A/N: Happy Monday, everyone!

O

Breaking into a light jog, Alex tugged the hood of his coat up and made his way across town through the treeline. A few hiking trails crisscrossed the area, making it easier to cover ground quickly despite the thin layer of snow crunching beneath his trainers. He shivered and drew his coat closer to him, warily watching each entrance to the trail he'd chosen as he scooted by.

Halfway there.

Julius burst into laughter.

Alex let out a soft exhale, pausing as he approached the next trailhead. Sharply stepped back to shelter himself behind the boughs of a scraggly cedar, eyes riveted on the road. A few of the neighborhoods had private access to the trailheads, marked with a wooden sign labeling the trail and usually with a small parking area to spare the resorts from losing business due to increased hikers in the spring. Beyond one or two locals, Alex hadn't noticed anyone else using the trails this time of year. It was cold and the mountains were about as appealing as a rusting junkyard this far from spring.

Yet parked in the small dirt pull out were two passenger vans.

He bit his lip, eyes flicking back to the trail. He had to get back to Yassen, but his instincts were screaming at him to investigate. Who would park here? Why park facing away from the trail? The only place in Oakris that was going to draw up to twenty people from out of town was the resort. It was only a few blocks away from this street, but why not park their vans in the lots attached to the venue? There was no charge and there was plenty of space. The season had been so slow.

Unless, of course, the goal had been to park closer to their cabin and avoid the eyes of the townsfolk. To face towards the road and away from the trail for a quick getaway or summons for back up. Hungry for business, someone would notice how odd two such vans were to be parked at the resort if no one got out to ski.

Alex pulled out his iPod and eased forward. No surveillance signals came from the vans, but with their blacked out windows it was hard to guess exactly was going on inside. They were a simple, unmarked model. The kind anyone could rent at the drop of a hat. If it wasn't for their strange placement, they wouldn't stand out in the town at all. Even now, Alex felt a surge of self-doubt, even though Yassen's text confirmed that Scorpia was around somewhere. He could be wasting time. Yassen could be getting tortured or killed while Alex harassed some local church group on a sledding trip with poor parking instincts.

"You're just a goody-goody," Julius said, somewhere over his shoulder.

"Fuck off," Alex hissed, refusing to turn around and look at him. Why now? Why did his brain have to punish him now?

"I'm sorry. I don't think I heard you."

Pinching his lips shut to stop himself from initiating a shouting row with his least favorite imaginary friend, Alex almost missed it. The dull head of a rusty nail protruded sharply from the trailhead sign. Good enough. Gripping it, he tugged it sharply from the wood and approached the vans. Muttering a quick apology for the potentially innocent van owners, Alex stabbed the back tire of the first van. It hissed sharply, the entire frame of the van slumping. Alex didn't wait to admire his work and moved towards the second.

Both vans slammed open.

Another peal of laughter from his shadow twin, lining up perfectly with the bolt of real terror lancing through him.

"Hey," barked one of the two men. He was dressed in a red and black jacket, with a black knitted cap stretched over his close cut hair. "What do you think you're doing?"

Julius winked at Alex. "We played a little joke on him, but I don't think he enjoyed it." He bounced on his feet, excitedly watching the show from Alex's peripheral.

They were both dressed in snow jackets and boots, but something about the rest of their clothes suggested they weren't here to get in some time on the slopes. If they were, what was the point in waiting in the car? Also, what were the odds that both drivers would be built like bouncers?

Alex darted for the second tire and slammed the nail in. The second van slumped.

"You little-" the same man began, before the second reached into his cobalt blue jacket and yanked out a handgun.

"That's Rider," he snapped, lining up his shot from ten feet away. Alex glanced around. It was broad daylight, but the closest two cabins were dozens of yards away and possibly unoccupied. Not that there was any police force in the resort town anyway. "Call it in. Get on the ground, kid."

Alex watched Red Jacket yank out a smartphone. It made a certain kind of sense; the signal was spotty enough in a canyon town this small, many locals had to supplement on wifi-calling. Maybe the van had some sort of mobile router. Struck by sudden inspiration, he plunged his hands back into the pockets of his own jacket, fumbling with the little trackpad. Fortunately, the iPod was already active.

"Hands where I can see them," Blue Jacket snapped, jerking his gun at him.

"It's cold," Alex complained, refusing to budge. "Besides, you don't want to make a bunch of noise, do you? Gunshots echo in a canyon."

Julius glowered at him, folding his overdeveloped arms. "Just do as you're told."

Blue Jacket tilted his head, smirking. "I'm not so sure I'd be worried about that."

Red Jacket stared at his phone. "The call keeps failing."

His companion's eyes narrowed on Alex. It was more than likely that they'd already tested their communications to ensure they were functioning. "What did you do, brat?"

If Julius' constant inopportune harassment had reminded him of one thing, it was how disorienting and off putting his psycho behavior had been in person. British manners and force of habit almost made him to thank his spectre for the idea aloud.

This would be so much easier if he were high. He was going to have to fake crazy from scratch.

Alex grinned, as though his heart wasn't threatening to explode at any second. "I can't just say. That's no fun! Go on. Guess."

Red Jacket faltered for only a split second. "Show me what you're holding. Now."

Alex removed his empty hands, holding them palms out. "I thought you wanted to see my hands?"

"Search him," Blue Jacket snapped, stepping forward to keep Alex in his line of fire. While obviously unnerved, he wasn't as thrown by Alex's play acting as hoped and stuck to his training. "We'll get rid of whatever he's using to jam the signal and call it in. Steiner won't mind if he's a little injured," he added pointedly.

Great. Alex's bullet proof shirt couldn't handle multiple impacts to the same spot. They'd figure it out pretty quick at such a close range. If he could just get out of range long enough to get to his own gun, he'd have a chance. Not a good one, but he couldn't afford to be picky.

He didn't want to shoot anyone, though. His hands shook slightly at the idea of it.

"You don't have it in you," Julius crowed.

"That's ironic, coming from you," Alex muttered, turning his head slightly to address Julius.

Red Jacket grimaced. "Kid's high as a kite."

Damn. No wonder they weren't more confused. His reputation had preceded him.

Uneasily, Red Jacket strode forward even as he reached into his jacket. He paused, almost imperceptibly, before his hand dropped lower down and he pulled out an identical gun to his companion. Weird. Had he been reaching for something else? Approaching Alex, he made a point of brandishing his gun even as he outstretched his other hand, aiming for Alex's right pocket.

"Okay, fine. You can see my little toy. It's in the other pocket, though," Alex lied, shifting unsteadily on his feet as though a touch inebriated.

Just a little closer…

The man gave him a hard look, reaching for the opposite pocket roughly. It was just enough. For the briefest of seconds, more than half of Alex's body was covered from Blue Jacket's incoming fire by the man. He spun to the side and lashed out, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting it up and away. His acting job had bought him an opening, but it couldn't negate Scorpia's training. Red Jacket kept ahold of his gun, his own hand clamping down on Alex's triumphantly to lock him in place even as the boy twisted- all within the space of a split second.

Unfortunately for him, Blue Jacket had already fired. The shot was whisper quiet.

Red Jacket stumbled, face creasing in anger. He struggled to grab ahold of Alex, but his grip had already loosened enough for the teen to pull himself free. Alex shuffled sideways, fighting to keep his human shield between him at the shooter as he grabbed the gun's barrel, thwarting the attempt to line up a shot to his stomach. Red Jacket released his grip, falling face forward onto the ground, a small black dart protruding through his thick coat.

Alex's mouth dropped open. Suddenly the fumble in his jacket from earlier made sense. "Are you mental? Seriously? This again?" He shot at the other man, furious when a matching dart buried itself in Blue Jacket's shoulder. "You bastards have separate guns for me!"

The man inhaled sharply and fired.

Alex dove behind the edge of the van, feeling a dart graze his leg, slicing through the fabric without actually touching his skin. He could barely bring himself to care. "The CIA and K-Unit I sort of understand, but Scorpia? Fucking Scorpia won't use real bullets on me. Scorpia. Who I destroyed almost single handedly. By myself."

He poked his head out past the bumper to confirm that Blue Jacket was down. The man was clinging to consciousness with everything he had, leaning against the side of the other van, arm shaking as he tried to line up a shot. Alex's next shot caught his wrist and he dropped his gun.

"I'm a threat," Alex insisted, stabbing a finger at the unconscious man. "Next time, I want real bullets."

O

Dr. Steiner gave him a thin smile. "Ah yes, I rather imagine you are eager for me to get to the point so you can return to your… how do you likely imagine it? Retirement? Holiday?"

Yassen shrugged, unfazed.

"At any rate, pardon our intrusion. After your last encounter with our operatives, we realized that perhaps it was best to arrive unannounced. I'm here to discuss our offer."

"I believe I've already made my disinterest clear. You could have saved yourself a trip."

"Not at all. After speaking with the board and, in particular, Doctor Three, I came to realize that this situation would require a more personal touch. It has been over two years since your last visit with me, Yassen. In the face of your current crisis, I believed that a face-to-face approach would help put things in perspective."

Yassen couldn't help the slight narrowing of his eyes. "Do explain what you believe to be my current crisis."

Dr. Steiner adjusted his glasses slightly. "Not to worry, not to worry. Dysthymia is actually quite common of operatives in your situation. I'd be more concerned if you hadn't experienced it. Such a lack would suggest an unreasonable detachment from reality, but I digress." He paused, steepling his fingers. "Are you familiar with the condition?"

Yassen shook his head.

"It's a somewhat old fashioned term. 'High functioning depression' is the more modern description; named so to make clear that it most often goes undiagnosed since its sufferers tend not to see a drop in their abilities day to day. Scorpia already employs driven operatives unlikely to cave to that sort of internal pressure and we do everything we can to keep them busy. Unfortunately, certain circumstances have a way of making even the most mild dysthymia worse. A long stint in prison, for example."

Yassen raised a single eyebrow. "Fascinating. So you think I've declined your generous offer due to mild, irrelevant depression?"

"No one ever thinks they have it," Steiner countered, waving a dismissive hand at him. "Not in our line of work. Men especially seem to be resistant to the idea. That's why their symptoms tend to manifest more obscurely. Rather than sadness or strange bouts of crying, they tend to experience less obvious signs. They become tired and worn out. Stop sleeping through the night or sleep far too long. Start to 'feel their age' more and more. Tend to direct guilt and self-blame inwards in response to things they cannot control. They lash out in anger and immerse themselves in addictive or risky behaviors. Sound familiar?"

Yassen brushed imaginary lint off the chair, refusing to be rattled.

Just because he'd experienced all of those things in the last few months didn't mean the man was right. Hell, he'd had most of those symptoms in the last several days. Tiredness? Anger? His sudden urge to smoke? Feeling his age? All common afflictions of the average human over the age of thirty, not to mention the vast majority of adults entrusted with the care of even normal children. Steiner might as well add "breathing" and "possessing a pulse" to his list of symptoms.

It was a parlor trick at best. Soon, the man would be telling him he could feel the spirit of a dead relative whose name started with an M.

Digging out his pack of cigarettes from his pocket, Yassen ignored the swiveling weapons of the guards and lit up. He raised the cigarette in a slightly mocking salute before taking a drag. "Oh, my. It seems you have me figured out."

Steiner chuckled. "People are never that simple, are they?" When Yassen failed to respond, the psychotherapist glanced again at the glass fireplace with a thoughtful air. "Dysthymia is only the first half of the equation. You see, we are always concerned when one of our operatives is held for any significant length of time. It's not just a question of loyalty. Prison is unpleasant for a variety of reasons, but it's being trapped inside your own head that is the worst part for a man of your profession. Plenty of time to slowly lose your sense of self. An identity crisis is essentially a given, even in the most stable of personalities. It's certainly nothing to be ashamed of."

"It must be because I'm a Gemini," Yassen said, stubbing out his cigarette on the wooden end of the chair's arm in order to ignore the churning of his stomach. He lit up a new one.

"Pardon?"

"You've simply been making so many vague, universally applicable statements that I assumed you would want to read my horoscope next. Exactly how does this relate to your offer?"

"I'm afraid I'm quite serious, Yassen. You'll understand what I'm getting at soon enough." Dr. Steiner set his hands on his lap, ignoring Yassen's actual question for now. "The life of a Scorpia operative is hard. Demanding in a way that other jobs are not. Part of that is circumstance, and part is by design. It's a fast paced way to live and to suddenly hit the brakes-" He opened his fist in a pale imitation of an explosion and shook his head. "Terrible. A least sixty percent of operatives commit suicide within the first year. It goes up to eighty percent by eighteen months."