Part 4

There was a brief interlude of mingling before the next activity. Guards had appeared to remove the prisoners' bodies and clean up the blood. Before Booth knew it, the space was clean and bare once again, and uniformed men were laying mats down on the floor.

Angela came back, trailed by avid supporters. Now a group of young people was paraded over to stand in a row next to the mats. They were dressed in nothing but tiny black Speedos or bikinis, and Angela was looking them over with a salacious smile.

Good God, Booth thought, what kind of debauchery do they have planned next? He recognized about half the kids as interns from his own world. Angela leaned over to whisper in Brennan's ear. She nodded, then pointed at two of the men. "Clark Edison. Vincent Nigel-Murray."

It was a wrestling match, Booth realized. Half-naked, of course—more for the viewers' pleasure than for any actual sporting value. Booth almost didn't want to watch. And he didn't think much for the skinny British kid's chances, up against the stocky but ripped Clark.

The two faced off on the mats, then lunged for each other and started grappling. Angela, standing at the front, was clearly enjoying the show, and Brennan, too, had an indolent smile on her face. But Clark didn't win easily after all. Nigel-Murray was more slippery and tenacious than he looked, and gave a decent fight before finally being pinned to the mat.

In the hubbub afterward, while new contestants were chosen and bets were placed, Booth threaded his way through the crowd to Hodgins. They stood by the lab platform's railing, at the edge of the onlookers. "What do you think?" Booth hissed. "Can we get out of here now?"

"Probably not." Hodgins said it through his teeth, while giving a nervous smile to some people in the crowd. "Those women have been ogling me ever since they heard I was a double agent. It would look pretty suspicious if we tried to skip out now."

"Hey, what about…" Booth paused while the next wrestling match started up. "What about the other versions of us, in this world? Aren't they going to show up any minute and prove that we're frauds?"

"I've been thinking about that. I don't know if any of the usual rules even apply, but… you can't argue with the conservation of mass, or how two objects can't occupy the same space. Or even the paradox about going back in time to kill your grandfather, which would—"

"Hodgins!"

"Okay, no, I don't think they're going to show up. It's like our being here replaced them, or at least our consciousness replaced theirs, and maybe they'll reappear after we escape…"

"But we're us," Booth said, "we're wearing our same clothes." This was giving him a headache. "You're saying we bumped them off somehow? That doesn't make any sense!"

"Dude, does any of this make sense?"

At that point, a mix of cheers and boos signaled the end of the second match. Booth wanted to say something else, but now that the current entertainment was over, a bunch of guests were elbowing their way toward Hodgins, wanting to talk to him. Being a double agent apparently had great appeal, and Booth saw him being borne away by half a dozen people, pulling on his arm, pushing drinks into his hand, and plying him with questions.

Booth met his eyes before he turned away, and tried to put as much warning into the glance as possible. There were far too many opportunities for either of them to give themselves away. They didn't know the intricacies of this world, but they had just seen, with Fisher and Zack, what happened to people who messed up.

For a moment he was torn between trailing Hodgins to see how he responded to everything, and staying with Brennan, as he thought his alter ego would do. But then she saved him from the dilemma by crossing over to the lounge area, where people were congregating for food and drinks. Brennan caught Hodgins' arm and said, "I have some questions for you. You'll tell me all about it later, won't you?"

Hodgins promised he would, but one of the well-dressed ladies next to him pouted and said, "You'll tell her but you won't tell us?"

Booth stood outside of the circle surrounding Hodgins, and noted that he seemed to have gotten over the shock of imprisonment and near-execution. In fact, he was enjoying this.

"Ladies…" He spread his hands. "I plead professional obligation. See, she's still my boss. And with the political situation unresolved… The victory will be ours, but we have to be patient, and it wouldn't be safe to reveal anything now. But for all of you, I can do the next best thing." He paused dramatically. "I'm planning to write a book about all my experiences, and I can make sure that you get the very first copies."

Booth groaned inwardly at Hodgins' tone, and the way the onlookers were just eating it up. The bug and slime guy was actually being treated like the "king of the lab" he was always claiming. And here, he could use his conspiracy theories to their full potential. Not in regard to the situation, but as stories to divert the crowd's interest.

Hodgins started telling the group about a mysterious colleague he had met during his recent adventures, and what that colleague had discovered. In an unspecified part of the world, this plucky agent had uncovered a government conspiracy to willfully deceive its citizens by withholding shocking information.

Booth recognized this tale as one of the pet theories Hodgins would sometimes harp on, to Angela or anyone who would listen. And it actually seemed to be working: the crowd hung on his every word like he was some squint James Bond.

Feeling somewhat reassured that Hodgins wouldn't do anything too stupid, Booth glanced over at Brennan, who had just touched his arm. She tilted her head and said, "You coming?" Then she turned, heading across the room toward her office. Booth didn't know what she meant, but it seemed like something habitual, so he followed.

As soon as she was inside her office, she shrugged out of the leather jacket and hung it on the wall. Booth noticed she was wearing a small silver necklace on a black cord. She must have had it all along, but he wasn't sure what the design was.

He noticed something new in the office: several large packing boxes sitting on the floor next to the desk. Brennan waved at them absently. "Overflow artifacts from the Authentications department. I'll have to get to those tomorrow."

Booth saw that the boxes were organized with padded dividers, and contained a variety of stone and pottery items. "Where are these from?" he asked.

"Libya, mostly." Bones perched on the edge of her desk. "I know you always like to hear how we re-authenticate things for foreign governments, but you'll have to wait this time. Obviously, we can't come up with new histories until we have an actual leader emerging, who can tell us the agenda we should follow."

She seemed amused by the idea, so Booth smiled back. But then she sighed. "It is a lot of work, though. Maybe we should use the funds from tonight to transfer staff to Authentications. Focus on our day jobs for now, rather than the nightlife."

"You're probably right."

"I wish we still had Sweets and Daisy." Her brow wrinkled with confusion and anger. "They would have been quite beneficial in Authentications. Ms. Wick with her attention to detail, and Sweets with his ability to manipulate people and tell us about their motives. Not that you can't do that, of course." Brennan hopped off the desk. "But I can't believe they defected to Caroline's side! Even if it was a reasonable thing to do, because she might be willing to give them more power than we would."

"Are you planning to kill them, too?" Booth tried to make it sound like an appealing prospect.

"Maybe. It's a good thing they didn't know any vital information. But once we have all the power—I mean, with Angela…" She met his eyes, smiling wickedly. "Why? You want to kill Sweets yourself? I know he can be very irritating."

"Nah," Booth said, praying it was true, "I have a secret soft spot for the kid."

"Really?" She smirked again. "You hide it so well."

She invaded his personal space, looking him up and down, but then brushed past him. "I'm going to change." She unlocked a heavy wooden door in the far corner of the office, which must lead to a bedroom. Before going in she said, "We're staying here tonight, like usual?" Another smile curved her mouth. "So you can drink, if you want. And we can verify all the new profits tomorrow."

Booth nodded dumbly.

He wandered around the office while she rustled things in the next room. She was still thinking out loud about plans for the museum work—very corrupt work, it sounded like—and Booth tried to make the appropriate responses. But he was still haunted by the image of her shooting Zack. His Bones, shooting two interns in cold blood, as entertainment. Except she wasn't his Bones at all. And yet…

There was a pause in the sounds from the next room, and she called, "Booth, what are you doing out there? I need you to zip me up." He turned just as she came out, and the sight stopped him dead.

Brennan was sheathed in scarlet satin. The dress came up high in the front, wrapping around her neck like tongues of flame. It clung to her torso as if painted there, before draping over her lush hips and falling to her knees in blood-red ripples. She'd put her hair up again, this time in a neat knot at the back of her head, with graceful tendrils framing her face. Strappy black shoes completed the outfit, with a low heel and shiny bands that crisscrossed over her ankles.

Brennan had one hand at the back of her neck, holding the unzipped fabric together. She stopped, seeing his expression. "What?"

"Uh… that dress." What would his counterpart say? "It's pretty fucking hot."

Now she grinned, and turned so he could fasten the zipper. "You've seen it before."

He found himself staring at a great deal of bare skin. The dress had only narrow panels wrapping her shoulders, and it dipped far down to her lower back. He said, "I don't think so," and pulled the tiny zipper above her shoulder blades.

"Really?" She turned to face him again. "Well… I know Angela says I should wear a full-length ball gown for events like this, and probably higher heels, but then, you never know when you might have to run and tackle someone, right?"

When she moved, Booth had caught sight of a faint shape outlined under the skirt. "Or," he continued her comment, "you wouldn't be able to pull this out of hiding." He boldly ran his hand down her satin-covered thigh, trying to tell what type of weapon was holstered there. A little pistol? A big knife?

She chuckled and swatted his hand away. "You're the one who told me never to be without it, just in case. Now—"

Without giving him time to think, she grabbed his tie in one hand. Slinging it over her shoulder she turned, leading him like a dog on a leash. "Come on. I want to dance."