"You said she said she didn't even *remember* September 11!" Dante spat, whirling in another orbit of his attempt to wear a hole through DNC's floor. Trish looked at him wearily as she leaned against the desk and watched him pace, bright defiant red against the evening blinds, his long trenchcoat slapping against his legs. His normally silvery eyes were glowing faintly red, a sure sign of the level of his own upset.

"Dante....she didn't. After we got back, I asked her as much as I dared about things. She didn't remember anything about what happened to the World Trade Center. In fact, when I showed her a picture of New York *before* the 11th and asked what was in the picture that was missing *now*, she said 'nothing.' Then I told her. She was ready to throw up, and she wasn't faking."

"And still, you said she got details off the Pentagon attack that she *couldn't* have known. And didn't."

"That's what I *said*, dammit!"

"Shanksville? Flight 93?"

"She didn't know about that either. But was rambling something about the Capitol being targeted by somebody other than the terrorists on Flight 77. I didn't push, Dante. She was in a bad way and I'm not feeling too great at the moment either."

Dante stopped, and plopped onto the office couch, his fingers lacing into his hair. "...Holy shit."

Trish sagged over next to him on his right side. "My thoughts exactly." Her eyes closed miserably. Dante paused a moment, then slowly put an arm around her, which she leaned into.

"...sorry, Trish."

"No bad, Dante."

"I thought she knew. Didn't realize she *wasn't* using my TV when I was out when she was with me." He paused, remembered, and coughed. "Uh, well, it was broke anyway."

Trish snorted. "Everything you have is broke." She smiled tinily. "I don't have one. I just....you think she'd have at least picked something up from when we were outside, but..."

"I think everybody thought everybody else knew about it. And you and she were only out a couple brief times anyway, right?" Dante shrugged. "A' course, this leave some interesting questions."

"Like...what caused her to forget, and where *was* she when it happened?"

Dante nodded, bangs fluttering, then got up and started pacing again, less feverishly than before. "No kidding. She can remember where to get gyros but doesn't remember things like attempting suicide or major terrorist attacks."

"Or dream of them and not remember the context. Or get near the locales of them and freak out."

"Between you, me, and the wall, babe, it's time to really start digging to find out the cause. Because whatever happened near the Pentagon with her, it wasn't normal." He snorted. "Yeah, like any of this entire situation is."

"And nor is what happened to her memories."

"Duh."

"Duh seconded."

"Where is she?"

"Back at my place." She shifted nervously. "Put her under a bit with some happy pills, but I don't want to leave her for very long, Dante. She's....well. She's very fragile right now."

Dante nodded, lighting up a cigarette. Trish fought a wrinkle of her nose. Dante studiously ignored her and took a couple puffs of the Marlboro. He exhaled, a cloud of smoke wafting out of his lungs.

"I'm going with ya, Trish."

"Is that a good idea?"

"Nope. It's a damn stupid one. Got any less stupid ideas other than hands off until the other shoe drops? Which, given our lives, it will?"

"...No."

He took another puff, looking meditative.

"That's really a revolting habit, Dante." Trish said.

"Who died and made you...don't answer that." Dante smirked faintly.

Trish snorted, but didn't follow up on that. "Feeling jumpy?"

"What, me, the fact I'm nic-fitting? Maybe. Beats the alternative."

"Chewing up the scenery like a good little half-devil?"

"Rar." He puffed again, the nicotine visibly starting to take effect, then stubbed the cancer stick out on the heel of his boot and tossed it into the trash. "Let's go. I'll order 'za when we get there."


Trish put the key into the hole and stopped dead when the door swung open without the key being turned. Next to her, Dante's eyes narrowed as his sense of smell was assailed by a sudden scent of fear from Trish. Dulled as his sense was from the cigarette, there was no mistaking it. Trish was inside and flicking on the lights, taking immediate stock of the place.

There was no sign of disturbance, burglary or assault, except for the sheets on the couch dragged onto the floor and trailing away in a white spill.

"Oh god...." She raised her voice. "Anne, are you there? *Anne*?"

Dante bit down a growl as the stench of yet more terror hit him. It wasn't Trish's, and it was older, and longer lasting, and deeper. Under it he detected undertones that made it definitely Anne's...human femininity, and an odd tang he'd never been able to put a name to before now, but reminded him of cold rainwater, stone, and apple blossoms. The fine hairs on the back of his neck ruffled as Trish dashed in, making a quick case of the rest of her apartment in the futile hope Anne was there. Dante already knew it was no use.

"She's--" Trish began.

"Gone. I know. The scent's not too fresh. Shit."

Trish closed her eyes and bit her lip until it bled. "Dammit. I thought the Valium had put her out long enough..."

Dante was taking a quick view of the situation. "Apparently not. Nobody else was here that I can scent." The nostrils of his aristocratic nose flared again, as he walked back into the hall. "And it comes out here. She freaked and ran, Trish."

Trish paused, her eyes widening in horror at the implications of a defenseless, scared and very likely still groggy woman in one of the worse sections of the District of Columbia after nightfall. "*Dammit*."

Dante's tone went businesslike. "Trish..stay here. Keep the lines open in case I call. I'm going after her."

"Don't you need backup?" Trish paced fretfully on the rug, the leather of her jacket bunching under her clenched fingers.

Dante shook his head. "Not for this, babe. The scent's not fresh and your presence'd confuse the trail. I gotta play bloodhound. But if I call, come runnin'."

Trish nodded, already moving for a DC map for the surrounding areas. Dante was already out the door in a sweep of red leather.

Trish let out a shaking breath, starting to look at the layout of the districts on the map.

"You better be right on not needing, Spardaspawn, because if you aren't, I'm going to kill you, so help me," she muttered, fighting off a sick feeling of helplessness and settling in for a little eternity of wait.