A/N: Hehe... I love cliffies! Another one is in store ahead. ;]

So hopefully this lives up to all the hype (if there even is any). I know you guys all probably thought I died or something because I haven't posted in forever but... here I am!

And just what the heck is goin' on with Shawn? Kudos to you if you can guess before the third chapter is up!

Twisted Quote of the Chapter: "Go ahead. Make my day(write a review?)."

I don't know if it shows, but I haven't really seen Fringe (or Psych) in a while, so characters might be a little OOC. Don't worry, though, that just gives me an excuse to re-watch the series!

Disclaimer: My name is not Steve Franks. Or J.J. Abrams. 'Nuff said.

Olivia's POV~

"Hi, Olivia Dunham, FBI." I flipped up my badge as the receptionist looked up, confusion clouding her face. She sat forward in her chair, studying the badge to see if it was real.

"This is Peter and Walter Bishop: they're civilian consultants. We understand that you have a psychic consultant- Shawn Spencer- who assists with your investigations? We would like to speak to him, please."

"Sorry. He's not here right now." The receptionist shook her head vigorously, returning to the paperwork on her desk.

"Ma'am, we just need to talk to him. He's not in trouble or anything, we just need some infor-"

"And I said he's not here right now. Go break an arm or shove a Lego up your nose, then you can see him."

"Excuse me?" Peter started getting protective at her hostile tone.

The receptionist took a deep breath, then looked up from her work. "He's in the hospital. Don't know exactly what happened, but this morning was interesting, to say the least. Now, if you'll excuse me-"

Walter gave me a meaningful look. "It's too late. We're too late," he murmured. Peter decided to take control of the situation.

"Look, Ms.?"

"Alan. Officer Alan."

"Okay, Officer Alan, we don't want to waste anybody's time here. I'm sure you don't want the feds here, and frankly, we don't want to be here. So why don't we just help each other out, eh? What's the fastest way to the hospital from here?"

Peter's POV~

"Take a left here." Olivia read off the directions. She was thanked by a sudden sharp turn as we veered into the parking lot of the Santa Barbara Cottage. Probably not my best parking job, but who's keeping track?

We ran into the reception room. Upside of having a badge- you definitely get people's attention. Which is also, admittedly, the downside.

The nurse, upon being flashed 2 FBI badges, practically scurried off to find the room number. She came back a few seconds later.

"He's in operating room 104 right now-" We hurried to leave.

"-Wha- wait! You can't go in there! Doctors only."

"Ma'am, I think we qualify." I gestured to me and Olivia.

The nurse reluctantly let us go, pointing out where the room was.

We got to the elevator, and I slammed the call button. Repeatedly.

"So, we're doctors now?" Olivia whispered conspiratorially. I just smirked.

There was a resounding ding as the doors slid open and the room emptied. We filed in. Just as the doors were closing, a tired-looking man with salt and pepper hair and steel blue eyes stepped in. He was holding a tray of coffees- he looked like he needed them.

"What floor?" Jeez, he sounded like he needed them too.

"Second. Thanks." The man practically punched the button.

I was beginning to understand why Walter didn't want to come. Hospitals are depressing. And they smell like cheap antibacterial soap.

I looked up to notice the man staring at us strangely. I tried making conversation.

"So, what-"

"Why is the FBI here?"

"Um... how did you-?"

"Badge."

"Oh." Based on the imprint of a gun on his suit, I guessed he was with the police. Probably a detective. Which means he might know something about this Shawn Spencer. "We ran into a case that led us here."

"Well, I figured you weren't here for the excellent service." He said bitterly.

Might as well tell the truth. He didn't seem like a threat- just annoyed.

"We're looking for a 'psychic' detective. Shawn Spencer. You might have known him- he worked with the police department." Olivia spoke in her overly-professional voice.

"Spencer? What would you want with-? What did he do?"

Olivia chuckled. "Nothing. That we know of. We just wanted to know if he had any information on our case. He may be an asset."

The man looked like he wanted to say something, but apparently decided against it. Probably better to not make fun of someone on the brink of death.

The doors dinged open and we practically ran out of the overcharged atmosphere. It wasn't hard to find the room- practically half of the police force was milling around outside of it, along with who I assumed were friends and family.

Just as we arrived, a doctor walked out of the room. The others noticed too, and all attention was on him. Which made me feel even worse for the guy. All those people, most of them with loaded weapons within their reach as you give them very important information that could tremendously upset them? No, thank you.

"Doctor, we're with the FBI. What happened?"

"He's gone." It sounded like a question. "I'm sorry." A woman to my left let loose an unstifled sob. The man that we had met in the elevator stood behind her, folding her in his arms as she sobbed into his chest. The doctor solemnly walked over to the group to give his condolences.

"You should call Walter. Let him know what happened." Olivia whispered to me as we walked away from the scene.

"We don't even know what happened!" I exclaimed. She cocked an eyebrow at me.

"Sorry, it's just- we've tracked this guy for so long. He seemed like pretty much the only sane psychic we've found yet, not to mention he actually helps fight crime, and as soon as we find him, we're back to square one."

What a coincidence- the day we pinpoint his location, he drops dead.

She read my mind- literally or figuratively, I don't know. "If there's one thing that you and Walter have showed me over the years, it's that there are no coincidences. This was not a coincidence. It's Jones. You know that. He's just trying to get to us. If we knew why...", She trailed off.

We walked in silence for a bit after that. Finally an idea came to me.

"I hate to say this, and I really don't want a reason to be here any longer than necessary, but we should probably hang around to see the cause of death."

"I was thinking the same thing. We can get it cleared into FBI jurisdiction. I'll call Broyles."

With a lot of coaxing and promises of Red Vines, we got Walter into a car on its way to the hospital. A while later, we were making our way to the morgue. The hospital was happy to turn the case over to the feds- they had no idea what was going on. But since they didn't want the extra attention, they had us go later, during the graveyard shift. So we were there, on our way to take a dead body back to Manhattan. At night. In a basement. During the graveyard shift. Perfect.

Olivia walked in, flipping on the lights, which turned on with a buzz. I was behind her, and Walter was a way behind, rolling a gurney to move the body. We had Astrid stay behind to watch the lab.

The basement, a perfect place to store all of the creepy dead bodies. I had to suppress a shudder. Flourescent lights flooded the room, reflecting off the steel rows made to hold dead people. There was a bang, followed by a quieter tap. Olivia jumped in front of me, her hand going to the gun she probably had tucked in her pocket.

I put a hand on her elbow, guiding her away. "Hey- relax. It's an old hospital- that's probably just the sound of it getting settled." She nodded.

"Why don't you go help Walter? I'll find the body."

Walking by the rows of metal coffins, I found the one tagged "Shawn Spencer". As I was about to open it, the banging I had heard from earlier returned, full-force. It was accompanied by muffled sounds, like someone talking through a pillow. It stopped as soon as it started.

"Walter!" I called down the long hallway. They were too far away to have heard anything.

He turned. "Yes, Peter?"

"Are zombies real?" It was, sadly, a completely legitimate question. And the only explanation I had.

"Oh, that's just ridiculous, Peter. Of course not. Why would you ask?" He walked over, head slightly tilted in curiosity.

Then the banging started up again. The same metal square quivered under the force of whatever was behind it.

"That answer your question?"

"Oh, dear." Walter finally took notice of the quivering metal. Olivia hurried over.

"What's the holdup? We need to get this body to- oh."

"Yeah. Oh." I repeated.

The dull rattles stopped, and not a second later there was a series of booms as we all jumped back, too fascinated and surprised to do anything.

Finally Olivia took out her gun and flipped the safety off, then nodded to me to open the coffin. I was fully expecting a zombie to bite my head off, so I kind of crouched, shielding my head with my free hand. There was nothing- no ravenous snarling, no gnashing of teeth. I slowly straightened up to see...

A man. Shawn Spencer. Not a zombie. A bit blue in the face, but that was the only unusual thing. Besides the fact that he was supposed to be, you know, dead.

"What the-?"

"What a most peculiar thing. I need to examine the body." Walter went for a scalpel from his pocket. Some people have pens- he has a favorite scalpel.

"Woah woah woah, Walter." I took the scalpel from his hand, passing it over to Olivia. "This guy is still alive. See? His face is blue- " As I said this, the color in his face started to come back. I noticed the rise and fall of his chest, which was a little disturbing, to say the least.

"Oh, dear. Well this complicates things." He stood contemplating, then raised his head with a giant smile on his face.

"Well, we've finally got it! Our first live recruit." Walter's probably the greatest optimist I know.

"Don't get too ahead of yourself there, Walter." Olivia went to get the gurney.

Meanwhile... Shawn's POV~

I bolted upright.

"Gah!"

There was a loud bang as I- well, banged- my head on cold metal. I rubbed my forehead, banging my elbow on a wall. There was a resounding ding, and I felt my arm resonate with the force.

I stared up at the smudge I had created on the steel ceiling.

Wait. Steel? Ceiling? Last I remember, I was looking up into the Santa Barbara skies, right before-

What? Right before what? I don't even know what happened. I scanned my memory for clues, but still there was nothing. Just pain. Confusion. Then it all went dark, like someone had just flipped the switch and I was fumbling to turn it back on.

All I can remember is feelings, emotions. Confusion, worry, fear, pain, dread, desperation. Other bad stuff. Like feeling my world is ending and there is absolutely nothing I could do about it but watch. Helpless. Useless. I couldn't connect the dots.

Nothing that I could remember would help me figure out what happened.

Now I'm in a cold metal box with absolutely no way out.

There was a dull pounding in my ears, of blood rushing. The only other sound I could make out was my own heartbeat, racing as I started to panic. I'll admit, I started to hyperventilate. A little.

"Hey! Help! Someone!" I started shouting, hoping someone would hear me. What is going on?

I didn't like small spaces. Especially small, cold, dark spaces.

A disturbing thought crossed my mind, and I faltered. What if I had been kidnapped? What if the Robinson case had finally caught up with me, and the killer was trying to set an example by killing me? What if this was some cheap method of slow torture?

An even worse thought brought itself to my attention. Was Jules safe? Gus? My dad? What if whoever got to me got them, too? What if-?

Snap out of it, Shawn. I muttered to myself. You're not helping anyone by panicking.

I started feeling light headed, like I just had a dose of the la-la juice. I took a deep breath, trying to clear my mind, to no effect. In fact, that seemed to have made matters even worse.

See, the box was sound proof, which meant that it's probably sealed somehow. Sealed. As in, no air holes. As in, no air goes in, no air goes out. And no air=no breathing=a very dead me.

I quickly clapped a hand over my mouth to calm myself down. I had to think through this, fast.

I had probably been awake for 2 minutes tops. Add that to the time I had been unconscious, without air- which I assumed to be at least a few hours, judging by the empty feeling in my stomach- and I was lucky to be alive. And confused. How-?

I can figure that out later, I thought. It won't matter, anyway, if I get stuck in here

I held my breath as I kicked on the metal under my feet. The less air I used, the better.

The metal caved a few millimeters, not enough to actually make a difference. I tried pounding on the metal over my head. Still nothing. Everywhere I hit, I hardly made a dent. Just a dull rattle that stopped as soon as it started.

My head throbbed, though I'm not sure if it was from the headache or the impromptu faceplant into a steel wall. It also could've been lack of oxygen, now that I think about it.

Blood dripped off my fists onto my face as I kept pounding the metal. Pain shot up my leg as I kept kicking the metal wall, which felt kind of like kicking a brick wall, only with metal. And for some reason, my fingertips were covered in stale blood. The air was stained with the overwhelming smell of copper.

I had to ignore it. I could take account of my injuries later, but right now, survival is the only thing I care about. And that meant getting out.

This whole time, kicking and pounding on the metal, I held my breath. I finally had to gasp, already feeling my oxygen begin to run out. The clock was ticking.

I tried to get in a sitting position, but the box was too cramped. There was barely enough room for me to even look around. I instead settled for sitting half-up, propping myself on my elbows.

I desperately gave a flurry of weak kicks, feeling rather than hearing the ding of metal. Frustrated, I tried waving off the black that had started seeping into my vision. It wouldn't go away. I took a few deep breaths, taking in the last bits of oxygen from my new coffin. If I passed out now, I would die.

So, don't pass out, then.

I tried to remember how long someone could go without oxygen before there's permanent brain damage. I couldn't.

"Wha-?" I know, I know, it sounds stupid, but this actually freaked me out more than anything. I couldn't remember. Maybe I was already brain damaged. Maybe I already lost my eidetic memory. If that's possible.

"C'mon, you stupid brain! Work!" I muttered. Aand now I'm talking to myself. Great.

I couldn't remember. I just couldn't. Which was worse than anything.

I couldn't think about it. Wouldn't. If there was a chance, any chance at all that I could get out of this whole mess without becoming brain dead, I had to act on it. Before it was too late.

"Ungh!" I gave one final, solid kick, feeling my foot connect with metal. The metal gave way under the force, and my legs ached from the abuse. I thought I was home free.

But the blackness, the darkness was still there, dancing around the edges of my vision. I fought it at first, or at least tried to. But it was so peaceful, almost comforting. A few minutes couldn't hurt, right?

Olivia's POV~

"I dunno, I still think we should at least tell his folks."

"And tell them what, exactly? 'Sorry, you're son died, but don't worry, he's alive and well now. We're just gonna keep him in a lab for the next few weeks to experiment on him.' Peter, this is for the best. He's dangerous. To himself and others."

"Well, when you put it that way- Watch it, Walter! You almost took his head off!" Peter motioned to the tray of operating tools as Walter raised his side of the gurney up to avoid the oncoming collision.

"I doubt a scalpel could cut off someone's head, Peter." Walter seemed to ponder the idea, then nodded to himself.

"Astral, will you set up the cranial scanner for me, dear." Walter asked as they lowered the man on the table.

"Walter, that's the third time you've asked me that. And probably the 200th time you've forgotten my name."

"249th, to be exact. Or is it 250? I always lose count."

Despite having a guy who was supposed to be dead in our lab, everything felt peaceful. No stepping on eggshells around each other, no yelling, no fighting. Almost- normal. I chuckled to myself at the thought.

"Glad to know we're entertaining you, Olivia," Peter joked, "Can you get the IV bags?"

"Sure." As I brought them over, I finally got a good look at the man. The sheet from the hospital was still covering him. His feet and arms were uncovered, which was what caught my eye.

His hands had blood caked on them, under the nails and on the knuckles. And the balls of his feet were slightly bruised, like he had jumped on- or kicked- a hard surface without shoes.

"Walter, what is this?" They almost looked like defensive wounds. There was no response- I looked up to see Walter obsessing over something on the microscope, gnawing on the end of a licorice stick.

Peter came up next to me. "Oh, that. Walter has a 'working hypothesis'. He thinks the man never really died." He finished hooking the man up to the machines. Since he had been in the lab, he had started improving. His previous smurf color was now a pale tan.

"Is that even possible? The hospital's machines didn't pick up a pulse or heartbeat. I checked the recording- there was nothing." Walter started humming over the screen displaying the results of the brain scanner.

"Nothing detectable."

"This man never died." Walter abruptly stood, shaking his finger in the air. He started talking to himself under his breath for a few moments.

"Well, would you like to explain to the rest of the class, Walter?" I prompted.

"I suspect it's some form of suspended animation."

"Suspended animation? Isn't that what NASA was gonna use to send people to Mars?" Astrid asked.

"Exactly. But that took years to even imagine, even longer to determine optimal conditions. Not to mention, the technology that would be needed to actually make it happen," Peter explained.

"So how-?"

"There are a few natural cases. Some poor fellow in Canada- I can never remember the name- fell through a thin sheet of ice into a lake and was discovered 36 hours later, still in the water. He was thought to be dead. Apparently, his body temperatures had gotten so low that his body went into a natural form of self-preservation. Somehow this man went through an experience traumatic enough to duplicate the effects."

"But how? I mean, what could have possibly happened to him that his body just decided to shut down spontaneously?"

A few moments later, Astrid spoke up. "Maybe you should ask him that."