Sky regained his consciousness, and then immediately wanted to return it, mostly because of the pulsing, pounding, throbbing, screaming pain in his head. He'd never felt anything that hurt like this. Nothing physical anyway. It was so intense that he had difficulty remembering his own name.

But he did remember that he was a Ranger.

Realizing he was seated on a metal chair, he attempted to remove himself from it, only to find that he was bound to the arms of the chair by straps just above the wrist, as well as to the legs of the chair by similar straps just above the ankles. He fought with the restraints for a moment, but realized they were strong and struggling only made them cut into him. They were already too tight, had already been biting into his skin. Struggling only made it worse, and accomplished nothing.

Sky didn't panic then.

Something was stuck in the skin of his right forearm, something dug in deep, taped and held there. Sky knew what an IV was and, though he'd never had one stuck in him, he had always imagined that this was exactly what it would feel like. Something was being pushed unwillingly into his veins, something that burned and ached, both at the same time. He registered that, but it didn't make sense to him.

That didn't make him panic either.

He couldn't remember what had happened to him, didn't know where he was or who had done this, but he didn't panic. That wouldn't be a sensible use of his time. And Sky was nothing if not logical, sensible, rational, as a Ranger must be under times of stress.

He couldn't see, it was dark where he was. But he could hear. He could hear a plink-plink-plink noise, steady as a heart beat. After a moment, he identified it as water dripping. The fact that his bare feet were touching damp concrete helped. Mentally examining the sound, he decided it must be some kind of metal pipe, leaking water onto the concrete floor. That's what it sounded like. Either that or it was a faucet not quite turned off, but that didn't explain why the water was hitting concrete instead of something like steel or porcelain, the sort of things sinks were made out of.

From the resounding of the dripping water, Sky determined that the space he was in was big, mostly empty, indoors somewhere, without windows. He realized that he'd been wrong. He actually could see, just a little. After twisting his head around, he found a faint source of light, seemingly floating up in the air, and he realized after awhile that it must be coming under a door, that there must be stairs there. Sky found he was able to make out dim, unfamiliar shapes through the dark.

A basement maybe. It would have to be a very large basement. And the plumbing seemed odd too. You didn't have dripping pipes in basements. Not anymore. An old house? Did there used to be water pipes in basements? Sky couldn't remember. His memory felt fuzzy, but the feeling in his head was only too sharp. Pain, lots of it, demanding most of his attention like someone pounding on a door.

The door, the real door, the one at the head of the unseen stairs, banged open like a gunshot. A hulking figure stood in the rectangle of light the open door allowed in, then strode down the stairs. Boots, heavy boots, thumping on concrete steps. Ominous.

Sky didn't panic then either.

A light across the room clicked on, a naked bulb suspended from the ceiling, turned on by a pull chain.

The figure had turned away from Sky in pulling the chain, continued to face away as they attended to something or the other that was hidden from Sky's view by their body. Suddenly, as if sensing someone watching, the figure turned towards Sky, and he saw not just suspicion, but a poisonous hate as well.

His brow furrowed as he struggled to take in the countenance, to make the blurry features resolve into something solid. He hadn't realized that his vision was skewed, but it was. He could barely see.

His mind was as dull as his vision, thoughts piling up on one another like snow in an avalanche, each trying to demand his attention. Memories flitted across his mind like ghosts, there and gone in an instant. Thoughts, perceptions bounced around like little balls of insight, flashing in and out of the dark. He couldn't quite grasp anything, but finally one thing did come to him, one single thought coherent enough to speak aloud.

"Do I... know you?" his voice was thick, words came with effort.

Like some dark angel, the figure flew towards him.

"No, no, no! I'm not ready for you! Not yet!"

As the heavy, skull shattering object came towards him, Sky realized that, though he now tried, he could not activate his shield. He had no power. This time, he had seen the crowbar coming down to steal his consciousness, yet he still could not defend himself.

This time, Sky panicked. He might even have cried out in alarm or protest.

With savage force, the crowbar struck his head, and darkness, total, absolute darkness, descended.


It seemed like Jack had only just settled back down with his book, finally putting his finger on the paragraph where he had twice before been interrupted, when Bridge repeated the morning's performance sans the introduction of his forehead to the wall near the doorway.

Instead, Bridge staggered in and made for the counter.

"Bridge, aren't you supposed to be resting?" Jack inquired, "Bridge?"

"Huh?" Bridge blinked widely at him and, to Jack's horror, did not appear to recognize him at first, relief came in a flood when Bridge said, "Oh. Hi, Jack. I need to think."

Using the counter as his guide, Bridge made it partway across the room to his thinking spot, then stared uncertainly at the gap between him and it, like it was a yawning canyon too wide to jump. He hesitated for too long, then sort of lunged across it and fell on the cushions he normally occupied when he stood on his head. Sweating, shaking with that effort, Bridge couldn't find the strength get up again and lay there, floundering like a fish on land.

"Bridge!" Jack's fear renewed at the pitiful sight and he sprang to his feet, yet again abandoning the book.

He went straight to Bridge's side and helped him sit up. Bridge, eyes closed, wrapped his arms around himself and moaned before trying to lie curled on his side. Jack, for reasons he couldn't fathom, was unable to let Bridge go, instead holding onto him, as if letting him go would mean never getting him back. Spiders of dread went marching up and down Jack's spine.

"Bridge, you okay man?" it was the most idiotic question of Jack's life.

But, like all questions, Bridge took it as a serious one, and didn't seem aware of how utterly moronic it was. It was the perfect opportunity for a sarcastic remark, but Bridge didn't make one.

"Feels like knives," he gasped, leaning heavily against Jack's arm, trying to slide back onto the floor, "Like I'm full of knives," he managed to open his eyes, so tortured with pain that Jack could almost feel it himself when Bridge looked at him, "It really hurts, Jack."

"Yeah, I see it does," Jack said gently, still refusing to let Bridge fall, "Kat says you're not sick, not hurt," another idiot thing to say, but Bridge didn't seem to notice it this time either.

"Not me," Bridge spat the words before moaning with pain, his body contracting in on itself, as if he could curl into a small enough ball to prevent the agony from reaching him, "It's not me, Jack."

Oh man, this again?

"Bridge, Sky's okay," Jack said, not realizing his voice was shaking, inside he was trembling with doubt, "Sky's fine. Remember? We went and found him, and he was fine."

"Not now," Bridge said, beginning to shake violently, his eyes bright with pain, arms squeezing tighter around his midsection, "Oh God!" it didn't sound like a curse, maybe a prayer instead, "We have to find him! We have to find Sky, Jack! He's going to die if we don't!"

"Okay, take it easy, just calm down," Jack said soothingly, then looked around frantically for someone to yell at, to tell to go find Kat and bring her in here, but the room was empty.

"You don't believe me," Bridge accused quietly, pausing to stifle another cry of pain, "I don't blame you. But I wasn't wrong. I'm not wrong. Sky's going to die if we... if we don't find him."

Jack felt a calm descend upon him, as he realized that what he was trying to escape from wasn't his friend's anguish, but admitting to something that he couldn't understand or control.

"I believe you," he whispered, "God help me, I don't know why... but I believe you. We'll go find Sky, okay? We're going to find him now. You hear me, Bridge? Bridge?"

The moment Jack had started to speak, the tension seemed to go out of Bridge. Suddenly he was dead weight in Jack's arms. His eyes closed and his breathing, though no less easy, seemed less pained.

"Bridge!" Jack shook him, and Bridge opened his eyes wearily.

"I hear you," Bridge said in a quiet, almost serene voice, "Just... just gimme a second."

Jack supposed he could chalk it up to Bridge's delusions, that he'd been imagining the pain. But he'd told Bridge the truth. And the truth was that Jack felt, whatever forces Bridge was in contact with used him as a kind of conduit. It -they, whatever- hadn't been attacking Bridge, but trying to force Jack to pay attention, to face a reality he didn't want to, by making it so bad for Bridge that Jack simply could not continue to ignore it.

Bridge had known something was wrong from the start of the day, maybe even before. That it got this bad was only because no one was willing to listen him.

"I'm sorry," Jack said quietly, not sure if he was speaking to Bridge or whatever lay on the other side of his friend's sight, "I'm so sorry."

Bridge didn't stir at the words, like he didn't even hear them.

Jack was left to wonder, would whatever had done this to Bridge in order to gain Jack's attention have killed him? Why now? What reason was there to hurt Bridge now and not before now? Worse, what risks had Jack unknowingly taken with his friend's life when ignoring him in the past?

The heater was on, but suddenly the room felt very, very cold.