A/N: Still here, and I still don't own anything. Just so you guys know, this chapter and the next are going to be a lot of exposition. The action is coming soon, so hang tight! In the meantime . . .

zzzoo99 - I'm keeping it up! I'm slower than molasses, but I'm keeping it up!

CB73 - all kinds of inquisition. All kinds of it.

MisterMagic25 - Thanks for the in-depth, honest review. Admittedly, there are times when I even sit back and read what I've written, and am like: "This shit would never, ever, ever happen . . . how did it develop in a KP-verse?" I really don't know. I really don't have any other reason other than I really enjoyed the Kim Possible series. Honestly, I can't even remember where I got the origin to this story either O_O it's been too long.

Lachrymose Comedian - Thank you for the congrats, and thanks for reading!

Thank you to everyone who is sticking with this beast of a story, and those of you who have even favorited/followed it. Please read and review!

Unincorporated Lowerton, Pennsylvania

February 5th, 1985

"Are you sure you don't wanna go to a hospital?" Karen asked again, guiding Drew to their doorway.

"And what?" he griped, adjusting the crumpled, bloodstained fast food bag against his left eye. "Dash out before they realize I'm not insured and can't pay for the services provided?"

Karen let go of his forearm and unlocked the stairwell door. Pocketing the key, she grabbed Drew's arm again, and carefully led him up the flight of stairs leading to their apartment. Once inside, she locked the door behind them and ushered him into the bathroom. She forced him onto the toilet seat, removed the glasses from his shirt pocket, and placed them on the toilet tank. She took the crumpled ball of paper from him, tossing it in the small waste bin under the sink. She ripped the hand towel from its rack and began wiping away the blood from his cheek, chin, and neck. As she sopped up the crimson liquid, Karen was able to better assess the seriousness of the injury. The cut swooped, like a crescent moon, from the inner-corner of his left eye to the middle of the same cheek. It was very deep, and she felt her stomach quiver as fresh blood pooled in the opening and spilled over.

"We should go to the hospital," she repeated.

"No."

"Drew – "

"No hospital!"

"And you don't want to go to the police either."

"No," he grumbled.

Karen rolled her eyes and pressed the towel against the cut. "I don't know why you even had to say anything," she muttered after a moment.

"Because I didn't like the way he was talking to you," Drew defensively answered. "You're my girlfriend."

Karen bit her tongue at the last bit. She was his girlfriend, but the statement had a possessive taint to it that she didn't care for.

"He was drunk," she reminded, lifting a corner of the towel off his cheek, only to see blood filling the gash again. "And I don't need you to protect me."

"I didn't think he was gonna attack me with a broken bottle," Drew mumbled.

"You don't think," Karen agreed bitterly. "This is gonna need stitches."

"I'm not going to the hospital!"

"Oh my God, I know!" Karen yelled back. "Hold this," she said, referring to the towel. "I'll be right back."

She left the bathroom, and crossed the studio apartment to the 'kitchen'. From a drawer next to the fridge, she fished out a needle and spool of thread. She then pulled a handle of vodka from the freezer and returned to the bathroom.

"Get in the tub," she ordered.

Drew hesitated. "Wait. What? Why?"

"Get in the tub," Karen repeated, brandishing the bottle.

Slowly, Drew stood up, stepped into the tub and sat down.

"Gimme the towel," Karen said.

Drew obeyed and she doused it with a couple splashes of vodka. She turned the handle on him and poured a small amount onto the wound. Drew winced, eying the needle and thread she had placed on the lip of the sink.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Unless you wanna go the hospital."

Drew pursed his lips together, and Karen poured some more alcohol over her tools. She handed the bottle to him, and he took a swig and grimaced. Needed cranberry juice, he thought.

Karen finished prepping her needle and thread, and gently pushed Drew into the incline of the tub's frame. Gently resting her wrist against the apple of his cheek, she asked, "Ready?"

Drew set his jaw and she made the first loop, delicately tugging the edges of skin back together. After a few more stitches and gulps of booze, the discomfort became fuzzy and distant.

As Karen pulled and knotted the thread through his cheek, Drew thought about the thug who had dragged the broken edge of glass across his face. He hated him. How dare he. He thought about the group of 'friends' that had laughed at him several weeks ago while he was still enrolled at MIST. He hated them. How dare they. They would be sorry.

One day.

He thought about Karen – the one person who had not hurt or shunned him. Currently, she was whom he trusted most. He had told her the humiliating events that had led to his decision to drop out of college. He had shared with her the misery of his childhood, the despair of no father figure, an overbearing mother, and no real friends. He had opened up to her about all the injustices he felt he had suffered. He had trusted her with the dregs that bogged him down. He had even trusted her to relieve him of his virginity.

Vaguely, Drew realized Karen was nearing the end of her work. She pulled the needle through his cheek once more – grimacing all the way – and knotted the thread. She retrieved two wayward Band-Aids from the medicine cabinet, and covered the stitches. She grabbed the vodka handle from him, stood, and asked, "Does it feel okay?"

Slowly, Drew's eyes slid up to focus on her face and nodded. Karen turned and left the bathroom, booze, thread, and needle in hand. Drew slowly clambered out of the tub and rose to his feet. He peered into the mirror, scowling at the bandages bisecting his cheek. The skin around them was a rosy red and visibly puffy. Drew brought the tips of his fingers to the injury, and winced at the slight pressure.

Perfect. Just perfect.

He exited the bathroom, leaving his glasses on the tank of the toilet. He walked up to Karen,as she slipped the vodka back in the freezer. She turned to face him, and he lifted his arms, pulling her into his chest.

"Thank you," he mumbled into the top of her head.

Karen sighed resignedly, and wound her arms around his torso. "You're welcome."

A moment passed, and Drew asked, "Aren't you going to thank me for protecting your honor?"

Karen scoffed. "Please."

She lifted her head off his chest and pressed her lips against his. "You got shanked in the face by a drunk with a beer bott – "

Drew quieted Karen by kissing her fully on the mouth. He brought his hand to the back of her neck, tilting her head back further.

Unwilling to fight – and actually enjoying his command – Karen went heavy in his arms, leaning into him, slipping her tongue into his mouth. When she had gotten involved with an older man, she hadn't expected to be the more experienced of the two.

Granted, she was more experienced than most girls her age.

Karen had her 'cherry popped' on her fourteenth birthday, and had quite a few partners since then. All roughly her age – Drew was her oldest at four years her senior, and she had been (frankly) floored to discover he was a full-blown virgin. Didn't all college guys do is drink and have sex? Apparently not. Despite his naiveté, she liked him. And he had agreed to help her hide away from her parents on this most recent escape attempt.

Drew pulled her closer to him, his hand sliding down the length of her spine; while the other wound itself into her dark brown hair. Karen felt her form mold against his, as if they were fusing together. Noticing the increasingly rigid shape in his jeans against her, she sighed into another deep kiss. Her mouth was beginning to tingle with heat. Delicately, she stepped onto he tops of his bare feet, and she felt his lips smile against hers, and small laugh bubbled at back of his throat – a sound that traveled through her lips, tongue, and down to her chest. Holding her a little more tightly, Drew waddled in a penguin-like fashion over to the mattress that lay against the far wall. His toes tapped the edge of the bed, and Karen rocked backwards, toppling both of them over onto the blankets.

Ronan sat on the sill of one of the bunker's few windows. Not that there was a whole lot to see at this angle; mainly trees and rocks, and some sky if you craned your head way back and pressed your cheek against the dirty glass. Regardless, it still served its purpose, letting faint rays of light stream through into the moist 12x12 dirt-floor room.

Like the rest of her crew, the Red Palms had provided her a dry change of clothes, and she and Karen were directed to this room to change. Peeling off her damp jeans, she reached into the back pocket and pulled out the now crumpled and useless pack of cigarettes. She groaned quietly at the back of her throat, and tossed them into the dark corner.

"You really shouldn't smoke anyway," Karen said, noticing this. She pulled the gray shirt over her head, and ran her fingers through her wet hair. "Maybe use this as an opportunity to finally quit. Oh, hey – "

Karen stopped, seeing that a couple of the stitches on Ronan's cheek had become untied as she roughly pulled her own shirt over her frame.

"Shit," Ronan blurted, feeling the tug and the slow trickle of blood down her cheek. She pressed the tips of her fingers to the opening.

Karen came over and gently pulled her daughter's hand away, and was jolted with the sudden sense of déjà vu.

"Fetch, or whatever his name is, said something about the woman being a doctor. There's probably some needle and thread around here somewhere," Karen said, allowing Ronan's fingers to recover the agitated cut.

"You're gonna play nurse?" Ronan asked, irritably disbelieving.

"I've done it before," came the response as her mother reached for the door. She opened it to find the massive figure of Rigby blocking the frame.

She jumped, and he said, "Sorry," grinning bashfully.

He stepped aside to let Karen through. Before she disappeared from sight, she asked, "Er – the doctor. Would you mind telling me where she is? She has a cut," Karen explained, gesturing to her daughter.

Rigby gave her directions on where to find Abi, and Karen headed away. After she was gone, he looked back into the room where Ronan was eying him distrustfully.

"You're hurt?" he asked, stepping into the room.

"Preexisting injury," Ronan explained hesitantly. "Although, being thrown around like a fucking ragdoll probably didn't help."

Rigby's smile wavered for a moment. "Apologies. My uncle prefers an 'act now, ask later' approach. It's how I was taught."

Ronan squinted at him, adjusting her hand. "Fetch?"

Rigby nodded. "So, how did you hurt yourself?"

"I didn't. Cutting's crazy hench lady shanked me with fine china."

"Ah," Rigby sighed, scratching the back of his neck. "So that's what Anya has been up to: marring lovely ladies' faces."

Ronan felt her stomach dip and her ears flush. 'Lovely' was not an adjective often associated with her mostly androgynous appearance. She pulled her lips together and looked away from him, the compliment making her feel self-conscious and dizzy. Her eyes flitted to the damp, useless pack of cigarettes in the corner. Rigby noticed and his eyes followed.

"You smoke?"

"Y-yeah," Ronan uneasily responded.

Rigby nodded. "I should be getting back. I was wanting to apologize for earlier, and make sure you were alright."

He turned to leave, and Ronan said, "Thanks."

He glanced over his broad shoulder at her and smiled. The corners of Ronan's lips briefly ticked up.

When asked about the boulders that had sunk their vessel, Fetch took Rooke, Kim and Ron to the very top of his hideaway. It seemed that the bunker not only sat in the heart of the mountain, but also delved down into its belly and up to its precipice. There were a series of connecting battlements crisscrossing near the top of the small mountain. From afar they would just blend into the rest of the mountain face. Fetch took the three to the north side. One could see the Yyr Darya weaving through the hills some miles to their left. Between that and the bunker, there was an ashy white sweep of rock cutting the terrain.

"It's an abandoned quarry," Fetch explained. "There are a series of trebuchets in there that we've built over the years. There are left over pulley systems and runaways that make loading them fairly easy."

Ron frowned. "As if the dead bunnies were omnious enough."

Fetch eyed the young man and woman, calmly bemused. "You think it in poor taste?"

"To have thousands of decaying rabbits strung up like Christmas tree lights? Uh, yeah, little morbid," Kim responded.

"Come with me," Fetch said suddenly, turning on his heel and walking back the way they had come.

He led them round to the west side of the mountain. They climbed a steep flight of stairs that had been crudely etched into the rock face, coming onto a high turret. Fetch pulled a small pair of binoculars from his vest pocket and handed them to Kim.

"Look Northwest," he said, pointing in the direction. "You should see a large wall, perhaps even the actual Gate. Do you see it?"

Kim brought the binos to her eyes and followed his directions. "Yeah, I see it."

Several miles out in the distance, once the mountains had relaxed, there was a tall concrete wall snaking through the landscape. Further – perhaps five miles down the length of the wall – Kim could just make out what looked to be an ancient brick tower. However, she did not find that to be as interesting as what was strung between the turrets of the wall. The sight was so surprising; she pulled her eyes away from the eyepiece, blinked, and brought the binos back up to her face. Every quarter mile on the wall, a turret sprouted up; between these small towers thick cables were strung, connecting them. At certain points the cable was punctuated by a hanging figure.

"Are those –" Kim gasped, the words sticking in her throat.

She asked, although she already knew the answer. They were people. It was too far to see whether they were men or women, age, or assess stage of decay. Her stomach gave an uneasy flip and her skin went cold.

"They are all along the wall," Fetch explained. Kim handed the binoculars to Ron and he had a look. "They are associates of ours, internal opponents to the Anarchists, and anyone else Cutting or Kourash has felt in anyway threatens what he has turned Leiriakkesh into."

"Kourash?"

"He is more or less second in command in Leiriakkesh. As you know, Cutting has other . . . endeavors; Kourash oversees the Anarchists. I'm sure you'll meet him at some point."

"How did you come by the Rabbit anyway?" Rooke asked suddenly.

"He and three others were taking a midday jaunt through the Dujan Forest. Not an accident, as I'm sure you know," Fetch looked at Rooke meaningfully. "They were meant to distract us."

"From?" Ron asked.

"Vrishkov's transport into the Territory. We expected it, of course. However, much of Leiriakkesh's interior is foreign to us. We needed . . . a guide."

"And what has he shared?" Rooke inquired.

"That Vrishkov has probably been sent to the infirmary south of former Khujand. As I understand it, he got injured at that mess in Chernobyl – "

"Then why send him here?" Kim spoke up. "I can't imagine there being super great medical care in a province run by a megalomaniac and a bunch of outlaws."

"Overall, you are right," Fetch admitted. "However, Leiriakkesh has one resource at its disposal not privy to the rest of the world."

There was a lengthy pause here, and finally Kim said, "You gonna share?"

"Tribulus autem sanguis," Rooke answered. "Red Thistle."

"It's native and inclusive to this region," Fetch added on. "It grows no where else in the world. It can be used for an array of different medicinal purposes. Depending on what part of the plant you use and how you 'prepare' it, it yields different results. You may already know of it, actually, whether you realize it or not," he said this suddenly, as if it just occurred to him. "The seeds deep within the plant can be used to act as a powerful barbiturate. Prepared correctly, it induces the user into a death-like coma. Some scholars believe that its what Friar Laurence gave to Juliet in Shakespeare's play."

"So what about Vrishkov?" Kim diverted. She didn't care for a literary lesson. "Was he transported to the hospital? Do you know?"

"We won't know for certain until we go."

"You believe the Rabbit?" Rooke asked incredulously.

"What would you like me to believe? What choice do we have at this point?"

"Why is he in the basement if you believe him?" Kim quickly cut in, looking meaningfully to Fetch.

The Red Palm leader didn't verbally respond, but she saw his thin cheek tick.

Karen found Abi finishing her attention to Flannary. Margo, and the man introduced as Victor were present as well. The old man was reclined in what looked like a worn, leather barber's chair. He looked tired, but fine. She covered him with a thin blanket; Seamus sat at his side, running the blade of hunting knife along a flint. The even tone of the metal coursing across the rock was oddly soothing.

Margo noticed Karen first. "Everything alright?"

"Er – Ronan's stitches opened up. She's bleeding."

"I can help with that," Abi offered, tucking a warn blanket over the Scotsman. "Just let me get my tools. Why don't you get her, and meet me in the common room. It has the best light."

"Oh. Okay," Karen murmured, her unease plainly evident.

"I can take you."

It was the first time Viktor had spoken - at least in Karen's presence. His voice was low, even, and reassuring. It brought ease and comfort into her taut body, and she felt her muscles relax.

They got Ronan from their room, and Viktor showed them to the bunker's 'common room': a large, cool space with big, squashed rectangular windows high up its walls. A few large tables were placed haphazardly, holding everything from maps and stained papers, to various weapons, to cracked plates with remnants of food left on them. When the three arrived, Fetch, Rooke, Derek, and Sutton were pouring over a large, yellowed map. Angela had scrambled her way onto the ledge of one of the windows, and was scoping the terrain.

"What happened?" Sutton asked, noticing that Ronan was clutching her left eye again.

"My stitches came undone," she explained sitting down heavily.

No sooner had she said it, did Abi come sailing into the room with a leather bag. She was shortly followed by Margo, Shego, and Drakken.

"How's Flannary?" Rookie asked.

"Fine. Sleeping, actually. It's been a long day," Margo replied.

"That is an understatement," Shego grumbled, flopping into a rickety wood chair. There was a loud creak, and one of the chair legs snapped. Shego yelped, only to be securely snatched up by a lightening quick vine from Drakken. The Palms in the room stared, uncertain of how to react. Drakken was still bewildered by their ability to engage so quickly, even when he barely had time to register what was happening around him.

"Smooth," Derek whistled, and the shock was let out of the room. Drakken cleared his throat awkwardly, and set Shego back on her feet.

Abi stared at the doctor and Shego a moment longer before turning her attention back to her medical bag. She fished out surgical thread, a needle, medical scissors, and a spray bottle. She pulled a tall stool up to Ronan and said, "Let me see."

Ronan removed her hand and Abi looked the wound over. She had enough bedside manner and sense to not make a comment about Drakken's similar mark. She used the scissors to cut the remaining thread, and wiped away the accumulating blood.

"This is a local anesthetic spray," Abi explained quietly, taking the small bottle and spritzing a little medicine over the wound. While Abi deftly worked Ronan's stitches together, Rooke recounted their journey thus far: from the recruitment of Kim, Ron, Drakken and Shego, to the attack on Chernobyl, the deviation to Go City, the reveal of Minka Carlisle's true identity, the shut down of Global Justice, to the fight at the Bermuda Triangle. Fetch listened carefully, his blue eyes not blinking once throughout Rooke's tale.

"Why would Cutting care about Go City?" voiced Viktor in an even, monotonous tone that was barely question.

"Originally, I believe he became interested in its team of super heroes, who came by their powers intergalactically."

"Pretty sure he's still interested," Shego growled.

"Why?"

"Because my mom is from here."

Silence. Abi, who was nearly finished with Ronan's stitches, turned to face the rest of the room. "You're mother is one of the eleven refugees?"

Shego bristled for reasons she wasn't completely sure of. "Yes," she said crossly.

Abi looked the Viktor, and whispered something, her eyes gleaming. She finished the stitched across Ronan's cheek, and dabbed the wound with some anti-bacterial ointment.

"Looks like she did a better job then I did," Karen said in a hushed tone to Drakken. "Of course, she's a doctor." She looked up at her ex, and grinned.

Keeping his expression neutral, Drakken, again, cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes. He sensed Shego's eyes on him, and almost feel the animosity radiating off of her. He really didn't think Karen would bring that up, he really wished she hadn't alluded to it. Feigning aloofness, he began to fiddle with the small cylindrical light looped around his neck.

"Where's Possible and Stoppable?" Angela suddenly chirped from her perch.

"Probably putting their noses where they don't belong," Ronan sighed, getting up from her seat.

"It is what they do," Drakken agreed, trying to shake away the uneasiness he was currently sandwiched between. He was still flipping the electric bauble between his fingers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shego looking at him coolly.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

"There's someone who will want to meet you," Abi said suddenly, collecting her tools and placing them in her medical bag.

It took Shego a second before she realized the woman was referring to her. "Me?"

"Kim, I don't think this is a good idea," Ron hoarsely whispered.

The teen hero ignored her boyfriend's worries while she worked at the lock to the door. What she wouldn't give for any of Wade's gadgets at that moment. Manually picking locks was time consuming and frustrating work. As the young inventor entered her thoughts, Kim's heart double-tapped. How was he? How was the rest of Middleton?

She was reminded why she was there.

The lock finally gave with a satisfying click, and the she eked the door open.

"Let's go."

Kim and Ron carefully descended the gloomy well. When they reached the bottom, Ron pawed the wall a couple times before finding a light switch. For the second time that day, the sickly yellow bulb flickered to life.

The Rabbit lifted his head off of his chest to see who it was. He recognized the girl; she had been in the reactor at Chernobyl. She had tried to interfere with Vrishkov. He had shot her on impulse. The boy looked less familiar.

Kim stepped forward and knelt next to him. After a moment, she pulled the rag from his mouth, letting it hang around his neck like a piece of jewelry. She thought briefly about unbinding his wrists, but decided that would be too unwise.

"I'm Kim. What's your name?" Kim finally began with after several uneasy seconds.

The Rabbit looked at her guardedly. Fetch had asked him the same thing he didn't know how many days ago, and he'd been knocked out and beaten. Why answer now?

"I think it's only fair," Kim egged when he didn't respond. "I'd personally like to know the name of the guy who shot me."

Ron, who stood behind her, stiffened. He knew this was the guy from Chernobyl- he had overheard Ronan earlier. However, being reminded that the man before them had put Kim's life in very real danger made him flush with subdued anger.

The Rabbit weakly smiled. He sighed, and leaned his head back against the post, shutting his eyes.

"Don't take it personally," he finally said in dry, cracked voice. "It was business. You spooked me. I did it on instinct, really. You're quick," he commented. "You seem fine."

"Not quick enough, apparently." Kim snipped, taking note of the vague southern accent in his voice. "My vest was rendered useless afterwards."

"Then it did its job," The Rabbit said, shrugging the best he could with bound hands. His eyes slipped over Kim's shoulder to Ron, and back to Kim. "Again: business."

Kim grimaced. "Okay, Businessman, gotta name?"

The request was met with silence. Kim frowned. After a beat, she rocked back onto her sit bones and hugged her knees to her chest, eying The Rabbit curiously. Her skin didn't prickle with goose bumps and her stomach wasn't uneasy. Her gut told her this guy was not a villain at heart. "Fetch said that you gave them information on Vrishkov. That he's been sent to some hospital up north. Is that true?"

"Most likely," the answer came belatedly.

"Most likely?" Ron repeated, unconvinced.

The Rabbit fixed his gaze past Kim's shoulder, up to the boy. "What makes you think Cutting is honest with me or anyone else? That's all I know."

"Fetch doesn't seem to believe you either," said Kim. "Why would he keep you down here if he did?"

The Rabbit glared at her. "I told him what I know. What I know as the truth, because that's what Cutting told me. Is it the truth in the grand scheme of things? I dunno. But I told Fetch anyway. I squealed, and he had two of his men beat me and tie me up down here. I get food and water once a day . . . what day is it?"

Kim stared at him. "I dunno," she turned back to Ron, and he shook his head. Time had become meaningless in terms of dates over the past . . . however many days it had been since the invasion.

"How badly is he hurt?"

"Vrishkov? Badly," The Rabbit said significantly.

Kim quieted then, questions floating in her head. "This infirmary, how do we get to it?"

The Rabbit shifted. "I'm not sure. Of the few times I've been to Lieriakkesh, I've only ever been in Tzikastan, right inside the Gate of Baboul. I don't know the lay of the land."

Kim was fairly certain that 'The Gate of Baboul' was the ancient stone structure she'd seen through Fetch's binoculars earlier that day. "How do we get to him then?" she wondered aloud.

The Rabbit smiled wryly, "You'll need a Fixer."

"A what?" questioned Ron, cocking his head to one side like he was a shaggy blond puppy.

"A Fixer," The Rabbit repeated. "Someone on the inside who knows how to get done what needs to get done. Someone who knows the language, the land, and, ideally, the enemy."

"So we need a Leirian," Kim said. "Born and raised."

"It would be helpful."

Kim sighed, and closed her eyes, thinking. She wished she had access to Wade. "I don't suppose you know anyone."

The Rabbits lengthy pause was unexpected and telling. Kim perked up.

"You do, don't you?"

The Rabbit grimaced, and murmured. "It's not so much any one person. The students; this new crop of young people trying to reawaken the revolution. They would know."

"Where are they? Do they have a base or something?"

"That I don't know," he said hurriedly. "Probably not. Any localization on their part would make them easier targets for the Anarchists."

Kim turned to look at Ron. "What do you think?"

Ron's eyes briefly widened in surprise; his features softened, and he shrugged. "It's not like we have a whole lot else . . . as far as we know."

Kim turned back to The Rabbit. "Thanks. I think that'll be more help than you realize." She smiled at him, and he returned it with a cold, unsure glance. Kim bit her lower lip and added, "Is there something I can get you?"

The Rabbit looked at her, aghast. What could she possibly get him? His freedom from this basement? Hah! Laughable . . .

As the silence grew, Kim's face fell, and she got up, wiping off her pants. She turned to leave, and a desperate quake came over him. What could she do for him? Maybe not untie him, but surely there was something else he wanted . . .Yes there was.

"You can get a hold of people, right?" he blurted out. Both teens turned sharply to look at him, spooked by the sudden outburst.

"Yes," Kim answered slowly, turning back to him. "It's part of my thing."

The Rabbit looked sorrowfully up to her. "My name is Jonathan Rain Nichols. I'm from Token, West Virginia. My grandmother is in a nearby nursing home. She's not well. I haven't been able to see or talk to her since right after the invasion. I want to know that she's alright."

Kim's mouth opened half way, and she stopped. She really couldn't remember ever seeing such a desperate look. "What's her name?"

"Edith Lee Nichols. She's in a place called Spring Creek. It's in Grafton, West Virginia."

"Ok," Kim confirmed. "Got it. I can't promise I'll get that information today. Or tomorrow. But when I do, I'll let you know."

JR looked at her, disbelieving. "You're sure you can get that information? No matter what?"

A small, gleeful grin pulled at Kim's lips, and she said, "I can do anything."

Kim and Ron left the dim light on for JR. Ron shut the door and carefully looped the lock back on.

"I gotta see if Angie can get a hold of Wade," Kim muttered. Her expression had hardened considerably during the brief ascension from the basement.

"What's up?" Ron warily asked.

Kim chewed her bottom lip for a moment, before saying, "He shouldn't be down there. We need to talk to Fetch."

Ronan was walking back to her and her mother's quarters, intent on closing her eyes for a moment. She was exhausted, her body ached, and the left side of her face felt hot and itchy. Fetch had mentioned in the common that the Texan - Alec or whatever the fuck his name was - was out hunting whatever it was they were to eat for supper. At this point Ronan really didn't care to eat. Just sleep. Or smoke, but since her last pack had been destroyed that wasn't really an option.

"Ronan." Ronan jumped slightly as her name was called out. She turned to see Rigby at the back end of the hallway. He smiled, and flicked his wrist in a 'come here' fashion, "I have something for you."

Ronan straightened up, eying Rigby uncertainly. Her fingers flexed slowly at her sides. "What?"

"I have to show you outside."

Ronan's mouth quirked, and she turned fully and followed him. Rigby led her up a winding stone staircase that eventually opened onto the mountain's face. The day had turned overcast, and as early evening approached the temperature was beginning to dip. Rigby climbed onto a large boulder, and, without so much as a second thought, hauled Ronan up to his side. Ronan felt her stomach flutter and face flush. She was a little irritated that he hadn't even bothered to ask if she needed help . . .

"Well?" Ronan droned.

Rigby reached into his sweater pocket and pulled out a . . . silver cigarette case.

"Abi doesn't want smoking in the bunker. Health reasons," he explained, opening the case. On one side there was a neat row of thin, white rolls of paper. "I make them myself. Obviously, we don't have a store near by we can just pop into."

He pulled two out, and handed one to Ronan. She took it up carefully, and took a couple sniffs along its seam. "Smells good."

Rigby grinned, sticking his cigarette between his lips, and removing the small book of matches that was nestled in the other half of the case. He struck a match, lit Ronan's cigarette, then his own. He extinguished the small flame with him thumb and index finger. The pair sat in comfortable silence, watching the expanse of trees in front of them. Rigby leaned back onto his elbows, sprawling out; Ronan remained crossed legged, her chin resting in her hand. A cool breeze wafted around them, and Rigby noticed how Ronan's shoulders tucked up to her ears. He wasn't really surprised; she was little more than skin, bone, and a few strips of sinewy muscle.

"Would you like my sweater?" he asked.

"Er - sure," Ronan uneasily answered.

Rigby perched his cigarette on a stone, and pulled the knit sweater over his head. Ronan thank him quietly, and he gently took the cigarette from her lips as she drew the too-large top over her body. She rolled up the sleeves a few times, and took her cigarette back. The sweater was warm from his body, and she noticed it smelled like leaves and campfires. It made her feel squirmy and comfy all at once. She needed to somehow tourniquet the flood of woozy feelings . . .

"What kind of name is 'Rigby' anyway?"

A gentle, hoarse chuckled rippled at the back of his throat. "It's a nickname. My real name is Cassius."

"How the fuck do you get 'Rigby' from 'Cassius'?"

Rigby sat up and the pair began to talk. It was easy and effortless. By the time their cigarettes were dwindling, they saw Alec below them trudging back to the bunker with what looked like two wild turkeys slung across his back.

A/N: Please review.