Chapter Three


Darien slid his pants back up and asked, "Was that really necessary?"

Claire removed her rubber gloves. "I needed to do a full physical to determine how much of your system had been affected by the Stage 5 counteragent. Also, I needed to find out if the quicksilver was still present in your system."

"But did I really have to be naked for the exam?"

Claire cocked an eyebrow, but didn't answer.

Darien sighed. "Okay... So what'd you find?"

"Arnaud's counteragent is no longer in your system. Quicksilver, however, is. For all intents and purposes, you should be going mad right now. In fact, you should be around stage 4 already."

"So? Any idea why I'm not?"

"Not one. I have a theory, however. I'll give you a shot of regular counteragent, just to be certain. We'll see if the madness returns."

"If it doesn't? I mean... what if I've really kicked this thing?"

Claire raised a syringe. "Then we may have a problem. Roll up your sleeve."

---

It was the kind of bar that respectable people never frequented; the entire place smelled of blood, urine and sweat. Smoke hung thickly overhead and the blare of a baseball game came in over the busted radio set up behind the bar. A man was passed out in the corner booth, his wallet and money long gone. Red and blue lights flashed in the window every few minutes, on the way to yet another homicide.

AJ Cross sat in the bar, silently sipping his whiskey. Before this trip, he would never have been caught dead in a place like this; he would have been shocked and horrified that something like this place still existed. But he wasn't the same as he had been before setting foot in Las Vegas. Hell, before his trip, he had never touched alcohol. Never wanted to. Of course, before this trip he had never wanted to bash his wife to death with an alarm clock, either. He groaned, rubbing the inside of his right arm. It felt like he had just been poked by a needle. He ignored the pain and returned his attention to the mirror across the bar.

His eyes weren't just bloodshot. They were red. One hundred percent RED. He had never seen eyes this color, except on white rats. White rats in labs on the Discovery Channel always had red eyes. He sighed and swallowed the last of his whiskey, slamming the glass down on the bar. "Another," he barked.

"Don't you think you've had enough, buddy?"

AJ glared at the man with his red eyes. "Another."

The bartender hesitated for a moment, then pulled a bottle of whiskey from beneath the counter. "Take it. Take it and get out of my bar."

AJ grabbed the bottle and said, "Fine. Don't need to be at a bar to drink." He spit on the bartender and kicked a stool as he stumbled out the door. As he hit the sidewalk, pain spiked through the back of his skull, dropping him to his knees. It was almost as bad as when it had first started...

AJ slapped the back of his neck, as if the pain were a simple mosquito he could swat. He was curled in the fetal position, clutching the whiskey bottle as if it were a life preserver, when the spasms finally seceded. He gasped, looking at his hands. He stumbled to his feet and gazed at himself in the window of the bar he had just exited.

His eyes were still blood red. Rubbing the spot on his arm where he'd felt the pinprick. Whatever someone had tried to do... it hadn't worked. He stumbled back to his feet and continued down the sidewalk.

---

Darien Fawkes collapsed into his bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow. The day had been filled with experiments, poking, proding, examinations, quicksilver this and quicksilver that. Non-stop, all day. He hadn't been worked that hard since... well, since those first days back at Kevin's lab.

But his sleep was far from restful.

The first dream was of a dark hotel room. He could see flashing neon through the open window. Vegas. The Strip. He slowly turned in the room. Two faceless spectres moved slowly through the shadows; their faces hidden from him. He was moving slowly, almost painfully, towards the bed. He could see a shape on it, but couldn't connect the form to the two people still milling around in the darkness.

As he approached the bed, he became aware of a third shadow joining the first pair. They seemed oblivious of his presence. Darien looked away from the ghosts and looked at the woman on the bed. She was dead, beyond a doubt.

He recoiled, backing up and hitting the wall. Voices filled his head; voices of strangers that seemed oddly familiar to him. A man's deep voice said, "...lost control... takes his rage out..."

A soft woman's voice came next. "...rage...aggression...

A second man's voice echoed through Darien's head when he said, "...sociopath..."

A face filled Darien's vision. The man's face was contorted with hate, anger and aggression. His eyes were red with quicksilver madness. The face began to slowly recede until Darien could see the man's entire body. His hands and clothing were covered with blood. The man roared and launched himself at Darien, his hands transforming into syringes filled with counter-agent.

As Darien sidestepped the sociopath, he bumped into someone else. Spinning around, he saw the Apothecary. The ancient Chinese man smiled a toothy smile and said, "The demon has left you... Be free and worry no more..."

Darien woke drenched with sweat. His t-shirt clung to his lean frame and his sheets were nearly soaked. The blankets had already been kicked off the bed. Looking at the clock, Darien saw that he was due in the Keep in thirty minutes. He climbed out of bed, feeling like he hadn't slept a wink.

He flipped on the TV as he went, listening to the news. "...a grotesque murder in a Las Vegas hotel room this morning. Police criminalists are currently going over the scene and have determined this to be the work of a sociopath. For clarification, we go to the head of Las Vegas Crime Scene Investigation, Gil Grissom."

Darien watched as the camera cut to a middle-aged man whose black hair was beginning to gray. He had a kind face, but his eyes looked like they had seen far too much blood... too much pain. A graphic along the bottom of the screen read, 'Gil Grissom, criminalist'.

"A sociopath could be any number of things. The dictionary simply describes the sociopath as a psychopath with severe antisocial behavior. This is a drastic understatement... sociopaths recognize the difference between right and wrong but they just don't care. They are incredibly dangerous because they rarely care whether they live or die..."

Darien realized what the criminalist was describing. "Quicksilver madness... Someone else has it..."

---

Claire shined the light in his eyes, then asked, "So? They're just dreams, Darien."

"No... these aren't just dreams. The last time, I dreamt about killing Hobbes and I almost went mad and killed him. You have to admit, that wasn't a coincidence."

Hobbes, who was tapping on the glass of the piranha tank, spoke up. "That's true, Keepy. He did try to strangle me."

"Prescient dreams? Come on, you can't be serious."

"Dead serious, Claire. I saw the news report of that murder in Las Vegas. Someone out there has... I dunno... inherited my madness."

"What murder?"

Hobbes answered, "Guy beat his wife's brains in with an alarm clock. Very gruesome."

Claire sighed and returned to the topic. "So what if this man DOES have your madness? Do you want it back, is that it?"

"I don't WANT it back... but better me than some poor shmuck that has no idea what's going on. I have things that other people don't have. Like you."

Claire almost blushed, then said, "How do you suggest we get the madness back into you?"

"I... We go back to the Chinese guy. The one who started all of this. There has to be some kind of reversal process."

Claire sighed. "I suppose it couldn't hurt. I'll check with the Official and..."

"No," Darien said, grabbing her wrist. "He can't know about this. Not until we find out if it IS reversable."

Claire sighed.

---

Eberts lowered the file. "It is official now, sir. The Keeper has presented the findings from her physical examination of Mr. Fawkes."

The office was darkened, lit only by the green lamp on Charlie Borden's desk. The fat man sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Tell me."

"The quicksilver madness which once made it possible to control Mr. Fawkes is gone. It is no longer an issue."

"Arnaud's Stage five counteragent?"

"The Keeper doesn't believe so. According to Mr.Fawkes, the madness was removed by a Chinese apothecary. He has taken the Keeper and Mr. Hobbes to attempt to find this man and reverse what has been done."

The Official was silent for a long time. Finally, he said, "Do we still have the tracking device?"

"Yes, sir."

The Official nodded. "Fawkes is dangerous and now there's a chance we can't use counteragent to control him. I want the tracking device implanted immediately."

"How... sir?"

"Give the hypo to the Keeper. She can make him think it's routine; he'll never know."

"Very good, sir."

---

Darien looked at the pimple-faced cashier at the Chinese restaurant. "What do you MEAN he's not here? I want to see him NOW."

"Dude, I don't know what you're talking about. We don't have anyone named Apa Drew Carey."

"Apothecary," Darien corrected. "And he was here four days ago. Where'd he go?"

"Maybe back into your head, where he came from. I'm tellin' you, I don't know nothing about this Apopadingle guy."

Darien shoved past the clerk and headed towards the back of the restaurant with Claire in tow. When several waiters headed in their direction, Hobbes flashed his badge and rested his hand on the butt of his revolver. "Federal agents, kiddoes. Just step back and let us work, all right?"

Darien burst into the kitchen. As he entered, a dark-haired kid looked up from the sink and immediately ducked his head again. "You! You were here!"

The kid made a break for it, but Darien side-stepped a stove and grabbed him by the collar. The kid began spewing curses in Chinese, kicking and punching at the air in a futile attempt to escape. Darien turned the kid around. "Where is he? Where's the old Chinese man that brought me through here the other night?"

The kid grimaced and said something in Chinese.

"Do you speak English? Uh... English? Speaka de Englash?"

Hobbes stepped forward and spoke in fluent, elegant Chinese to the boy. The boy looked at Hobbes, then glared at Darien before responding with a short sentence.

Hobbes said, "The kid doesn't know about an apothecary. Or so he says."

Darien tightened his grip. "Ask him again. This time make sure he sees your gun."

Hobbes sighed and spoke again, opening his jacket to show the revolver. The kid's eyes widened and he began speaking quickly. Hobbes translated. "The boy said he went to Vegas to wait." In Chinese, he asked what for. When he got the response, he said, "Wait for the second one, whatever that means."

Darien nodded. "The second one to get the madness." He released the boy and turned, heading out of the kitchen. Claire frowned. "Where are we going?"

"Vegas."