Kowalski knocked three times on the door of his superior's office. No answer. This wasn't strange to Van Dorn, as he knew Skipper had gone out to lunch with his fiancée some time ago. He'd have thought Kowalski would have known that too. The second in command knocked once more before turning the handle and pushing the door open. He shut it quietly but firmly behind him and strode confidently over to the desk. He shuffled through some papers, examining each one briefly before discarding it. On one, however, his attention held long enough for Van Dorn to make out a couple of lines:

"…I don't disagree with you, we're out of the Department's control now," It seemed to be some kind of letter; typed, though with Skipper's unmistakable signature on the bottom, "Still, the request to break with Rockgut is denied. We've got a half decent operation running and I don't want to lose that. Anyway, I don't know what kind of contingencies he put in which could possibly have a chance of stopping the Penguins. I think we can string it out a few years. With his reputation at stake he's unlikely to do anything…"

Kowalski folded the memorandum neatly and placed it in his briefcase. An unfinished letter addressed to himself seemed an unusual thing to take but the ex-agent resolved this quickly. Skipper had probably told him to pick up the letter from the desk to save him time. Kowalski left the room as he'd come with absolutely nothing suspicious about it.

Seeing Blowhole Jr.'s predicament – albeit entirely scripted – gave Van Dorn a new appreciation for Skipper's artistry at creating this whole falsified decent into corruption. The kid had to know he'd been watching him since he'd gotten Kowalski's plans and there were few places out of range of his network. To remain in character for so long and to execute stunts that would usually take one of those Hollywood special effects people, like Private's railway accident, was impressive. The problem was the very same one that had unmasked the original Skipper to his first criminal employers: namely that there were no bodies despite heavy casualties. Corpses don't just get up and walk out of the morgue never to be seen again unless they're actually very alive.

Then there was the planning. They'd have had to plan and communicate every intricate detail with unfailing accuracy while he was watching the whole time, something he still didn't know how they did but he'd work it out.

"Damm't, 'elga, don'…!" Rico's voice exclaimed followed by the sound of a shot. Van Dorn's attention was automatically drawn to another monitor. The scene was situated partially in one of his few blind spots though he could see what was going on just fine. Rico was stood facing someone at the door of the lab, weapon in hand. He ran towards the lab door that Van Dorn had heard open and shut and his eyes moved to another feed where Helga Bluestone, already in bad shape but now clutching a gunshot wound in her shoulder – more theatrics no doubt – stumbled into the hallway, her eyes like that of a hunted animal.

He saw her muster some strength and duck into a corridor before Rico could spot her as he stepped out of the lab. Rico glanced around, the disinterested slump of his shoulders telling the watcher he was doing this more out of the need to follow protocol than care over what happened to Helga, then pocketed the gun and started going through the motions of looking. Skipper would later spend a good fifteen minutes lecturing him over this breach of security and Kowalski would make various threats against him after having lost his beloved test subject mid experiment until Skipper promised he could have another one if it would shut him up.

The drama over, the vaguely interested agent returned to his close watch on Blowhole who was attempting to message one of his Red Ones that he needed more film and somebody to collect the old film for development and analysis.

"I don't want a substitute I want Thompson!" Blowhole ordered into the short wave radio. For obvious reasons he couldn't use an ordinary telephone and he kept his voice so low Van Dorn could barely hear him though ordinarily he'd be shouting at this point, "Why not Doyle? Because he's taking home 28.665% more than he should be making. I can't take the chance that extra money is coming from..." he caught himself about to say Kowalski. The conversation up until now was still arguably innocent save for that, "Rockgut." Good call, "Anyway, I don't care if he has pneumonia…" he stiffened at the sound of footsteps in the hallway and his volume dropped further, "he'll switch the briefcases at the bus station, develop the film inside and make sure the extra film's in the case I get…"

"What?! I can't hear ya!" The radio crackled loudly in a thick Brooklyn accent. Blowhole winced.

"Keep it down, would you? I'm in enemy territory," unforgivable slip up, he was lucky Kowalski hadn't walked in, "Keep all this to yourself, otherwise that pot of hydrochloric acid I keep in the basement…" his groundless threat died on his lips as his eyes locked on a few drops of red on the floor. It was more blood than would come from a paper cut and Blowhole automatically knew whose it was. He muttered something sympathetic, getting on hands and knees to take a sample which he placed in a relatively hidden pocket in his jacket, "Stand by to accept a delivery from Marion." He ordered before ending the conversation.

Blowhole ran almost half the way up the stairs to Kowalski's office and was panting when he finally pushed the door open. It certainly looked conspicuous, but every moment he held that blood sample – at the same time as his more recent negatives – he might as well have a time bomb in his pocket. He walked over to a small table in the corner on which a dome shaped object with a cloth over it perched next to a typewriter where it looked like Kowalski was doing corrections on a letter. He whipped the cloth off the dome to reveal a small bird cage where Marion waited.

Marion was a carrier pigeon whose career's heyday had been during the restoration of Consolidated Amalgamated during which she'd been used to ferry messages between the two sweethearts. The supposedly 'mad' scientist carefully removed her from her cage to attach the small sample to her leg. He considered adding the negatives too, but that would be a bit much. He opened a window and the strong winds that came with the altitude blew some of the papers on the desk to the floor and pulled at the sheet of paper in the typewriter enough to tear it slightly. He began to move his hand to allow Marion to fly off into the sunset.

The door at the other side of the room opened and a familiar shadow extended from the door.

"You're back early!" Was all Blowhole could manage, though his unusually high voice was noticeably higher still with surprise.

"Crisis back here, Skipper called me back," Kowalski replied as Blowhole remained frozen at the window, "What's wrong with the post?"

"Oh," He stuttered, shutting the window on impulse but automatically regretting not having let Marion fly, "I thought she might like some exercise."

"Well she wouldn't do much good since she's not Marion. Lizzie's been trained to go somewhere else now. What brings you here?" Kowalski asked, "I thought you don't like the office."

"I left a book behind." Blowhole replied hurriedly trying to tactically edge his way to the door before remembering to pocket the sample and return 'Lizzie' to her cage.

"You shouldn't leave stuff behind, Skipper might identify it. Where is it?"

"Well, I just realized I hadn't left it here." Kowalski frowned with concern and Blowhole's internal organs seemed to rearrange themselves. He wasn't used to 'field work' as Kowalski called it and he certainly didn't like it.

Blowhole was so wrapped up in debating his own fears that he didn't notice Kowalski was now stood directly opposite him until his hand grasped his. A slight shiver betrayed his mood, though it was cleverly disguised. His eyes seemed to briefly develop a surprisingly wistful quality, as if remembering a Kowalski before the Penguins. Van Dorn had to say the way Kowalski held the other man's hand was different from before. The gesture seemed to express his ownership, the grip controlled Blowhole's every move.

"You seem so on edge these days." Kowalski observed, a kind of half smile to his expression and a smooth note in his voice that made even Van Dorn uncomfortable though he wasn't there. Kowalski's eyes gave Blowhole a once over, "'s a lot to adjust to, isn't it?"

"Well, wasn't understanding inertia in first grade?" the other scientist replied in a dry laugh. Kowalski's intense gaze which had previously held him under a microscope disappeared.

"That reminds me?" He grinned as if it was just any old breakthrough, "I've got something to show you in the lab."

His hand caressed his neck, the grip almost stifling as his lips pulled away. Chasm like blue eyes smiled into Blowhole's, but it was nothing reassuring. The movements froze and Van Dorn could see it took every fibre of courage – and common sense – in Blowhole's mind not to just run. He'd tried to get rid of the sample along the way but he hadn't found the nerve to slip it under the door of an empty conference room of into one of the many files in the lab. But he had to seem perfectly fine and keep his hand well away from his pocket.

"You're so nervous all the time," the criminal's silver tongue reported. The hand not on his neck brushed his cheek but it was almost a gesture one would use on a pet. Van Dorn knew the difference, as did Blowhole. Kowalski stepped closer, his well-toned chest almost crushing Blowhole against the lab work surface that dug into his back. Blowhole exhaled shakily.

"Well, you know." He half stuttered. Van Dorn's hand reached instinctively for the phone; his only connection to the outside world but he stopped himself. He wanted to do something. It had to be all staged still part of him could feel the air of menace that blanketed the room on the screen and he couldn't stand it. But there was nothing he could do but watch unless he was going to fall into Skipper's trap.

"Of course I understand." Kowalski whispered with a more genuine smile that eased Blowhole's and Van Dorn's nerves. He reassured himself that the cold glint in the Penguin's eye had been his imagination. Blowhole's hand moved to run along Kowalski's chest, at the same time attempting to free the other one caught between his mid back and the work surface, returning the embrace. In a blur Kowalski's other hand left his cheek and held it down. Blowhole supressed a wince as the love of his life's fingers clamped over his wrist, "You're nervous about whether I'm going to find those treacherous negatives in your pocket."

Kowalski's hand was noticeably uncomfortable around his neck.

"Blowhole, Francis," the coroner's assistant reported broadly motioning to the cadaver. 'Detective Allen Smith' nodded, "Died of strangulation – some kind of accident with some lab equipment."

"There's finger marks." Van Dorn countered.

"Well ya never know what's supposed to be in that lab, maybe he got in a fight with a robot or something." The white coated man replied though it was clear from his look that he didn't believe a word of the explanation he'd tell the higher ups. Van Dorn grimaced. He'd seen the whole thing in colour and sound. But almost like in a play where the movements were choreographed so Blowhole could have gotten a breath in between without Van Dorn seeing it. Coincidence or more likely, something more. Well this time he could know for sure.

"I see there's been no autopsy." He commented.

"Nah, next of kin, Doris Blowhole, said no."

"Doris Blowhole's been dead over ten years."

"Yeah well, it wasn't a crime, just an accident and some influential people were backing it up."

"Interesting. Would you do me a favour?"

"Anything for the Skipper." A grin of recognition spread across the technician's face, "All of us old timers are rooting for you, y'know."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Van Dorn replied with a contradictory smile. Well, it was nice to know at least some people understood what he was doing, "Anyway, I need a blood sample."

"Sure, I got a bunch…" the assistant coroner reached for one of a row of vials.

"No, I want my own sample." He countered. The technician nodded grimly but didn't stop him as he drew the blood, pocketing the sample. He checked the pulse out of habit but there was nothing. It would take a while to have it analysed back in Chicago but he couldn't trust anyone in New York. A pulse wasn't everything. He knew a toxin or two that would make Blowhole look as lifeless as he did.

"'s a dame, sapphire or something they brought in." The lab coated man stopped him as he left.

"Bluestone?"

"Yeah, Bluestone," Van Dorn had meant to catch up with her some time, "I figure you might wanna see her."

"I warned you, Johnny." The woman glared with dark fire in her eyes. Her shoulder was thoroughly bandaged and Van Dorn by his own inspection was quite sure that it was a real wound, "I said you'd gone too far and you did."

"Lady, you getting shot doesn't prove that they're going off the deep end," Van Dorn countered, "It just means they're desperate enough to prove that to me that they'd shoot you. You were standing about two meters away from Rico when he shot you? Since when do the Penguins aim for the heart and hit the shoulder at two meters?"

"He practically let me go; I think I startled him, that's why he shot me." She replied wearily, "Ironically enough I think he's the sanest of the three of them now, but he just does what Skipper and Kowalski say."

"Don't you mean what Skipper says?"

"Kowalski's got his own agenda going on behind Skipper's back. He's starting to hate Skipper, you know," She rubbed a suspicious looking trail of needle marks on her arm and he knew she was no drug addict. Evidence of the experiments, "He doesn't talk much when he's experimenting on you but I could tell." The quiet enjoyment Kowalski had seemed to glean from Blowhole's slowly weakening attempts to breathe flooded back to him with the bitterness of Helga's tone, "I don't expect to live long here. He's either going to take me back or he's gonna send someone to kill me. I hope he kills me." Van Dorn nodded.

"Get your coat, you're coming with me." he ordered.

"What?"

"You're coming with me but it's a bit of a trip so you're gonna want a coat." It made sense either way. If Kowalski really would come back for her on the off chance it was real… he didn't think he could watch it again. If the whole thing was faked Helga would obviously feel resentful against them for shooting her and sending her out wandering the streets half dazed and would so be the weakest link in the chain. He could use someone to talk to, anyway, "I'm gonna have you searched for tracers first, though."

"If it saves my neck." She shrugged.

"I don't understand why Skipper won't let me go anywhere by myself these days." Marlene thought aloud with a sigh. Kowalski shrugged.

"Go figure," He replied, for once not sprouting back a wordy explanation. Marlene seemed to pick up on this.

"It's no trouble, right?" She confirmed assuming his reluctance to speak was out of dislike for the assignment, "Especially just after…"

"Not at all. It's good to take my mind off the accident," He replied reassuring her with that warm kind of awkward smile. From homicidal maniac to friendly high school nerd, an actor acting the part of an actor.

"I mean, you've probably got more important things to be doing…"

"Making sure you're safe is pretty important, even if Skipper hadn't ordered me here." Kowalski corrected, "Anyway, Doris says I ought to get out more. So," he returned the conversation to topic, "where do you want to go?" the scientist removed his clip board from his bag to streamline and organise whatever plans Marlene would sprout back. Marlene grinned.

"Well…"

Marlene waved goodbye to the third enjoyable afternoon she'd spent with the nerdy but conversational scientist. She was in such a good mood she was humming as she tidied up the mess of papers and pieces of various weapons that Skipper had left on the dining room table the previous night. They were mostly bills and contracts and boring stuff from the sale of Consolidated Amalgamated, impatient reports to Rockgut and even more impatient cables back. Nothing much had changed, though Marlene still visited Lola every week for moral support.

One of the sheets of paper caught her eye. Helga thought it was the word Penguin, which had been carefully removed from all the other documents. She'd described to Van Dorn how Skipper was careful to make sure Marlene never saw anything that would hint at his real job. She'd seen Skipper with Marlene and she'd seen him at the office. As different as chalk and cheese, or Tony Knight and the first Skipper.

"I really disagree with you; we're out of the Department's control now." The type written memorandum that bore Skipper's signature read. Van Dorn was as puzzled as Marlene as he grabbed the verbatim notes he'd taken on the letter Kowalski had removed from the office. They were similar, but they didn't match up – even physically this one had a slight tear half way through - and it seemed to contradict Skipper's original views, "Still, the request to tell Rockgut is denied. We've got a half decent operation running and I don't want to lose that. There's no amount of contingencies he could have put in place that would have a chance of stopping the Penguins. I think we can string this out a few years. With his reputation at stake he's unlikely to do anything…"

Marlene turned pale and tossed the note back at the table as if it were poisoned. He could see her putting two and two together as she stared at it. She snatched it and read it through again but the text hadn't changed. She compared the signature to a check she'd seen Skipper sign that morning and she compared the type with a letter Skipper had sent her on his last international case. They both matched.

Van Dorn could see her go into a kind of frozen mode again. She'd walk in one direction, then turn back fretting. Who could she turn to? He could see her fear and betrayal start to turn to anger and horror as she realized just what that letter meant. There were no androids, no officially sanctioned mission and Private's death was probably more than just the field casualty she'd been lead to believe. What else was he keeping from her?

The shopping bag from her worry free day caught her eye and her face brightened. She made a dive for the phone and dialled the number of Consolidated Amalgamated. In seconds Kowalski replied in grim tones that he was sorry she'd seen what she'd seen and that he'd be over there as soon as he could think of an excuse for Skipper.