Nate rose from his bed groggily. He had spent the night drowning himself in bottles of Irish whiskey until he was so drunk he had passed out. Now he half-wished he hadn't drank so much.

He staggered to the chair he'd thrown his shirt into and bumped into the chest of drawers. He managed to leave the room without stubbing his toe, a small miracle in itself, and walked down the hallway to the living room. He hadn't heard a sound from Morgen all night, but he suspected she didn't sleep much.

She was still on the couch. She opened her eyes when she heard his footsteps. Her face was paler than it had been last night, making her blue eyes seem enormous. They stared blankly at him, and he realized she hadn't slept at all.

"Good morning, Morgen," he said quietly. "How do you feel?"

Morgen sat up slowly and leaned her elbows on her knees, assessing herself. "I don't know."

Nate sat across from her, forcing her to look squarely at him. The hollow look in her eyes made a slight shiver run up and down his spine.

"Think, Morgen. I need you to feel something."

A spark flickered in her face for an instant, then was gone. "What do you want me to feel?"

"Anything, Morgen, anything."

He saw her lips press together and knew she had slipped on the mask she hid behind. "Hungry. Good enough for you?"

"For now. What do you want to eat?"

She blinked. "Oatmeal."

He nodded. "I'll make you some. Stay here, alright? I'll be back."

She blinked again, which he took for understanding. He felt her eyes on the back of his head until he rounded the corner.

When he came back, she had closed her eyelids and leaned her head back, apparently asleep.

"Wake up, Morgen."

She jerked up, then held her stomach and groaned. He handed the steaming bowl of instant oatmeal to her and resumed his position in front of her on the floor. She lifted the spoon to her mouth and back to the oatmeal mechanically. Nate felt a little sorry for her. It was easy to forget, with all her adult mannerisms and tough-girl performance, that she was only eighteen.

She set the empty bowl on the cushion next to her and sighed.

"We'll need to change that bandage," Nate commented.

"I did it every two hours last night and this morning," she replied. "I couldn't sleep."

"Not tired?" A ridiculous question, since she was clearly bordering exhaustion, but he wanted to keep her talking.

"Haunted by ghosts."

"Ah. They didn't happen to have any ideas about what we should do next, did they?"

"They didn't. I spent all night asking." She closed her eyes again. "All night long," she repeated under her breath.

"How are you feeling?"

She stared at him witheringly. "Full."

"Anything else?"

"What would you like me to feel, Nathan Ford?"

"An emotion would be nice. I know you have them, even though you pretend not to."

She smiled tiredly. "And what good will that do?"

"It will keep you sane, Morgen. Right now you're very upset and angry, but you're burying it out of habit. You have to let yourself feel something, or you're going to give up and be unable to help anyone, including yourself."

Her resolve was slipping, he could see it in her face.

"Let it out, Morgen. You aren't with Moreau anymore."

Nate sat next to her and held her to his shoulder. For a few seconds, she resisted, but the sobs broke through. She made no sound when she cried, just shook and gasped occasionally. Nate waited patiently.

"Nate?"

"Mhm."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't keep Damien from catching you." She sat up, wiped her eyes, and stared at her hands.

"You did the best you could, Morgen. Moreau just knew what to expect is all. We'll figure out a plan that he'll never see coming."

"Then you'll have to do it without me."

He opened his mouth to speak.

"Damien created me, Nate. He knows everything I'm thinking, feeling, saying. He'll know what sort of plan I'll have to rescue Eliot and how to catch me again."

"That's where you're wrong."

She frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Moreau knows you very well, yes, but only one part of you, the part he made. You weren't always his spy, remember?"

Morgen shook her head incredulously. "And what makes you think those two are any different, or that I would even want to be that person again?"

Nate leaned forward. "Because I keep catching glimpses of her, Morgen. I know that type who works for Moreau. You tried to help the entire team when you really only had to help your brother. I don't think the Morgen Spencer before would've done that."

Morgen cautiously inhaled deeply. "She wouldn't have."

There was silence for a moment. Nate suddenly had a thought.

"Where did you live before you met Moreau?"

"With Eliot."

"Before that."

She was quiet, but her eyes widened and her hands clenched. "Why does that matter?"

"Because, Morgen, I think that version of you is what will help you take down Moreau."

"No. No, it won't."

Nate studied her. "Where did you live before you met Eliot?"

"Why do you need to know?" she demanded. He detected a tremble in her voice.

"Why does thinking about it scare you so much?"

Morgen had a glazed look suddenly, and Nate wished he could see what she was remembering. Her breathing became short, and her whole body began to shake.

"Do you have a memory, Nate," she whispered, "a memory so terrible you hate thinking about it, and when people ask you to talk about it, you can't? Surely you do. You lost Sam. You have a memory like that."

Nate nodded. "I do. But I've talked about it."

"To whom, Nate? To one person, right? The one person who was there, right?" She looked at him, tear traces on her cheeks. "You can't expect me to talk about that when you yourself know I can't."

Nate nodded and wiped the tears from her face. "Fair enough, Morgen."

Morgen pulled away and ran her fingers through her hair, an action Nate recognized as a nervous habit.

"I'll try to think differently than I normally would, Nate. I owe it to Eliot to try."

Nate smiled kindly and patted her shoulder. "That's all I'm asking."

X X X

Eliot sat alone in his cell, hands clasped around his knees, head against the wall. He was used to torture. It had happened to him more than once, and he had learned how to control his thinking and breathing before the interrogations even started.

He could hear nothing through the walls. He had managed to see Moreau's men had driven into a warehouse before a bag was thrown over his head. He didn't know for sure how long he'd been in the cell. It was morning outside, he knew, but that was it.

The handle to his door was unlocked, and Moreau strode in. His goon, the one Morgen had called Cofsky, stood behind him.

"Hello, Spencer."

Eliot nodded, keeping his gaze on the opposite wall.

"We have a few questions for you."

Eliot didn't answer. Cofsky laid a hand on his shoulder. Eliot cocked an eyebrow and glared at the hand. It didn't move.

"Questions 'bout what?" he growled.

"About the location of Nate and your sister. They escaped, thanks to the idiocy of him," he jabbed a finger at Cofsky, "and we think you might be able to help us find them."

"I ain't talkin' to you."

Moreau smiled condescendingly. "Oh I think you will. You see, it's really in your best interests to help us find your sister. In addition to having gotten herself shot, she is going to be in a lot of pain soon, and I am the only one who has the medicine she needs."

"What are you talkin' about?"

"Yes, of course. She never would've told you, her wonderful brother whom she believed would take care of her until the world's end. She knew it would've upset you, and you know she hated doing that."

Eliot felt his heart pound as his mind raced to thousands of possibilities, each more awful than the last.

"Morgen is dying. I had her injected with a rare and deadly disease after you introduced us. She didn't like the idea of serving me unconditionally, so I had to nudge her along a bit. She managed to keep herself alive by stealing a portion of the antidote from me, but she has run out. She has a week left, maybe, and by the time that's up she'll be so weak and sick she'll likely not be able to do more than collapse and wait for death to take her." Moreau crouched down by Eliot's face. "Contrary to what you or she may think, Eliot, I do care about her. She was my best man, after all. I want to find her so I can give her the antidote, that's all."

"You really think I'm going to believe you, Moreau?"

Moreau smiled. "Do you really think I'm going to lie to a Spencer?"

Eliot glared at his enemy with hooded eyes. Moreau held it steadily, then patted Eliot's arm.

"I'll be back tomorrow to see if you've changed your mind. But remember, every day you wait, your sister gets sicker."

The men left the room. Eliot leaned his head back and let out a growl, indecision and fear beginning to gnaw at his mind.