There had been another two kills – both in Chicago. Max's orders were to hang out in Seattle, model herself as attractive psychopath bait and wait patiently for Ben. It would, however, make a lot more sense to get her butt to Chicago. Letting Ben leave a trail of toothless barcoded corpses in his wake defied op-sec in a major way. Max wasn't complaining about that; she'd much rather kill Ben later than sooner.

But she didn't like Lydecker suddenly, conveniently, disregarding op-sec. It was suspicious. Max was powerless though and tried not to think about this. There was no point tying herself up in knots about something she couldn't change. Max was better off keeping her head down and getting on with the job.

Officially, she was researching Ben's case and setting up an authentic runaway cover that would draw in Ben. This somehow needed weeks prep. This translated to working in a dodgy pawnshop in Seattle, dragging up dusty and half-forgotten memories from her childhood while pursing various articles and books of psychopathy.

"Nice book," remarked one guy. He was looking to buy a counter-top fan. He'd been in twice before, just browsing during Max's shift and attempting to haggle yesterday with her boss, Harry.

"Thick glasses, terrible vests, pain in the ass. Tell him to go to Hell, that he's not getting a single extra cent off," Harry had warned.

Max got verbal updates like this or post-its stuck on the til regularly. Since day one, Harry encouraged her to work on her bad attitude, develop it into something much worse.

"Bad cop, bad, cop," was Harry's business motto. "Keep looking like a good cop though, it throws them off, gives them the idea they can con you, when that's really our game play."

"Nice face," Max sneered without looking up from the thesis.

It seemed like a strange business strategy, but Max wasn't bought up to question things like this, especially if they seemed to work effectively. They were the type of orders she could get on board with.

"Pyschopathic personality in adolescence – genetic and environmental influences," the guy read, plucking the book out of her hands. He squinted at her. "You not a bit young to be a grad-student?"

"What would you know about grad school?" asked Max. She snatched the book back and put it down behind the counter away from his grubby hands.

"I have several doctorates," he said like they were as easy as having seven kids or shoes.

Max laughed. His expression didn't change. He was being serious. She looked him up and down. He did look like a book person. It was a bit rich for him to call her young. He looked about thirty, which worked out about right for one doctorate but several placed him as a child prodigy in grad school.

"Well, Doctor," she drawled, "with all due respect, what the hell are you doing here looking for a cheap fan?"

He sneered. "A doctorate won't get you out of this job, not a wishy-washy psychology one. My advice is to quit while you're ahead Missy, spend that tuition money on a motorcycle. Be more use to you."

"Plan B is taking up applied self-directed psychopathy," Max quipped.

He sighed. "Just give me the damn fan."

"Seeing as you asked so nicely," Max muttered and set about organising the sale. No haggling. Just resignation. Summer in Seattle was sticky and hot; the fan was worth its price.

He paid full-price, and said that one of this messengers would collect in tomorrow. He tossed a creased business card on the counter. Ronald Regan, Jam Pony Express.

"Oh and, that author has been largely discredited. The thesis is a disaster. Small N numbers, poorly matched controls, inappropriate statistical tests, falsified data, plagiarised work – it got nothing right. I wouldn't waste your time," he called over his shoulder.

It seemed awfully convenient that an expert with several doctorates under his belt would casually wander into the shop and leave with this insight. But it was also far too blatant to be a message from Lydecker.

"Think of it as Black-ops," Lydecker had said before she left. "Off-the-books. Too many of the escapees have slipped by fingers through leaked information. As far as they're concerned, you're the real deal, one of them. That means no contact, briefings or orders. Make it authentic. Don't get any stupid notions though. We'll be watching."

The last guy was very low profile and ordinary. He traded in a violin in a fancy mahogany case and spun a sob story about his prodigy violinist daughter and that he'd get it back within a week. The case had a false bottom and contained the updated file. True to his word, he collected the violin. It was all quite average and straightforward.

Max had memorised the file and returned it to case. It contained details about the new kills that had been expertly hushed up by Manticore. This was the only contact she received in the last month.

If Regan wasn't Manticore, who was he? He was potentially a very interesting person to know, someone that could see things and make connections that Max could not. He was also the type of guy that could sell her out in a heartbeat. This meant Max had a side mission: get the low-down on Doctor Ronald Regan.

Regan went by Normal these days. It was a sarcastic moniker bestowed on Regan by one of his employees and had stuck. Regan wouldn't know normal if it came up to him with 2.5 kids and a white picket fence chatting about the weather and football pre-Pulse. He was an awkward outcast then, a controversial academic figure, and now an overqualified misfit, running a haphazard courier service.

None of his academic work specialised in psychology or psychiatry. His advice didn't stem from expertise, which focused on linguistics, anthropology, archaeology, and theology, but rather a general interest. It turned out to be spot-on too. He knew his stuff alright. Max spent hours pouring over Normal's life and work, trying to get into his head as a stepping-stone to get into Ben's head.

All she got was a vague conspiracy theory that Jam Pony was actually a sociology experiment Normal was both running and participating in and would end up in a journal in next few years. This, Max knew, was slightly crazy. It meant she had to stop reading and go visit Normal. Get facts.

"Not hiring. I've got enough deadbeat, no-good bums," said Normal, not bothering to glance up from his clipboard.

"Nice fan," said Max, angling it slightly so she could catch the cool air.

Normal slapped her hand away and re-positioned the fan towards himself. He looked up and scowled seeing Max. "It's mine," he said possessively.

Max held her hands up. "Yeah, whatever. And I'm not looking for a job either. I hear the boss is a jerk."

"What do you want?"

"Your brain," said Max. "You were right. I'm not a grad-student, but I am someone with a professional interest in psychopathy and you seem like an interesting person."

"You're not a grad-student, and you're not just a shop girl. What are you?"

"A genetically engineered Frankenstein killing machine," said Max sarcastically.

Normal rolled his eyes, but his eyes flickered off to the side, as if turning this over in his head as a possibility. He looked her up and down and shook his head, this possibility dismissed as crazy. Not so smart after all then.

"Why would I help you?" he asked after a pause.

Max shrugged. "Boredom? Curiosity? I don't know. Quid pro quo. Name your terms."

"Come back at 7 after business and we'll discuss it then," Normal said, hedging his bets.

He would agree. They both knew it. He had nothing better going on in his life. The only question was what he needed from Max. He'd probably have a couple of interesting ideas by closing, but nothing that Max couldn't handle.

"Alright," said Max.

Normal inherited Jam Pony from his father, who had died of a heart attack. He wouldn't have kept the place, but one couldn't afford to be picky in the aftermath of the Pulse. He figured he could keep it and run it until he could find a better job. Nine years later it was a life sentence. He never quite left academia, keeping up with new articles and work in his various fields, with the vague aim of publishing again someday.

This was why he recognised the thesis that girl in the pawnshop was reading. He was more intrigued by her though. Not the usual pawn shop employee. There was something markedly off about her. More clean-cut than the type that feed off the misery of others. It was the way she moved, the way she held herself, graceful and poised, deliberate and refined, like she was a ballerina or ninja. Maybe she was a psychopath in making or an intense method-actor.

Without a doubt, she was trouble and this gut feeling was confirmed when she appeared in Jam Pony with a business proposition. Trouble with a capital T, which he had plenty of already, but he was intrigued.

It was a joke, a throwaway comment – Frankenstein assassin. The sort of nonsense his employees invented to explain their absences and lateness. What if it wasn't? There was something preternatural about her even before this sarcastic comment. That's why Normal agreed to meet her later, see if he could suss out her back-story.

"She new blood?" asked Sketchy, checking out the girl as she left. He was half-slouched on the counter and slack-jawed.

"Something like that," Normal dismissed. He checked his clipboard and tossed a package at Sketchy. "Hot run, sector two. Get going."

He was half-distracted throughout the day and found himself with a backlog of receipts to be handled once he was alone. He didn't even notice to girl's arrival just that he once looked up and she was there, perched on the counter with her legs swinging, watching him steadily.

"What's your name anyway?" he asked.

She didn't react for a long moment, and then: "I'm Max."

It was the sort of reaction that made her answer seem like a lie – the hesitation, the blankness – but the name rolled off her tongue easily. Max was a strange one alright. That wasn't a hard question; if she wasn't lying, why the pause? It probably was lie so.

This was okay though. Normal just needed a name, to stop thinking of Max as just her or girl. A name established trust and rapport, key tools for getting to the bottom of her back-story.

"Give me your pitch, so I know what I'm working with," Normal said.

"There's this guy, let's call him Ben, he used to work for a particular facility and went rogue awhile back. He's been killing people and I'm looking for him," said Max.

A top-secret government facility. Messed up ex-agents. A manhunt. Normal was buying this. But how did Max enter the equation? She was awfully young to be an agent or analyst; probably wouldn't involve an outsider like himself either. She was something else - a wildcard. This made the entire premise even more tantalizing.

"What does that make you then?"

"His sister."

"Are you trying to protect him or capture him?"

Max flinched and looked down at her feet. "I want Ben to be safe. If he stopped this, laid low, they might go back to not prioritising him again."

This was dangerous territory. Stuff that Normal knew better than to get caught up it. He was a sucker for conspiracies and drama though. This was a by-product of too much bad TV while writing up various theses.

"What do you need me for then?"

"The plan is to lure him to Seattle and talk sense into him," said Max. "You sound like you might have ideas on how to achieve both of these things.

It was a stupid, misguided plan. Getting him into town was do-able, but stopping the brother? Not a hope. Desperate people didn't always see things clearly, even if they were armed with the relevant knowledge.

Max was a kid really, about the same age if not younger than Normal's messengers. In over her head. It was as ruthless to let her walk away as it was for him to exploit this. Except the latter would benefit Normal. Get brother Ben to Seattle and Normal could turn him in, get some cash for his troubles and maybe a ticket into a better job.

"I might," said Normal. "I'll need to know specifics."

"You'll get them if you agree," said Max.

This was fair enough. It would be reckless for Max to put all her cards on the table too soon. Honestly, it was reckless even approaching him, but desperate people were often reckless.

It was probably reckless for Normal to strike up this alliance, but wasn't everyone a bit desperate these days?

"Okay. Let's do this."

A couple of people picked up on 'The Hunger Games' concept and I just wanted to say that it's mainly a plot device. It's a reason to get Max out of Manticore and on Ben's case and also why she doesn't just run away. It means she can be loyal but still consistent with cannon Max. It's not really a driving plot. Ultimately, it will re-surface, but this story isn't a crossover or Hunger Games re-done DA style. It's really a what-if.

Thanks for the comments so far. I'm still contemplating how warped to make season 1; my original idea is starting to seem too left-field so thinking of reigning it in a bit and playing things a bit more straight. How warped is too warped? What would you hate or love to see changed?