Author's Note: You have my solemn vow that we'll see what the others have been up to... NEXT chapter. :o) In the meantime, enjoy.

The Present.

Greg listened to this story in horror. "What kind of sick bastard does that to their best friend?"

"I am what I am, Greg," the Rat said simply. "I don't pretend to be anything different."

"You pretended every day!" Greg spat. "You pretended with me. With my mother."

The Rat sighed and nodded. "Your father didn't die that day, you know. He lasted for nearly three weeks afterwards. Not nearly as long as you did, but in the end, his dignity stripped from him, he was begging to die. But there was one thing he made me promise him. Right before they took him away, I remember, he called after me. He told me to look out for you. He told me not to let you turn out like he did. He wanted me to take care of his family. The family he loved more than his own life, in the end. I never answered his desperate plea, but… But I did insist he have a proper burial. I appealed to Dr. Donovan—that was Dr. White's main man back in the day. I told him that Mark Sanders had given us years of loyal service before his betrayal, and that he deserved a little respect in death, even if he didn't have it at the end of his years. They granted me a coffin, one I had to purchase with my own money, and dumped it—along with the naked, twisted bodies of several other victims that had died earlier that week— into the depths of Lake Mead. Afterwards, I went to San Gabriel to you and your mother, to try and… Well, I don't know what I was trying to do. Make good on a promise I never made, I suppose. And if he saw the things I've done to you today…"

"Yeah," Greg said, nodding vigorously. "Yeah, Wesley, what would he do if he'd seen the things you've done to me?" He pulled at the bandages wrapped around his chest. "I mean… What the fuck is wrong with you people!" he exclaimed, nearly hysterically. "You say you did this because you were ordered to? Like you have no will or mind of your own? What is this, the fucking… Nuremberg Trials?! Did I travel back in time to Nazi Germany? This guy, this… Dr. White guy, did he really believe that all this would help his country? Why these people, Wesley? Why me? I'm not a terrorist, I'm not some threat to this country, I'm just a kid trying to make a decent living, which is more than I can say for you."

The Rat leaned back calmly in his chair, but he shook his head. "I make no excuses for the things that I have done. I admit to doing them, and doing them of my own free will. I cannot rectify the wrongs this program has committed, but I can, at least, keep a promise I never even made verbally, but must have made silently, on some level. You, Greg, posed no actual threat to our country, but you did pose a threat to our agency. At the time of your abduction, I was still a loyal follower of Dr. White, and the head of this branch. When I heard you found the bodies we dumped and our own spy informed us that you knew your father was among them, I knew you would conduct your own investigation into your father's murder. Now, I've been watching you for a long time, Greg. I've seen how you've progressed in your career, and your investigative skills could rival Sherlock Holmes. But I couldn't have you exposing all we've worked for for the past forty years. I couldn't have you selling us up the river to the CIA. So I chose you to conduct an experiment."

"What kind of experiment?" Greg asked, slowly.

"I needed you incapacitated, but even with all my cold-heartedness, I couldn't kill you outright," the Rat explained. "Your death… had to mean something. Your father's death was unfortunate, but in the end, it didn't mean anything. So you were to be my breakthrough. You were going to help me prove myself to the good doctor. You were going to help me gain his trust, and maybe join his inner circle.

"I conducted on you a series of methods meant to break your spirit as quickly and efficiently as possible. The signal that you had finally surrendered was, of course, the relinquishment of your identity. Once you'd given me that, I would present you to Dr. White and prove my worthiness. You, the son of the traitorous Mark Sanders. But you were stronger than even I gave you credit for. And my plan began to backfire. Instead of our techniques rubbing off on you, your endless optimism, your need for humor, your… outstanding obstinacy ended up effecting me. I saw him more and more in your slowly dying eyes and… A few weeks ago, I went to the CIA and told them everything. They are coming, Greg.

"Earlier today, the other prisoners— Yes, Greg, for surely you did not think you were the only one. All the other prisoners have been executed. You are the only one left alive, and were scheduled to be electrocuted in the spark room today, and probably would have been were it not for the ring I slipped into your hand earlier. Thanks to you, and, partially, to me, the CIA has a solid foothold in this organization and intend to use this institution and the people who have betrayed it in order to get one step closer to capturing Henry White."

But Greg was frowning. "Thanks to me…?"

The Rat nodded and opened a desk drawer, pulling out a crinkled Post-It note and sliding it across the table. "While you were subdued, I went to your apartment and found this."

Greg rapidly uncrumpled the paper and his heart sank. "Oh no…"

"I don't know who Poncho or Sunshine are," the Rat said quietly, "but I do recognize a distress call when I see one. Haven't you wondered why your friends never followed up on that note? We have some skilled hand-writing experts in our employ, who studied that note and replaced it with a… shall we say, less suspicious goodbye from you to your friends."

"What did it say?" Greg whispered, still staring at the wrinkled Post-It in his quaking hands.

The Rat sighed. "That you were asked to assist the government in the investigation of the John Doe you found and not to look for you, or ask for you, because it was top secret and you needed to… disappear for a while. So while that note served its purpose, I kept this one in my desk, should we need it to write more notes from you to your friends in order to appease them. But a few weeks ago, I gave a copy of it to the CIA anonymously, along with the dates which we would be executing our latest batch of prisoners. I don't think they understood half of your note either, but they did understand Jean Luc's Pet Clinic, and that was all they needed. They'll be here soon enough to set things right again, at least in this branch. But they still aren't any closer to capturing Henry White. I'm convinced there no longer is a Henry White. He was a good twenty years older than me, and I doubt he's still in this business. I think the name has just become a pseudonym for whoever is running the show now."

"You made me disappear…" Greg muttered, not even listening to the Rat anymore. "They weren't even looking for me…"

"You're wrong about that," the Rat told him. "I'm sure you know your friends well enough by now to know that they never take anything at face value. But you can ask them about that when you see them again."

Greg looked up, surprised at the words. For a long time, he had given up hope that he would ever see any of them again.

The Rat rose to his feet. "You should go now, Greg. For in a matter of hours, this place will disappear and the government will deny its very existence. Jean Luc's Pet Clinic will be permanently out of business. And I can guarantee that you and your mother will never hear from me again."

Greg, too, rose to his feet and fixed the Rat with a stony gaze. This was the man who had tortured him. The man he used to know like an uncle as Wesley Clarke. Were they truly one and the same? Had his father also committed such heinous acts against his own humanity? Was it true that everyone wore two faces? And if this was the other person his father was, the person he became when the night came and bled darkness into his soul, then what of his mother? What of his friends? Or more horrifyingly, what monster had the night turned him into? What masks would he now wear to society in order to survive?

Greg was out of words. He was out of jokes. And he was out of tears.

So without a word, he reached for the ring on his hand and pulled it off. He saw a small burn on his ring finger where the electricity had connected with Chuck. He looked at the ring in the palm of his hand for a moment, then up at Wesley. Licking his cracked lips, he reached out and placed the ring on the table, his eyes never leaving Wesley's. His gaze was unforgiving, but the gesture was confusing to Wesley.

The old man frowned as he reached for the ring and looked at it, then up at Greg. "Why…?"

"I just thought," Greg said tonelessly, "that if they put you in the electric chair, you might need lightning to strike twice."

Wesley's lips twitched as his fingers closed around the ring. "Thank you, Greg." With these small words, he tried to convey what the merciful gesture meant to him.

"Don't thank me," Greg said sternly. "I wish I could kill you. I really wish I had the vengeful evil it takes to take out a gun and blow your brains out right here. But there's a difference between you and me. And that's that I don't take lives. No matter how much they may deserve to die. I'm not God, or a judge issuing a death sentence. I'm just a kid. Trying to make an honest living. That said, I hope they don't electrocute you. I hope you don't get the chance for a lucky break like I had. I hope they burn you. I hope they throw you in a pot and boil your flesh away. I hope they use… that scaphism thing, or whatever the hell you seem the most afraid of. But you saved my life. Even after trying to kill my spirit. And I don't pretend to understand you, or to like you. But a debt is a debt. And I've repaid mine."

He took his shirt and the bottle of wine, raising the port in the air as if in a silent toast to their uneasy wordless agreement. "I'll be going now. And I'm not going to look back at this place. Ever."

Wesley Clarke nodded, but didn't say a word as he watched Greg turn on his heal, his shirt slung over his shoulder and the wine clasped firmly in his hand as he headed for the door, slamming it shut behind him.

He headed for the reception area, which he could see was only feet away. He couldn't walk fast enough, but he was too exhausted to run, and his legs were still shaking and sore from the electricity. Finally, he made it to the door and opened it, causing the brunette receptionist he had seen earlier to wake up at her desk. She looked at him and then jumped to her feet, leaning across the desk and shaking a finger at him as he made for the exit.

"Hey!" she said. "Wait, you're not supposed to—"

"Hey beautiful," Greg said over his shoulder as he opened the door. He raised the bottle of wine at her. "You were right. Best damn port I've ever had."

She opened and closed her mouth in shock like a goldfish as she watched him walk right out the door.

Greg stopped when he found himself under the stars, the Las Vegas lights filtering through the night air like Nevada's own Aurora Borealis. He looked around the parking lot. It was empty. He figured they must have ditched his car. His cell phone was in that car. So was his kit. He might have to pay to replace that. He wondered how much forensic kits cost… It was probably very expensive. That was just his luck.

Greg shook his head and remembered coming in he had seen a pay phone a few blocks away. He made his way in that direction, wondering exactly what he was going to do now that he had his freedom again. Being in the real world felt so surreal to him. He had been away for far too long. He should probably go to a hospital to make sure he had suffered no lasting damage. Yet even as the thought occurred to him, Greg knew that lasting damage always came with torture. But the scars were much deeper than his appearance showed.

Three blocks away from Jean Luc's Pet Clinic, Greg found a payphone outside of a 7-11. For a moment, he thought about going in there and buying what food he could get, but a quick fumbling in his pockets told him that he had left his wallet in his car too. He was broke and starving. Greg really did feel for the homeless.

Still, in the depths of the pockets of his jeans, Greg found two quarters and deliberated for a moment about whether he wanted to spend it on the pay phone or a Slim Jim. He figured once he got a ride, he could get all the food he wanted at home. And Blue Hawaiian, oh hell how he was craving some warm Blue Hawaiian. But his last stash was at the lab, since he usually spent most of his time there anyways. The lab had food. And the diner was nearby. He could get one of his friends to buy him food. Probably. Providing they were feeling generous. The last time he had asked Nick to borrow money, the Texan had reminded him that he still owed Nick forty dollars. Greg didn't know how in debt he was to Nick at the moment, but figured the fact that he hadn't seen Nick in a while might just fudge those little details.

Yes. They'd feed him. They'd feed him until he was fatter than a whale.

Greg kept forgetting that he hadn't seen his friends in a long time. He was half convinced that this whole escape had been a delusion. Some cruel joke his mind was playing on him and soon enough he'd snap out of it and find himself alone in his cell.

He looked at the phone and wondered which number to dial. He didn't remember the numbers of any of his friends off the top of his head. But he did remember one number that he had memorized so he could use it even when he was drunk off his ass.

"Yellow Cab, what's your address?" The voice was flat and to the point. It had been doing this all night and was very tired.

Address? Greg looked for street signs. "Corner of Roosevelt and Dawn. Outside the 7-11."

"Where are you going?"

Greg deliberated a moment. Hospital, home, crime lab. He didn't want to go to the hospital. The white walls would remind him too much of the hell he'd been in. He needed to go shopping at home. And Sara always kept a veggie wrap in the fridge at work for her veggie munchies. Plus, Blue Hawaiian… " Las Vegas Crime Lab."

"Name?" the voice intoned automatically.

"Greg Sanders."

"Phone number?"

"Uh… This one?" Greg said, hoping they had caller ID.

"Hold on." There was a pause. "OK. When do you want it?"

"Now would be good," Greg replied.

"We can get one there in about half an hour, is that OK?"

Greg groaned inwardly. But he had lasted this long, what was another half hour? "Fine, OK, just… get here as fast as possible, would you? I'm dying here."

"Yeah, aren't we all," the voice joked with no humor to the tone. "OK, thank you for using Yellow Cab."

Greg hung up and shook out his shirt before pulling it on, sitting on the curb as he buttoned it up. When he had finished, he tucked his hand in his armpit as he raised the port to his lips. His head began to feel a little dizzy and he thought it was probably best not to drink so much wine now, especially on an empty stomach. A very empty stomach. No matter how hungry he was, the alcohol would just make things worse. So he reluctantly lowered the wine from his lips and stared up at the sky again. He was still waiting to wake up. For this to have all been some incredible, hopes-raising dream. What would it be like to see his friends again? He wondered if things would be different between them now. Now that he had seen the real monsters the night brings. Now that he had let all the skeletons out of his closet.

How long had he been gone? He looked around for anything to tell him a date but found nothing. There was a breeze and he was suddenly cold. Was it fall already? The leaves were turning on the trees nearby. Greg remembered the date he had left. August 18th. What day was it now? Was it September? Was it November?

It was too cold for September, and too warm for November. So it had to be October. He rubbed his hands together to warm them. A car drove by and a teenager leaned out the passenger window and yelled at him.

"Get a job, you bum!"

Greg made sure to flip them off as they drove away. He looked at the bottle of port sitting next to him. It was too tempting. He could just drink himself to a stupor until the cab came. He probably wouldn't be sober enough to speak though. If he'd held out this long, he could wait another half hour.

It seemed like decades before the cab finally pulled up to the curb. "You Greg Sanders?" the cabbie asked him.

Getting to his feet a little too fast, Greg staggered before he nodded with raised eyebrows. He blinked. The cabbie smiled.

"You going home, man?" he asked, obviously noting the bottle of port in Greg's hand.

"Nah," said Greg, climbing into the back seat. "I told them Crime Lab."

"You wanna report something?" the driver asked as he shifted into gear.

"Yeah," Greg said. "My abduction and torture and attempted murder. Plus they have my coffee. I want it back."

The cabbie chuckled. "How much of that have you had?"

Greg looked at the bottle before shrugging. "I don't know how much was in it to begin with." It was true. It had been half gone already by the time Wesley had given it to him. Now there was about a quarter left. Had he drank that whole thing?

"Right," the cabbie said, obviously passing Greg off as a drunk. "Where do you live, buddy, I'm gonna take you home."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Dude. I said Crime Lab."

"OK," the cabbie said. "Las Vegas Crime Lab, here we come."

"How long is this gonna take?" Greg asked.

"The lab's about an hour from here. Why, you going to pass out on me?"

"No," Greg said. "I don't think so at any rate."

The driver smiled at him in the mirror. "Hey, don't worry about it, happens a lot. You feel a little groggy go ahead and take a nap. Promise I won't screw you over."

Greg smiled, but despite his kind attitude, he didn't trust the cab driver. He had lived in a world where everyone had the worst intentions. It was hard adjusting to the world where good Samaritans still existed. So he resolved to stay awake, even though now that the driver mentioned it, he was pretty tired. He leaned his head against the window…

"Buddy? Mr. Sanders!"

Greg opened his eyes to see the cab driver grinning at him in the rearview mirror.

"We're here, man," he said. "You slept like a baby the whole way here."

"Well this seat is the most comfortable thing I've felt in… Hey, what day is it?" Greg asked.

"Tuesday," the driver replied.

Greg blinked. His migraine was still there. Aspirin would be nice. "I mean… The date. What's the date?"

The driver thought a moment. "October 30th. Yeah, that's right, 'cause tomorrow's Halloween."

"Halloween…" Greg muttered, totally shocked. Two months was a long time. And yet, it felt too short. "Wait… And it's… two thousand…"

"Seven," the cabbie said as slowly as he could as though talking to a toddler. "You going to be OK there, buddy?"

Greg bit his lips and realized they were still split. He wanted Chap Stick so badly… Two months. Two months was a very long time. "Yeah," Greg said, nodding, his hand flying to his temple in a vain attempt to control his headache. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

"That'll be forty-three sixty," the driver said simply.

Greg gave him a confused look before it dawned on him what the driver was asking for. "Oh!" he said suddenly. "Money! Right. Uh… I don't have that right now. Hold on, I'll go get you some."

"Promise you won't ditch me?" the driver said, half-joking, half-serious.

Greg nodded. "Unless my friend decides he wants to be an asshole. I'll be right back. Promise."

Greg climbed out of the cab and looked up at the front entrance of the Crime Lab. He let out a long sigh and shook his head, a slight smile tugging on his lips. Man it was good to be home. Grasping the neck of the wine bottle tightly, he made his way inside.

END OF PART ONE