A/N: Hi there my lovelies. *cowers* Please, please, please don't kill me. I know I have about fifty thousand fics to finish and/or redo. I started watching Fringe on Netflix because I was bored and wasn't expecting too much from it. Needless to say I finished the entire show in a week and half. Then I read a few fanfics and came across one on another site that explored a plot in which Peter was an FBI agent and Olivia was on the run in Baghdad. Unfortunately the writing was illegible and the characters were wildly, wildly, wildly out of character. So I thought I'd do my own.

Disclaimer: They're JJ's toys. I just like to take 'em out of their box and play sometimes.

"This is an orchestration for an event. For a dance in fact. The participants will be apprised of their roles at the proper time. For now it is merely enough that they have arrived."

~Cormac McCarthy

Whilst his original plan for the evening had included drinks celebrating a job well done with his partner, Peter Bishop found himself lounged out on the couch in the living room of his apartment. Some cheesy action movie with bad acting was on the TV as he drifted somewhere between consciousness and sleep. Truth be told, he was significantly closer to the latter. As an overly cheery woman appeared suddenly on the screen, smiling too big as she tried to sell some sort of indoor grill, he was jolted to full awareness by the noise of his cell phone ringing.

The shrill noise made him jump a little, his hand moving for a millisecond as if to reach for the gun that rested next to his badge and phone on the end table. Regaining sense of himself, he straightened up and reached toward the source of the sound, putting the phone to his ear and answering on the fifth ring.

"Bishop." He barely stifled a yawn as the voice of his superior informed him of a new case at Logan International Airport. It wasn't at all like they just closed a month long case six hours ago, they certainly didn't need sleep or anything. That would almost be too much. He sighed softly, shrugging on his black coat and reminding himself that he knew what he signed on for when he took an active field position. "Yeah.. yeah.. I'm leaving now.. Yessir." He hung up the phone as he closed the door and headed for the parking garage for his building.

The ride to the airport wasn't long, twenty minutes at most, and he located the security check for the runway relatively easily. The guard leaned into his window, wielding a flashlight and looking at him with unmasked skepticism. He pulled his badge from his pocket and held it up where he could see.

"Peter Bishop, FBI." He identified himself, left eye shutting as the too-bright beam crossed his face to check him in comparison to the photo on the ID. Apparently satisfied, the guard radioed in and waved him past the checkpoint. It took him about a half second flat to figure out where he was supposed to go, the light show of at least two dozen emergency vehicles a perfectly clear indicator.

There wasn't any actual word that could describe the scene, except perhaps chaos. Helicopters circled overhead like mechanical vultures, casting bright lights upon the fuselage. The noise from the motors seemed to be in direct competition with the wind that howled over the tarmac.

He'd barely made it out of the SUV when he passed by at least ten federal agents, dressed mostly in black or grey jackets and trench coats, all arguing protocol and jurisdiction in a big mass of testosterone fueled ego. He smirked as he heard a particularly snarky comment before making a point of dodging around the argument that seemed to be heating the chilled Boston air. Not much farther, and he was met with by Charlie Francis, the man who called him here in the first place, looking just as tired as himself.

"I see that inter-agency harmony, peace, and cooperation continues flawlessly." He remarked sarcastically, coming to a stop. "So, who's winning so far?" Charlie gave a small smile and shook his head, looking back to the squabble.

"Uhm.. so far? Langley's ahead by a nose." he replied, making Peter smirk a little bit, before refocusing his attentions on the reason they were there as they began walking toward the plane that was the reason they were here. "Flight out of Hamburg. A hundred and forty seven passengers. The towers lost contact about three hours in. They thought that it was probably electrical interference, apparently they were flying through a hell of a storm. Entered our airspace radio silent." Peter's brow furrowed a little as Charlie explained the circumstances of the incident, yelling over the noise of the helicopter and the wind. It was weird, that was for sure. "The Navy scrambled two F-18's for escort. They reported stains on the window but no life signs aboard."

Peter turned his attention away from the other agent and looked up to the plane, though it was too dark to see anything properly inside the cabin.

"Stains?" He asked, confused for a moment as to what could have stained out the windows. Charlie's answer, while what he was expecting in the realm of possibilities, made him feel just a little bit queasy.

"Blood."

"Oh, well isn't that lovely?" He remarked dryly. "But really, I'm surprised they let 'em land at all. Who was flying the plane? Autopilot?" Charlie nodded.

"Yeah. Programmed to land right on schedule, which it did. Unlike any plane I've ever been on in my life." He fought down a smirk as Peter took a step closer to the plane, focusing particularly on the windows before he turned to face his counterpart again.

"The windows aren't frozen." He stated, though it was more to himself and was at least partially a question.

"So?"

"Well, if the cabin had depressurized, then the windows would have frozen solid." he explained. "Which means that they didn't lose pressure in the air. Not that I really expected that would be the reason if there's blood on the windows.." He lapsed off into silence for a moment, halting himself before he could start rambling. "Have they opened the cabin?"

"No. The White House just approved the CDC's request to not open the cabin until they arrive." Charlie explained, before both of their attentions were drawn to a second SUV, this one silver, that pulled up not too far away.

A tall, somewhat lanky man with dark hair and glasses exited the vehicle, yelling something into his phone with obvious frustration before ending the call. As soon as he pocketed the device though, he grinned, approaching the other two with long strides. As he joined them, he looked over at a few people in navy blue jackets with yellow lettering.

"Aww.. Good old NTSB." He crooned with a playfully smug look on his face. "They like to pretend they're cops." While Charlie didn't seem too amused, he regarded the agent with a raise of his eyebrows.

"Agent Warren." He greeted impassively. The man, Agent Lucas Warren, nodded in acknowledgement.

"Agent Francis." He replied, before turning. "Agent Bishop." His voice was a slight bit warmer, a bit more familiar as he nodded hello to his partner. While Peter recognized that his partner had arrived, he turned back to the plane.

"Somebody had to have looked through the windows," He pointed out logically, "Or there wouldn't be confirmation of blood."

"Yeah.. CIA did." Charlie answered with a slight grimace. "Whatever the hell's in there made McNeary throw up in front of his whole unit." That couldn't help but to make Peter a bit anxious. From what he know of McNeary, nothing bothered the man. If this made him vomit.. Needless to say, his stomach twisted uncomfortably as he imagined the horrors that may lie within. Before anything else could be said, the trio's attention was drawn to a growing mass of people around a man they all recognized as Agent Phillip Broyles from DHS.

"Although this is a joint task force, this investigation will be run by the Department of Homeland Security." He announced loudly, making it quite clear that he was in charge and God help you if you didn't like it. "I'm Special Agent in Charge Broyles. D.C. has sent me here to make sure that we get results."

"I swear, if he puffed his chest out any more, he'd float away." Luke muttered quietly to Peter, who rolled his eyes but otherwise didn't respond.

"Standard level four hazmat suits are required to go in once our friends from Atlanta get here. Members from each agency on the starting line as follows- CIA, Baronoff. FBI, Charlie Francis and Peter Bishop. DHS, Pitts. Everyone else stand by. Okay, people, let's move!"

A few moments later, Peter and Charlie were suited up, as were the others designated to board the plane. While Lucas pouted by his car, clearly annoyed at the fact that he didn't get to go in. He looked, to Peter, like the little kid who got put in time out while everyone else was at recess. He couldn't say anything to him though, before he was called up to the airlock with the others. Tensions rose continuously until they got the okay and a CDC agent unlatched the door and pulled it open, the hiss of decompression the only thing they heard besides their breathing..

Peter supposed that the first thing he saw being blood spatter on the roof wasn't too great of a sign for what lay deeper within the cabin. The next thing he saw was a skeleton dripping goo that looked sickeningly like liquid flesh. Needless to say that made the bile rise in his throat. If he had thought that one was bad, it got worse the farther he went into the plane.

"What kind of terrorism is this?" Someone asked, and Peter was pretty sure he head Charlie mutter a few 'oh god's just behind him.

It was horrible. Countless bodies, skeletons with goop and skin clinging to them. At one point he had to close his eyes and take a steadying breath before continuing. They were all dead. Unrecognizable. Crumples of clothes laid in puddles of goop, blood, and bone. No wonder McNeary threw up.

Peter continued down the aisle, the slight mist in the air unsettling, grimacing as he took in the scene. Men, women, elderly, children. None had been spared. He felt a surge of revulsion as he saw what he recognized to be a young boy, not yet even a teenager. He ground his teeth together and continued forward. Many of them hadn't made it out of their seats, in fact it seemed as if the only ones who hadn't been sitting were the flight attendants. Except for one, a man, as far as he could tell, who was sprawled across the walkway.

"Hey Charlie?" He called over his shoulder, skirting around the man carefully, so as not to disturb anything.

"Yeah?" Came the muffled response from somewhere off the left.

"It was a full plane, right? No empty seats?"

"As far as I know, yeah." If he was curious as to Peter's train of thought, he didn't show it, only continued forward.

"Hmm.." Peter hummed to himself as he looked around, searching for an empty seat that might show where this man came from. He spotted it after a few seconds, and was surprised to see a briefcase, half open, laying on the ground next to the seat. He didn't touch it, their orders were not to, but he did lean over to get a glance at what was inside of it. It looked to be needles.

"Charlie." He said again, a slight curiosity in his tone at the possibility of a lead. "Can we get this guy in the aisle on the top of the list for identification?"

"Why? What's up?" He heard the sound of a hazmat suit coming up behind him and turned to face it.

"Well, it might be nothing, but this guy's the only one out of his seat."

"Maybe he was just on his way to the bathroom. That's all that's down that way." Charlie pointed out reasonably.

"Yeah, that's what I thought at first, but then I found his seat. Check this out." He stepped aside and motioned to the open briefcase and the needles splayed within it. "I'm pretty sure that's not FAA regulation."

A few hours later, and the mayhem at the airport seemed, at least to Peter, almost desirable. What had started as a 'central headquarters for the inter-agency task force' had turned into brain numbing pandemonium.

Paperwork covered everything; terminals, desks, chairs. There were even a few pages scattered across the floor. At least five phones seemed to be ringing at any given time, and if it wasn't ringing, someone was already on it, giving interviews. Those who didn't have their noses buried in paper were shouting theories - most of which were either completely ridiculous or impossible - across the room.

Several agents had their attentions glued to their terminals, squinting bleary eyed at the news feeds, CCTV footage, and plane manifests they reviewed for what was probably the fourth or fifth time. A large television hung on the wall, alternating every few minutes to different news channels, nearly all of which showed the footage of the plane being incinerated.

And in the middle of it all, like a beacon, was Agent Phillip Broyles. He was surrounded by agents, directing people and barking out orders like it was what he was born to do. A small shred of respect wormed its way into Peter as he seemed to take each inquiry in stride.

"So much for the absolute geniuses at the CDC." Lucas muttered somewhere behind him, and he turned around just in time to see his partner slam the phone back down. He rolled his eyes, before grabbing Charlie's attention as he walked by.

"Hey, have we gotten anywhere on the briefcase?" He asked, glancing down at the stack of papers in the senior agent's hand, as if it had the answers on the top for him to read. It was wishful thinking of course, but hoping for a break was all he could do at this point.

"Well. We got results. But you're not gonna like 'em. The needles are standard issue insulin. I checked out the guy registered to that seat. He was a diabetic."

Peter groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. It sucked when a lead turned out to be a dead end.

"Alright. Thanks Charlie."

A few moments later, he found himself approaching the center of the storm, Agent Broyles, and tried to put on his best 'respectable human being' face.

"Have we reviewed the camera footage from the Hamburg Airport to see if the passengers were showing any signs of illness before?"

"It's on it's way now." Broyles answered, before looking at someone over Peter's shoulder. "What the hell is taking so long with that black box!?"

"Another thing- who's point from CDC on the bone, tissue and air samples?" Peter asked, not saying what he wanted to, mainly due to the fact that the because he's obviously can't send a proper report at the end, went without saying.

"Agent Paley, do you want his home number?" Broyles snapped, and it was all he could do not to respond in kind. Instead, he bit his lip, made sure his voice was even, and took a deep breath before responding with a perfectly respectful reply.

"No, but I'd appreciate the whole report, not just this fax claiming that there's no known matches to t any known pathogen or airborne virus-" But before he could even finish, his sentence was cut off with a sarcastic remark that, had it been from anyone else, he would've probably applauded.

"We're on that too Bishop. We don't think what happened to these people was the result of the in-flight movie." As much as Peter may have wanted to give some smart assed retort, any comment he might've made was halted before he could say it by Charlie, who called over from one of the desks.

"Back Bay PD got a call at oh-three-hundred from a guard-on-duty at a storage facility who saw two – and I quote – "suspicious Middle Eastern men" handing a white guy a briefcase." Broyles nodded appreciatively, seeming more relieved than anything at getting what may be an actual lead instead of just chasing their own tails.

"That could be a purchase." Peter hypothesized, thinking out loud and putting the pieces together. Before he got much farther though, apparently somebody else had gotten there.

"So.. The plane might've been a demonstration of tech that they sold later that night?" One of the many agents piped up from behind one of the computer monitors. "It would make sense, not wanting to buy until they've got assurance that it'll work."

"Maybe, maybe not." Broyles interjected, not letting the agent get too far ahead of himself. "It's certainly not uncommon in underground weapons trade.." He trailed off thoughtfully, going silent for a moment or two, long enough for Peter to notice something up with his friend.

Perhaps it was nothing more than his imagination, but upon hearing the last three words of Agent Broyles' theory, Charlie had gone a bit stiff. Well, a lot stiff. Before he could question him however, Broyles had turned to him and started barking orders again in a way Peter couldn't help but to resent the hell out of.

"Bishop. You and your partner take it. Go find out." Though Luke stood from the paperwork he'd been looking at, Peter balked at the order.

"Take what?" He asked, a rebellious fire in his eyes. "You want us to go investigate that?" The room went silent, almost every agent stopping to stare. "No offense sir, but it's nothing concrete, and that's manpower that could be focused here-" Before he'd finished explaining himself, Broyles replied with a heavy dose of derision.

"Sounds like a big lead." He said, the cynicism practically dripping off his every word. "Two minutes ago, you had plenty of questions, now's your chance to ask them." Peter's fists tightened, his teeth clenched, and he had to take a few breaths to calm himself enough to speak without snarling. A moment later, he curled the corner of his lips into a smile.

"Would you like us to pick up your dry cleaning while we're at it?" Aside from Lucas looking mortified at being included in the 'us' and 'we', there were 'holy shit' looks from all around. It seemed as though something like that was what Broyles was expecting, because he smiled.

"That and a coffee." At this point, Peter looked ready to about lunge, and everyone could see it. Before he could do anything that would get him written up and suspended though, Luke laid a hand on his shoulder and gently began shepherding him away, refusing to look at Broyles.

The ride to the storage facility certainly seemed to calm Peter down. At least when they arrived he wasn't shaking with anger anymore. The way Luke saw it, that was a plus.

They stepped out of the government issue silver sedan, breath fogging in front of their faces and the snow crunching between their feet and the pavement. Luke went into the front office to inform the owners that they were there while Peter started walking toward the dumpster.

His partner rejoined him just as he pulled out an unlabeled chemical canister from the depths of the bin. As if he wasn't curious enough about it, he pulled out a second and a third. He twisted one open, and against a part of his brain that told him not to do it, sniffed at the contents. His nose wrinkled with the familiar odor as he held it out for Luke to smell as well.

"Propane?" His partner asked, not recognizing the acrid stench and going mainly off the container in. Rather than tease him about it, Peter just shook his head, closing up the cylinder and putting it on the ground next to the others.

"No. Ammonia." He corrected, looking at the nearest storage unit. He and Lucas shared a look, both their eyes lighting up mischievously as Luke promptly began picking the lock. "Oh, the joys of being a federal agent." Peter teased as he heard the click of the lock undoing. The teasing nature stopped however, when the metal door was raised, revealing what was inside.

It was a crude laboratory, but easily identifiable as one nonetheless. Shelves lined it's perimeter, atop them sat several gas canisters, much like the ones they'd found in the trash. Chemical bottles and specimen jars containing disfigured small animals littered the tabletops and floor. A cooling unit puttered away in the corner, no doubt in an effort to keep the more than a little lethal chemicals from overheating when the unit was closed.

The same 'holy shit' feeling dominating their brains, Luke and Peter went on to prying open the neighboring unit. It was revealed to be another lab, this one filled with vacuum equipment, electron microscopes, radiation suits, and cages containing animals - alive this time - that were mutated and vicious.

"Damn.. How many more of these things are you willing to bet are labs?" Peter grumbled. It turned out that his complaining was more than warranted. They opened unit after unit, nine in all, that contained relatively the same thing. Scientific tools and animals - either alive or dead - that had been disfigured or altered beyond remedy. They almost all housed chemicals that were recognizable as dangerous as well.

"Pete, we're gonna need a chem transport team out here, like now." Luke called out from one particularly frightening unit. Peter, who'd been snooping around one that held countless canisters of at least fifty different gaseous compounds, agreed, volunteering to go make the call to Broyles. A part of him was almost giddy at the thought of being able to shove a find like this in the arrogant man's face. He ventured away from the units, where he couldn't get a signal, and dialed the number.

Meanwhile, Lucas remained in one particular unit, head tilted as he examined a computer monitor on which programs were running, balancing what he recognized to be chemical equations. He stepped around the machine, his gaze moving to a row of scan results hanging from a wire behind it.

Without warning, a loud grating that Luke recognized as another unit opening started up behind him. He thought it was Peter at first, perhaps sifting through another lab, though the second he turned around he realized that the man opening it was clearly not Peter.

"Hey!" He yelled, moving his hand to the gun on his hip as he cautiously stepped out of the unit. Before he could say anything else, though, the man took off running toward the parking lot. Reacting reflexively, Luke took off after him, cursing quietly under his breath as he did so. He rounded a corner, pulling his phone from his pocket and hitting the first number. This was apparently his partner's speed dial, because after the first ring, Peter answered.

"Luke? What-?"

"We've got a runner! He's headed for the back lot!" He practically yelled into the phone, rounding another corner just in time to see the runner whip out of sight.

"On my way." Peter hung up the phone and started running, heading down a path the opposite the way they came, hoping that it would lead to the back lot. He was rewarded when he burst out of the labyrinth into the open. He saw Luke gaining on the subject, closing in, and kept pushing to keep up - until the subject stopped. Instinct told Peter that something was very, very wrong with this. His suspicion was confirmed a second later when the suspect pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed a number but didn't put it to his ear.

"Luke!" He called out, putting on extra speed, wanting only to stop his partner, because he knew exactly what was about to happen. His partner stopped and turned to look at him with eyebrows raised quizzically. Before he could explain, however, the closest of the sheds detonated suddenly. Lucas was swallowed up by too bright lights from the blast, and then the second one exploded and Peter was hurled to the ground unceremoniously.

He laid on the ground, looking up at the street light above him, pulsating slightly from the explosion. The taste of iron and copper filled his mouth as the world slowly faded to black around him.

Well, what do you think of FBI Peter and his partner? I know I didn't describe Lucas too well.. so just picture Ignacio Serricchio. Like it so far? Hate it? Let me know in one of those ever-welcome reviews. Quick question for you guys. I think I'd like to call this Greenverse. Whaddya think? Got any other ideas?

Until next chapter my lovelies,

~TheFallenArchangel