So, here is my first Fringe fanfiction and my second fanfiction ever. I was kinda hoping that since the season ended on Tuesday (AHHHHHH), that this would, besides satifising my current bloodthirsty obsession with the show, kinda just be like a episode of the show. I don't have an exact time of when it happed, but definitely sometime after Dreamscape and most definitely when they know about ZFT. I hope to figure this out a bit more a I write. A couple more notes; One, I have not seen the first 5 episodes or so (sacrilege, I know!), so if I contradict something said or done in those, please graciously let me know. Also, while this isn't really a shippy fanfiction, I do definitely like Bolivia, so that might pop up quite a bit. Another obsession with Latin has also me incorporate a lot of Latin into this story. I also think I am obliged to state here that I do not own any part of Fringe--characters, situations, etc--and this is just for fun and not for profit. And that is just about it...please enjoy and as, most other people, I do appreciate all types of reviews, positive or negetive!

--

Is Somnium Nos Sono

-

This nonsense we utter

--

For Blake Green, the day was like any other. But then again, the most normal days seemed to be the ones that held the most disturbing secrets.

Sunlight streamed through the open window of his Upper East Side apartment, casting a warm glow on the mess of papers scattered across his desk. Spring hadn't quite graced Manhattan with its presence, but day by day the breezes got slightly warmer and the days slightly sunnier.

Finishing a sentence with a messy scribble of his pen, the man paused, pushed back his chair and stood up. He swaggered over to the small kitchenette, glancing at the shifty world outside. He could barely make out the tops of some trees in Central Park if he craned his neck right. The sight slightly frustrated him. He knew that with his salary he could likely afford to own property right on the park. But lay low, he had been told. And that certainly didn't mean living on 5th Avenue.

Blake was washing out his coffee mug, the barely touched contents long cold, when his cell phone rang. It didn't surprise him; almost no one had his home number.

"Hello?" he answered.

"B-bucks-b…for the bus b-bench!" wailed a shaky voice on the other end.

"Pardon?"

"B-b-black bear…blue bug-b-b-blood."

Blake froze. He knew that voice.

"Allan?" he intervened.

"P-Peter-Peter piper…"

"Allan," Blake commanded, "What are you talking about?"

"New York-You know New York, you k-know-"

Allan's voice was even more frantic now, climbing in intensity and speed with every new nonsensical quip he uttered. Blake began to panic, but remembered something.

He rushed out of his kitchen and back to his desk, to the nearly mutilated piece of paper he had been working on all morning. As he attempted to interpret the illegible scrawl, he directed the man over the phone.

"Now, listen closely," he said nervously, "and repeat exactly as I say."

Silence. Blake continued.

"Bell—Bellum omnium contre—tra om—omnes," he dictated with a mild amount of pronunciation difficulty, "Can you just say that for me, Allan?"

Allan didn't respond.

"Allan?"

Still nothing. The hand holding the phone began to shake. As he considered the worst, Blake heard the voices of children from the school down the street. His mind warped their squeals of joy to much more sinister screams, painful cries of helpless agony. The noises pounded relentlessly in his head, all with the same undeniable message.

"Allan?" he questioned one last futile time, his voice breaking.

There was nothing on the other line except static, the incessant buzzing holding no trace of the familiar voice. Gulping down his emotions, Blake hung up. Slowly, he began to dial another number.

--

After a devoted scouring and re-scouring of the ostentatious wooden desk, Astrid had finally found the requested writing utensil. She turned the pen over in her hand, her expression reflecting that of mild humor. It was just as Walter had described it to be; an enameled black fountain pen with two shiny gold rings around the grip, devoid of its leather case. Only Walter had been incorrect on one account. Astrid had found it coupled still with the dark brown box, hidden beneath, not that it surprised her, a fake bottom in the right hand drawer.

"Walter?" she hollered, "Think I found it."

"Ah! Good!" he exclaimed, sliding off the lab stool he had been perched on and climbing the stairs with enthusiasm.

The smile on his face held joy and elation akin to that of a small child at Christmas. The sight of it almost made Astrid consider the last hour well-spent. Almost.

"This," he said, accepting the find, "is the perfect pen."

She looked at him skeptically.

"No, really! Absolute perfection."

"And…" she considered, "…how?"

"You see," he explained, holding it up between them, "It is weighted to rest perfectly in the writer's hand, allowing them no discomfort. You could write for hours with this thing! And the ink—the ink is permanent, composed as to dry instantly upon the surface—and this is whatever surface you like, as it will write on anything. No more messy, irritable smearing as so oft happens with those cheap ballpoints nowadays. I remember exactly where and when I got this—"

The frosted figure that had appeared in the glass of the door opened it with a creak. As slyly as it may opened it, the ominous being slammed the door hard, interrupting Walter's anecdote.

"Is anyone here?" rang out Peter's voice.

"Yes," Walter responded, "and how many times have I told you to be gentle with that door! I am very partial to it and it's a miracle it has even survived this long!"

"We're over here," Astrid clarified for Peter, "Welcome back."

Peter jogged over to them, setting down a paper bag filled with nothing more than goldfish and a block of cheese. The cheese, of course, was to eat; the goldfish, to use Walter's words, were a vital aspect of the experiment he was conducting. What exactly for, it was best to leave unanswered; his cohorts had learned not to ask until it was absolutely necessary they knew.

But their curious human nature still urged them to at least ask something and Peter suspiciously lifted his eyebrows at the object his father now held with the utmost care.

"Is that a pen?" he questioned.

"Your father seems very partial to quite a few things," Astrid said distinctly to Peter, leaning as if it were some big secret.

"He does appear to have separation anxiety when it comes to possessions," Peter joked back, "Luckily, it doesn't kick in until he realizes he's misplaced it…"

Astrid nodded in exaggerated comprehension.

"Normally, I would accept your inconsiderate jokes without comment, but today I feel the urge to remind you that I am still in the room."

"Nothing against you personally, pops," Peter said playfully as he patted Walter on the back.

With his face turned away, Walter smiled subtly at his son's antics.

"Either way," Peter continued, "Olivia called. She said to pack an overnight bag."

"Hmmm?" Astrid questioned.

"We're taking a weekend in New York."

--

Phillip Broyles probably trusted Agent Olivia Dunham more than he trusted himself. Her logic didn't always seem immediately comprehendible, but the advantage of having a right-hand man—or woman—who listened to their gut had in time become an invaluable asset. More than occasionally, when she stepped over the line, he had very bluntly notified her of the reality of her often messy circumstances. Not that when she was determined it ever seemed to affect her in the slightest. He liked that about her. While he couldn't claim that he waited around all day to see what new, fresh conspiracy she would bring into his office, he had to admit that despite the harsh and often disturbing aspects of his job, he looked forward to the moment when she would confidently rush in and disclose to him the most grandiose, unbelievable scheme that her intelligent, crazed gang had cooked up. Some of them were really quite laughable, but in his line of work, laughable could very easily mean accurate. And usually it did.

Fortunately for Broyles, he wouldn't have to wait very long for his favorite moment of the day; he had barely removed his coat and logged onto his computer when Olivia poked her head around the door.

"Broyles?"

He glanced up.

"Yes, Agent Dunham."

"I have a favor to ask of you."

Broyles studied her carefully and then got to his feet, his hands flat against the desk, leaning forward. His dark, insightful features took her in.

"It's in New York, sir," Olivia continued, "It isn't our division, but I think it may somehow be related to ZFT."

"Any proof?"

"Only a witness"

"That it's connected to ZFT?"

Olivia's eyes darted to the side as she considered how to phrase the next details. This was the part where she would normally learn whether Broyles would let her pursue it or not.

"We're not that far yet. This witness only gives a clue as to the…peculiar…circumstances."

"Well, peculiar is what we do. What is it?"

It was as good as a thumbs up to Dunham. She crossed over from the threshold of the door to pull up a chair to Broyles' desk. Then she began to explain.

--

The Bishops and company met Olivia at Platform B2 of Boston's South Station. After what the group had seen on the job, it seemed to have become a sort of unspoken oath among them to avoid air travel, if possible. It was just an insignificant preference that enabled them to become well-acquainted with all means of ground transportation, trains included. Across the platform, Peter approached Olivia first, his dorky grin spread across his face.

"So, little Miss Ambiguity, what pressing site is there for us to see in the Big Apple?"

Olivia almost laughed at his teddy-bearish demeanor, but instead let a quiet smirk work its way across her face.

"You'll just have to see, Mister Curious," she teased back.

"Hmmm," Peter said, mocking fake appraisal of her words, "You could be wittier."

She turned to the other two, laughing and cursing at Peter's lightheartedness. As much as she cared for them, Olivia sometimes wondered how she had gotten stuck with the peanut gallery.

Refocusing, she took a look at the ticket and gestured to the track on the left.

--

Olivia gazed out the train window, partially watching the blur outside, partially studying her own reflection in the plane of glass. The rushing trees and buildings made her uneasy, but captivated her all the same.

She felt like the person in the glass, empty and hollow, allowing all these flighty shadows to fill her up and then leave almost as quickly as the moving landscape. Her only consolation was that this forward motion might actually be taking her somewhere, somewhere she could find if not adequate, than at least partial answers.

She hoped that this thriving metropolis, with its own secrets to tell and hide, could put to rest at least some of the questions that haunted her mind. But she also just as well considered the fact that it could do nothing more but plunge her even further into the mysteries of life.