A/N: muahahahahaah. Thanks to Barb, MoonlightGypsy, Caranath, Xenitha, Paulina Ann, & Bgeesfan for the reviews, favorites, & follows!

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Both Hammond and Abrams halted.

Joe grabbed up the IV pole — that heavy, steel club — and swung. It walloped Abrams across his mid-section, clipped Hammond, and both men went down. Others in the waiting area reacted, shouting, running towards Joe —

He flung the pole at them and dove into the elevator just as the doors closed, slamming his hand against the button for ground-floor. Get down fast. He had a minute or so — maybe less — before the alarms started — he could be in the lobby and out the front door. He just needed a precious few seconds and a small bit of luck.

Something brushed against his shields.

Don't panic. Don't look panicked. He had to act calm, normal, un-rushed. Panic would get him caught.

Creaky and slow, the elevator stopped the next floor down, opened for an elderly couple to get on. The old woman smiled at him, but otherwise the couple ignored him; they were in the everyday, normal clothes of visitors, a shapeless polyester dress with a necklace of fake pearls for the woman, a baggy seersucker suit for the old man. The elevator stopped at each of the floors on the way down, more visitors in typical visit-the-hospital clothes, a woman in scrubs who didn't give anyone in the elevator more than a cursory glance.

The something brushed against his shields again, and for a moment, Joe panicked: he was the tasty little fish hiding in the seaweed as a shark slowly swam overhead…

He held himself still. He didn't need to freak out innocent bystanders or catch them in the line of fire, and using magic would announce his location to the unseen searcher. It was a sure bet that person wasn't on Joe's side.

Hammond and Abrams. Well, that was proof this place wasn't a Communist set-up, then. But why were those two here? Somehow Joe didn't think Hammond would be visiting a cracked-up psychotic teenager, and Abrams's duties to the U.N. wouldn't include visits to nuthouses. If Abrams was with the U.N., anyway — assuming Joe's memory was right, and right now, Joe wasn't sure of anything other than get out.

If both men were CIA, though…

Paranoia: such a wonderful thing. Like Joe really needed more reasons to panic right now.

Finally, finally, ground floor…just as a voice started announcing over the loudspeakers, "Code Blue. All staff. Code Blue."

That didn't sound good.

Three guesses who that was for. Surprising that it'd taken them this long. Well, Joe wasn't about to argue.

He stayed behind a family heading for the main lobby and who were hampered by a stroller and a whiny toddler. Staying near enough to look like part of their group without panicking them, Joe rounded the corner, passed the gift-shop entrance, but then pulled up short.

Across the spacious, plant-filled lobby, four alert security guards stood right by the outside doors, watching all the people entering and exiting the building.

Joe backed up into the gift shop and behind a display of stuffed toys. Don't panic. Don't panic.

Hiding in the gift shop: out. The clerks would notice that he'd been here a while without buying anything, and his stance marked him as someone with mobility issues. Big giveaway, right there. In this enclosed space, there was too much chance of innocent people getting hurt. If hospital staff got involved, no one would listen to Joe's pleas for help. He was a mental patient in a psych ward; reality didn't enter the picture, as far as most people were concerned.

Stay calm. Stay calm.

Through the gift-shop windows, Joe noticed a small bagel cart out in the lobby, complete with plastic tables and chairs. He studied it, thinking. The guards would be looking for someone trying to leave, not someone sitting and relaxing, especially since he was in street clothes, not a hospital gown. Moving slow, trying to minimize his limp as best he could, Joe eased through the gift shop to its side entryway, trying to keep people between him and those security guards.

Joe made it to the cart area just as a man in a green polyester suit got up from the nearest table, leaving a coffee cup behind. Joe sank down in the vacated chair with relief and pulled the paper cup closer. Sit here, blend in. Try to relax and wait out the drug effects; his head was already clearer just from walking. Try to ignore hunger and the aroma of toasted bagels and coffee. If Joe waited long enough, they might think he'd escaped the building; the immediate guard would be relaxed when the search expanded to the city, and then Joe could get out into the wilds of Manhattan.

One solitary teenager, somewhere in the huge expanse of New York City. His chances would be a lot better than in the enclosed walls of a locked-down psych ward.

But right now, it was one solitary teenager versus the CIA, in a possible CIA facility. If that was what was going on. If he wasn't really a mental case, if he wasn't really delusional and Dad hadn't…and Frank wasn't really…wasn't…

Swallowing sudden tears, Joe slumped forward, letting his head rest in his arms. Right now, between exhaustion, hunger, and the drugs, just keeping his shields up was an effort. The mouse-trick had failed. He might be able to manage some type of illusion or even try the mouse-trick again…if he dropped his shields so he wasn't trying to keep up two things at once.

Drop his shields, here. No way. They knew he was Gifted. He'd felt the searcher. Leta had said they had ways of dealing with Gifted, so they had to have Gifted on their payroll — no, they definitely did, if Hammond was involved.

Joe wasn't about to tempt fate that far.

He let his eyes relax, looked over the security guards, and stifled a groan. All had the faint glow of shields, and he didn't dare test them to see if those shields were theirs or pre-sets. He'd be announcing himself with a flashing Good Eats Here sign.

But over near the front windows was a small stand of public pay phones, with cushioned benches nearby. They couldn't be monitoring those phones. No reason to. If he could get to those and call out — back to the hotel, Bay Area, Bayport, somebody, anybody…

…Frank…

Hands clenched, Joe choked back the sob, forcing himself to breath slow and deep. Not here. He was exhausted, drugged, light-headed, dizzy. He hadn't eaten at all today. But he watched those guards, the door, the lobby, even as he struggled to keep his shields up. It all was a set-up. It had to be. Dad wouldn't abandon him…Frank couldn't be dead…he could not be…

But that Time article, and that cold, damning epitaph…

The chair next to him pulled out; someone sat down.

Hammond.

"Take it easy, Joe," Hammond said, as Joe started to shove back and away. "I just want to talk."

Joe looked up, past Hammond and around the lobby. At least two others in suits…a trio of men in scrubs sitting by the phones…along with a family with a baby, an elderly man talking to another old man in a hospital gown, a bony, bald woman in a wheelchair laughing with her family.

Hammond hadn't moved, save to light a cigarette.

Joe swallowed, and swallowed again. He was waiting for the attack, for someone to grab him, to slap a straitjacket on him and drug him out of his mind and…and…

The bagel-cart guy came over and set down a tray in front of Hammond: three toasted bagels, sealed containers of cream cheese, honey, butter, a bottle of orange juice. Hammond pushed the tray in front of Joe.

"Eat. You look like you're ready to drop."

Good cop, bad cop. Oh, Joe knew how this game was played. But…the food had come straight from the cart, so it couldn't be drugged. The orange juice bottle was still sealed. He was starved; they hadn't fed him upstairs. Finally, hesitantly, Joe chose one of the bagels, peeled open a cream cheese.

"May I?" Hammond picked up one of the remaining bagels and spread it with butter before taking a bite.

Clear, reassuring message: food not drugged. Joe didn't care beyond that. He nibbled at the bagel, then bit in, suddenly ravenous.

Hammond said nothing, eating his own bagel between drags on his cigarette. He pushed the remaining bagel in front of Joe as Joe finished the first, as well as the bottle of juice.

"You're intelligent," Hammond said, still quiet, still calm, as Joe devoured the second bagel. "I tried telling your father that. That he was going about this the wrong way." Another drag on the cigarette. "He wouldn't listen."

Joe's jaw clenched; his trembling had started again. He glanced around the lobby, trying to spot who else was in on this with Hammond…but…

"You've had some major shocks. You weren't given enough support to deal with them. You're confused, you're scared…so you panicked and bolted. That's normal. Understandable." A sardonic smile touched Hammond's voice. "You've also shown up some holes in the security here. Like I said, intelligent."

"Go on," Joe rasped.

Another drag of that cigarette. Hammond looked out at the lobby. "There's two ways this can go. You've had a chance to calm down and think. So…you come along, peacefully. No one gets hurt by accident."

Joe followed Hammond's gaze. The family with the baby; the two old men…the woman in the wheelchair, now holding her young son…

"We help you get your life back together. Maybe even reconcile with your father." Hammond's gaze was still on the lobby. "Though I can't make any promises there. We help you, you help us."

"Help you how?"

"You're not stupid, Joe. Us. The Soviets. China. Someone of your Gifts…you figure it out." Hammond looked away. "I hate seeing talent wasted. Especially talent like yours."

Joe set the bottle of juice down. "And the other way?"

Hammond only looked at him.

Silence.

Finally Hammond got to his feet, his hand firm on Joe's shoulder. "Come on. Let's go back upstairs. They should have lunch ready up there."

Joe didn't move.

"Joe." Hammond's voice sharpened; Joe looked up. "There's security on the doors. You see them. As I said, you're smart. You knew you couldn't win that fight. Look there." Hammond nodded towards the payphones, the three orderlies. "We don't want to hurt you. Don't force the issue, son."

"One question." The words rasped out; Joe struggled to stay calm: a plea for just one bit of truth. "New Orleans. My brother…Frank…"

Hammond looked away, back towards the lobby windows.

Eyes squeezed shut, Joe fought the tears back. His side was itching again; head bowed, he crossed his arms, bent over his lap. The tattoo. Jamie. This had to be a lie. It had to be.

…Frank's lifeless, staring gaze…

"Come on," Hammond said quietly. "No one's mad at you. It's our fault for not realizing how scared you were."

Our. So this hospital was some government thing, then. "I want to call home."

"There's phones upstairs."

"From there." Joe nodded towards the payphones.

Silence…then a sigh. "Don't make this hard, Joe. Please."

"I'm not." Somehow, Joe kept his voice steady. "I'm asking to use a public payphone."

A long hesitation. "I can't let you do that."

Admission enough. Joe's arms tightened around himself. "I didn't think you would."

He pushed to his feet, stumbled; Hammond steadied him, helped Joe to limp back across the lobby, heading towards the elevators.

Joe was a prisoner…but at least Hammond was trying to be decent about it. Yeah. Give the guy a medal. And all that about reconciling with Dad… "So Dad's in on this, too?" Joe said bitterly.

"Stop it, Joe. I've stuck my neck out too far already for this."

"Yeah, you're a real hero."

Hammond pulled Joe around to face him. "There was another man with me who would gladly take over. You wouldn't like his way at all. Clotheslining someone with an IV pole makes a man un-inclined to be charitable."

The orderlies were moving up. Hammond raised his hand slightly — the orderlies halted, but were in tackling range. Behind Hammond, at the doors, the security guards watched the exchange.

People were still coming into the lobby, laughing, chattering, weary, solemn…then…

…gold-brown hair under a ball cap, blue sweatshirt…

Heart leaping, Joe froze. Frank!

His brother had entered the lobby and stopped, looking around before heading towards the directory. No one seemed to take any notice of him.

Yet.

"Joe?" Hammond said. The orderlies were moving closer. Another suit was also easing in, towards Joe: Abrams.

If any of them spotted Frank…or if Frank didn't see Joe was here…or worse, if Frank did but didn't realize what was going on…

Joe shifted, settling his balance even as he bowed his head, giving in. Hammond patted him on the shoulder and gave Joe a gentle push towards the elevators.

But then, a kiai ripping from his throat, Joe lashed out, a controlled strike and sweep that knocked Hammond to the floor. Joe staggered, apparently off-balance —

The orderlies moved in, as people started screaming and running away.

— as Joe hit the floor in a fake fall that ended with his back against the nearest wall. His hands braced on the tiled floor, Joe scrabbled back to huddle in a frightened crouch…now facing the orderlies and seeing the lobby beyond them.

Three orderlies, one with restraints. The security guards were running over, spreading out to cut off possible escape routes.

"I warned you, Hammond," Abrams was saying, as Hammond got to his feet. "I told you he was dangerous."

The orderlies had Joe surrounded; others were moving in. One was talking, saying soothing things as he and the others inched closer.

Behind them, Frank stared in Joe's direction.

Whimpering, widening his eyes in fake fear, Joe scrabbled back a bit more to get his position right: right arm up as if to fend off a blow, his left hand and arm set on the floor —

— and launched up, braced against his left arm, the rest of his body driving out in a roundhouse kick intended to smash into whoever was closest —

— just as others tackled Joe at exactly the wrong moment. His right foot cracked into someone's ribcage just as he fell onto his left for balance, and then he was pile-driven hard against the tile. The orderlies shoved Joe down, grabbing and twisting his arms back, forcing restraints around his wrists and legs, pushing his head against the floor tile. Joe struggled, screaming anything he could think of…along with one specific word.

"Thatcher!"

His arms and feet restrained and cuffed, the orderlies hauled Joe up. Hands yanked his head back — one of the orderlies had a hood in his hands, the obvious intent to shut Joe up. Twisting, struggling, Joe looked desperately around the lobby; he couldn't see Frank.

Hallucination or real, it didn't matter. Joe had one more message to send.

Please, God, let it be understood!

Joe shoved all his remaining energy and concentration into one bright flash of magic, an empty strike at Abrams and Hammond that impacted their shields and haloed them in showy, obvious, visible magic —

— oh God, Abrams was Gifted, too?

Then something slammed through Joe's wavering shields, seizing him in a tight mental grip that spiked into an agonizing migraine — just as the hood was yanked down over Joe's head, cutting off his sight.

"Take him to 10-Genesis," Abrams snarled. "Full restraints. Take no chances."

…and Joe fell into nightmare.