This story is inspired by a conversation over in the Meisner appreciation thread on PreviouslyTV. Another poster, Darklazr, suggested a scenario in which Meisner's encounter with Bonaparte and Renard goes a little differently, and . . . well, I don't want to spoil things for people who don't read that thread. Enjoy!

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Meisner pulled himself along the floor. He'd been crawling toward the door for hours, or so it seemed. It took him a moment to recall why:

Facing off with Renard in the wreckage of the control room. Bonaparte appears, shows his true face, his true power. Invisible grip slams my airway shut. Cold dread as I realize I can't inhale. Diaphragm fights in futile spasms. Every bit of strength working to pull in just a little oxygen. Nothing. Mein Gott it hurts. Lungs burning. Pressure building behind eyes. Building. Pounding. Throbbing.

Renard looks stricken. Tells Bonaparte to stop. Yeah, that's going to work. He glances down at his gun, brown eyes shifting from anxiety to calculation. Shooting at Bonaparte would be stupid: the monster can deflect a bullet, and Renard would lose his position with Black Claw and probably his life. He looks back at me apologetically. Is he going to shoot me? That doesn't sound as bad as it ought to. Maybe a bullet hole would let some air in.

Renard addresses Bonaparte: "This isn't about him. We both know Meisner would die by inches before telling you anything, and you haven't even bothered to ask him any questions. It's about me. You want to see what I'll do. Well, here's my answer: Hadrian's Wall is history . . ."

Trying desperately to stay on my feet. No particular reason—just don't want to die on my knees. Gives me something to think about besides the fact that my fucking head is gonna explode. Stop. Make it stop.

Hard to hear over the rushing sound. Room tilts. I lose the battle to stay upright. Renard finishes with a flourish and a full woge: ". . . I'm only interested in the future."

Backhand fist connects with my face as I fall forward, reversing my direction, sending me flying across the room, slamming into destroyed cabinets and equipment. Part of the pile of broken things. As everything goes dark, a tiny trickle of air tickles my throat.

That was . . . before. Meisner hadn't a clue how much time had passed. Maybe there were ways he could figure that out, but his brain wasn't up to doing anything more than forcing his body along the floor. Calling it 'crawling' was an overstatement. He dragged himself forward a few inches; he passed out; he woke up; repeat, repeat. Where he was going didn't bear much scrutiny—was he going to drag himself all the way to a hospital? But moving wasn't dying, so moving was good.

He woke up again, side of face pressed against the floor. Cheekbone might be cracked, courtesy of Renard. Fractures were a familiar sort of pain, not like the sickening ache in his head and the deep sense of damage pervading his body. His mind wandered over to Renard, but not Renard from today. Many years ago . . .

I'm maybe fourteen. Sean is about the same, but already half a foot taller. Papa and his Resistance friends let me do little things to stick it to the Royals. I do more damage behind their backs, sometimes with Sean when he's in the country. Now he's messing around, woging to scare some of the KSK kids in the group. We've all seen wesen woge before – my Judo teacher is an Eisbiber; I've known him half my life. But Zauberbiests are creepier than most. Tommy comes into the room. Sean lunges at him, snarling and woging. Tommy yells and stumbles backward, ending up against the wall. He manages not to cry – the ultimate humiliation for any twelve-year-old amidst a pack of teenagers – but barely. Sean, laughing, turns around . . . right into my fist. Nobody picks on my little brother.

Decades later, Sean tells that story to explain why he wants me for a job: "You didn't even wait for me to drop the woge. Most people would wait the five seconds until their opponent's strength-and-resistance-to-injury boost is gone, before starting a fight."

"So you're saying it didn't hurt enough, and I need to punch you again?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying," Sean grins.

Meisner's reminiscence was interrupted by a bout of coughing that inflamed his battered larynx. Blood spattered the floor below his face. Need to keep moving. It's getting harder. Hard never stopped him before.

He pulled himself forward a little more, passed out, woke up shivering. Breathing was becoming difficult, not in the awful way it was when Bonaparte had a vice-grip on his throat, but his lungs didn't have the strength to fill under the weight of his body. There was a disturbing wetness, like drowning in aspirated blood. Cold and tired, he just wanted someone to throw a blanket over him and tell him he could rest.

Hannah, in bed, running her fingers through his hair, smiling sweetly: "Du musst dich ausruhen."

No, she wouldn't tell him to relax now. Resting meant giving up. He dragged himself another inch, then another. He couldn't really tell anymore when he'd passed out and when he hadn't, but his next coherent thought was that there were voices. He was too beat to worry that they were Black Claw operatives, there to finish the job. Anyway, they sounded concerned. And familiar. It would be arrogant of him to assume that he was the only member of Hadrian's Wall to survive the massacre. See? He knew there was a reason he was crawling toward the hall.

A woman's voice called his name, distress making her speech sound even more rough and American than usual. Gentle hands turned him over, supporting the back of his neck. The motion was too much for him, and he greyed out for a minute.

When he could focus again, it was on Trubel's face. She was sitting on the floor. There were tears in her eyes. For him? He felt bad about that, but nevertheless relief washed over him. He knew that he was probably dying. He could admit it to himself, now that doing so wouldn't interfere with his dogged efforts to survive. If anything could be done to help him, Trubel would figure it out. It wasn't his problem anymore. He wasn't scared, exactly, but he found the prospect of death daunting enough that he didn't want to face it alone. He was glad to be with someone he trusted. He tried to reach for her, but his body didn't cooperate.

Other people were there, too, but they were standing up and seemed very far away. He couldn't make out their faces or their words. Trubel had a forceful exchange with someone, and he gathered that she prevailed. Good girl. Most of the people he was responsible for had predeceased him. At least this one was tough enough to make it on her own.

Trubel started pulling Meisner up, one hand under his shoulder and the other behind his head. Burkhart came into focus as he crouched down, pulling on the other side. Meisner wanted to tell the Grimms to stop, that making him get up was a terrible idea. But his words came out as a groan, and he was out cold before he was halfway to a seated position.

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Next up: Trubel