So, here it is. The end.

There's not much more for me to say. Is the EMAT series perfect? No, I'll never claim it is. But it's mine. And I'm proud of it. I learned a lot from writing this wild, wacky, rollercoaster of a series, and it'll always occupy a special place in my heart. I hope you enjoyed watching this story grow into something bigger than originally planned as much as I did.

One final thank you to Belphegor, my best friend and beta. This series would have faltered halfway through if not for her patience, her encouragement, and her feedback. She's the real hero here, more than any RED. Oh, and thanks to you Phil's French was always accurate. :3

And a thank-you to you, as well. Whether you read, commented, sent me a message, drew fanart, or made a cosplay...I couldn't have done this without all of you and your encouragement through this lengthy and (occasionally) daunting process. Anyone who says writing is a solitary pursuit is a liar. Without this series I wouldn't have made as many friends as I have, from all over the world. Together you all managed to contribute to the EMAT series, and especially MDB, in ways both tangible and not. I hope you enjoy the final chapters of Machines Don't Bleed

Fondest regards,

Chaos :3

p.s.: before you click 'Next' to read the epilogue, would you please pull up 'Renegades' by X-Ambassadors? It's always been my 'outro' music for Machines Don't Bleed, if you will. I'd like to share that final bit with you all.

Chapter Thirty-Six: Home

If there was one thing Scout Collins would have liked to know before all this, it was that peace could be damn boring.

Winter had set in across Boston, bitter and freezing, and the cold had dispelled much of Scout's goodwill. Six months had passed since Reliable Excavation and Demolition had disbanded. Six months of peace and quiet and absolute boredom. Scout wasn't sure how much more he could take of this.

He'd been home to visit his mother, and after her he went to visit Danny—then Mack and Charlie, like he'd said, and Sean, Liam, Ian, and Billy, too. He'd stayed with them all for a while, entertained his nieces and nephews with (heavily-censored) tales of daring-do. But after a while he'd come back home to Boston. He was living on his own now, in a little apartment in Southie. It had been interesting, at first, learning to live on his own. But time and again he found himself oversleeping because Soldier hadn't been there to wake him up at five in the morning. Buying bottles of Scrumpy with no intention of drinking any of them. Trying out French cuisine. Once he'd even made to speak to a shaggy-haired blond on the subway before realizing it couldn't possibly be Blake.

He missed his team. And he missed having a purpose. It was too easy to get wrapped up in his thoughts, now that he had nothing to do with his time except wander the streets of Boston. And he here walked now, stuffed into his coat and scarf against the freezing wind, wondering when life would become exciting again.

A baseball rolled to a stop at his feet.

Scout stopped short. He stooped and picked the ball up, running his gloved fingers over the red stitches. For a moment his heart stopped. Tom—?

"Hey, dumbass, over here! Give me my ball back!"

Not Tom. A skinny kid, no more than eleven, stood a few feet away. He was bundled deep inside an oversized parka, and when he scowled he revealed a few missing teeth.

Scout scowled down at the pipsqueak. "Hey kid, watch the language."

The kid huffed. "Please give me my ball back, dumbass."

Scout was beginning to see why he'd driven the rest of the REDs crazy. Nevertheless he tossed the ball back to the kid, who caught it smoothly enough. Scout watched him retreat a few feet to a stoop before following him. "What're ya out here in the cold for, kid? Your ass is gonna freeze off."

The kid gave him a critical look. He must have decided Scout was harmless enough, because he answered: "My bros kicked me outta the house. They said they didn't want a kid around. And, anyway, none of them wanted to play ball."

Scout nodded thoughtfully. He knew that feeling well enough. "Your ma didn't stop 'em?"

"She's at work," the kid admitted. He looked away with evident self-consciousness, as if a working mother was something to be ashamed of.

"Huh." Scout crouched so that he was eye-level with the kid. "Ya know, if you're gonna play ball, there's safer places to do it than the street."

The kid shook his head. "The park's closed up."

"Then someone oughta teach ya how to climb a fence. C'mon." Scout straightened and started off in the general direction of the park. After a little while he heard the distinct sound of sneakers on pavement following after him. He stopped, allowing the kid to catch up with him, and tuck out his hand. "I'm Scout, by the way."

"I'm John," said the kid as he shook it, "but everyone calls me Johnny."

"Nice to meetcha, Johnny."

"Nice to meetcha, Scout."

Scout grinned and adjusted his hat on his head. "Hey, Johnny, ya watch the news at all? 'Cause if ya did ya would've known who I am. I'm a big-shot international hero, man, I saved hundreds of lives all by myself…"

…

"Let me come with you."

"For the last time, Zhanna, no."

Ivan folded his arms over his burly chest and cocked an eyebrow at his sister. Zhanna, only slightly shorter than her brother, straightened up and planted her hands on her hips. She was not easily cowed. Her brother had taught her better than that.

The two stood toe-to-toe in Ivan's old bedroom. A battered suitcase on the bed was full of essentials. A second, slightly smaller suitcase was full of ammunition. He had come home to see his mother and sisters as promised, but the itch to fight had followed not long after. There was plenty of work to be found as a freelancing mercenary. Now the only issue remaining was, perhaps unsurprisingly, his sister.

Zhanna gestured towards his suitcase. "You have accepted another mercenary contract—"

"That I have," Ivan said curtly. "Me. Not you."

"But I see no reason why I cannot join you!"

"Because it is dangerous, Zhanna. The last time…" Ivan sighed and shook his head. "I have lost many good friends fighting bad men. I do not intend to lose any of my family as well."

"And I do not want to lose my brother!" Zhanna leaned forward to poke Ivan in the chest. "You have always worked with a partner, Ivan. I want to get out of this frozen land! I want to see the world!"

"Then buy yourself a ticket to Tijuana, because you are not coming with—!"

A small coo stopped the arguing siblings short. Baffled, both looked to the window overlooking the frozen Siberian landscape.

A bloodstained dove was perched on the windowsill, fluffing his feathers and looking only a little bothered by the cold. As they watched it tapped the glass with its beak again to demand entry.

Zhanna cocked her head to the side in bemusement. Ivan slowly made his way over to the window and opened it, allowing Archimedes to hop inside. Archimedes looked around once before cooing again. He fluttered up to Ivan's ear and gave him an affectionate nip.

This was impossible. Archimedes had disappeared without a trace after Josef's death. There was no way a single dove could have made it all the way here, let alone made it in one piece, and never mind finding his master's old partner where he lived. Completely, utterly impossible…

Then again, Josef Pfaff had always been good at making the impossible happen.

When he'd been quiet for too long, Zhanna tapped his shoulder. "Ivan?"

"Go back your bags," Heavy said suddenly, pretending not to hear Zhanna's gasp of delight. He gave Archimedes a gentle pat on the head. "If you are not ready in twenty minutes, I am leaving without you."

…

"Tavish, when are ye gonna get a job?"

"Mam, if I've told ye once I've told ye a thousand times—I'll get a job when I'm good and ready to get one!"

Tilly DeGroot grumbled something under her breath but left her son in peace. Tavish watched her leave the living room before turning back to his Ghost D.A. marathon. Onscreen, the ghostly prosecutor was debating against a notorious gangster. But Tavish hardly seemed to hear the emotionally-charged court case. He'd sunk a little lower into the couch, suddenly contemplative.

Maybe his blind old mother was right. He was going stir-crazy sitting here at home. He needed to go out and get a job. The thing was—and it was a very big thing—Tavish wasn't sure exactly how he'd ever work alone again. He'd gotten too used to being a member of a team. There'd never be another team like the REDs, or a friend like Jane Doe. Replacing them would be impossible. And yet he wanted to go out and do something again.

"TAVISH!" His mother bellowed from the doorway.

Knocked out of his melancholy, Tavish sat up a little in his seat. "Wot now, ye bloody menace?!"

"There's a cop at the door!"

"So?" Tavish turned to his mother, dumbfounded. "He ain't here fer me, I'm an international hero now! I got amnesty!" A thought occurred to him and he narrowed his one good eye at the blind old woman in front of him. "Mother—"

"Don't ye take that tone of voice with me, Tavish Finnegan DeGroot! I'll have ye know that I haven't shoplifted in two weeks!"

"Ain't that a feckin' relief to know," Tavish muttered under his breath.

"Well?" His mother said.

Tavish scowled. "Well, what?"

"Go see what he wants!"

Still grumbling, Tavish stood and made his way over to the front door. He swung the door open—and came face-to-face with a fidgeting Dexter Simmons.

His expression brightened at once. "Red!"

"Tavish." Simmons grinned, albeit with some difficulty. The right side of his face was an ugly mess of scar tissue and mottled skin. His right ear was completely gone, having been damaged beyond repair in the explosion he'd caused. Nevertheless his brown eyes warmed as he looked Tavish over. "It's good to see you."

"Good t'see ye as well. What brings ye to this particularly neighborhood?"

"I have some news—I've been offered a position at Interpol." Simmons spoke quickly, but still managed to go as red as his hair. "For my, ah, role in bringing down Gray Mann's operations."

"Oh? T'ain't no surprise." Tavish couldn't hide his grin even if he tried. "I suppose some congratulations are in order. C'mon in, laddie, I got a case from the Beer o' the Month club—"

Simmons sprung forward as Tavish turned away. "DeGroot, wait!"

Tavish paused in place, head tilted to the side.

Simmons took a deep breath, and spat out what he had been clearly rehearsing for some time now: "I didn't come here just for congratulations. I wanted to thank you, for everything. I wouldn't even have been offered this position if it weren't for you. I told them as much, and about your impressive skill set, so—they sent me here to recruit you. As my partner. Well, potential partner. Providing you accept, of course. And feel free to say no! You're under absolutely no obligation to—"

His stammering was cut short by Tavish's chortling. He leaned up against the doorway and grinned at Simmons. "Half-blind an' half-deaf, what a pair we'll make, eh?"

Clear relief washed over Simmons' expression. "So—yes? Aye?"

"Aye, laddie," Tavish stuck his hand out to shake. Simmons accepted it eagerly. "I'm not about to let ye have all the fun. Now, c'mon in—!" he stepped back and swung the door open. "This beer o' the month ain't gonna drink itself."

Simmons' grin grew, and he stepped through the threshold to follow after Tavish.

…

Dell Conagher entered his house to the smell of coffee and burned bacon. Grinning, he entered the kitchen and tossed the stack of mail he'd gone to retrieve on the kitchen table. "Irene, why don't ya let me make the bacon, huh?"

Irene clucked her tongue as she examined the charred black strips that had been bacon in the pan. "One of these days I'll get it right. Coffee's ready, though."

"Much obliged, darlin'." Dell kissed her cheek before helping himself to coffee.

Together they collapsed down at the kitchen table, discussing farm repairs and things to buy at the store and the local gossip from in-town. Dell had almost finished his coffee by the time he made note of the letters on the table. He sifted through them. "One from Scout, one from Mundy, a bill, another bill, and…" He trailed as he reached the last envelope in the stack: a thick, official-looking gray envelope neatly addressed to Dell Conagher.

Irene sipped at her coffee. "Well, are you gonna open it or just stare at it?"

Dell tore it open and read through it quickly. "It's from Bianca Mann," he said. He waited for Irene to tilt her head to the side before continuing on: "Seems like she's in need of a head engineer over at Mann Co. Someone to help design an' test new products. Looks like all the applicants so far have been…unimpressive."

"So she's asking you," Irene said. She rubbed at her chin in thought.

"She's asking me," Dell said with a sigh. He set the letter aside and looked up at his wife. Early morning sunlight streamed through the window, making her red hair look like fire. He gave her a small smile. He would have liked nothing more than to go back to work, and it was an itch that he couldn't ignore. But leaving might mean leaving Irene behind. He wouldn't do that to her again.

"So?" She arched an eyebrow when he remained silent. "Are ya gonna accept?"

Dell snorted. He leaned forward across the table towards her. "Last time I left home for a job, my wife ran off to live in the desert with eight men."

Irene grinned and leaned forward to meet him. "Last time my husband took a job, he ran off to live in the desert with seven men and one mumbling weirdo."

They kissed, gently, before pulling back. Dell collapsed down in his seat. "I guess you'd have to come with me, then. To stop either us from joining up with any weirdos."

"Yep." Irene nodded. "I guess I would."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"It's your call, Irene," Dell said solemnly. "I'll be happy either way."

Irene cast a look around the cozy little kitchen before looking back to her husband. The consideration didn't take very long at all. She shrugged. "We were never cut out to be farmers anyway."

…

Stares and whispers followed the little family walking through the train station, but for the first time in his life Lawrence Mundy Junior found he didn't mind. He walked with his head held high through the crowd, letting their gaze linger on him and the toddler riding on top of his shoulders.

"Uncle Law?" Lauren asked from her high perch on her uncle's shoulders.

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Where's Blakey goin'?"

"He's goin' to Sydney, sweetheart."

"Why?"

It was Christian, walking along beside Lawrence, who answered: "Because that's where all the genius kids go to find their fortune, Lauren. Sydney. The big city." He outstretched an arm dramatically, making Lizzie snort.

Just ahead of them, Dotty and Lawrence Senior were giving poor Blake Porter the grandparent treatment. Dotty kept handing the boy homemade snacks while Senior interrogated him on where he'd be staying, and with who, and how he was going to get there once his train arrived in Sydney. Blake, having rehearsed this earlier with Lawrence, answered each question to Senior's satisfaction. But it wasn't until they reached the platform that Blake was able to shove the last homemade sandwich into his bag.

Blake grinned down at Dotty. "Thank you, Missus Dotty. I think I'll have enough snacks here to last me a nuclear winter or two."

"That's the idea, dear," Dotty said. She gave Blake a firm hug before stepping backwards, allowing him to shake hands with Senior.

"Take care of yourself out there," Senior said gruffly. "There's plenty that the big city's chewed up and spat back out."

"No need to worry, Mister Mundy. I learned from the best," Blake said. He glanced over his shoulder at the gleaming, state-of-the-art train before looking back to Lizzie and Christian. Lawrence sat Lauren down so she could join her mother.

Lizzie and Lauren both enveloped him in a hug. "Take care of yourself, Blake. You're going to do just fine."

Christian patted him on the shoulder before handing him a carefully-wrapped bottle. "My best brandy. Save it for a special occasion, you hear?"

Blake studied the bottle before nodding. "Yes sir, Mister Christian, sir."

He bent down and carefully nestled the bottle into his clothes. When he straightened again, it was Lawrence who stood in front of him. For a moment they just looked at each other in silence.

Blake Porter looked good. His round face had thinned a little, and there was a small patch of facial hair on his chin that he had been trying (and failing) to force into a more impressive goatee. He'd tanned under the Australian sun. And he'd finally managed to regrow those little sideburns of his.

Looking him over, Lawrence's chest swelled with a sudden, fierce rush of love. He reached up and took his battered old akubra off. Without further ado, he planted it firmly on top of Blake's head. Blake blinked and reached up, fingering the brim of the hat. "Mister Lawrence, I—"

"That was a gift," Lawrence said, over Blake's protests. "From my old man when I was jus' starting out on my own. Now I'm givin' it to ya. Take good care of it, ya hear?"

Blake didn't answer. Instead he flung himself into Lawrence's chest, wrapping his arms around his torso in a fierce hug. Lawrence lifted his arms up to wrap them around Blake's shoulders before burying his nose in Blake's hair. No words passed between them. There was no need.

It was the train's shrill whistle that finally made Lawrence pull back away from Blake. He looked Blake over again before coughing.

"Don't talk to strangers. Ya got some emergency money in yer front pocket if you need it. And remember to call home if ya run into any trouble. Or…or if ya want to, that's fine too. Any day. Every day. Preferably every day. I ain't complainin'."

Blake laughed. He hiked his pack up onto his shoulders and started to turn away towards the train.

Lawrence stared after him, struggling to understand why his chest was constricting. Was this what he had put his mother through, every time he disappeared? Was this what she felt every time he didn't call home? God, he didn't know how she managed it, that terrible ache of pride and fear as Blake joined the throng of passengers.

"PORTER! ONE MORE THING!"

Blake half-turned back to Lawrence, head tilted to the side.

Lawrence swallowed hard and forced himself to scowl. "Shave that damn hamster off yer chin!"

Lauren sobbed as Blake boarded the train. Lawrence scooped her up onto his shoulders once more, giving her a decent view of Blake as he pressed himself against a window and waved to the Mundy family. Together Lauren and Lawrence waved furiously as the train pulled away with a hiss.

Lauren eventually clambered down from Lawrence's shoulders, assisted by Christian. But Lawrence stood frozen on the edge of the platform, his arm raised in farewell long after the train had disappeared on the horizon.

It was Lizzie who gently touched his arm and brought him back to reality. "He's going to be all right, Lawrence."

"I know he will be." Lawrence sighed. At long last he lowered his arm. "He's gonna be jus' fine." He smiled down at her before looking back to the rest of his family. "C'mon, Liz. Let's go home."

…

Blake hummed to himself as he settled down in his seat. He began to organize his belongings, pausing every once in a while to touch the rim of his new hat. When he did his smile would widen, and a small laugh would escape him.

The young woman sitting beside him seemed bemused by his good cheer. "Someone's certainly in a good mood!"

Blake twisted to grin at her. "Of course I'm in a good mood! Don't you know what today is?"

She paused to think, frowned, and shook her head.

Blake Porter laughed, feeling content and whole for what felt like the very first time in his life. "Today is the first day of the rest of my life!"

…

The man in the newsboy cap had been standing at the corner for well over three hours.

The young rabbi didn't know what to think. The man hadn't been acting suspiciously, to be sure; he'd just been leaning up against a lamppost with arms folded over his chest. Occasionally he would check his watch or shift his stance. A few times he made to start towards the modest Parisian synagogue, but would always backtrack towards the safety of the lamppost before he got more than a few feet away.

He seemed to be waiting for something. Or someone. But whatever he was waiting for didn't come.

The sun was setting over the city when the rabbi stepped out to sweep the front step.

"Excuse me."

The rabbi jumped. He hadn't heard the man in the newsboy cap approach. He tried for a smile as the man fidgeted. "Are you lost?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Philippe Vidal took off his hat, allowing the rabbi a full look at his ruined face. "And I was wondering if you could help me find my way."

END PART 4