The body lying on the table is quite dead. Or at least, he is less than a hair's breadth away from it. A white sheet is drawn over his body, covers him from the waist down, and his clothes are gone, so his skin is bare. Long, deep wounds, two parallel gashes, rip their way down his left side, from the tender area beneath his arm all the way down to his hip, curving slightly across his ribs. Cause of death, is it shock or exsanguination? Could be either.

Above the table, invisible to everyone but those who knew of it already, is the lingering presence of the one that'd existed in the body. He doesn't understand. Why is he here? He can't leave yet. There are still people that need him. Do they need him, though? It is their fault he's like this at all. Why should he even bother going back? Why stay? As these fractured thoughts dart across his mind, two figures sweep into the room. The doctors in white move past them as if they do not exist, because in their eyes, they don't. They are nonentities, beyond the grasp of the physical. One is cloaked in darkness, a moving shadow with no features that can be seen, just a living darkness where no illumination can penetrate. The other is carved of light, like sunshine and moonglow and every light that's ever existed mingled up into one, another sun. They balance each other out, so it is not entirely dark nor entirely light. He wonders what they are doing there.

The two come to stand above the body on the table, one on either side of the table. As one, they reach out and touch the cool, still form. Above the table, he feels something abruptly yank and then he is back inside his body, settling back into his form as if he'd never left it at all. It feels odd, to be physical again after being ethereal. For a moment, there is no pain, a bare heartbeat in which there is nothing, and then –

Fire! Oh, God, he is on fire! He was burning! His back arches off the table from head to heel, even though his body does not move, still dead to the world, but how can they not see the pain he is in? His body remains silent, unresponsive, but inside, howls of pain escape his throat, screaming and screaming and screaming until his throat begins to bleed and fills his mouth with the thick, coppery taste. White-hot agony spirals through his veins, licking along his muscles and bones, searing through every inch of his body. The pain is indescribable. Surely he'll die soon, for it doesn't seem that anything is capable of surviving pain like this. He knows that his body will soon burn up into nothingness, leaving behind only a wisp of smoke and charred bone. He can no longer think for the pain, barely able to gasp in a breath even though his lungs seared anew with the intake of fresh oxygen.

Even though his body's eyes are closed, he can still see the two beings looming above him. The darkness and the light. The dark figure cuts into his flesh as the light does as well, each taking a little bit of him for themselves. Like children doling out sweets.

One piece for you, one piece for me. One for you, one for me...

Nick Cutter sat in one of the God-awful uncomfortable chairs offered by the hospital, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped under his chin as he stared blankly ahead at the wall. He was reliving the events of the night on a loop inside his head – the terrible, heavy smell of fresh blood, the look of accusation in Jenny's eyes, the awful paleness and stillness of his student on the forest floor, the coldness of his skin...

"Nick?" said a soft voice, snapping him out of his morbid reminiscing. Stephen stood over him, looking down at him with obvious concern in his dark blue eyes; after a second's hesitation, he sat down in the empty chair beside Cutter. "I just talked to the doctor. Connor's stable. Still in surgery, but he ought to pull through just fine," he murmured at last. Neither one of them seemed able to raise their voices above a quiet mumble.

Cutter only nodded mutely. Guilt and shame formed a burning knot in his chest, just below his sternum, and it lingered there, roiling and searing, never dying out. It was his fault. Connor never should've been left alone in that forest. He should've been paying attention, should've noticed that the young man wasn't with them when they went back through the anomaly. Jenny was right – it was his job to notice, and he'd failed. And Connor had almost paid the price for that. Eyes closing, he shoved both hands back through his hair, head bowed. I'm sorry, Connor. I'm so sorry, he thought to himself, and he only prayed that the affable young student would wake up soon so he could apologise in person, and hoped that the boy would forgive him.

Stephen recognised the signs of guilt in the man, the almost-tangible weight that pressed down on Cutter's shoulders. He felt quite the same. Connor had been on the team as long as he had, yet they'd all failed to notice he'd disappeared from amidst their numbers. If Abby or Cutter or Stephen himself had disappeared like that, everyone would've been out looking for them. Yet Connor had been able to disappear so long that he'd nearly bled out in the middle of a Cretaceous forest. The only reason he hadn't bled to death was because it was so cold; hypothermia caused his heartbeat to slow down and slowed his blood flow. Subtly, without being overtly obvious, he leant to the side just enough that his shoulder brushed Cutter's in silent comfort, just enough to feel the man quivering slightly.

"Cutter." Both men looked up to see Jenny standing there. The usual warmth her eyes held when she looked at the professor – a sure sign she thought of him as more than just a friend and coworker – had been replaced by the professional coolness that'd been present when they first met, a cold mask between her and them. "Connor's out of surgery. He's in recovery now, but it's still touch-and-go from here. He can't have any visitors yet," she said; her gaze flicked down to Cutter. "You might want to change your shirt, too," she added on coldly, then turned on heel and walked away.

Cutter looked down and felt his stomach churn. He hadn't even noticed it before, but there was a splash of blood, now mostly dried, down the front of his shirt from where he'd carried Connor. A dark, macabre reminder that his student had nearly died. Because of me. Bile rose up in his throat, and he closed his eyes tightly, swallowing hard.

Stephen wanted to shake the woman for only making it worse, but at the same time, he wanted to curl up under a rock to get away from the guilt. It was just as much his fault as anyone's, and it burned something fierce in his chest. He had a feeling that Jenny wasn't going to be forgiving any of them any time soon, especially not Cutter. In his head, he vowed to stop seeing Connor as a kid, even thinking about him. Please be alright, Connor. We can't do this without you, he thought.

The Hunters infiltrated the hospital with ease. All they had to do was tell Langley that there was a possible new member, an infection, and everything they needed for an extended stay in this time period arrived within the day. They still had work to do, though, so only one of them kept watch at a time, posing as a nurse or an orderly – doctors were too obvious and easily noticed. Nurses and orderlies were the faceless ones, moving in and out through the hospital without notice. And now it was her turn. She was dressed as a nurse, wearing soft grey scrubs and white sneakers, riotously curly dark hair held back with a headband. She kept her gaze away from any other nurses, avoiding suspicion, keeping herself out of the line of question. It wasn't difficult, almost second nature for her. The entire training of Hunters was to move behind the scenes, move swiftly and silently, able to appear and disappear like a sensation of déjà vu, no more.

She made her way through the labyrinthine passages of the hospital to the ICU where their young charge was being kept. He was still deep under the anaesthetics, asleep in his bed. He was still ghostly pale, like a wraith sent to haunt the world of the living, with only the faintest blush of colour in his cheeks. His black hair was a splash of darkness against the white pillowcase, a midnight halo around his pale face. His lashes, long and thick, made perfect crescents against his pale skin, face relaxed, unfeeling pain. She drifted down to the end of the bed and picked up his charts. She had first shift, so it was her job to learn more about this young man.

Temple, Connor Andrew. Age: 24. Presented with massive blood loss, deep lacerations, and mild hypothermia... She raked her eyes down the rest of the charts, taking in the information, filing it away. The words 'unusual x-ray results' caught her eye, and she made a mental note to look into that later. There were a few gaps in the chart, though only to her eye, as medicine in her time was far more advanced, and she filled them in herself. Setting down the charts, she sidled around to stand beside him, casting a sharp Hunter's eye across him. Simply looking at him, he didn't appear to be much, but all Hunters learnt long ago never to judge simply on appearances alone. The fact that most people did indeed – what was the saying? – judge a book by its cover often gave them the upper hand. She knew that merely looking at her, she wasn't much, either. Beautiful by some standards, she supposed, but no-one would look at her and think she was anything more than a soft human woman. They certainly wouldn't think that she was a highly-trained assassin and, in fact, an entirely separate species more evolved than human beings. This young man could be quite the same: an anomaly, with more to him than the surface would suggest.

It was impossible to tell whether or not the infection had taken hold in him yet, and if it did, there was still a good chance it would kill him. They would need to stay for awhile to find out if this boy would be part of their number, and even so, they still had to be sure he could handle it. More than one had survived the infection only to be driven mad by their new existence, and the Hunters had acted as executioners for the poor souls. And if he was not driven mad, other factors still had a play in his overall survival. Not everyone could be a Hunter. Not everyone could have that power and go uncorrupted by it, could exercise the control needed.

Studying him closely, she wondered which strain he was infected with, if at all, and which he would turn out to be. Right now their numbers were almost even: two Elysian, three Charbydion. The Future Predator that'd attacked him had borne both strains, which accounted for its state of madness when they discovered it, why it had only attacked the boy without killing him. The colliding strains had been tearing the creature apart inside. Another thing stacking the odds against young Temple, Connor Andrew. If both strains were transferred, then there was a good chance they'd tear him apart too. Of course, it could be that he was only infected with one.

If he survives, I hope he comes out Elysian. He looks suited for it, she thought idly to herself as she left the room.

A light touch on Cutter's shoulder nearly startled him right out of his skin, and he half-fell out of his chair. As he sat up, he realised that he must've dozed off sitting here for so long. Looking up, he saw Jenny standing above him. The knot of guilt in his chest – it hadn't dissipated any – burned a little hotter when he saw the cold curtain that'd fallen across her eyes, that cool mask of professionalism that'd been between them for so long after they first met and he called her Claudia Brown. Only in the past few months had that mask slipped away, revealing the warm, friendly woman that lay beneath, and he thought maybe that meant they could be more than just friends. But now that coolness was back, and he knew that she blamed him for this. Hell, he blamed himself. "What is it?" he asked, his voice sounding as if he'd gargled with sand and rusty nails.

She folded both arms over her stomach. "Connor's awake."