There was a knock on the door and Dr. Ben Cronin looked up from the notes he was reviewing. One of the specialists was standing in the doorway - the new kid. He had a funny name. Bert, Brett? Whatever. The grunts were all the same. "Yes?" he asked.

"They're back, doc."

Cronin closed the notebook and got up. "Let Dr. Redfield know?"

"Already did," the specialist replied.

"Thanks, Mr. Uh…" he stammered.

"Rumlow, sir."

"Ah, yes. Mr. Rumlow." Cronin walked past the specialist, tucking a pen in his lab coat's pocket. As he walked, he wondered about the Christmas party at Maureen's law firm tonight. There would be caviar. And that amazing champagne. Absently, he swiped his badge and walked into the room, musing that government jobs had no good perks.

The mission captain was waiting. "Doc," he said.

The subject ready, out of his gear, sitting on a stool and eating a protein bar. There were no obvious injuries. Three guards stood around the room, weapons cradled in their arms. Rumlow followed him into the room and took his place in one of the corners.

"How'd it go?" Cronin asked the captain.

The captain shrugged. "Clean. No damage."

"Any field meds?"

"No need."

Cronin pulled a rolling stool over to the subject and sat down. "Good," he said. "I want to get home on time tonight." The subject finished the food and looked at him. Cronin met the subject's eyes and the subject looked back, unflinching and appraising. The searching intelligence in those eyes always made Cronin uneasy. Tonight, though, the subject seemed to be calm and passive. This should go smoothly. He held out his hand.

"Hot date?" the captain asked.

The subject put his wrist in Cronin's hand and Cronin curled his fingers around to take the pulse. They had better tools than the old fashioned medicine he was going to use over the next few minutes, but this sequence was part of the ritual that the subject had been trained to accept long before Cronin had joined the project. He counted the slow, steady heartbeats, his eyes on his watch. As he dropped the subject's wrist and pulled out a little flashlight, he said, "Maureen's firm has their Christmas party tonight." Cronin grabbed the subject's chin and positioned his head, flashing the light in his eyes, watching the reflex response. "It's black tie and I have to get dressed."

"Fancy," said the captain.

"Yeah." He tucked the flashlight back into his pocket and pulled the stethoscope from around his neck. "Last year, they had these little chocolate soufflé things." He rolled his eyes as he settled the stethoscope in his ears. "To die for."

The captain shook his head. "What does she do?"

Cronin listened to the subject's heart and lungs. He was not expecting anything to be amiss, nor did he find any problems. The only time he had ever heard anything other than a perfect rhythm, the subject had three broken ribs and a collapsed lung.

"Corporate tax law," he replied, flipping the stethoscope back over his neck. "I think she works on the Wal-Mart account."

"That must be…"

"Boring," Cronin replied, shoving back the stool and rolling across the room. "Even she thinks it is boring, but the perks…" He opened a cabinet and took out the saline, the IV and the lorazepan. Rolling back over to the subject he looked up at the captain. "Confirm they are ready?"

The captain waived at Rumlow, who holstered his gun and walked out of the room. Cronin held out his hand and the subject again put his hand in Cronin's. Cronin gave the subject a curt nod, as wrapped the tourniquet around his arm.

"What about you?" he asked the captain. "Got plans for the weekend?"

The captain shook his head. "Naw. I'm on duty tomorrow. I'll probably catch the game on Sunday."

Cronin worked quickly, sliding the catheter into the subject's vein and snapping the tourniquet off.

Taping the tubes down, he felt the subject react to something. There was a tightening of the muscles under his fingers, a coiled tension, and he glanced up at the subject's face. The subject was staring at the door, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes narrowed. He heard the door open behind him and Rumlow say, "Dr. Redfield is ready, sir."

Cronin picked up the bottle of lorazepan and a syringe. Holding it up in front of his face, he inverted the bottle, drew a dose into the syringe and knocked the air bubbles out. The subject's face was just on the other side of the bottle, staring at the door. "Easy, soldier," he said gently. He took the subject's elbow in his hand and pressed the syringe into the IV port. "Won't be long, now."

Releasing the subject's arm, he glanced at the clock and then pushed back a few feet, watching for signs that the drug was taking effect. "What game?" he said.

"Huh?" said the captain.

"What game are you going to catch?" Cronin clarified.

"The Giants game. They are playing the Broncos," the captain replied.

"Ah. Good game?"

"Should be. They are both having good seasons."

Cronin nodded. "I had a roommate in med school who was from Boston. Patriots this. Patriots that." Cronin rolled his eyes, glancing over at the captain.

The captain laughed. "Boston fans are just crazy," he said.

There it was. Cronin saw the tension around the subject's eyes ease slightly, the set of his shoulders come down. He rolled his stool forward and attached the IV bag, handing it to the subject to hold, and then he stood. He touched the subject on the shoulder and the subject looked up at him. "Time to go," he said. "Come with me."

The subject got up and walked next to Cronin as they left the examine room. The guards closed around them as they walked down the hall.

The captain swiped his badge at the door and they entered. Cronin felt the subject hesitate for a moment when he caught a view of the room and what it contained. "It's okay," he encouraged quietly. "Go on," he said, putting his hand on the small of the subject's back. The subject resumed walking and went over to the chair without any more urging. As he sat, the banks of equipment lit up: pulse, oxygen levels, blood pressure, diagnostics on the implants, real time neural scans…the list went on and on.

Truth be told, this was why Cronin kept this job. He could have gotten a job at Merke or Biogen, or any of the big pharma companies, but no one had what Hydra had. This is where the real work got done. This is why he stayed, crappy government salary and all. Automatically, his eyes roved over the readings, checking to be sure he had not missed anything.

The subject held out the IV bag and Cronin hung it on the waiting stand. Redfield was standing behind the bank of instruments, fiddling with something. He looked up. "Ready?"

Cronin nodded. "All set."

"Are we waiting on a de-brief?"

Cronin looked at the captain who shook his head.

"Then sit him back."

Cronin picked up the bite guard and slid it into the subject's mouth. He put his hand on the subject's shoulder, pressing him back. As usual, the subject sat back. It was not until the restraints closed around him that the panic attack started. Cronin watched through narrowed eyes, but the restraints held. Even with the fucking horse-sized dose of lorazepan he had given him, the subject still broke through the drug before the treatment began.

Redfield activated the machine. Cronin walked over and stood next to Redfield, his eyes scanning the monitors. He watched as the brain images changed, as the connections the subject had made on this mission were reset. "There," he said, pointing to a spot on the brain scan that had not yet cleared. Redfield nodded and adjusted the controls.

When they were finished, Cronin touched the subject's wrist, now sweaty and clammy, and he found the pulse. It fast and thready. He pried open the subject's eyes and shined his light into them. He looked up at the clock.

"When's the cryo team due?" he asked.

Redfield was holding a screwdriver in his mouth, magnifying glasses down over his regular glasses, as he worked on something behind the chair. He took the screwdriver from his mouth and flipped the glasses up. "An hour, I think. Why? You got somewhere to be?"

Cronin looked back at the clock. Maybe, if he didn't hit any traffic… He nodded. "My fiancée's firm is having a Christmas party."

"Ah."

"It's a big deal. Black tie."

Redfield laughed. "You? In a black tie?"

Cronin shrugged with a bashful smile. "She tells me I clean up pretty well."

Redfield grinned and then glanced over at the monitors. "Is everything normal?"

Cronin nodded. "Yeah."

"Okay," Redfield said, "Tell you what. Give him another slug of the lorazepan so he doesn't freak when he wakes up, and then scoot. I got this."

"Really?"

"Really. Go. Have fun."

Cronin took the drug from the cabinet, filling the syringe. "I owe you one, Stan."

Redfield shrugged. "No problem."

Cronin slid the drug into the IV, checking the drip rate. "That should hold him."

Redfield nodded. "Merry Christmas, Ben."

Cronin looked at him. "Oh, that's right. You are off next week."

"Off to Cleveland. So exciting."

Cronin chuckled as he tossed the syringe into the sharps can and turned back to Redfield. "Well, Merry Christmas, Stan. I'll have my pager, if any…"

Redfield shook his head. "Go home, Ben. I got this."

Cronin grinned. "Have a good weekend everyone!" he called as he walked out the door, already thinking about the caviar.