Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 2

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Legolas and his reclaimed, resurrected friends come together yet again to fight an all too-modern foe: bioterrorism.

Hi gang!

Thanks very much for all the comments. This fic is really tricky for me. It just feels like the Fellowship is so... separated. The charm of the first one had been the coming together of everybody, but this story is just like, the coming together of an explosive situation. I keep telling myself that the objectives of FEE1 and FEE2 were drastically different from the get-go but it's still hard :) So thank you very much for the support and thoughts. Please keep them coming of you can :)

Secondly, I really hope you enjoy this chapters. We'll be hearing a few answers, not to mention it's actually my favorite chapter. I enjoy writing Leland Greene at work (can you tell, haha) so let me know what you think. 'Til the next post!


7: Designs


Los Angeles, California

United States of America


It was late in the evening, a couple of hours after the work day ended, that Leland Greene finally stepped out of the police station and into the breezy night. He was supposed to have gone out to dinner with his old friend Adrian Aarons, except the good doctor got called in on an emergency, rescheduled for lunch the next day, and he simply decided to push on with his own mounting work.

He parked his trusty car on the basement of his condominium, clutching a thick sheaf of papers and folders he decided to bring home. His laptop bag was slung over one shoulder. The considerable bulk of work he brought with him made the ornate elevator of the building seem crowded, as he made his way up to his floor.

I wish I thought of bringing take out, he thought, absently, as the elevator counted up 1-2-3...

I don't have anything in the fridge, he thought, maybe I can call for pizza. Or did I have that yesterday--

He stepped out to the austere hallway of the fifteenth floor, nodding at two neighbors whom he was mildly acquainted with, as he strolled toward his door. He fished for his keys a few steps from the entrance to his home, frowning as his elven senses were pricked by the sound of intruders shuffling from within his home.

"I think he's here," a voice whispered urgently, "Roberto called from downstairs. He saw Greene on his way up."

"I can hear sounds from outside," said another, "I think he's coming."

"But the footsteps stopped," said yet another man, "Maybe that was someone else."

"Do we even have the right place?" muttered a fourth, "He looks kind of clean to be living in a dump like this."

"Well he's a cop," said the first voice, "Maybe he bought the place and couldn't keep it up."

Well someone broke into my house a few months ago, Legolas thought indignantly, I haven't had the chance to clean up.

"I hear keys," said the third voice, "Keep it down. He's coming. You stand over there..."

Thoughtfully, Legolas jangled the keys a bit more, pretending he still had not heard them inside. From the hall, he didn't at all have to strain to hear their quiet footsteps as they positioned themselves.

Four men, he decided, One on either side of the door, and two in front to greet me.

He did not hear the distinct, snappy clicks of guns being drawn and readied. They were probably holstered, or the men were unarmed. He did hear the tiny sound of scrunching gloves being rubbed against wood and steel. These were hands tightening on the surface of pipes and bats.

Sighing, he put his laptop bag on the carpeted floor. He gracelessly shoved the thick sheaf of papers in one of the bag's already-filled pockets. He removed his coat and placed it over his things. This, after all, could get fairly messy. He rolled up his sleeves.

He unlocked the door, twisted the knob and pushed the door open by a mere crack. He could feel the men inside tense, could hear their breaths as they waited for an unassuming entrance that he, as a seasoned warrior, would never be able or willing to give them.

In a flash of movement, the elf removed his guns from their holsters, shoved the door open with his filled hands, and dived into his condominium in a roll to avoid his attackers' potential strikes.

He needn't have worried. He passed the two stunned men waiting by the sides of the door in a blur. He rose to his feet just behind the two other men waiting in front of the entrance, whipped around to face their backs, and poised his two guns at each of their heads.

"Fuck," breathed the first voice. Leland Greene gave him a steely smile. He did not live all these ages to be mugged in his own home by a bunch of amateurs.

"You," Greene said to one of the men by the door, "Pick up my things from outside. Bring them in and close the door behind you. You," he said to the other one, "Turn on the lights."

"Suppose I don't," said the second man, as the first did the elf/detective's bidding, "You're not going to just shoot us. You're a cop."

"You broke into my house," Leland replied mildly, "You're more than me and armed and dangerous. I'll tell them I exercised my right to defend myself and my home. I'm going to walk. That's going to be a breeze. Shut up and brush up on the law before breaking in."

Legolas gave himself a moment to look the four men over. The protester, the first voice he had heard from earlier that night, was the oldest and heaviest of the bunch, undoubtedly their leader. He was of Hispanic descent, as was the lean one who had picked up Legolas' things. The heavy-set one whom Legolas held a gun to was a thick Caucasian with an almost indiscernible trace of Asian in his eyes. The other was likely half-African American. All were fairly young, the oldest at perhaps just thirty years of age. Leland noticed that the Caucasian kid had a distinct gang tattoo at the back of his neck. He's met all of them at least once before, he thought. Especially lately, since he and Montes have been combing the streets to find out what Bill Sanchez's Samba gang had been doing to merit risking open war.

"So boss," said the leader, "What are we going to do with each other?"

"I need all weapons on the ground, slowly," said Leland, nodding at him, "One by one, starting with you."

With set jaws, the man did as he was told, and was thereafter followed by the other three. Leland kicked all the weapons away, before shoving the two men before him forward, to join their two team mates standing in front of him.

"This is not a hit," Leland Greene deduced, thoughtful, "Or else you'd have come to me with guns blazing."

"I'm thinking maybe we should have," said the leader, almost wryly, which Leland Greene's ironic sense of humor profoundly appreciated.

"We've met," Leland said to him, narrowing his eyes as he searched his memories for a name, "Ortega."

The man actually smiled. "Thin one's Luis, fat one's Vince, the other one's Tony. We're from Samba."

"I guessed," Leland, said, holstering his guns and rubbing the back of his neck. Hesitating only mildly, he added, "That might not be wise, but I'm suspecting you came to me wanting to talk."

"We were going to pound it off of you," said Vince, plainly, "But I guess talking's okay too."

"First off you have to show me some trust," said Leland, "Samba sent someone for me. Is my partner Montes in any danger?"

"Not from us," said Ortega, "His grandfather was Samba. That's not done unless there are other people we could get to. Like you."

"I did not know that," Leland murmured.

"But Montes is clean," Tony was quick to say, "Not for lack of any of us trying to swing him. Cop on our payroll, all that. Except he didn't want to dance. He told us to shove off."

Leland looked them over, thoughtfully. He did not at all feel threatened by them, at this point. His overpowering feeling was mostly a craving for pizza and coffee. The hunger was fairly uncharacteristic, though he could probably attribute that to forgetting to eat these last... few... days? He was unsure. The coffee craving, unfortunately, not so much uncharacteristic, merely a part of his daily addiction.

"I'm calling up Montes to join us," said Leland, turning his back on them, practically daring them to pick up their weapons. Naturally, no one dared move.

"And I'm calling for pizza," he added, "But we're going to have that talk."


"So get this," Tony said, as he munched heartily on a slice of mozzarella garlic pizza, "My uncle calls me up, says he's got a good deal if I can cook it. Hey, this shit is not bad. I thought I'd want meat on it though."

"Can't help thinking it might be better," Montes agreed, "Pepperoni and anchovies will give it more kick."

Leland Greene brushed the critique on his culinary preferences aside, "What kind of deal?"

"The best kind," Ortega replied, "Too easy, too good to be true."

"But it's my uncle, man," Tony moaned, "It wasn't supposed to go sour. We were tight before I moved out here."

"Yeah well now everyone's dead," spat out Louis, "I wanna meet your uncle and 'thank' him myself."

"If your uncle didn't live so far away I'd hit him tonight," added Vince, "If he really was dead already I'd kill him twice. But it's kind of all for the best, I guess. The bosses cut us out."

"Said we were the funny looking bunch," said Ortega with a kind of ironic grin, "Well, well. Lookey who's funny-looking now."

"I'm not going to pretend I understood any of that," said Montes, "Straighten this shit out. If you're going to talk, be decent about it, you're eating the man's pizza here."

"He calls me up long distance," Tony continued, "Must have cost him an arm and a cow or something but there you go. My mother's been writing him, whining about me being in this kick-ass gang, after it took them so much to bring me here for a better life. Thought he was gonna beat my ears for giving her grief about it, but the man said he and his buddies found a cache of drugs. They want it out of their hands, and they want money for it. He asked if I can hook it up and I said 'hell, yeah.' But I gotta take it to my boss, I gotta know he's for real."

"Long distance from where?" asked Greene.

"Africa," Tony replied, "Big source of drugs, yo."

"That would be South America," corrected Luis.

"Whatever," Tony said, "Me and Mandela's continent, yo."

"I'm sure the similarities ended there," murmured Greene.

"How big a cache?" asked Montes, "And how did anyone verify what sort of drugs they were? Were any of the other groups aware of this?"

"Samba sent T's Uncle some good will cash," said Ortega, "Just pocket change, really. Couldn't help but check it. Suppliers in the market were killing the trade here. Thought we'd take a chance on some cheap dope. He bought himself a semi-automatic camera, photographed the loot and express-mailed the shots with a sick-obsessed wrapped plastic bag sample of the crap."

"Had our people 'test' it, you know," said Vince, chuckling, "In like, the only way they knew how. But they cut us out. Tony's uncle's making the deal and they cut us out. Gave the shit to others, said we were no experts or something. The big boys had to handle the stuff now."

"But it was a load of shit," Ortega said, "No effects or what. Uncle Crap. It coulda ended there but then it didn't. The damn photos looked good. Like someone was shipping loads and loads of the crap to somewhere. We saw stacks and stacks in a ratty old warehouse. Someone was gonna give that shit to someone. Even if the sample was bad, the story stuck. And whatever you know inside, it's gonna get out, you know? The A-line and Hellfire bastards wanted in. So the war started up. And then the bastards who tried out the crap Uncle Crappy sent started getting sick."

Warning bells were sounding in Leland and Montes' heads.

"Sick?" asked Greene.

Ortega shrugged, though his eyes seemed more afraid than his words and body language allowed him to tell, "Maybe it's just a bad bug. Fever, you know, headaches, like that. But they all tried the stuff. We came here 'cos knowing this shit might help you help us out. We got a Challenge from Hellfire and A-line. Samba's losing out 'cos there's few of us not-sick who can duke it out. If you nip it, the four of us here might live through this."

"Can you get me your uncle's contact details and the photographs?" asked Leland, "I'm assuming the drug samples are exhausted."

"All smoked out," Vince confirmed.

"The photos?" Ortega frowned, "That's gonna be tricky too. It's at the boss' place. He's sick as a dog. And I'm not touching that thing."

"And my uncle's out," said Tony, "Ma said he's dead. Got river flu or something. I was thinking he smoked the stuff too, or is hiding out 'cos we're all pissed as hell at him."

Montes looked at Greene with furrowed brows. "I'm not liking the sound of this."

"Is anyone grabbing the last slice?" Vince asked, though two oily fingers were already poised upon the crust, ready for takeover.

"It's yours," murmured Leland as he played with the information in his head. He stared at Ortega, whose intelligent eyes were practically screaming the gravity of the situation that the rest of his 'funny looking' group didn't seem to grasp.

"This is much bigger than Sanchez," Montes breathed, before catching himself. But apparently, Ortega was a quick study.

"I thought something was up with the kid," said the burly man, "I guess that's why you two were so hot into that drive-by. Well. Traitors are all right by me if they're dead."

"I need a list of everyone who smoked that sample," said Greene, getting to his feet and walking toward his files, tossing Ortega a pad and a pen. The group leader caught it cleanly, but let them fall to the floor the moment he realized what they were for.

"Hell, no," said Ortega, "That's going to mean my head. They aren't even going to no doctors and their questions, chief. No deal."

"Listen," said Greene, intently, "I know you can understand me because you're the only one of your funny club here who looks half as scared as he should be, all right? I don't know what they smoked. We won't find out for awhile. But whatever it is, it's potent stuff that's meant to go somewhere and hurt someone. You want to think it's bad drugs, that's fine. But don't tell me chemical warfare and bioterrorism hasn't crossed your mind or doesn't make you think twice. It's not just bastard crooks selling or buying this stuff who can get sick, it's people everywhere else. We need to know what this is, where it is and who may have had any contact with it. I need that list."

"I can't do that for you," Ortega said stonily, "I'm not a nice guy, make no mistake about that. I don't give a crap if this affects a stranger down the street or a gazillion more somewhere else. I came here 'cos I needed your protection. I want to stay alive. I'm not a nice guy. I do this shit for a living. If the thing worked, if there wasn't a war, if no one got sick I wouldn't be here. I'd have no qualms about hanging around on a goddamn schoolyard somewhere selling it to a kid and watching the cheerleaders practice. Giving you the list is gonna get me killed. I'm not going to do that."

"I can do that," Tony offered, surprisingly quite casually.

"Fucker!" Ortega exclaimed.

"I can," Tony said again, shrugging, "People wanna kill me for the shit anyway, I might as well do something kind of good or what. But I need to know I'm protected."

"I can vouch for that," Montes guaranteed, drawing out his cell phone.

Tony picked up the pad paper and pen from the floor. Leland watched with narrowed eyes, when Ortega made no move at all to stop him.

Tony wrote down the number "1" on the left side of the sheet, and made a careful circle around it. "How do you spell 'Roxanna' again?" he asked Ortega.

The burly man stared at him for a long, long moment before relenting. "R-O-X--"


I actually have an entourage, the prideful side of her whispered, miserably, I actually can just ask someone else to do this for me.

Arianne walked with a bit of a perturbed expression on her lovely oval face. She was oblivious to the stares she drew from men and women she passed by along the corridors of the hospital. She was simply quite focused on the task at hand which was, oddly simply enough, retrieving a shoe she had left behind.

I'm sure he won't be surprised, she thought, Nor should he be. It is mine, after all. I shouldn't even have to worry about it. He should have called to say it was with the hospital if we wanted it back.

She found it actually annoyed her, that he didn't call. She had hoped there was a connection, that time. She was so sure!

But why didn't he call?

She went over to the pleasant, middle-aged receptionist. "I'm looking for Doctor Adrian Aarons."

"Oh dear," she replied, "In the morning he's on that office of his in the other building. In the afternoon he's on the floor, emergency room, surgeries. Very busy man. At lunch time he's just at the cafeteria."

She checked the clock mounted behind the woman. 1235. "Cafeteria, you say?"

"Third floor, hard to miss," the woman said with a wicked grin, "And I suppose it would be the best time to catch him, if you don't have an appointment."

"Oh," her cheeks flushed as she looked for the elevator, "He just has something that belongs to me."

She found the cafeteria with no problem at all. It was also quite easy to spot him from the sea of people having their lunch beak. His was the only face that did not look up the moment she entered the room. She ducked her head, and kind of breathlessly found the courage to slide into the empty seat in front of him.

"That is actually taken--" he was saying as he lifted his head from the newspaper he was reading. He stopped cold as his eyes rested on her face. He was quite simply stunned.

Equally surprised, she rose from the seat, as if burnt.

"Oh I'm sorry--" they both said at the same time.

"No, no," he laughed, silver eyes shining, "No, please. Have the seat, my companion is running a bit late. Assuming he hasn't forgotten at all about me."

She bit her tongue, kept herself from asking if he was waiting for a woman. Arianne regained the seat, gave him a soft smile.

"This is a surprise," he said to her, the laughter vanishing from his eyes. There was something there, a kind of cloudy worry and a mixture of regret and delight that intrigued her. "Is the ankle giving you problems again? The specialist I recommended had absolutely positive prognoses."

"Oh no," she replied, "I was... I was..." She was hesitating about bringing the shoe up right away. He might go get it and then send her immediately on her way. Which she did not at all wish to happen.

"Oh," realization dawned on his eyes, along with, she hoped, a modicum of disappointment, "Your shoe, I almost forgot!"

"Um, yes," she said, and it annoyed her again that he would almost-forget anything related to her. But he wasn't married, she was sure of that. Not gay either from what she could tell though that first day some of the nurses had hinted at this improbability. Besides, she was in the fashion industry, for crying out loud, if he was a closet diva, she would know.

"I know you must be so busy," she said, "I'd hate to spoil your lunch but I guess this was the only time I could come here."

I came from Europe to make an excuse to see you, she wanted to scream at him, And I don't even know why.

"Would you like some?" he asked, pushing the tray of soggy fries her way. She noticed that, perhaps in waiting for his lunch companion, he hadn't touched his burger though already started munching on the fries.

She wrinkled her nose at him, reclaiming her playfulness at the all-too ordinary sight. "Aren't doctors supposed to eat healthier?"

He looked disarmingly delighted that she would make fun of him.

A! she thought triumphantly, Familiar ground...

"A vice of modern times," he said with a smile, "Would you like some? Or is it true that models do not eat?"

"Oh," she laughed, "We're hitting occupational stereotypes, are we?"

"Yes," he said, his grin getting wider and wider, "Models are catty and cruel."

"Doctors are clean and boring," she said.

"Models will break your heart," he asserted.

"Doctors will fix them," she said with a wink, making him laugh out loud, just before that cloudiness struck his silver eyes again.

"I can get you your shoe," he said, half-heartedly.

"You might miss your friend," she pointed out, boldly plucking a fry from his tray and munching on it, not willing or ready at all to be so dismissed.

"So how is your ankle?" he offered, fairly lamely. Even he winced at the awful transition.

"It mended very well, thank you," she replied breezily, trying to read the hesitations in his face. If she were flirting around, she'd have asked him why he seemed scared of her. But she liked him in a manner she could not comprehend. And she did not feel at all like playing games.

"So who are you waiting for?" she asked him, stealing another fry. They were a vice, indeed.

"An old friend of mine," he replied, "we have lunch once in awhile, unless he gets called in on his job, or I get called in on mine." As if reminded, he checked his watch. "I think he's going to stand me up."

She lightened at the "he." Not a date then.

"Oh he is a doctor also?" she asked.

"No, he's a police detective," said Adrian, "But we go way back."

"College?" she asked.

His eyes glinted. "Waaay back."

"I do not have friends like that," she said. Laughing, she added, "My parents died when I was young. I had nobody. I started working at age 15 and found no good friend, I've been too busy." Her eyes narrowed in sham gravity, "Besides, you know, models are catty and cruel, right?"

Adrian tilted his head, smiled at her. But then he stopped himself, shook his head and ran a hand over his face. "What are you doing here? I just about made a decision about you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, disoriented.

He sighed. Stared at her for a long moment. "I'm going to tell you something you probably haven't ever heard before." His phone was ringing. He growled, glanced at it, then stuffed it back in his pocket.

"I'm not what you're looking for," he said flatly.

"Excuse me?" she exclaimed, quite too-loudly. They were catching the attention of the room.

His beeper chimed too. This one he picked up and read.

"I have to go back to work," he told her, rising. He hesitated a moment, "Will you walk with me? I can give you back your shoe."

Numbly, she rose and followed where he walked. She did not understand how it could hurt so much that he, a stranger, did not want her.


Julianna Montes, like most mothers in the country, was more often than not a huge fan of play-dates. The mothers all took turns caring for a gang made up of their children and the children of their friends, so that a few times a week, they each had the free time to relax and do whatever it was that they wanted.

Like most mothers in the country, the only time a mother absolutely detests a play-date is when it is her day to keep the little monsters amused and keep them from killing each other.

"Mom!" Mikey whined, "Tessa's been in the bathroom since forever!"

"Oh honey, what did I say about drama?" she told him sternly, "We hate drama in this house and I don't plan on getting any from you. Let her take her time, all right?"

"Mom!" he exclaimed, "Me and Rick and Addy all need to go!"

And that would be a mess on my floor, she thought darkly.

She sighed. The three kids in dire need of a restroom shuffled in her wake as she knocked on the bathroom door.

"Tessa, sweetie, do you need help at all in there?" she asked.

"Tessa! Tessa!" the three kids behind her chanted. Julianna rolled her eyes and shushed them. If there was a reply she wouldn't have heard it.

"Tessa, sweetie?" she called again, "Do you need my help? We have to share the bathroom with the others, you see."

No reply.

"Tessa?" she called again, raising her voice slightly, "You know I'm getting worried, here. I need you to open this door for me."

"Tessa?" she called again. She frowned. There was a pounding in her heart that she could not understand or control. With quick steps she went to her kitchen, all the while trailed by the three chanting children. She drew out the key to the door from one of her cabinets.

"Oh I guess I can do that when daddy takes a long time," Mikey breathed.

Note to self: change the hiding place, she thought abstractly as she walked to the bathroom door.

"Tessa, I'm opening the door," she announced, "You three stay out here, all right?"

Julianna pushed the door forward and closed the door behind her. She could hear the shower running from behind the curtain.

"Tessa, sweetie, did you make a boo boo?" she asked, "I'm going to look, okay? I can help you wash up, all right?"

"It won't come off," a small voice came from within.

"I'll help you, all right?" Julianna asked, as she stepped toward the shower, "I will help you."

Julianna slowly moved the shower curtain aside. What she found stole her breath away. The young girl was soaked to the skin, her clothes clung to her skin as she stood in the middle of the cold water. The water falling from her body ran pink, as if dyed. It took Julianna a moment to realize it was from the blood that ran from her nose and gums.

"Oh honey, what happened?" Julianna asked, and her mother's heart reached for the girl, wet, bloodied clothes and everything, and pressed her close. She gave the top of the young girl's head a kiss, and held her face in her hands.

"I was hot," Tessa replied, as the burning heat of her flushed face warmed Julianna's hands and chilled her blood. "I was just so hot."

She screamed for Mikey to call 911.

To be continued...