberts answered.

"In other words, a little of this and a little of that," Darien commented as he paced slowly towards the screen. "What's the security like?"

"Extensive," the Official answered. "But nothing you can't handle."

"With one exception," Eberts tapped a few keys bring up schematics for the 16th floor. "We've nicknamed this the Vault for obvious reasons."

Darien whistled softly. "Damn, even the floor is reinforced." The windowless room dead center of the building was more than large enough to raise a family of a dozen or so, but was also completely self-contained. All the electrical and plumbing conduits were either inaccessible from the outside or too small to be of use as an egress. Same for the ventilation shafts; while numerous they were also too small for anything larger that a mouse to gain entry by and that was before the obvious security measures imbedded within.

"We suspect they use it for their equivalent of board meetings. Jared Stark, Tabitha and others we have identified as part of their hierarchy have been spotted at the location as many as six times a year." The Official pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes as if they were bothering him.

"And Stark's wifey says he's there today," Hobbes muttered. He stepped up next to Darien who was still looking over the varying floor plans and blueprints of the floors in question. "What're you seeing there, partner?"

"A crapload of trouble," Darien replied, glancing over at Hobbes. "What the hell could be so important that they'd need something like that?" he mused aloud, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer.

Hobbes shrugged. "Maybe it has the name and location of every Chrysalis member. Not that it matters, we ain't never gonna get in there without starting a war. A very loud and visible war."

"Quite probable, Robert. By all appearances, nothing short of a large-scale frontal assault will breach that room. The Kendall Building, along with several other known Chrysalis locations, exceeds the current earthquake resistance codes. In fact, some of the improvements are more commonly seen in buildings in Japan. This level of protection would indicate something of importance being stored there." Eberts tossed this out in an offhand manner, as if detailing an interesting tidbit in some super-spy version of Trivial Pursuit.

Darien just shook his head, not very surprised that Chrysalis had even planned ahead for "the big one." It was rare they didn't account for everything. "So what? You want us to go in and get Stark out?"

"Yes, if possible, and bring him back here. If what Mrs. Stark says is true, then it'll be in his best interest to work with us on this matter," the Official explained, which caused both Darien and Hobbes to turn about and frown at him. "I fully understand your reluctance..."

"It could be just another trap, Chief. It wouldn't be the first time they'd tried to take us out all at once," Hobbes interrupted, his tone a bit sharp to Darien's ears.

"That means you'd better be paying attention when you go in," the Official said around a chuckle.

"Ain't no way we can get into the Vault," Darien observed, realizing they were going to be attempting this one way or another; and they needed to move soon, before the meeting broke up and Stark was no longer within easy and known reach. "So we'll have to get him," he paused to check his watch, "right after the meeting is over."

Hobbes spun about to look at Eberts. "Gimme what you got, Eberts, and in record time."

"Data will be uploaded to your PDAs in 10 minutes," Eberts assured him and turned back to the computer.

"Get going, boys," the Official ordered.

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Act 2

"Jared, you requested this special session. You claim to have proof of a... renegade member within this sector," Sharon stated, sounding astonishingly bored to Jared's ringing ears. Not a good sign, but he had no choice. Tabitha had forced his hand.

Anger flared, and he ground his teeth in impotent frustration heedless of the pain that ran through his jaw at the simple act. He wanted to stand and face down his enemy, but was unsure his legs would hold him for long. He wanted to shout, but he wasn't sure he could keep his voice from cracking on the words.

"Is something the matter, Jared? Feeling ill, perhaps?" Tabitha asked in a sickly-sweet voice filled with mock concern.

After an initial surge of rage, Jared composed himself. "Only because of your presence, my dear," he stated in as bland a tone as he could manage. He smiled grimly, satisfied with the glare Tabitha shot his way.

"Enough," Sharon interrupted before either of the pair attempted to fire another volley. "Your bickering will not be tolerated any longer," Sharon surveyed the assembled group, which included the heads of all the North American sectors. "I will not have my time wasted in this manner. If you have proof our agenda is being undermined, present it now." This was no request, this was a command by the leader of Chrysalis and even at his most arrogant Jared would not challenge her.

Making his tone as amiable as he could, Jared nodded in acknowledgement of the order. "Of course, Sharon. What if I were to tell you I had proof that one of our own was attempting to eradicate a founding line?"

Sharon tipped her head slightly to the side, her look decidedly cool. "What kind of proof?"

Jared raised a hand and Connor placed a file in it. Jared didn't open it, but set it on the dark wood of the conference table and slid it towards Sharon, only to have it picked up by Philippe. The Frenchman opened it with a desultory flick of the wrist, and Stark stifled the surge of worry at the glaring lack of concern from any of the other council members. He went on with feigned confidence. "Inside are the details of a new variety of nanotech, an offshoot of the Progeny Project, it seems." Jared waited patiently as Philippe skimmed through the detailed reports then leaned down to whisper into Sharon's ear. "Unless our charter has changed recently, the original 13 genetic lines are inviolate and not to be tampered with without a majority vote by the senior members."

"That is correct," Sharon agreed with a barely discernable nod. "Are you saying this will occur?"

"Has occurred," Jared corrected, holding onto his temper by a swiftly fraying thread. "Five are dead and dozens of others are infected. Including my son."

"Your son," Tabitha sneered. "Yet more proof of your arrogance. He is Chrysalis first and foremost, and it was your taking advantage of your position as head of the clinics and the camps that exposed this organization to the Agency." She flicked one finger and a far larger file was set in front of her by the young man who stood behind her.

"That is not true," Stark snapped. "Jaurez and Allianora swung that door open in Santa Ruego, not me." It had then fallen upon Stark to attempt to bring the Agency and Fawkes under control, with limited success. In fact, he'd been lucky to play things to a draw most of the time. Tabitha had had no better success in the years she'd been in control of the sector, but that had been his plan and it had, for the most part, worked. Until now.

"I am aware of the manner we first came under the scrutiny of the Agency," Sharon stated with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"My error," Tabitha apologized to Sharon through gritted teeth, then returned her attention to Stark. "However, once your pet Allianora was dead we might have faded from their minds had you not chosen one," she opened the file and paged through to retrieve the name. "Alexandra Monroe as an incubator." She turned to meet Sharon's gaze. "A very highly-ranked government agent who made it her goal to find the child she'd given birth to, thinking it was biologically her own."

Jared listened to all this with a feeling of disbelief. He had been careful to destroy any and all evidence linking Brandon to Agent Monroe years ago and yet Tabitha had somehow ferreted out the truth. "An interesting tale, Tabitha. Perhaps we should make the telling of bedtimes stories to the infants part of your duties."

"If it were a tale, perhaps," Tabitha agreed with a dangerous grin. "Your former employee, Richards, was quite forthcoming once some of the... more interesting effects of the new nano-bots took full effect. His mind just seemed to keep wandering down memory lane."

"So Jared's accusation about this new nano-technology is true?" Sharon questioned with a look of surprise, as if suddenly realizing her protege was no longer following the plan she had so neatly arranged.

"Yes, Sharon, but I believe when you hear the full truth of the situation you will understand why I took such a drastic step," Tabitha straightened her shoulders and thrust her chin out, plainly not about to back down as should have been appropriate.

Jared couldn't understand why Sharon was even contemplating listening to the child. In the past several years Tabitha had learned nothing, had been thwarted at every step and never even realized it had been him under the guise of the Agency causing all her grand plans to go awry. "Sharon..."

"Quiet," Sharon ordered. "You may be given the chance to defend yourself after."

"Defend myself?" Jared all but shouted in response. "You would risk losing a founding line on the word of... of this arrogant child?"

"Arrogance?" Tabitha countered, her tone almost gleeful at his choice of words. "Is it not arrogant to think that you and your wife can raise Brandon to be a true part of Chrysalis on your own?" She met Jared's glare with a cool look. "Why exactly did you have to send them to Sector E?"

"Brandon has received the very same programming and training as every other child born Chrysalis," Jared snapped and was forced to fight off a wave of dizziness that struck with surprising force. For a long moment he found himself unable to remember exactly why they were gathered today and at a loss as to who some of the people about the table were. A sharp shake of his head brought his focus back and he knew that it was the nanos' effects throwing his mind into chaos.

"Ah yes, your programming." Tabitha removed several sheets of paper and tapped them idly once upon the glossy surface of the table. "Why is it the children who go through your camps seem to have more loyalty to you than to Chrysalis?"

"Jared?" Sharon questioned, and Jared could hear in her voice that whatever chance he had of surviving this, of saving his family, his line, was swiftly slipping through his fingers. His grand plan to reveal Tabitha as the fool she was was falling apart before his eyes.

"I'm afraid I have no idea what she is talking about, Sharon. I use the standard training program, as I always have. Perhaps they feel the current head of this sector simply isn't worth being loyal to." Jared knew this effort was poor at best, but the look of irritation that crossed Tabitha's features gave him hope that he might yet pull this off.

"Loyalty wouldn't be an issue if you weren't undermining my efforts to advance our cause." Tabitha replaced the papers to the original file, closed it and slid it towards Sharon, this time she and not Philippe took possession of the material. "You may think of me as a child, Jared, but you of all people should know I am not. You've tipped your hand once too often," Tabitha said around a smile.

"My dear, I'm afraid I have no idea what you are talking about." Jared's voice was perfectly calm, but he could feel the trickle of sweat running down the center of his back. He had the feeling it had nothing to do with the man-made nano-bots running through his system and making his life even more miserable than Tabitha had.

Tabitha began to rattle off information from memory. "New Madras, '07; the area 51 incident at Groom Lake, '06; Long Island, '06; the plans involving Lake Mead and Las Vegas, '05; San Francisco, '04; San Diego, '03. Do any of these ring a bell, Jared? There are dozens of others, but those are the most significant failures that can be attributed to you funneling information to the Agency."

"Sharon, I...." Jared began, only to be cut off by Tabitha.

"San Diego, being the most damaging as it set back the Farsight Project by at least three years while we tried to ascertain what went wrong. It never once occurred to anyone that it might be sabotage from within instead of a programming error." Tabitha had a wicked gleam in her eye that boded ill for Jared. "Finding that little additional bit of code took some time. The fact you made it look like it was written by our Japanese R&D division was brilliant, I must admit, but ultimately futile."

Jared tore his gaze from Tabitha to focus eyes gone suddenly blurry on Sharon, in whose countenance he could see his doom. He'd lost this battle, perhaps even the war, unless Eleanor succeeded. It was a sad turn of events when his only hope of survival, for not only himself but his entire line, was the Agency. "Sharon, even if you believe this... fantasy, you cannot be willing to condone losing an entire founding line?"

"Jared, have you forgotten what this room represents?" Sharon waved a hand at the hundreds of doors lining the walls of this room. While it looked remarkably like a safety deposit room in any common bank it was anything but, even though the purpose was in many ways similar. To keep secure the most important and valuable items of Chrysalis - their history. "We would lose nothing but the current members with those desired traits your founder provided. It wouldn't be the first time we've reintroduced a founding line due to massive loss. Have you forgotten the McKinnen incident of 50 years ago?"

Jared shook his head. No one had forgotten that. It had taken decades of careful breeding to bring those traits back into gene pool without duplicating that one horrible genetic error that forced the temporary culling of the line. The McKinnen line had been instrumental in providing the means to extend their youth beyond what was considered the norm, so when several generations had been born lacking that coveted gene sequence, the senior members had made the only rational choice. It had worked, obviously, as their long-lived youth had nearly reached its pinnacle, and years before the original timeline required it. The founders had planned for the long term and it had paid off.

"Jared," Sharon barked, drawing him up from his musings only to realize he was unsure why he was here.

"Yes, Sharon?" he asked looking about at the others seated at the table. For an instant he was confused by the knowing smirk on Tabitha's face. Then reality slammed back into focus.

"Take him to our Cerberus offices in La Jolla and detain him until the Seniors can convene and decide what to do with him," Sharon ordered with a sigh of irritation.

Two of Tabitha's muscle-bound thugs appeared to either side of Jared's chair, Connor, his long-time bodyguard not even attempting to stop them. Jared stood with as much dignity as he could muster. "Sharon, you are making the wrong choice," he assured her, hoping his voice wasn't shaking too badly as he made the thinly veiled threat.

"Perhaps, Jared. I am certain we will know in time."

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

Claire stepped out of Lab 4 and yanked off the isolation suit helmet with a sigh of frustration. She turned to meet the eyes of the agent standing to the left of the door. "No one is to go inside without my authorization," she told him in clipped tones.

"Yes, Doctor," Agent Gordon affirmed with a curt nod.

The gloves she wore were stripped off and shoved into the helmet as she strode briskly down the hall. While Mrs. Stark was not, her son was most definitely infected with nano-bots, and Claire could only be thankful that once she had ascertained that, she had chosen not to test the modified nano-bots in the Keep. They were active, but seemed to be in a holding pattern of some sort, almost as if waiting for a command, which Claire realized was entirely possible given what she knew about the original version.

Claire was hesitant to use the original vaccine and was awaiting the results of computer simulations before making it available to their guests. The new nanos were markedly different from the strain she was intimately familiar with and she had had some concern that only the slightest exposure would be necessary to cause transmission. In her initial tests she had intentionally infected a lab rat with nanos extracted from the boy's blood sample and placed an unexposed one in the cage to gauge how long host to non-host transmission took. Only to have the nanos in the infected rat drift about aimlessly then shut down completely as if responding to a command. The now dead nano-bots would be broken down and then naturally filtered from the system with no noticeable harm to the rat. As near as she could tell the second rat had never become infected at all.

It made little sense. She had checked a sample of her own blood and found nothing of value, which could mean that closer contact was needed for transmission. Or... that she, and everyone else who had been near Eleanor and the boy, had been infected and the nanos had shut down just like had happened with the rat. What that suggested was frightening.

Yes, Eleanor had insisted, even under the thrall of Beta-C3, that these nano-bots were specifically targeting Jared Stark's genome, focusing on genetically desirable traits - though heaven knows what they could be - passed down from some founder and cultivated by Chrysalis. The fact that only the child was infected seemed to bear this out as true. Which meant that at least for the moment, risk of infection outside Chrysali might well be small.

She nodded to the guard stationed outside the Keep as he palmed the lock and opened the door for her. With renegade members of Chrysalis in the building, the Official was taking no chances and had ordered security increased. The computer on the long desk that lined the right hand wall was showing a simulation complete on the screen and Claire hurried over to it, eschewing the chair for herself and relegating it the job of supporting the helmet for the nonce. A few quick taps of the keys and the results of the simulation were displayed before her.

"Bugger," Claire cursed softly. At best the original vaccine had a 40 percent chance of working without complications. It was far more likely to fail and there was even the risk that introduction of the nano-vaccine would activate the nanos, which would then do their level best to fulfill their programming, whatever the hell that was. She could not, in good conscience, use the vaccine with the risk this high, not without consulting the boy's mother, anyway.

With a sigh of frustration she unzipped the iso-suit and slipped out of it, hanging it on one of the coat hooks near the door and exchanging it for a labcoat. She pondered her options if Mrs. Stark chose not to try the vaccine as she paced across the lab and to the coolers that lined one wall on the other half of the lab. Even to this day she would still find herself going in the wrong direction, never having become fully comfortable in this mirror image of the original Lab 101. She often found herself sympathizing with Alice after she had stepped through the looking glass and found a world that was the same ... yet different.

Looking over the various items collected over the years, her eyes passed over the cracked motorcycle helmet up on a top shelf with all the other things that 'might come in handy some day' three times before what it represented sank in. "Yes," she crowed, seeing a chance at a reprieve in this situation. While primitive, the helmet had still been successful in its task and kept the RF signals from the nano-bots Darien had been infected with from being transmitted all those years ago. It was possible that the reverse could work as well. If she could discover the frequency that activated the nanos in the boy it could be possible to jam the signal.

Slim as it was it was still hope.

She left the Keep and headed deeper into the Agency, to arrive a few minutes later at the basement cell where the two members of the Stark family were currently being held. Claire had moved Eleanor and Brandon out of the isolation chamber when she was certain that the nanos posed no threat to the rest of the Agency, and mother and son had taken up residence in the titanium-barred cell the Official had had installed when they'd taken over the McKinley building offices.

The guards in the hallway did their jobs, though Claire chafed at the delay. They checked her badge with utmost care, regardless of the fact both knew her by name before allowing her to set her palm to the lock and open the door to the cell. There were two more agents on this side, both standing at wary attention and watching the pair on the far side of the bars. Eleanor sat on the bed, her back against the cold concrete wall, her eyes following the boy who paced restlessly about his cage. It was obvious to Claire that even at this young age the child was an alpha male and had the bullish temper his father had shown on more than one occasion over the years. However, he had not yet learned the patience and cold calculation that Jared Stark had exhibited when facing down the Agency. For an instant Claire wondered if that was one of the traits Chrysalis was trying to cultivate and preserve throughout the generations.

"Well?" Eleanor asked, slipping off the bed and moving to stand in front of Claire, three feet and metal bars separating the two women.

"The existing vaccine does not work," Claire informed her, arbitrarily deciding not to tell Eleanor of the fact there was a chance it might. Like Bobby, Claire would much rather stand back and let this play out on its own. The only reason she was helping was because James was involved. "Without more information on how they function, the likelihood that I could create one that does is very slim."

Eleanor's shoulders slumped as the truth of the situation sank in. "So what can you do?" she asked softly, defeat evident in her tone.

Claire hesitated, then responded. "If I can discover the electromagnetic frequency the nanos respond to I might be able to jam or block the signal." A frown crossed Eleanor's features. "It would be a stop-gap measure until I could find a way to shut them down completely," Claire admitted, expecting some sign of hope to appear on the woman's features, but was disappointed.

"Doesn't that mean you could also activate the nano-bots?" the observation came from the still youthfully feminine voice of James.

"Brandon," Eleanor warned, but without force.

"In theory, yes," Claire agreed, turning slightly to meet the cold blue eyes of the child. "Except for the fact I'm trying to help you."

"And why would you do that?" he sneered, suddenly sounding exactly like his father.

"Because a friend of mine would want me to," Claire answered, feeling torn. She had to wonder if having grown up knowing Jared Stark was his father would keep James from realizing there was more to the world than just the short-sighted doctrine of Chrysalis.

"He's right. If you learn the programming frequency what's to keep you from using it to kill off our line yourselves? What's to stop you from reprogramming the nanos and using it against all of Chrysalis?" Eleanor pushed away from the bars and went to her son, setting one hand atop his shoulder.

Claire decided to be brutally honest, "Nothing I suppose. But if your husband was so concerned about such things, why would he send you to us for help? Hell, he's probably counting on us finding out how to recreate and use the nano-tech in hopes we'll destroy his personal enemies for him." Claire moved forward, grasping a bar in one fist. "After we've given him the cure, of course."

Eleanor shook her head. "It's too big a risk."

Claire sighed, not surprised at the answer. "Fine, then I'm sure the Official will make arrangements for you and your son to be transported to the nearest Chrysalis facility." She turned about, fully intending to leave the room and make good on her comment, Alex's son or no.

"Wait," Eleanor called out, her voice quaking as the reality that Claire was not attempting some ploy sank in.

"Yes?" Claire had stopped at the door, the agent having already opened it. "Have you changed your mind?"

"I... I'll tell you what I can. Jared has files stored away with everything you'll need..."

"But?" Claire prompted.

"Mother," Brandon shouted, pulling away from Eleanor. "You can't do this. Your loyalty is to Chrysalis not me, or even my father. Chrysalis comes first."

"'The corps is mother, the corps is father'," Claire quoted under her breath, suddenly reminded of the deeply imbedded programming of the members of the Psi-Corps from a favorite TV show several years back.

Eleanor, much to Claire's astonishment, turned on her son. "You will quickly learn that is not always true," she hissed, her tone threatening. The boy's reaction was priceless, complete and total shock that his mother had spoken to him in that manner. "Sit down, Brandon." The boy did as he was told, apparently mute for the moment.

For the first time Claire could see the child within the Chrysalis version of man-made perfection that was Brandon Stark. "You will just give us this information? I find that hard to believe."

Eleanor shook her head. "The disks will do you no good without Jared. He has the encryption key. You want the data, you will need to find him and bring him here."

Claire ground her teeth, not really surprised at this sudden turn in events. They would have to rescue Jared in order to save Brandon. "I will take the matter up with the Official," she responded noncommittally.

"I would suggest you hurry. If the virus has been activated in Jared he may not have much time," Eleanor countered, sounding smug.

"Well, if he's too far gone to give us the key then all of you will be out of luck." Claire hid the smile of triumph she felt when Eleanor stiffened in reaction. "Given the slim chances of this being successful, I would like to ask that you allow Alex Monroe to see... Brandon." Eleanor shook her head and began to answer, but Claire ran over the top of her words. "It is the very least you can do considering what you did to her."

It was plain by the look on her face that Eleanor was not going to agree without some serious persuasion, so Claire used the best weapon she had. "Then I may just have to recommend that since we are unable to facilitate a cure, it would be better to turn you over to Chrysalis and leave you to your internal bickering."

Eleanor narrowed her eyes, knowing she was being backed into a corner. "Fine, she can see him. But nothing else. Brandon is my son," she stated possessively.

"Odd, I was under the impression that they were all the children of Chrysalis," Claire said softly as she turned and finally left the room.

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

The bustling lobby was thankfully large, which allowed Darien to avoid being stepped on as the single-minded people made their way past the security check-in and to the bank of elevators a third of the way into the building. He was also damn glad the Kendall building was only used by Chrysalis and not owned by them, since it meant there were no thermal sensors other than those used for the internal climate control system. The cameras were the only threat at the moment and they couldn't pick up what they couldn't see.

Darien paced between potted plants in the waiting area off to one side of the lobby. "Hobbes, what's taking so long? I got you the password for the security monitors, do you need me to come out there and push the buttons for ya?" For some reason it was taking Bobby forever to hack into the building's security system even though it should've been completely straightforward and just like the hundreds of times before.

"Hold your horses, Fawkes. Eberts updated the system since the last time so..." Hobbes' voice trailed off into a mutter of physically impossible acts for Eberts to attempt with the copy machine.

"Hobbes, can we save the lesson on your sexual predilections for later, huh?" Darien sniped, knowing it would only serve to distract Bobby from his current focus on being pissed at Eberts and back to the actual task at hand.

"Fawkes, I didn't say nothing about my predi... my predilick... about who I was sleeping with," Hobbes grouched. "His royal geekoidness changed all the code commands from the looka things."

"Hobbes, you did get a copy of the updated manual, right? I'm pretty sure I saw it on your desk last week." Darien grinned, betting Bobby had failed to read it, certain that he could fumble his way through the new programming with little or no trouble. Darien had taken the time to give the once over to the 100 pages of new instructions and figured out quickly that it was going to take himself a week of playing with it to get it straight. And here Bobby was, trying to fake his way through it during a mission.

"Don't try to teach your gramma to suck eggs, kid," Hobbes warned. "Just gimme a minute, here."

"A minute and Stark'll have gotten away clean," Darien grumbled sotto voce as he strode away from the wall he'd been using as camouflage, the A/C vent above him easily disguising the extra chill he was giving off.

"What was that? Repeat transmission, partner," Hobbes ordered, no longer finding the jibes amusing and cursing under his breath again at Eberts for the changes made to the system.

Darien reached up and jiggled the microphone, faking the sound of static across the line. "...ry, your... king up." Darien slithered his way through the crowd, garnering only the occasional glance in his direction when he approached too close to someone and they would look about in surprise at the sudden chill breeze that wafted past them. A couple even commented about it aloud.

A large curved security desk dominated the lobby where visitors had to either show their ID cards proving they belonged in the building, or had to sign in and wait for an escort to the floors above. Darien sidled in behind and parked himself in the matching curve of wall, which allowed him a convenient view of all the miniature monitors, many of which were located in the elevators or the hallways directly outside them. Most of those flipped through various angles, giving those behind the ground-floor security desk a reasonable idea of who was where in the building.

He scanned over the images, hoping to catch a break and maybe see Stark or his muscle man of the month on one of the screens to give him a clue as to where to go to actually make this attempt at retrieval. It was the third monitor from the right on the bottom row that caught his eye, but he had to wait for the camera angles to cycle through before his glimpse was confirmed: Stark himself coming down from the heavily protected 16th floor. At first Darien was certain he'd just hit a major break, but watching the scene before him for several minutes revised his initial opinion. Stark was plainly not happy and none of the people with him were ones Darien recognized as working for the man.

It wasn't until the elevator car was nearly to the ground floor that Darien placed name to face of one of the occupants. Philippe; supposedly part of the hierarchy of Chrysalis, though little more than that was known. He'd been spotted here in San Diego at a variety of Chrysalis locations in the last few years. This couldn't be good, not for Stark anyway.

"Hobbes, we may have a problem," Darien stated as he stepped away from the security desk and towards the bank of elevators. The timing was perfect as the car holding Stark and his friends arrived with a soft bing; the doors sliding open and disgorging the occupants who glanced about warily, then marched Stark to another elevator, which required a key before the doors would open.

"Fawkes, what's your sit-rep?" Hobbes barked, probably glad not to have to fight with the program any longer.

"Where does the far left rear elevator go?" Darien asked even as he tried to remember from his perusal of the floor plans Eberts had downloaded to the PDA on the hasty drive over. Darien had only taken a quick glance, the plan relying on Hobbes hacking the video system and directing Darien where to go to effect Stark's rescue.

"Uh... The underground garage. Why?"

"'Cause that's where they just took Stark, and he did not look happy about it," Darien explained as concisely as possible. "And, no, there's no way I can squeeze into the car without every one of 'em knowing about it."

"Hell," Hobbes muttered. "The exit is 'round the other side of the building. There ain't no way I can get there in this traffic." There was nothing but the crisp sound of dead silence across the headset for several long seconds. "Abort the mission," Hobbes finally said.

"You sure?" Darien asked, not that had he had any idea of what to do instead.

"Yeah. Get your scrawny ass back here on the double, and we'll at least try to follow the car he's in." Hobbes didn't sound very confident that they could pull this off, but Darien knew they had to try.

"On my way."

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

"So you have no idea where they went?" The Official didn't even bother raising his voice, but the exasperation was obvious to both of the agents seated before him.

"Sorry, Chief, Fawkes even did a recon of the garage to see if they were still there, but they was long gone," Hobbes informed him, hoping that their extra effort would keep the man from chewing their heads off and spitting them out.

Much to Hobbes' surprise, the Official simply heaved a huge sigh and drummed his fingers on the desktop. "Eberts, have Mrs. Stark brought up."

"Sir?" Eberts questioned as he snapped to attention.

"Oh," Darien uttered in surprise.

"What now, Fawkes?" Hobbes wasn't sure what had just caused a light bulb to go off over his partner's head, but it had him curious.

It was the Official who answered. "She may be able to give us some idea of where her husband was taken."

Eberts picked up the phone and quickly contacted the team guarding the woman and her son. "Escort Mrs. Stark to the Official's office ASAP." He listened to the response and then replaced the handset. "They're on the way, sir."

"Good."

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

Act 3

Alex stared out the window of her former office, peripherally aware of the fact that the room held little more than a few stray boxes that appeared to have been shoved in here simply because it was convenient at the time and then forgotten. Considering how quickly Hobbes had tried to move in that one time, it was astonishing that no one had claimed this office as their own. She had to wonder if it was more than just laziness on the part of the remaining members of the Agency or if it was left empty out of some sort of backhanded show of respect for her. Alex found that she was oddly touched by the thought.

All those random musings were doing nothing but keeping her from focusing on the news she had been given just one floor down in the Official's office. News she didn't want to believe, even though she knew Claire would not lie to her about something this serious. Hell, Darien and Hobbes wouldn't stand for it. Alex could just see the Official trying to trick her into doing some pro bono work for the Agency to avoid having to pay the exorbitant fees she and Mike enjoyed charging. He knew that Chrysalis was still a prime focus for her; the information she had funneled to them over the last couple of years proved that. But this... this was not a situation she had ever expected to deal with.

The door of the disused office creaked open, followed by soft footsteps, the hesitation audible to her. Footsteps that she knew the owner of by their sound alone, but she continued to stare unseeing out the window and waited for the other woman to begin this sure-to-be-painful conversation.

"Alex..."

"You know I never gave up, I never stopped trying to find him, even if I had decided it was probably too late to raise him myself," Alex knew her voice shook on the words, but she saw no need to hide the pain she felt from Claire. They had become very good friends during her years at the Agency and had continued that friendship after Alex had chosen to step away from day-to-day involvement in the spy business.

"I know, Alex," Claire agreed, her footsteps approaching but stopping before she approached too closely to the invisible but tangible barricade Alex had erected around herself. "And I can only imagine how difficult this is for you..."

Alex broke into harsh laughter. "Difficult? That's an understatement." Turning about, she faced her friend, who stood there with her hands clasped before her so tightly together the knuckles were white, and with such concern on her face that Alex wanted to cry in response. Instead she straightened and tossed the long braid over her shoulder to thump solidly into her back. "Claire, what am I supposed to do? James... Brandon won't even know who I am, and is even less likely to care. He's one of them now," she whispered hoarsely.

"No more so than any other young child we've saved from Chrysalis. How many camps, how many indoctrination centers did you personally shut down over the years?" Claire prompted, even though both knew what the answer was.

Alex just shook her head. "You make it sound like she's just going to hand Ja... Bran... her son over to me when we both know that'll never happen."

Claire frowned, one hand coming up to rub her forehead. "You're right. I just thought you'd like the chance to see him again before..."

"Before that Tabitha bitch kills him?" Alex sneered, her anger and frustration at the situation finding a convenient target in Claire. "Sorry, Claire, I know you had the best of intentions."

"So did our 'friend,' Stark, I think. He sent them to us, his enemy, for help. Can you think of another reason why?"

Claire's question was not one Alex wanted to think about, and here she was, being forced to. "A trick. He knows I've moved on from the Agency; this was probably the only thing he could come up with to draw me back. Get the old gang back together again for Stark's final attempt to destroy the Agency once and for all," Alex suggested, knowing that from a certain warped point of view it was an accurate assessment.

"The nanos are real, Alex," Claire stated flatly, her voice deadly serious.

"Then fix it and send them on their way," Alex snapped as if she hadn't heard a single word during the briefing.

"You can't mean that." Claire moved forward, one hand out to offer the comfort Alex, who sidestepped and blocked any possible contact with one hand, wanted no part of.

"Can't I?" Alex paced away until she arrived in the corner where the juice bar once stood, marks on the floor outlining its location precisely even after the passage of time.

Claire sighed heavily. "Alex, I know you want Chrysalis stopped as much as the rest of us..."

"You have no idea what I want, Claire," Alex hissed, anger tingeing her words. At the startled look of hurt in her friend's eyes she turned away, not able to face Claire or the choice she was going to have to make in the very near future.

"I know you don't want him to die," Claire asserted. "You never wanted any of them to die."

"Yeah, well, I screwed that one up at least once, now didn't I?" Alex didn't need to be reminded of the failures, of the mistakes, of the deaths on her conscience.

"I seem to recall there being little choice at the time. Did you not save both Darien and Bobby?" Claire queried even though she knew the cold hard facts of those events as well as Alex did.

"It was my job," Alex responded, whipping about to face Claire again.

"As an agent, perhaps. But you still feel guilt as a mother. You saved your partners, your friends, and failed to protect those children that were trying to kill all of you." This time when Claire approached Alex didn't back away. "You made the right choice then and you will now."

Alex shook her head. "Will I?"

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

Darien brushed his curling forelock out of his eyes as he clambered into the sleek black hybrid van that had finally replaced Hobbes' beloved Golda a couple of years previously. "Look, how many places can they be holding him?" he commented to Bobby as the shorter man fastened his seatbelt forcefully, irritation in every movement.

"This is Chrysalis we're talkin' about, Fawkes. They wanna make him disappear, we're gonna be lookin' for a needle in a haystack," Hobbes disagreed.

"Why would they pull a vanishing act with one of their movers and shakers?" Darien asked, unable to resist the pun.

"It's not funny, Fawkes." He glared at Darien, daring his younger partner to make yet another smart-ass comment. "Who knows how many quakes these whackos have set off? I dunno about you, but I'm not too keen on having the ground under my feet shaking like a mariachi's rattle any time they get it into their heads to stir things up." Hobbes started the vehicle and pulled out into traffic without really looking, ignoring the blast of horns that met this maneuver.

"What, we're talkin' world domination by earthquake?" Fawkes retorted, not disappointing Hobbes. "Give me a break, Hobbesy. Think about it, alright? Chrysalis may be a front for a bunch of megalomaniacs working on redefining Darwinism and the survival of the fittest by wiping out the rest of us, but they still gotta be able to pick up the pieces afterwards. What's it get them to take us all out if they total the infrastructure, too?"

Hobbes glanced sourly at his partner but remained silent.

"Besides," Darien went on after a moment, the sarcastic tone unmistakable. "It didn't work in the Hardy Boys, even if it was the single worst book in the whole series. It's ridiculous, Hobbes," he asserted dismissively. "The nanos are a whole lot better bet if you're some mad scientist-type looking to wipe out the whole species."

"Since when are the Hardy Boys a yardstick for the success of your average superman-type genetic freaks?" Bobby answered with equal sarcasm. "I'm not sayin' you're wrong, Fawkes, but these people make me look like the poster child for mental health, here. They ain't firin' on all cylinders, buddy." Hobbes made a sharp left, and Fawkes thudded against the passenger door with a soft grunt.

"I swear, you do that on purpose," Darien groused, straightening and bracing himself.

Bobby allowed himself a smirk as he headed the van across town to where he'd arranged to meet one of his informants. The argument continued the rest of the way there and was still going strong as they entered the down-at-the-heels fast food dive that changed names as often as its owner changed counter help. On this particular day, it went by the name of Frank's Franks, one of the less inspired incarnations it had had in his association with the place. "No, no, no, you're not gettin' it, Fawkes," he told his partner with mock annoyance, most of the running patter now solely for the benefit of the harried clerk behind the counter.

"I am so," Darien disagreed, then turned his attention to the clerk. "I'm gettin' the chili-dog with extra onions," he went on, taking out his wallet and thumbing through its contents in search of cash. "Hey, Hobbes, can you spot me a five 'til payday?" he asked plaintively as he turned the trademark brown puppy dog eyes on Hobbes, taking possession of the hotdog.

Hobbes glowered at Fawkes but dutifully fished into his hip pocket and dug out his wallet, paying the counter clerk. "You seen Smitty?" he asked the bespectacled and sweaty young man on the other side of the scarred counter, retaining hold of the five until he got a surly nod.

The clerk jerked a shoulder at the door into the back office disinterestedly as he stuffed the money into the register drawer and slammed it shut. "He's where he usually is, where'd ya think?" was the churlish response.

Hobbes restrained the urge to give the boy a lesson in manners and instead, flipped up the hinged counter and sauntered through, Darien on his heels, contentedly gnawing off huge mouthfuls of chilidog as the clerk sputtered indignantly at the invasion. Without further ado, Bobby barged through the closed door into the seedy, cramped and greasy little office, beaming shark-like at the grotesquely overweight Asian man crammed into an ancient wooden desk chair behind an equally ancient wooden desk.

"Smitty?" Darien muttered in surprise around a mouthful of food.

"Soon Mao Ti," the corpulent restaurateur answered the query without looking up. "Long time no see, Hobbes," he added as he closed the battered leather ledger that covered most of the available clear space on the desk. He glanced up at them, eyes nearly lost behind rolls of fat. He looked like a half-bald Buddha. Or perhaps a pair of sumo wrestlers.

"Smitty to his friends," Hobbes informed Darien over his shoulder before settling into the only other chair in the room. Fawkes looked momentarily disgruntled, then seated himself on the corner of the desk to finish his hot dog.

"Which you are not," Ti responded gloomily.

"Now that's no way to talk to your old pal," Hobbes grinned evilly. "What about Acapulco? Cancun? Oaxaca? Who was it who got you off with the local Federales all three times?" he asked, still grinning.

"Who was it who called them on me in the first place?" Ti responded indignantly, jowls wobbling like a turkey's wattles.

Hobbes grinned a little harder. "The devil is always in the details, Smitty," he pointed out.

The proprietor sighed gustily. "What do you want this time?"

"Nothing much," Hobbes replied. "Just whatever rumors are floating around about the fruit loops who run Cerberus Security. I need to know if they have anyone under house arrest at any of their local offices."

"This is about Chrysalis," Ti nodded, expression sharpening, the bored displeasure falling away. Bobby could almost swear that 50 pounds melted off the enormous body as black eyes glinted at him intently.

Hobbes felt his jaw drop and saw the expression mirrored on Darien's face, giving him an unwanted view of his partner's half-chewed lunch. "You know about those nut cases?" he managed somehow, knowing it sounded foolish.

A delicate snort was the answer to this. "Honestly, do you really think I would have been able to supply you with the sorts of information you've been looking for in the past few years if I didn't know who they were?" Ti opened the top drawer of his desk, and Hobbes reached instinctively for the Colt in its waist holster, only to be brought up short as the man nonchalantly brought out a cigar, nipping off the end with a sharp set of brilliantly white teeth.

Unconcerned by the weapon leveled at him, Ti lit the stogie, puffing vigorously until it was going strong. "Haven't you ever wondered how I always managed to provide you with exactly the right piece of information on Cerberus at exactly the right time?" he asked, eyeing Hobbes over the cigar.

Bobby was vaguely aware of Darien closing his mouth with an audible snap and felt dark eyes on him, searching for a cue. The problem was, he was too disconcerted to give Fawkes one.

Ti smiled around the phallic mouthful. "What, I've rendered you speechless?" he remarked caustically. "That's a first," he added, then took the cigar out of his mouth. "Jared Stark will be pleased."

"What?" Hobbes hissed, flicking off the gun's safety and leveling it steadily at the globular man across from him.

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

Half an hour later, Hobbes and Darien found themselves seated in their usual places in front of the Official's desk like a pair of errant school boys dragged in to see the principal. Bobby felt Darien's eyes on him after a moment, and he made a conscious effort to unclench his jaw. "I say we let the sonovabitch rot," he suggested at last.

"Believe me, I'd love to. But we need to know what Stark knows about the nano-bugs, not to mention the current situation within Chrysalis, and he's the only one who can tell us," the Official reminded him.

"We don't know that, not for sure," Hobbes found himself arguing, and watched the Official's left eyebrow crawl up his forehead in surprise at Bobby's uncharacteristic display of backbone. "What about that Tabitha broad? She'd know."

Darien sighed. "You're just pissed cuz Stark infiltrated Hobbes.net," he pointed out, and Hobbes spared him a glare. "Besides, we have even less chance of getting something useful out of her than we do out of Stark. At least he's got a reason to play ball with us," Darien added. "And we wouldn't have a snowball's chance of getting close to the woman, anyway."

"That rat bastard has been funneling who knows what misinformation at us the past few years, Fawkes!" Hobbes responded angrily, the feeling of betrayal clouding his judgment.

"It hasn't been misinformation," Eberts commented cautiously from his usual position behind the Official.

Hobbes glowered at the assistant. "And you'd know that how, Eee-berts?" he snarled.

"Based on the positive outcomes of the cases in question in the last three years, it's safe to assume that whatever information Stark was feeding us, though certainly controlled by him, was legitimate," Eberts defended his opinion.

"He's right," Darien interrupted before Hobbes could muster a comeback to this. "The real question is, why? Why would he carefully arrange to hand us just enough info to make the local Chrysali trip over us on a regular basis?"

"I assume it was for the reasons Mrs. Stark elucidated," Eberts spoke up. "The internal schism between her husband and this 'Tabitha' person has indirectly benefited our efforts to understand and act against the Chrysalis hierarchy. His efforts to discredit her and regain his position within the organization by using carefully selected information leaked to us at strategic moments is tactically brilliant," the mild-mannered accountant enthused, warming to the subject.

"Brilliant?" Hobbes mimicked snidely.

"Don't mind him," Darien interjected. "He's bent outta shape cuz Stark played the great Bobby Hobbes, that's all," Darien comforted Eberts, and Bobby was hard-pressed to resist the urge to smack his partner upside the head for that bit of disloyalty.

"Enough, gentlemen," The Official interrupted impatiently. "Eleanor Stark gave us a place to start, and her husband has conveniently arranged to narrow it down, so let's get out there and retrieve the man. Eberts, do we have schematics on the La Jolla Cerberus building he's being held at?" he asked sharply, redirecting the discussion.

"Yes, sir, we do," Eberts affirmed. "I'll have them downloaded to Agent Hobbes' PDA before they leave."

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

Act 4

One of those anonymous wielders of wit once said something like; "Too many people confine their exercise to jumping to conclusions, running up bills, stretching the truth, bending over backward, lying down on the job, sidestepping responsibility and pushing their luck." Maybe most of that didn't really apply to the situation, but the last part sounded like Hobbes and me and our little expedition to rescue Jared Stark from his own kind. I only hoped it wasn't going to be another kind of exercise - one in futility.

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

"Damn, I hate commuter traffic," Hobbes complained as they inched along the northbound I-5, a light January drizzle slowing the usual heavy evening traffic to a crawl.

Darien fidgeted, bracing his left foot on the dash as he played with Bobby's PDA. "Tell me something I didn't already know," he muttered, scrolling through the planning commission drawings for the La Jolla offices of Cerberus Security.

"Stop fiddling with that, Fawkes, you're gonna break it," Bobby warned, glancing at Darien and nearly rear-ending the car in front of them.

The sharp stop sent Darien lurching in his seat, the seatbelt snapping taut as the handheld tumbled into the footwell. "I'm gonna break it?" he sniped.

Hobbes glowered back. "I'm not the one who just dropped it, there, Grace."

"Now it's Grace? I thought it was Penelope," Darien retorted, trying to stifle a snicker, watching as Hobbes' annoyance turned to amusement.

"Hey, if the nickname fits, wear it." Bobby sent the black van sailing smoothly forward as the traffic ahead of them began to move, and five minutes later, they were taking the Ardath Road exit, heading west towards La Jolla. The sun had set behind the bank of clouds that had blown in shortly after their conversation with Smitty, and twilight was midnight blue streaked with the white and red smears of head and taillights on wet pavement. The glare was giving Darien a headache.

Surface streets were as clogged as the freeway had been, and it was over 20 minutes before Hobbes pulled to a stop across the street from a beachfront office complex on La Vereda Drive. The seven story black glass office building was unremarkable in the extreme, even with the lighted 'Cerberus Security' logo on the northwest rampart, and they exchanged glances.

"We sure this is the place?" Darien asked eventually as they watched the steady stream of exiting employees trekking across the parking lot, umbrellas rendering them a herd of anonymous mobile mushrooms.

"Only Cerberus office this far north," Hobbes reminded him. "Besides, this is where Smitty says our buddy Jared is bein' held."

"Which begs the question: can we trust him?" Darien reminded his partner, who scowled unhappily.

"How long'a we been working together?" Bobby snapped.

Darien gave a long-suffering moan of distress and ran frantic fingers through his hair. "Can we not start this again now, Bobby?"

"How long?" Bobby insisted.

"Too long," Darien muttered sotto voce.

Hobbes shot a withering glare at his partner. "Years, that's how long." Hobbes pounded the dashboard for emphasis. "Freakin' years of being the senior agent and still havin' you second guess me ...."

"Alright, Hobbesy, calm down. I'm just askin' 'cuz you know your contacts haven't always been that reliable. Remember that Yuri guy...."

"Who are you -- my ex-wife that you gotta remember every mistake I ever made? 'Sides, Yuri turned out to be OK in the end..."

"Which almost turned out to be my end ...."

"But didn't."

"Man," Darien sighed, "if I had a nickel for every time that happened...."

"You wouldn't need to still be pulling that pittance that passes for a paycheck at the Agency, that's for sure."

"Yeah, but I still would. You know why?" Darien asked with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

Bobby eyed his partner suspiciously. "Why?"

"'Cuz Bobby Hobbes is still the master, and I'm still his number one protégé." Darien grinned, offering his palm up for their traditional low-five salute.

Bobby returned the gesture and then got down to business. "The way I figure it, if Stark is serious about expecting us to rescue him, then there's no percentage in him feeding false leads to Smitty."

"Yeah, but how'd he know where they'd be taking him?" Darien asked, playing devil's advocate.

Hobbes shot him a look from under one eyebrow. "Stark's a pro, right?" he asked rhetorically.

Darien nodded slowly.

"So if he's walking into a situation he's not sure he'll be walking back out of, it's a sure bet he's gonna have himself an escape hatch. And that, my friend, is where we come in," Hobbes smirked a little.

"'Open Sesame'," Darien answered flippantly.

"Exactamundo, partner, exactamundo," Bobby agreed, and with that, clambered into the back of the van to don one of the grungy white janitorial jumpsuits that were a match to the ones used by the cleaning service handling the Cerberus building. Darien followed suit, wondering, not for the first time, if it was physically impossible to make a coverall that would actually fit him and not leave him looking like he was auditioning for a circus bigtop. "Why the monkey suits if I'm gonna 'shoom' us?" he complained.

Hobbes snorted. "What, all of a sudden you're worried about your look, Mr. Thrift Store reject?"

"Hey," Darien retorted. "I've got a personal image to maintain, here."

"Yeah, right. This from the Agency's resident fashion plate." Hobbes opined. "Look, haven't you learned anything? What good is it if I lay all my wisdom on you if you ignore me? What have I told you about always having a backup plan? You know this stuff doesn't last long at full throttle, kid," he answered as he opened the small refrigeration unit under the electronics bench and extracted the insulated case that held Claire's latest chemical Quicksilver modifier. "If you run outta steam and start registering on their thermal sensors, we're screwed if we don't have a plan B. So I figure, if we can't be invisible your way, we'll be invisible the old-fashioned way. Now roll up that sleeve," he finished, ignoring Darien's grimace.

"I thought I was done with needles when Claire cured the Quicksilver Madness," he whined. "And here it is, how many years later? And she's still comin' up with ways to stick needles into me."

"Complain, complain, complain," Hobbes responded as he used a rubber tourniquet to tie off a vein in Darien's right arm and disinfected the skin over a bulging and relatively scar-free one with an alcohol wipe. He then matter-of-factly slid the needle home as Claire had taught him long ago and injected the amber liquid into Darien's arm.

Darien winced as the burn of the chemical hit his bloodstream. "Yeah, well it hurts, dammit," he pointed out needlessly. "Can't she ever come up with a new twist that doesn't?"

"That's the price you pay for beauty, partner," Hobbes smirked at him.

Darien sighed.

Their disguises in place, such as they were, Hobbes climbed back into the driver's seat and circled the block to find the driveway into the parking lot closest to the utility entrance of the building. Parking in an area of deep shadow in the lee of a scraggly pine tree not far from the entrance, they got out and headed for the building, chatting amicably about nothing in particular. Arriving at the service doors with several other rain-damp cleaning people, they slid the security badges Eberts had mocked up for them through the reader on the steel door and waltzed into yet another Chrysalis stronghold with relatively little effort. They kept up their banter as they broke off from the rest of the staffers several turns of the corridor later.

Rounding a corner into a little-trafficked hallway outside the mailroom, they found themselves alone and out of range of the nearest cameras. Without a word, Darien caught hold of Hobbes' shoulder and let the Quicksilver cover them both.

"Feels weird," Bobby whispered. Darien could feel his smaller partner shiver slightly under his hand.

"Tell me about it," he retorted sarcastically. "Now which way do we go?"

"We're lost," Darien insisted 20 minutes later, his head spinning with the effects of the thermal inhibiting agent that rendered him invisible on every wavelength of the electromagnetic spectrum. It was a handy permutation, but Claire had found it impossible to hardwire it into his gland, though she had included the modification in the new generations of glands. Even in the last batch of non-implanted ones that had been used to fuel the Quicksilver backpacks for the past few years. Most of the time he considered it no great loss. But in situations like this, going up against a well-informed and well-prepared adversary, he lamented not having the latest and greatest in gland technology built into his skull.

"We are not lost," Hobbes defended himself irritably, half-turning under Fawkes' grasp until Darien's squeeze of the fingers reminded his partner that their current active invisibility demanded physical contact.

"Hobbes, this is the fourth floor we've done a full search of. He's not here! There's no place they could keep him on this level, at least not according to the blueprints Ebes downloaded to your PDA."

Hobbes muttered something unintelligible, Darien catching only 'Eeeberts', then stopped in his tracks, nearly tripping Darien. "OK, wiseguy, if you're so smart, you take over the tracking duty."

"Thanks, don't mind if I do," Darien responded, and gripped the back of Bobby's neck as he frog-marched his protesting partner down the aisle between monotonous gray cubicles towards a camera-free alcove that held the water cooler. Safe in that dubious shelter, he let the Quicksilver flake away and snatched the PDA out of Hobbes' breast pocket, ignoring the squawk of protest. "According to what I could get from the blueprints, our best bet is-" He stopped mid-sentence as he realized that the little electronic device was failing to respond to his repeated stabs at the on button.

"You broke it!" Hobbes accused, snatching it away from Darien. "See, I told you you'd break it!" He jabbed at the on button himself with no better results.

"Musta been the demolition derby stop on the I-5," Darien muttered, retrieving the PDA and holding it out of Hobbes' reach as he examined it. Even the tried and true method of a sharp shake failed to restore the small handheld, and he sighed as he handed it back to an incensed Hobbes.

"Dammit, Fawkes," Bobby began, snatching it from Darien's grasp. "Now what're we gonna do?" he glared.

"Break out plan C?" Darien suggested ironically. "Hobbes, I got a good look at the layout before you did your little bumper car impression on the way here. Our best bet is the seventh floor. It's the executive wing, and it's the highest security area in the building. Right?" He waited for Hobbes to corroborate his conclusions.

The surly and almost indiscernible nod was as good as he was going to get, so he went on. "We've tried the basement, the main floor and the computer levels. Zippo. Now we can either spend the rest of the frickin' night wandering around this place, or we can try it my way."

"Your way. Why's it always gotta be your way?" Hobbes muttered under his breath.

Darien chose to ignore him. "Come on," he interrupted Bobby's fit of pique and lay his hand on top of Hobbes' naked skull, the Quicksilver flowing smoothly over them both.

"Uh-oh," Hobbes said. "Feels like the superjuice is giving up the ghost."

From the shiver in his muscles and the burn of the rough Quicksilver equivalent of lactic acid build-up in his system, he knew Hobbes was right. "We've got maybe three minutes to find us a janitor's closet and implement plan B," he said, hustling Hobbes back the way they'd come.

"B? I thought you were movin' on to plan C, pal," Hobbes protested, half jogging to keep Darien from stepping on his heels.

Fortunately, they found the janitorial closet right where Darien's recollection of the blueprints said it would be. He even managed to get them inside and out of surveillance camera range before the increasing chill of the quicksilver against their skin signaled the exhaustion of the thermo-inhibitor precursor.

"That was cutting it awful close, there, Fawkesy," Bobby commented as he shook the last of the Quicksilver dust off his jumpsuit, looking around the crowded little closet that housed several supply carts, vacuums, brooms, and all the assorted paraphernalia of the maintenance trade.

"Yeah, and why was that, O great white hunter?" Darien snarked unhappily. As with the aftermath of any other extended use of Quicksilver, he was now ravenous, only the residual dregs of the inhibitor in his system added the dubious benefit of nausea. He swallowed rapidly and turned on the faucet over the utility sink, ducking his head so he could gulp metallic-flavored water in an effort to get rid of the sick taste in his mouth.

Hobbes ignored the dig and set about loading up any potentially useful items onto the largest of the janitorial carts, carefully transferring a collection of loosely wadded up newspaper into the cart's oversized garbage can while Darien watched.

Bleach, ammonia, alcohol and a small assortment of other cleaners were next, and Darien wondered if they were going to clean their way to the top, or perhaps concoct molatov cocktails or something equally spy-like and just blast their way there. "Any time, Mr. Clean," he urged several minutes later as Hobbes showed no signs of ending his inventory of the closet's supplies.

"Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on," Hobbes muttered and selected one last item, then opened the closet door a crack to peer out into the back hall it opened onto. "Coast is clear," he informed Darien.

Easing the door open, Hobbes stepped out nonchalantly and held it for Darien, who calmly shoved the cart out onto the polished linoleum. Dropping into their usual mode of protective coloration, they discussed the upcoming Superbowl and the odds of the respective teams as they headed to the elevators and found their way to the seventh floor. Boarding the elevator, Darien took out what looked to be a set of old Walkman headphones and set them around his neck like a backwards torque.

Fortunately, they had had Eberts encode their cleaning company security badges with the highest clearance the company offered, because they were met with an electronic barricade on the seventh floor that could easily have halted them in their tracks. The quirk of Hobbes' eyebrow was the only comment the older agent offered as Darien and the cart led the way into the marble-floored executive wing as if he'd been showing up here for work every night of his life. It had taken Fawkes less than thirty seconds to use Eberts' electronic skeleton key to open the Lexan double-doored airlock. Even the second code box didn't stop the thief for more than a heartbeat.

Constantly aware of the surveillance they were under, they made a show of prowling each office in the guise of cleaning them, emptying garbage cans, flapping feather dusters and running a vacuum haphazardly over the appropriate surfaces. Long practice allowed them to exchange observations and information with their backs to the various security cameras that studded the intersection of walls and ceilings in every space on the floor without giving away their communication.

"So where is he, smartguy?" Hobbes asked, not even the low volume disguising the sarcasm. "Let's see you pull him outta your hat, there, Mr. Wizard," he goaded, and Darien made a face, turning his shoulder to disguise his out-thrust tongue. Bobby was really beginning to get on his nerves, and he decided that he would spend a little subliminal energy working out an appropriate way to pay his partner back for the hassle factor.

"You spent 45 minutes wasting our time on the lower floors, Hobbes, will you just give me a break?" he swiped a dust cloth over a rosewood credenza as he wracked his brain, trying to dredge up details of the building's blueprints. His training as both a thief and an agent had honed a nearly photographic memory to exquisite sharpness, and after the sixth office he and Hobbes pretended to clean, he had oriented himself intuitively in the space. Without consulting his partner, he shoved the cart back out into the palatial hallway and headed for the next office. He could hear Hobbes curse under his breath as the smaller man finished a cursory sweep with the vacuum and scrambled after him.

It was by far the most luxurious of the offices they had investigated up until then, and Darien clandestinely glanced around as he spritzed surface cleaner on the black glass desktop that centered the room. It took him several minutes of careful observation before he could narrow down what it was that had triggered his larcenous instincts. His sense of physical space didn't jibe with his recollection of the blueprints. "Hobbes?" he queried quietly as Bobby sidled past him and took up his familiar role as vacuum-wielder.

"Got something?" Bobby asked as he turned off the vacuum and whipped out his own feather duster to attack the collection of glass sculpture, local service awards and whatnot on the ebony display unit.

"Gimme a minute," Darien hesitated, disguising his careful examination of the room with more sprays of cleaning solution. "Bingo. What's wrong with this picture?" he asked rhetorically after a moment, suddenly realizing what it was he was looking at. He smiled as the obvious location revealed itself to his trained eye. "We have ourselves a secret room, Hobbesy," he told his partner. "What is it with Chrysalis and hidden rooms, huh?" He removed the headphones from around his neck and clambered up onto the file cabinet in the corner under the security camera. He hung them around the camera, positioning one of the earphones so that it faced out into the room. Then he pulled out the palm-sized digital video camera that the headphones were plugged into and looped the carrying strap around the unobtrusive bracket holding the security camera. When he was satisfied that the connections were solid, he climbed back down and wandered along the perimeter of the office with his feather duster to camouflage his examination of edges and surfaces. It took less than five minutes for him to locate the most likely spot for the hiding place.

"Got it," he said. With careful nonchalance, he sidled around the room casually dusting and wiping surfaces once more, until he arrived back at the corner that held the sleekly designed and nearly invisible security camera with its incongruous walkman headphones. Positioning himself directly under it, out of its range, he shot a look at his partner. "Ready?" he asked. At Hobbes' nod, he hoisted himself onto the file cabinet again and maneuvered the headphones so that one of the black foam pads covered the camera lens, then flipped the playback button on the dangling digital camera.

"Gotta love those little things," he said as he leapt back to the floor and loped across the office to where Hobbes waited. "The record/playback thing Ebes and the tech department rigged into the headphones is pretty cool, you gotta admit."

Hobbes' snort of amusement was all the answer his partner gave.

Darien reached confidently towards the single exception to the sleek accoutrements that decorated the room, then nudged the tacky soccer trophy, a gilded plastic statuette that was grossly out of character for the rest of the room. The massive built-in bookcase it rested on shifted. Hobbes and Fawkes stared at each other for a split second as the structure moved, and as it slid away, it revealed a flat expanse of steel fully a man's height, and double a man's width.

"OK, we're on the clock, here," Hobbes announced, dropping the pose of maintenance man, and stepped up beside Darien. "I figure we have maybe five minutes, tops, before some underpaid security guard notices the loop that mini LED camera of Eberts' is feeding them. And that's not counting any little bells and whistles this thing has," he finished as he peered at the electronic control panel that secured the steel portal. "You up for it?" he asked, glancing at Darien with a feral grin that made Fawkes laugh silently.

"Just watch me," he answered with a wag of his eyebrows and laid his palm over the keypad, letting the Quicksilver flow into the device, seeping into every opening to coat the integrated circuits and wiring inside. In the manner of computers everywhere, the temperature shock shut down the mechanism and the lock clicked open cooperatively. The two agents exchanged a rapid low five and focused on the sterile steel chamber that revealed itself as the door slid away.

Inside the 8x12 cell, the startled occupant gazed up at them vacantly, once icy blue eyes now foggy and dull. Jared Stark didn't move from the steel bench that was the sole non-regulation furnishing the room contained.

Darien blinked, caught by surprise at the unexpected lack of recognition in his nemesis' face. "I'm here with Ben Kenobi, we're here to rescue you," he muttered, déjà vu triggering memories of every rescue he and Hobbes had effected in their long partnership.

"Jared Stark, you're comin' with us," Hobbes announced authoritatively, stepping into the chamber and grasping the man by one biceps, hoisting him to his feet. "Your wife sent us to get you out," he added as the former head of Sector G balked, resisting the pull, focus snapping back into his face.

"Darien," Stark said flatly, the weariness that shadowed his expression not fading, even as his gaze sharpened.

"One and the same," Darien replied. "So you are home," he commented dryly. "Looked like only the lights were on."

"Your attempt at humor is noted," Stark snapped as he got to his feet, then swayed, complexion going gray. He shrugged off the grip Hobbes had on him and straightened as the vertigo passed. "Misplaced, but noted. I've always found your tendency towards flippancy annoying." With this, Chrysalis' one-time local leader brushed past them and out of his cell.

"There's gratitude for ya," Hobbes commented to Darien, who nodded, as annoyed as his smaller partner at the noticeable lack of warmth from their rescuee.

"We could always throw him back," Darien suggested with a quirked eyebrow, aware of Stark's glare out of the corner of one eye as he watched Hobbes pretend to consider it.

"Nah, the Fat Man'd just send us back in for the jerk if we came home without him," Bobby answered.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Darien agreed mournfully. "It was worth a thought, though."

"Gentlemen, I assume you're here to return me to the Agency, and not to audition for a stand-up comedy routine," Stark interrupted, his irritation unmistakable. "I don't know how long my current lucidity will last, but I suggest we make haste."

Darien scowled at the reminder that time was wasting, and shrugged. "Whatever," he muttered. "After you," he waved Stark forward with contemptuous gallantry and fell in behind the Chrysalid, knowing Hobbes was hot on his heels.

"I assume we'll be visible to the security cameras as soon as we set foot in the hall," Stark guessed as he hesitated at the door of the office, glancing back at them over his shoulder.

"Gee, ya think?" Darien retorted sarcastically. "Why do ya think we came prepared?" he asked smugly as Hobbes pulled up beside him, the janitorial cart squeaking to a stop.

With a flourish, Bobby whisked the loosely wadded newspapers out of the trashcan and waved Stark over with a bow any maitre'd would have been proud of. "Your table's ready," Hobbes smirked.

"If you think I'm getting into a garbage can," Stark began, outraged, "then you're sadly mistaken."

"I guess he wants to wait around here for his buddy Tabitha to show up," Bobby informed Darien.

"Why not use the Quicksilver?" Stark snarled.

"Well, for one, you had thermal cameras installed in all Chrysalis buildings years ago," Darien reminded the former leader, sarcasm dripping from every word.

Stark's eyes narrowed. "Which is when your precious 'Keeper' developed her thermal inhibitor. Use it."

Darien and Bobby exchanged looks, quickly masking their surprise. "Chrysalis knows about that?" Bobby asked sharply, paranoia kicking in visibly.

"I know about it. Chrysalis doesn't," Stark replied coldly.

"'The ole' need to know,'" Hobbes nodded sagely, smirking. "Hate to break it to ya, but we pretty much ran the tank dry getting in here. The only silver stuff you're gonna get outta Fawkes now is as cold as your heart. And it shows up real nice on the thermal cameras, there, pal."

Stark's expression could have ignited magnesium, but he clambered awkwardly into the cart, though he required the agents' assistance to do so. Darien grinned as Hobbes gleefully tucked their passenger in, stuffing the wads of newspaper into the can to completely hide the disgruntled Stark.

Cheerfully, the pair shoved the now weighty cart out into the hall, chatting companionably as they headed for the elevators.

When they disembarked on the ground floor, the unmistakable clatter of running footsteps echoing through a distant corridor was an unwelcome reminder that their cover was flimsy at best. "You thinkin' what I'm thinkin?" Hobbes asked rhetorically as he shoved hard at the cart, overcoming its inertia with a lurch. Together, he and Darien rolled it down the hall at full tilt, heading for the utility exit. As they rounded a corner, the source of the footsteps became unpleasantly obvious.

At the opposite end of the short hall, six armed security guards, guns drawn, were pelting towards them.

"Oh, crap," Darien muttered as he and Hobbes swung the cart around on two wheels, nearly overturning it, and headed back the way they'd come. "Hobbesy, I think we're gonna have to go with plan C after all," he panted as they ran.

"C?" Hobbes replied breathlessly, "kid, we've gotta be on plan Q by now!" They skidded around another corner, the cart thudding loudly against the wall, but they didn't slow, wrestling the cart into the middle of the hall again and racing towards the freight elevators at the back of the building. The footsteps were gaining on them, and as they neared the freight elevator in the mailroom, another set could be heard thundering towards them from the opposite direction.

"Double crap," Darien said miserably. "Plan Q it is, man. Hobbes, we're gonna have to split up. I'll pull the disappearing act, and as soon as I show up on the thermals, they should come after me. It'll give you time to get him outta here," he gestured at the garbage can, whose collection of newspapers were shifting noticeably.

Hobbes aimed a quick slap at the rustling paper to discourage Stark. "Splitting up is NOT a good idea, partner," Bobby protested as they headed for the mailroom.

"You have a better one?" Darien asked as he helped himself to a squeeze bottle of liquid Comet and paused in their flight long enough to squirt the thick cleanser onto the lens of every security camera they passed.

"Well, THAT's not gonna help, pal," Hobbes groused, having to push the cart on his own each time Darien detoured for a camera. "It's like leaving a trail of bread crumbs!"

"Trust me, will you? I was trained by one of the best," Darien called back over his shoulder as he raced on ahead, occluding the rest of the lenses between them and the next intersection. "Run for it, Bobby. Take him out through the utility tunnels!" and with that, he disappeared around the corner as Quicksilver flowed over him.

"Dammit, Fawkes!" Bobby shouted after his vanished partner, then smacked Stark discouragingly on his re-emerging head once again as he banged the cart roughly through the doors of the mailroom, making a beeline for the freight elevators. He shoved the cart aboard and punched the basement floor, only then allowing a thoroughly disgruntled Stark to emerge from his newsprint cocoon. When the doors opened, he let Stark precede him, then exited the elevator himself, pulling the cart halfway out to block the doors. Seizing a jug each of bleach and ammonia from the cart, he turned and jogged after Stark, passing him and heading for the locked utility tunnels that connected the city's infrastructure to the building's internal systems. "You have the code. Get us outta here," he demanded as Stark paused before the electronically coded gate, the vague look that had distorted his features in the cell back.

"I... did," Jared muttered disorientedly, then shook his head as if trying to dispel the fog. Tentatively, he stabbed at the ten key pad. The security light refused to change from red to a friendly green, and Hobbes gritted his teeth as Stark tried again, then a third time. He could hear the chime of the building's main elevator as it arrived in the basement, and adrenaline surged. Impulsively, he shouldered Stark out of the way and swiped the keycard Eberts had made through the magnetic reader. To his never-ending astonishment, the gate unlatched and swung open a finger's width. He seized it and swung it wide, shoving Stark through ahead of himself, then he unscrewed the caps from the bleach and ammonia bottles and hurled them back the way they'd come. His aim was sure, and the two bottles landed with liberal splashes within inches of each other, their contents gurgling out to mingle in a noxious, toxic cloud that he hoped would slow down their pursuers at least long enough for them to escape. He tugged the gate closed, and then he ran.

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

Darien kept one bend of the hall between himself and his pursuers, praying that he'd bought Hobbes enough time to get Stark out of the building. He was nearly out of liquid cleanser, and he knew that if he was going to get out of the mess he'd gotten himself into, he was going to have to manage the unexpected.

He'd covered fully a third of the ground floor security camera lenses with liquid abrasive, including those near the mailroom and service elevators. The 15 minutes he'd spent sprinting up and down corridors with apparent randomness, covered in quicksilver, had served two purposes; first to keep the guards off balance and off Hobbes' trail, and second to prevent them from getting close enough with their thermal glasses to spot him and exact some sort of exceedingly unpleasant and probably fatal vengeance on him for the wild goose chase.

The problem was, he was fast running out of stamina. Between the extensive use he'd made of the Quicksilver this evening and the efforts to evade the building's security, he was ready to drop. There was no way he could sneak out past the heavy security presence in the building's lobby, and by now, the alarm had undoubtedly been raised on every floor. Still, there had to be a way to get himself past the guards...

Panting, he loped towards the fire stairs, hoping illogically that the camera system would have been omitted from the concrete stairwell. He skidded to a stop at the door, opening it cautiously to peer through the crack. Luck was not with him, and he swore silently under his breath as he caught a glimpse of the now-familiar camera near the ceiling.

How the hell was he going to get clear of the building? He gnawed an invisible lip and abruptly, what Hobbes had said just before they first entered came back to mind: if we can't be invisible your way, we'll do it the old-fashioned way.

The old-fashioned way: hiding in plain sight. Moving as fast as he was able, he entered the stairwell and squeezed the last of his liquid Comet straight into the lens, then instead of ducking up the stairs, he dodged back out into the hall, letting the Quicksilver flake off as he turned the corner of the hall leading towards the service entrance he'd come in through an hour ago.

Long practice as a confidence man allowed him to unobtrusively join the fringes of the gossiping handful of maintenance people that were busily discussing the uncharacteristic uproar. "What's all the fuss about...Geraldo?" he asked the middle-aged Latino he'd sidled up to, peering quickly at the embroidered name badge over the man's left breast.

"They ain't tellin' us diddly," Geraldo informed him dryly as four uniformed guards scrambled past, making for the fire stairs Darien had just come from.

"Geeze, you'd think someone just robbed a bank, the way they're acting," Darien shrugged, watching them disappear around the corner.

His new friend snickered softly.

"Too bad my shift just ended," Darien went on, glancing at his watch: 7:15 p.m. "I'd love to hang around and find out what the heck's goin' on."

"Probably some glitch in the computer systems. You know, like the ones they've been havin' for the last six months?" Geraldo reminded him with a grin.

Darien covered his instant of surprise with a chuckle. "Yeah, man, for a security company, they got more bugs than the Chinese restaurant down the street from where I live."

This got him a laugh, and he clapped his unwitting accomplice on the shoulder in a cheerful farewell and headed for the now guarded service doors, joining the queue of perhaps nine or so other janitors who one after the other swiped their code keys through the magnetic reader and departed under the watchful eyes of the armed and alert guards. He struck up a casual conversation with the heavyset black man in line ahead of him, and they were in the throes of a lively debate on the merits of football versus baseball by the time they reached the exit.

The guards were oblivious to them, their attention turned towards the distant hubbub deep inside the building. Together, they signed out and walked across the parking lot, still talking, parting company at the black van. He waved goodnight to his chum and climbed into the vehicle, glad he'd made Hobbes give him a set of keys when they'd first been assigned the new Agency car.

Whistling nonchalantly, he started it up and drove sedately out of the lot, taking a right onto La Vereda. If he recalled correctly, the closest outlet for the city utility tunnels was about two blocks down from Cerberus, and he headed that way, hoping that Hobbes and Stark would be there to meet him.

Hobbes shoved the manhole cover aside with a clang, heaving it clear of the shaft. He climbed up the steel rungs set into the side of the concrete cylinder, gaining the street, then scrambled to his feet, waving off oncoming traffic a little frantically. Cars swerved around him, horns blaring as he cursed down into the hole at Stark who was having far more difficulty clambering out than Hobbes had.

The squeal of brakes brought his head up in time to see the black van screech to a wet stop less than five feet from him in a spray of rainwater. "Took you long enough, Fawkes," he said as Darien opened the driver's side door and poked his head out into the drizzle.

"Missed you too, Hobbesy," Darien grinned and got out to help him hoist Stark out of the utility tunnel by the armpits.

Together, they dragged the former head of Sector G out of the sewers and bundled him into the back of the van. Like the well-oiled machine long partnership had made of them, they assumed their usual positions, Darien in the passenger seat, Hobbes taking over the wheel. "You have any problem getting clear?" Bobby asked as he merged into moving traffic.

"Aw, nothing a few words of advice from my partner didn't fix," Darien smiled cockily at his friend.

"Oh, yeah?" Hobbes grinned, "You mean some of my pearls of wisdom are finally startin' to sink into that thick skull of yours?"

"Maybe one or two," Darien replied, glancing over his shoulder into the dim rear compartment where a dazed-looking Jared Stark sat huddled in damp misery. "So... You have trouble getting him out?" he asked quietly, turning back to Hobbes.

Bobby shook his head slightly, a furrow between dark brows. "He's been zoning in and out the whole time. Good thing Eberts did his mojo with the key cards, or me'n Cap'n Marvel back there would've been back in the Chrysalis pokey by now."

Darien stole another look at his long-time nemesis. "Weird, huh?" he commented.

"What, him? Yeah. Twilight Zone weird. Kinda poetic justice, though, huh?" Hobbes replied. "Couldn't happen to a more deserving SOB," he concluded.

"Yeah," Darien agreed. "But he's not stupid, even if he's not all there. One of the maintenance engineers I was talking to said that Cerberus has been having some sort of security computer glitches for the last six months. Sounds like he was priming the pump to me," he informed Hobbes.

"Hey, I'll take my luck where I can find it," Bobby announced firmly. "Let's get his sorry gray matter back to the Keep before any more of it leaks out his ears, OK?" And with that, he steered the van smoothly back onto the southbound I-5.

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

Claire adjusted the IV in Jared Stark's arm, then taped it in place. So this was what the new nanos' programming resulted in, she thought to herself with a shiver. The former head of San Diego's branch of Chrysalis lay on the hospital bed, far from the robust, driven man she'd encountered in the past. Her tests were still in various stages of completion, so a definitive answer was yet to come, but she had seen something very like this a few years before. She was regrettably familiar with auto-immune problems by now.

Like Arnaud's flawed Quicksilver Madness 'cure', the nano-bugs seemed to target synaptic functions throughout the central nervous system. The brain appeared to be especially hard-hit, the misfiring of neurons easiest to see in the transient drift of Jared's formidable intellect in and out of focus. The effects were by no means limited to the cerebral cortex, however. So far, evidence pointed at some kind of breakdown in the immune system, the nanos triggering a sort of self destructive attack by white blood cells on whole body systems. She was concerned that if she couldn't stop that reaction, it would eventually kill Stark. Perhaps sooner than later, if there was some as yet unknown secondary programming that had yet to take effect.

"We need the location of the computer disks," she said as she settled a pillow under Stark's head.

"Eleanor knows where they are," he informed her, traces of his habitual arrogance still audible under the weariness.

"Yes, but she doesn't know the access code," Claire reminded him sharply.

"Quicksilver," he said, and for an instant, Claire thought he was hallucinating again. "Logon name. Access code number, QS-9500A." He managed a faint smirk as he closed his eyes.

The sheer gall of the man made her catch her breath. Barely managing to suppress the surge of anger that choked her, she roughly administered a dose of opiate painkillers with uncharacteristic lack of concern for her patient's discomfort. "Did you get that, Eberts?" she asked aloud, knowing the microphones in the isolation ward would transmit her words to the observation room on the other side of the mirrored glass.

"Yes, doctor. The retrieval team is en route to pick up the computer files as we speak," Albert's calm voice replied over the loudspeakers. It helped steady her.

"Excellent," she said as she turned on her heel and left the room through the airlock.

Eberts inserted the CD into the drive in his laptop, not daring to risk using the mainframes lest some unknown Trojan horse escape into the Agency's secure network. Besides, his laptop was the newest, most up-to-date computer in the building. If he couldn't decrypt the files here, he wouldn't be able to do it on the main systems either. Every instinct he had led him to expect some form of traditional Stark-ian duplicitousness. But the CD booted up without incident, and when he punched in the logon name and access codes at the prompt, the information extracted itself from its coded matrix. For the first time, a Chrysali had actually kept his word in both letter and spirit.

He squelched his amazement and set about sorting through the streaming data that was busily saving itself to his hard drive, ignoring the audience at his back. Hobbes, Darien, Claire, Alex and the Official all crowded around him, peering over his shoulder at the screen.

"So?" Hobbes asked impatiently after nearly half an hour of industrious silence on Eberts' part. Albert wondered how it was that Bobby always knew down to the microsecond how long something like this should take. "What've we got?"

Albert saved the files and sat back, hands trembling slightly. Though the data had scrolled past faster than he could read them, he'd been able to scan enough information to know that Stark had lived up to his word, at least on the surface. "I think it's all there," he breathed, wondering if his shock showed. "The entire hierarchy and structure of Chrysalis. Names, locations, lineages, history, family trees and genetic charts, as well as the dispersal documentation for offspring, even infiltration and position plans of nearly every first world government, not to mention corporations around the world. The only thing I haven't located is a file on whatever their long-range agenda is. There's a great deal of short-term detail on plans to affect the global economy in various ways; cancer and reproductive research they intend to target or terminate, and a great deal of information on overall population trends. But there is no 'big picture' that I can find yet," he said, turning his chair to face the rest.

"Do they have one?" Hobbes snarked sarcastically. "Maybe they're just in it for the hell of it." He paused. "Not." Bobby paced a tight length of floor, his paranoia obviously fully engaged.

"Eberts, I need you to sort it out. Go over this information with a fine-toothed comb and put together a report. I'm going to have to take this all the way to the top," the Official commanded with an imperious wave of his meaty hand at the laptop on the conference table, then turned to the Keeper. "In the meantime, doctor, as soon as Eberts has something for you to work with, I want you to interrogate our 'guest'. Use the Beta-C3," he added.

"It may react unexpectedly," she cautioned. "I can't predict what effect it will have when introduced into an actively nano-infected system."

"We'll have to take that chance," the Official said coldly. "Dismissed," he snapped, and hurriedly, the small throng crowding his office headed for the exits. Albert closed his laptop and rose to follow the rest. Catching sight of his employer, he was slightly startled at the grim set of the Official's features.

"Is everything alright, sir?" he asked tentatively.

The Official sighed quietly as he turned to face Eberts. "No, I don't think so. I think we've just opened a very large and very messy can of worms. And right now, I don't have clue how to stop whatever it is Chrysalis has in mind," he admitted. "I think things are a very, very long way from 'alright' indeed."

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

The Agency has always been kind of a joke, from my perspective. That is, when it wasn't pumping drugs into me. I mean, how seriously can you take an organization that doesn't have a name? Or a man who doesn't? Except I learned pretty early on to take Charlie Borden seriously. Sometimes I still didn't like him, but by this time, it was obvious even to me that the man knew how to play the game.

When he got called to Washington for the National Security Council meeting to do a show-and-tell on Chrysalis, we all figured the Official and the Agency had just hit the major leagues. I think Eberts was so proud he could have burst. He was the one who told me about Elbert Hubbard, this self-educated genius at the turn of the century who was big into moral rectitude and doing the right thing. Good ole' Elbert had a few things to say on greatness, too, as I found out. He once commented; "The man who is anybody and who does anything is surely going to be criticized, vilified, and misunderstood. That is part of the penalty for greatness, and every great man understands it; and understands, too, that it is no proof of greatness. The final proof of greatness lies in being able to endure continuously without resentment."

Well, the 'Fish had endured a lot in his life, and from what I could see, without a lot of moaning or complaining. He pretty much just wanted to do his job protecting the country. But what none of us knew then was just how much more he was going to have to endure in the ending of his career.

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

Tag

Charles Borden surreptitiously massaged the back of his neck, trying to relieve the pounding tension headache that clenched his muscles. He watched the last moments of the videotaped Stark debriefing with half an eye, most of his awareness focused on the pallid faces of the National Security Council. Abject horror shaded nearly every expression around the conference table.

"This is impossible," the Secretary of Defense murmured as the lights came back up. "How sure are we that this information is accurate?" All attention now turned to the Official. Borden was in a position to appreciate the irony of his self-chosen title here in the midst of the collected national powerbrokers. Heck of a way to come to their attention, he mused as he eyed the people around the table. He could taste the fear in the air.

"Absolutely," Borden assured them bluntly. "Nearly all of you have had cause to use Beta-Chatazine3 in interrogation settings," he reminded them. "Even Chrysalis conditioning can't block its effects. This is a fact. Welcome to my world, gentlemen, ladies," he snapped, out of patience with the lot of them and their willful blindness and long disregard of the detailed reports he'd sent to everyone of them, or their predecessors, over the years. "Chrysalis exists. Their agenda is real, as I've spent the last seven years warning this Council, the Department of Justice, the President, and everyone else I thought might listen. We're looking at a threat unlike anything we've ever seen, as a nation, and as a member of the world community."

He eyed them, the gathered arbiters of national policy, swallowing the years of growing frustration. He had a fairly good idea where his reports had gone; straight into the nearest round file. But this, this there was no arguing with. "If you'll open to page 12 of your reports, I'll outline what we know for certain," he said confidently. All the years spent wrangling for funding, all the budgetary infighting, were just about to become worthwhile in a big way. The Stark debriefing had netted them the first tangible proof of Chrysalis' existence, and even better, the first solid corroborating information on what that organization's agenda really was. The implied scope of it had left him dry-mouthed. He trusted it was about to do the same for the NSC.

He made eye contact with each of the people around the table in turn, pausing to exchange glances with his former friend and longtime fellow brother-in-arms, the new head of the CIA, Carter Lincoln. Friendship might have faded in the face of reality, but wary respect remained. At Lincoln's slight nod, he cleared his throat and began.

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

Charles Borden settled his considerable girth back into the luxuriously sized leather of a first class airline seat, for the first time in over 20 years not feeling guilty about the expense. The cost was a drop in the bucket beside the sudden influx of capital that his backwater little Agency was about to have hitting its accounts.

The meeting had been a success beyond his wildest imaginings. The NSC, confronted with hard and fast evidence of a tangible international enemy, had mobilized its various limbs, both political and military, with a speed that far exceeded anything since the bombing of Pearl Harbor in 1942. The President of the United States was scheduled to speak before the United Nations Security Council in closed emergency session in two days, and the Agency had been reassigned to the Department of Justice as an autonomous member of that governmental branch. He could only thank whatever powers that ruled the universe that the current administration had the focus and backbone to act decisively. This was a situation that could not afford to wait on the vagaries of public debate.

As the plane increased its distance from the Washington D.C. area, he relaxed a bit for the first time in what felt like ages. The Chrysalis burden was no longer his to bear alone.

The Starks, amazingly, had made good on their promise. When Jared had been settled in the Keeper's isolation ward after being rescued from Cerberus' clutches, his wife had turned over the computer disks she had intimated existed. Their first real insight into the workings of an organization that had been labeled a figment of his imagination since he'd filed his first report on it. Now Chrysalis was a figment no longer.

He eased his seat back into reclining mode as the meal service began, the stewards clogging the aisles. Borden made it a point to never eat on an aircraft, so he closed his eyes, hoping the aspirin he'd taken for the headache that had become his constant companion in the past week would finally kick in and relieve the throbbing in his skull.

He really had to remember to make an appointment with his internist when he got home, he told himself. The headaches were getting worse. It was becoming harder and harder to conceal the debilitating nature of the attacks. The one he'd had a week before in his office had alarmed not only himself, but Eberts as well. He'd assured his assistant at the time that he would have it looked into. He resolved to make good on that promise. With a yawn, he closed his eyes and tried to catch up on the sleep that had eluded him since Eleanor Stark had come begging to his door.

Less than 20 minutes from their San Diego destination, Elizabeth Nuñez, head stewardess for the first class cabin, realized something was amiss with the passenger in 3A. The older, severely overweight man had declined meal service, though he'd accepted a beverage when offered one at each of the usual service times. He'd dozed off and on through the flight, but there was a flaccidity to his body now that worried her. Tentatively, she shook his shoulder gently. "Mr. Borden?" she spoke quietly. "We'll be landing shortly. We need you to return your seat to the upright position, sir."

The passenger didn't move, gave no indication he'd heard her. She shook his shoulder a bit harder, and to her alarm, his head lolled slightly. Airline training was thorough, and well-drilled reflexes took over as she quickly unfastened the man's tie and collar, feeling for a carotid pulse. Her relief when she found one was enormous. It was erratic, that much her CPR training told her, but he was still alive. Hurriedly, she headed towards the front of the aircraft to inform the captain that they had a medical emergency on their hands.

To Be Continued...