Disclaimer: I do not own these characters except by right of conquest.

Rating: Rated M for strong language, sex and violence.

Author notes:

Summary for this chapter: Remy 'faces with Moira's memory, and goes to visit Emma Frost.

slightlyxjaded - Glad you love it! And don't worry about Remy, he's usually good at taking care of himself! ;)PKS - That was just a fantastic review, and I'm so glad the chapter had you in such suspense! I do hope this continues to keep you on your toes, cos literally, sometimes I don't even know what's going to happen next in this! PS: enjoy tonight and hope this chapter keeps you happy if you don't! ;) ishandahalf - LOL! Glad you like Esse's writing skills. In my headcanon he went to Oxford, so he certainly knows how to write a letter, amongst other things! ;) And yes, Remy is in quite a dilemma right now - let's see how he deals with it. ;) Warrior-princess1980 - Oh yes. She is gonna be hella pissed. LEGNA - Thanks Legna! And I hope you're okay, dear. I haven't heard from you in a while! WhenInRomy - :( Your poor friend. I also have a friend who was in a similar position - it is indeed horrible. I'm glad your friend is now blessed with a little girl. The loss was indeed devastating for both Remy and Belle. But I can promise that him and Anna will find happiness ;) bustedflipflop - No pistol whipping, but Remy will certainly get what's coming to him. ;) Ana Xpert - HAHAHAHA! Yes, you got my little nod to you! There will probably be more! Just sayin'! ;) Spasticatt - You are so right about Dolores Umbridge - she was by far the villain in HP that disturbed me the most. The kind of villain that you actually meet in every day life. :/ Hold onto the thought of young Anna in someone else's memories... It might be prophetic. ;) RRL24 - I certainly think this is a turning point in Remy's feelings for Anna, even if it confuses him right now. xevg-x - Thanks so much for reviewing! It's so nice to hear from you again - it's definitely been a while! I hope you stick around for the rest of this! ;) jpraner - yeah, you know how I felt about this review. All I can say is, thank you for still beta-ing in retrospect(ish). Also, I will say, yes, they are both so distracted by the business side of their relationship to realise that this is something more. I think Anna, more than anything, is just too wrapped up in herself and her own pain... Remy is more ready to let go of his :) Guest - Yeah, I definitely think Remy's feelings are changing at this point, but I don't think he's fully cognizant of it... yet.

Okay, onto the story! Enjoy! :)

-Ludi x

- 52 PICKUP -

Chapter 26

Ophelia is gone.

It's only her and Emma, standing out on the balcony.

For a long while nothing is said, and all they hear is the sound of the city below them. It is near and yet so very far away.

"I can't believe this is happening…" she mutters. She stares down at the slip of paper in her hand. The code swims before her eyes, but she is in too much turmoil, too much distress, to commit it to memory just yet.

"Trust me," Emma speaks up in a level tone. "Nothing went wrong. Everything went as it was supposed to. Trask shouldn't have overreacted. He was a fool to unplug the Machine. He was a fool to pull this goddamned stunt!"

The final sentence is almost a hiss from between clenched teeth. Moira looks over at her with confusion.

"Emma, what the hell are you going on about?! Those girls' minds have been irreparably damaged by what happened yesterday! You, of all people, should be the one to understand that!"

Emma is staring down over the balcony. Her jaw is taut, her gaze angry.

"Tanya's mind was already damaged. Subject Zero… Well, it was damaged to some extent, but not irreparably so. She has… a strong mind. We were only trying to make it stronger."

It's almost as if she's talking to herself – but Moira hears the implication in the words loud and clear, even though she doesn't completely understand it. She glares over at her colleague.

"Emma, what the bloody hell did you do?" she asks with a growing sense of trepidation.

"Nothing!" Emma snaps back irritably. "Nothing that Essex didn't approve of first! The experiment worked exactly as it was supposed to! Subject Zero would have all her inhibitions wiped and essentially be a clean slate! The perfect subject for the project! Didn't you realise, Moira? How else did you think we were going to get to Phase Two, the perfect weapon?"

A cold realisation steals over her. On some level she realises she has been tricked. That Subject Zero has been tricked…

"Oh my God," she moans, dropping her face into her palm. "Oh my God oh my God oh my God. It wasn't a mistake…"

"It was only a mistake when that idiot Trask pulled the plug! And he'll never give up that fucking code to restart the Machine… It's gone, all gone. All we have left is Subject Zero…"

Subject Zero.

The words are a hollow echo in her ears. She feels nauseous with the knowledge of what has happened here the past few days. This is wrong… should never have happened… Every ethical code goes against it… In joining this project she's broken more than just a few and it's bothered her, but this… Destroying another person's memories… What has she done? What has she been a party to?

For a while the conversation is a disconnected jumble of words, the story of Anna's lost memories recounted in chopped up sentences and phrases that have no meaning. He strains to catch onto them, to finally understand the events that led up to their destruction, but he can't. When the memory finally becomes clear again, Moira is pacing the same square metre of balcony, her thoughts a chaotic whirl of anguish and horror.

"Calm down," Emma is saying, barely able to keep the irritation from her voice.

"Calm down?!" Moira stops and shrieks at her. "Calm down?! Do you understand what you've done?!"

"Perfectly." Emma's expression is stoic. "Moira... This is an experiment. Experiments fail all the time."

"Not like this!"

"I fail to see what the—"

"I have to go. I have to leave… I can't stay here anymore… Not now…"

She's pacing the same spot again, clutching at her hair. She can feel Emma's eyes on her, cold and penetrating.

"What – leave the Weapon X project?" she says. "You can't do that, not now, Moira. The project still needs you. And there still so many observations to conduct, so many tests to run now that we have our blank slate…"

She halts again, unable to believe that Emma is talking about this.

"My God. Don't you get it?! Believe it or not, I cared about those girls! Both of them! How on God's earth am I supposed to look either of them in the face now and tell them the truth?!"

Emma gives a disdainful snort.

"Simple. You don't tell them the truth. Ever. What purpose would it serve? In Weapon Zero's case, the whole point was to make her a blank slate. As for the Trask girl… who knows if she'll ever properly recover enough to even understand what happened?"

Moira shakes her head.

"God, Emma. It's not that…"

"Then what?"

She says nothing. It's the guilt, she thinks.

"God," she murmurs again, mostly to herself. She stares down at the paper Trask wrote for her, the numbers whirling before her eyes. "Maybe I should just destroy this. Maybe I should just stop this all, right now. If I get rid of my piece of the code, we'll never be able to restart the Machine again…"

She walks to the railing and is about to toss the paper, when Emma snaps a hand roughly over her wrist.

"Don't!"

"Why not?!"

"Because," Emma drags in an adrenaline-filled breath, "think about it. All the work you've put into this project. The amazing things we've done here. This is ground-breaking, Moira. World-changing. And until that Machine starts up again, until all our data is validated, no one will ever know what we've achieved here. Our careers… the boundaries we've pushed, the knowledge we've uncovered… They'll remain hidden, potentially forever, if you destroy that code."

Moira lowers her hand slightly, her mind suddenly filled with doubt.

"But—"

"We're geniuses, Moira," Emma persists. "Think of the things we could continue to do! This experiment was a failure – at least partially so. But Trask will come round. Soon, he'll realise what he's throwing away. And he'll come crawling back." She looks at Moira, her eyes wide and beseeching. "Would you throw away your data, Moira? Because if you toss that code, that's essentially what you'll be doing. Your work is some of the most important in this world right now – in history even. I'm begging you. Don't throw it away."

She drops her hand entirely and Emma lets her. She glances down at the paper in her fist and she feels suddenly hollow. Emma is right. She can't throw away her data. It's the only legacy she has. And it was good work. Noble work. At least at the beginning. It might still be used for good yet…

She turns away from the railings and walks slowly towards the French windows. She has a headache right between her eyes and she massages the bridge of her nose wearily.

"I need… I need to get out of here…" she mutters. "This has been too much for the last 48 hours… I need to sleep…"

"A good idea," Emma replies approvingly. "Get some sleep, put these events behind you. Things usually seem clearer after a good night's rest."

Moira half smiles at the platitude. She isn't sure anything will ever be clear again.

"I think… I think I might take a couple of days off… Just to wind down, y'know…" She opens the door and says: "Do tell Nathaniel for me, would you? I don't think I'm up to it right now…"

"All right," Emma says. "I will."

She leaves, and it's only when she's in the elevator down that she looks at the paper in her hand. Now the numbers are clear.

5763441281.

Poor wee lass, she thinks to herself.

Poor wee lass.

-oOo-

Remy removed the visor and set it aside slowly.

For a moment he sat there, riding out the sense of disorientation he always felt after a 'facing session.

It occurred to him that he'd never seen Anna go through the same effect – although it seemed to him that a little disorientation was about a hundred times better than the bleed effect, or a neural stutter.

After a minute had passed his senses had normalised. He glanced over at Anna and saw that she was still asleep, which was a good thing. He wrote her a quick note, and, after a moment of thought, left it on top of the interfacing machine.

Anna, I've gone to get Emma Frost's chip. Stay here. Wait til I come back. I won't be long.

He considered maintaining the charade, and putting Dr. MacTaggert's mem-chip back in her pocket where he'd found it. But it didn't seem right anymore, and he was tired of pretending to her on that point, so he left it loaded into the machine.

A few moments later, and he had shrugged on his jacket and left.

He marched down to his bike, speed dialling Essex on the way.

There was only one ring before the call was answered.

"LeBeau." Essex's voice was its usual cold, calm tenor, his accent less Boston than Oxford, soft and clear and almost unassuming, yet… it was a voice that could as easily command as it could inspire. Beneath its cultured veneer was a disaffect, an aloof remoteness that was as impermeable and menacing as a glacier. Yet despite the known danger of provoking his employer, Remy was far from being in the mood to heed his own better judgement.

"You were s'pposed t' wait," he fired off with barely-concealed anger. "You were s'pposed t' wait for my say-so."

Essex was hardly concerned by the accusation.

"Is that so?" he merely stated coldly. "You seem to forget who is in charge here, LeBeau. And let me remind you – it most certainly isn't you."

Remy grit his teeth as he jumped onto his bike and fired it up.

"We had a deal," he seethed. "This wasn't it."

"I'm intrigued, LeBeau." If anything Essex's tone had become harder, frostier – a sure warning sign. "What could it possibly matter to you when I take possession of my property?"

Remy took in a breath. He tried to force himself into a calmness he didn't feel.

"Don'tcha get it? After what you pulled, that femme's gon' be suspicious of my involvement, and I need her cooperation if I'm gonna get you Ms. Frost's—"

"There's no need for that," Essex cut in sharply. "Ms. Frost has agreed to cooperate. The only thing left to do is to bring me the mem-chips and the girl."

Remy was silent, his mind working rabidly. It was a silence that spoke volumes.

"Why, Mr. LeBeau," Essex spoke up with only a faint trace of amusement, "could it be that you're having second thoughts? Could it be that you've developed more than just a professional interest in the girl?"

Remy revved up the bike irritably.

"I ain't got no second thoughts. Basic truth is, without the femme, there is no deal. I know that. Don't worry. You'll get her. And the mem-chips too. But I need her on my side. Otherwise this deal ain't gonna work."

"Hmm. You seem very sure in your estimation."

"I am sure. She ain't the kid she was fifteen years ago. She's a woman, and a fuckin' stubborn one at that. I need her to be invested in our deal. I need her trust."

"Then I shall not disabuse you of your conviction," Essex replied with almost overt derision. "Although, when all is said and done… I doubt her trust is something you will keep."

The line went dead.

Remy sat a long moment on the purring bike. He knew Essex was right.

Not for the first time he was hit with a deep uneasiness. He'd made himself a bed of nails. Now he was lying in it.

No time to think 'bout that, not now. There was work to do.

He revved up the bike and sped off into the night.

-oOo-

He was at the Plaza Hotel within half an hour.

He parked his bike in his usual favourite spot – not too near and not too far – before sauntering up to the entrance by foot.

On previous occasions he'd come here dressed to the nines and usually with a lady on his arm; but since this was business and not pleasure, the less obvious he made himself the better. He recognised the doorman – they'd spent half an hour once talking about poker and sim-tech during some highfalutin function he'd managed to gate-crash, and he felt almost sure if he was in a tux he'd be recognised. But now, in his 'work clothes'… he was pretty much anonymous.

He walked inside with the nonchalance of familiarity and confidence, and headed straight for the bar.

She was already there, at a table by the window, sipping a margarita, just as she did every Thursday evening, regular as clockwork. Platinum blonde hair, dressed in a dazzling white pantsuit and killer heels. There was no mistaking her from the many photos he'd seen of her with her wealthy and influential clients. He sidled over in her direction, silently thanking the tabloids for their endless trolling of z-list celebrities on quiet days.

He slipped casually into the seat opposite her, for all the world as if she'd been expecting him. The way she looked up at him it was obvious she had indeed been waiting for someone – only to be disappointed. She frowned, fixing him with an indignant glare from steely blue eyes.

"Excuse me," she said in a disdainful tenor. "But I happen to be waiting for a date."

"Yeah?" He slung his arm over the back of the seat and grinned complacently at her. "Well you jes' gotta better offer."

Emma Frost raised a thin, elegantly plucked eyebrow. She was a handsome woman, beautiful in the haughty manner of most successful, intelligent women who had been born into money. She held herself with the same aloof poise as Lady Sarkissian, but there was a coldness, a rapaciousness to her that Ophelia had never possessed, something unsettling and slightly menacing. According to his research she'd managed to carve herself quite a career in the many years since Weapon X had folded. As the world's most celebrated mem-therapist, she could name the rich and famous amongst her clients. She'd been born into their world and was a part of it still, but she had what most of them didn't – the acute, driving intellect.

Now she was giving him the once-over, seemingly intrigued at the forthrightness of his statement. He could tell from her expression that there weren't many men who were bold enough to approach her in this way.

"Who are you?" she asked at last, unable to keep the curiosity out of her voice. It was a promising start – all his research had told him the celebrity therapist had a soft spot for beautiful young men, and he wasn't above playing that shamelessly to his advantage.

"The name's Remy LeBeau," he answered. His reply had the desired effect. She was instantly alert, her body subtly shifting towards his.

"Remy LeBeau," she repeated musingly. "Essex's new 'protégé'."

"Oui," he nodded, calmly shaking a cigarette out of its packet and not bothering to ask for her permission.

"And why would you possibly be here to see me?" she queried, crinkling her nose with overt distaste as he lit up.

"Easy enough," he replied, taking a puff. "I'm sure Essex told you I was collectin' mem-chips for him. I'm just here to collect yours."

He paused and let that sink in a bit for effect. He was interested when the waiter came up to serve him, only to be waved off again by Emma at a movement of her hand. The waiter obediently retreated, and when he was out of earshot she said:

"I was supposed to hand the chip to Essex personally. What's changed?"

Remy leaned back in his seat and took a drag from his cigarette, unconcerned by the question.

"Subject Zero," he answered in a slow, amused drawl. "She's changed."

The name got Emma's attention. Her eyes narrowed.

"She's dead," she stated coolly.

Remy gave a thin smile and leaned forward, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray between them.

"Non," he rejoined casually, "she's alive."

Emma's glance dropped – she looked at the table, frowning, as if trying to work something out.

"I was under the impression," she spoke slowly, "that she was dead. At least that's what Essex told me five years ago."

She raised her eyes to his as though to ask for confirmation.

"At the time, he thought he was correct, but," he shrugged, "he was wrong. And it turns out," he raised the cigarette to his lips with a knowing smile, "that she wants exactly what he wants. The mem-chips."

Again he fell silent, waiting. He was used to this back-and-forth, this game of strategy. Half the road to winning was simply to wait.

She looked aside slightly, frowning, thoughtful – and he knew without a doubt that he had her hooked. He was rewarded when she stood and looked down on him with an expectant countenance, a sign at last that he had won.

"Come with me," she said.

-oOo-

He knew she lived at the hotel, but he hadn't been prepared for just how entrenched she was there. She occupied one of the penthouse suites, and she'd pretty much set up her office there too. Everything was decorated with an impersonal, almost bleak elegance that gave the sheen of luxury to what was really just a therapist's clinic, one that would obviously appeal to her upmarket clientele. The rooms were done up in chrome and white and silver that glittered in the artificial light. It all seemed as cold and sterile as the woman herself strangely seemed to be.

The first thing she did was move to the opulent bar at the other end of the room, pausing only to enquire over her shoulder: "Can I get you a drink?"

He figured one couldn't hurt.

"Bourbon. Straight up. Thanks."

She fixed their drinks in silence, and he stood there, waiting, watching, measuring his surroundings without appearing to. When she finally came out from behind the bar and handed him his glass, her expression was openly suspicious – unyielding in a way that Anna's was not. This was a woman without any apparent chinks in her armour.

He took his drink and she sat on a nearby couch. Her stare, her prepossessed silence, was an invitation for him to sit, and he did, taking his place in a plush leather armchair across from her.

"So," she began once he was settled, "Weapon Zero is alive."

He gave a brief nod.

"Oui."

"And she's trying to get the mem-chips before Essex does."

He nodded again.

"Yeah. She has this idea that they'll give her some clues about her lost mem'ries."

She mulled on that a moment, her blue eyes gazing at some point over his shoulder. Then she leaned forward in her seat slightly, her gaze fixing his once more, this time inquisitive.

"And how exactly do you know this?" she asked.

He didn't take his eyes from hers. He lifted the glass to his lips but he didn't drink.

"I'm workin' with her," he replied simply.

Her gaze flashed and he took the moment to take a sip of his whiskey. Still, he didn't take his eyes from hers.

"I'm confused, Mr. LeBeau," she spoke at last, a begrudging sort of curiosity to her tone. "You say you're here on behalf of Dr. Essex. Yet you also say you're working with Subject Zero – and I'm fairly sure that she doesn't have Essex's best interests in mind. Which makes me sincerely doubt you're working for both."

A small, wry smile touched his lips and he took another sip before saying, pointedly: "She don't know I'm still workin' for him."

Her expression lightened slightly, but not much. She leaned back in her seat a fraction and regarded him, eyebrow raised.

"How disappointing," she commented at last. "I'd always assumed Subject Zero's ability to make connections would've made her infinitely hard to deceive…"

"Yeah. In theory." He eased into his seat a little, gave a complacent smile and added: "But in reality… she's a mem-junkie. Most of the time she can't even keep her head straight."

Emma didn't even blink.

"How unfortunate," she stated laconically. "And we had such high hopes for her."

Only then did she lift the glass to her lips and drink.

Remy sat silently, the glass in his lap, waiting for her to proceed. He was, after all, just the messenger. Ms. Frost, however, was in no hurry to oblige him. She said nothing for a good long minute, her thoughts seemingly turned elsewhere. When the silence threatened to become too oppressive she stood, and walked a small distance across the room pensively. It was a delaying tactic – he knew it. It was the action of someone who mistrusted everyone and who knew how people ticked – a dangerous combination. As Essex had found, Emma Frost was not an easy person to win over.

"I take it," she spoke up after he'd waited her out patiently, "that Essex has tasked you with stealing back his prized possession. And all the property she stole from him after Weapon X folded."

The corner of his mouth jerked into a smile.

"Somethin' like that…"

She halted and glanced over at him.

"And you've managed to gain her trust?"

"I wouldn't say that…" He gave a vague, pacifying gesture with his left hand. "I dunno if a woman like her has ever trusted anyone in her life. But she's trusted me enough to get a hold of Trask's chip for her. And Yashida's, and Ophelia Sarkissian's, and Dr. MacTaggert's. She's trusted me enough to share bits of her past."

He paused, fixing her with a prepossessed stare and a furtive curl of a smile that communicated to her far more than words could. Her eyes narrowed, and she grinned with a predatory glee that made even his blood run cold.

"Oh, I'm sure you did far more than simply coax her secrets out of her, LeBeau," she almost hissed with malicious delight. "After all… how could a man like you resist such a delicious challenge? The seduction of a woman who could just as easily kill you while you slept? How sweet, how gratifying it must have felt, to know that Weapon X's little killing machine is really just a soft and willing woman deep inside."

The words were faintly snide, mocking – enough to wipe the smile from his face, to which Emma gave a small, soft laugh.

"Yes, I can see how a silver-tongued young man like you could charm even the most immovable." She scrutinised him with glittering eyes. "How intriguing."

He shrugged.

"If you say so."

She gave a wry grin that didn't touch her eyes.

"Forgive me. I do find it so very fascinating to see two experiments interact. Essex has high hopes for you – he made that clear, at least. I was sceptical, despite the test results he showed me. But perhaps I was mistaken. I certainly would be, if you had managed to outwit Weapon Zero. But perhaps…" And she paused, only to continue with a sadistic little lilt to her voice, "she is the one who has managed to outwit you."

She turned away again, as if to leave him with some little nugget to chew on – one she knew he definitely wouldn't like the taste of.

"I don't think so," he answered back calmly. "She thinks Essex tricked me into becomin' his experiment, that I wanna give him a li'l payback for messin' wit' me – at least, that's what I told her. What she doesn't realise is that I asked Essex to do what he did t'me. That I knew he wanted to start up the Weapon X project again. And everythin' I've been playin' for 'til now – the mem-chips, the code, Subject Zero herself – they're the things Essex owes me. Not the other way 'round."

She stopped like a shot. When her eyes snapped to his again, they were narrowed.

"I don't understand what you mean."

It was his turn to keep her hanging. He drained the rest of his drink and laid the empty glass on the coffee table with a sharp clink. He leaned back in his chair with a now business-like gravitas.

"I made a deal with Essex. The mem-chips, the code, the birth of a new Weapon X project… All for the one thing that only Weapon X can achieve."

Her lips were caught in something that almost looked like a scowl.

"And what is that?"

"Simple." He folded his hands across his stomach and smiled. "A way to really, truly forget. In other words…" he continued lightly, "I want exactly the thing that Essex wants."

Her answer was to scoff – loudly.

"What Essex wants is a way to rewrite the human mind, human history. What you want, I have no doubt, is nothing more than selfish whimsy."

He lifted his shoulders, unconcerned.

"Maybe. But for now, there ain't much difference between the two, s'far as I can tell."

She nodded slowly.

"No. Perhaps there isn't." She fell silent. She seemed to be considering his words, and he let her. When she looked up at him again, the haughty cynicism was almost all gone. "You do realise," she said, "that you'll need Subject Zero's cooperation to make this work."

"Until I learn to do what she can do – yes."

"If you can."

He made a gesture with his hands, conceding the point.

"And," she carried on pointedly, "if she doesn't trust you, you'll never be able to make her agree to what it is you want."

"Essex has ways of making her do what I want, if it comes to it," he replied. She sneered.

"Yes. I'm sure he does."

She downed the rest of her drink and went to pour herself another – this time she didn't offer him one. When she next spoke her back was still to him.

"The other mem-chips… Trask's, Yashida's, Sarkissian's, MacTaggert's… did you interface with them?"

There was curiosity in her voice. He shifted in his seat slightly, folded his hands back in his lap.

"Yes."

"And Weapon Zero let you do that?"

"No. She doesn't know." She looked over her shoulder at him questioningly and he was prompted to explain: "She spent three days in a coma. In a neural stutter. I took the time to do a little reconnaissance. To 'face with the chips. To get the codes." He paused. "To try and figure out what she thought she could find in them."

She was firmly fixed on her drink again.

"And what did you find?" she asked.

"That whatever happened during this Crisis wasn't a mistake," he replied to her back. "That what happened to Subject Zero was something you and Essex had planned."

She was still a second; when she finally turned her drink was in her hand, and she laughed, lightly, softly.

"No," she corrected him, almost as if she enjoyed catching him out. "We didn't plan it, not exactly. And certainly not the way it happened. But we knew that it was a distinct possibility that the Crisis might occur, at any time." She grinned complacently to herself. "I may even have… encouraged it."

Her face was flush with pride. He regarded her quizzically.

"Why?" he asked quietly.

She half-shrugged, looking aside as if it was a silly question.

"Because the project needed a blank slate. How else were we supposed to create the perfect weapon?"

He made no reply. This wasn't a question he was interested in – it never had been. Emma was right – he'd agreed to become a part of Essex's super soldier project for entirely selfish reasons, and he'd never been overly concerned with its finer details. When he failed to show the expected level of interest, Emma pouted and suddenly swept across the room, right over to one of the featureless abstract paintings that garnished her walls, artwork that spoke of an expensive if perfunctory taste. He knew what was there. His long career as a thief had allowed him to clock it almost as soon as he'd walked in the room, and when she slid it sideways to reveal a large wall-safe he was hardly surprised.

He watched on as she opened the safe and reached inside. He knew what it was before she even turned and showed it to him.

It was a small, ribbed, metallic box, like the one Trask had stored his mem-chip in.

"This is the thing," she told him sardonically, "that you're all looking for. You, Essex – Subject Zero. There's a truth in here she won't like. But…" and she grinned slyly at him, "I've decided it's not for sale."

She paused and levelled him a look, waiting for a reaction. He didn't give the one she anticipated.

"I'm a thief," he replied flatly. "Essex asked me t' do you the courtesy of askin' you for it nicely, but if you ain't willin' t' cooperate…"

The threat wasn't lost on her – but it didn't faze her either.

"Oh come now, Mr. LeBeau," she rejoined indulgently. "You don't need the chip itself. All you need to do is 'face with it. Then you have the code – you have everything you and Essex want. But the chip itself is not for sale. It's mine. And I don't want anyone else to have it."

He weighed up her statement. She was right, of course – all he'd have to do was 'face with the chip, and the information he needed would be imprinted in his brain long enough for him to note it down. And Essex… Well, he wouldn't like it, but what would it really matter to him, as long as he had the code?

And Anna?

Anna would want to face with it herself. He knew that. But he didn't have anything to bargain with right now; and there would always be the option to steal it, at some future date, if he needed to, even though he knew Emma would be expecting him to do exactly that. At least Anna would know he'd tried.

He opened his hands agreeably.

"A'right," he said.

She gave a cold, complacent smile.

"Good boy," she murmured in an undertone, before sweeping back across the room. "Follow me," she ordered.

He stood slowly, and did as he was told. There was a niche in one corner of the apartment, a cleverly hidden recess where he guessed she did her therapy. Two plush white leather armchairs were set in what he assumed to be an inviting position; there were rows of mem-chips along the walls, catalogued by surname – her patients, he guessed.

"I get my clients to record their worst, most troubling memories," she explained when she saw his gaze moving curiously down the neatly stacked rows. "I get them to relive them again and again until they learn to come to terms with them. Psychoanalysis, for the mem-tech age." Again she gave that cold smile, and somewhere deep down he shuddered.

"Sounds like torture," he remarked deprecatingly, "rather than therapy."

She tutted almost crossly and went to a desk in the corner, pulling open the top drawer there.

"Life is torture, Mr. LeBeau. Our only way of accepting it is to learn to face it." She glanced up at him meaningfully. "I half suspect my therapy would do you some good."

"Thanks for the offer," he rejoined dryly. "But no thanks."

She gave a small, disappointed sigh.

"Such a shame. I should imagine it would be very interesting to learn what haunts a man like you. The impulse to forget is a strong one, one so strong that human beings block out traumatic memories all the time. But when a memory is so powerful that it cannot be forgotten… when the urge to forget it becomes all-consuming… that is a rare occurrence. And a self-destructive one too."

Thankfully, any further commentary on her part was brought to close when she found what she was looking for. She slid the drawer shut and he saw that she was holding a small, black headpiece in her hand – something he recognised as a portable interfacer.

"Those are only for sim-chips," he told her, and she snorted derisively.

"Unlike Essex, I like to keep useful friends." She held the headpiece out to him. "Trask modified it for me, so that it runs mem-chips too."

He took the unit, impressed.

"Trask still works on this stuff? I thought he was a recluse who just delegated."

"Ostensibly, yes," she answered sourly. "He spends most of his time looking after his mad daughter. But I've managed to persuade him to do a bit of tinkering, now and then."

He turned the headpiece over in his hand, noting the modifications, all executed with an expert hand. The slot for the chip was different, wide enough to accommodate the slightly larger mem-chip.

"Nice," he commented appreciatively. "Any chance he could custom-make me one o' these?"

"I doubt it," she replied. She opened the case and handed him the mem-chip. He inserted it into the slot and slipped on the headpiece.

"You should take a seat," she prompted him; but he shook his head.

"Ms. Frost," he answered sarcastically, "I could 'face hangin' upside down. In my sleep. Dis ain't nothin'."

And he lowered the visor and hit the power button.

-oOo-