I promised I'd explain the whole Patterson thing. So here's the scoop: Patterson's DNA (i.e. sperm) was used for Alma's in vitro fertilization(s). Yes, that is all.

Interval 9 – Uterine kinship

Paxton Fettel looked very much alive.

He stood at the end of the alley next to a grimy garbage bin, facing the rotten wood fence that seemed alive, crawling with shadows.

"'If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?'" he recited dryly as Quentin approached. Then, he turned and seemed to notice his brother for the first time. Quentin kept his distance, still holding his fists in front of him, ready to strike.

"What's the matter?" Paxton asked.

Quentin eyed him warily. Fettel didn't vanish – on the contrary, he stood there as real as life itself, absently rubbing a hand through his short, filthy hair. He looked shabby, with his week-old stubble, torn and dirty t-shirt and muddy pants. Other than that, he seemed fine.

"You don't look too good, either," Paxton remarked, as though reading his thoughts. Then, he seemed to realize something, and said, "You made it out of Auburn." He was grinning.

Quentin didn't say anything. He stared straight ahead. Fettel's eyes twinkled happily. "Tell me… you saw her – how is Alma?"

Quentin lunged at his brother, dashing him against the wall. Winded, Fettel slid down the brick surface, but not before he pulled a knife strapped on his boot and took a swipe at Quentin. The edge of the blade grazed his left thigh. The F.E.A.R. operative jumped back, dealing Fettel a swift kick that sent the weapon spinning into the trash. Wary and having regained control of his anger, Quentin took a step back, surveying Fettel.

Paxton was still smiling, even though a thin trickle of blood ran down his chin. Quentin backed up against the opposite wall, feeling the edges of the wound while keeping his eyes on Paxton.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Paxton asked. "Is something wrong with my face, or is it something else?"

"You killed all those people," Quentin spat, leaning against the wall.

"'I am a man more sinned against than sinning'," Paxton said slowly, weighing each syllable.

"That doesn't make it right."

Fettel ignored him, still sitting against the wall. "They taught me warfare," he murmured. He glanced up. "You see me as a monster, but we are the same, you and I. We were made of the same materials, and we were taught to kill without questioning our motives. You are a monster, a murderer, just as I am."

Quentin sighed, disgusted. He stared at his bloody hand. "It doesn't matter. It's over, Fettel." He waited while the words registered in his brother's mind.

"She's dead, isn't she?" Paxton's voice was choked and quiet as he spoke. Quentin wanted to kill him and leave his corpse to the rats.

"No." He paused before he continued, "No, it's not. It's starting again. Alma's back." He shivered as he said the word.

Paxton looked relieved. He picked himself up and took a step forward. His thin lips twitched into a smile. "She's gotten to you, hasn't she?" he asked, amused, in his characteristically slow and hoarse whisper. "You're finally seeing things the way they really are."

Quentin hated Paxton Fettel for the superior air that constantly suggested his knowledge of the current situation as well as the things to come. His upper lip twisted into a snarl of annoyance.

"Tell me how to stop her," he gritted.

"How could you want to kill your own mother?" Paxton demanded. "How could anyone want to kill his own mother?"

"You know I'll kill you," Quentin threatened, pushing away from the wall. He watched Paxton's eyes flicker to the nearby garbage bin.

There was a squeal at the open end of the alley, then a bright white light illuminated the two brothers. Quentin didn't want to take his eyes off Paxton, but his brother seemed determined not to look away.

"Quentin," Paxton said warningly over the purr of the engine nearby. The F.E.A.R. Point man felt the warm blood run down his leg. He was dimly aware of his own heartbeats, but they were drowned out by a sudden burst of shouts.

"Take them down!"

"What the hell? Where's the other one?"

"Peters! Peters! Get him!"

Quentin turned in time to see the glint of weaponry at the opening of the alley and ducked behind the dumpster. He heard a rapid burst of rat-tat-tats as well as a loud bang before the bullets ricocheted off the walls and the ground. Paxton Fettel was gone. Instinctively, Quentin felt along his belt for a weapon, although he already knew it wasn't there.

Four men, SMGs and a shotgun.

He searched the ground for a weapon and his hand closed around a broken beer bottle neck, serrated edges along its break.

"Okay, I'm checking it out," one of the men said. "Watch my 6 o'clock."

The man held his shotgun beside his body and moved cautiously around the dumpster. Then, he staggered back into the man a couple of steps behind him, screaming while blood streamed from the bottle neck embedded in his right eye socket.

The man second in line fought to get free of his impediment while the third man tried to put Quentin in his sights. The fourth aimed and fired. Quentin twisted and the bullet grazed his face. He cursed inwardly. This never happened when he wore his helmet. He ducked behind the dumpster.

The wounded man lay screaming on the ground even as the three others moved in for the kill.

"Need a little help?" Paxton emerged out of the shadows behind the last man and twisted his head sharply, breaking the man's neck vertebrae with a sickening crack.

Quentin took advantage of the moment of confusion to run forward and take over the dead man's weapon. The man taking lead after the stabbing of the original point man whirled back to face Quentin in time to feel the muzzle of the shotgun jut into his stomach.

The spray of buckshot propelled him backward into the third man. The survivor pushed aside the bloodied, dislocated puppet of a corpse and backed away, unsuccessfully trying to aim at Quentin while ducking past Paxton.

"Son of a…" He turned to the car. "Mitch! Get your ass over here!" Quentin quickly ducked back behind his cover as the man blindly fired his SMG at his hiding spot. A radio crackled nearby, then another hoarse shout, "We need backup! Now! Get them over here quick!"

Paxton suddenly surged up behind him, undetected up until that moment. Apparently, Alma was still keeping an eye on her prodigal sons. With a deft movement, the ex-leader of the Perseus project's clones ended the man's life.

Quentin appeared at the end of the alleyway as the driver leaped out of the van. Fettel ran forward and tackled the man, but not before his pistol went off with a deafening bang. Quentin felt the blood before he realized he had been shot. His left leg suddenly went numb from the knee down and he staggered against the filthy brick wall. As he pressed a hand hard against the entry wound, the world seemed to go silent. He was often shot at but seldom hit.

Before he knew it, Paxton appeared by his side. His face was mottled with blood from the cheekbones down.

"Don't you regret losing my knife now? We have to go," Fettel said, moving closer to Quentin to give him support. "Can you walk?"

"Yeah," grunted Quentin, not wanting Paxton to have the upper hand in the situation. He shifted his weight, leaning on his younger sibling, and pointedly added, "You've got a lot to explain to me anyway."

-

"He ran off? I don't understand."

"Did he say anything to you or do something that might have suggested he would do something like this?"

"No, no, he didn't," Jin said, shaking her head.

Betters sighed. "Everything's going to hell. This is crazy. There's no telling what's going to happen next. We need to get you someplace safe."

"What about Quentin?" Jin squeaked, sitting forward in the clinic's uncomfortable reception room chair.

"Quentin?" Betters echoed. "Who the hell is that?"

"The point man," Jin said after a moment's hesitation.

Betters shook his head, disgusted. "He's going to have to fend for himself. If he got himself into deep shit, he's going to have to pull himself out of it alone."

-

She locked her door and made her way down the steps leading to her black Acura. She was apparently neither careful nor stealthy enough, as light flooded her neighbor's lawn, illuminating her face.

"What are you doing out here? It's 3 A.M."

She ignored her neighbor, instead walking up to her car and unlocking the trunk. The woman shuffled forward in her furry slippers and long coat and watched as she threw the shovel into the dimly illuminated compartment.

"… – is that blood?" the neighbor stammered, staring at the splotched bed sheets.

Genevieve Aristide slammed the trunk shut and stared meaningfully at her neighbor.

"That's none of your business."

-

That's all for now… Please don't forget to review!