Later That Night

            Sleep had become a luxury. Basically, I'd given up on it. And even if I'd had the time for it, my worst fears would have kept me awake. I don't like questions without answers.

          Derek and I had talked for about half an hour about psychic phenomena: how it's usually triggered by a severe blow to the head, but can also be triggered by severe emotional or mental trauma. That was a phrase I didn't like, since I'd had a lot of emotional trauma of recent with the, y'know, shooting and being shot at and trying to figure out what to do with my life. He told me he'd look more into it, but I didn't tell him I might be his next case file.

          I was sitting at my computer on the Internet, trying to do some research of my own. Sergeant Friday's question to me earlier in the day had made me realize how quirky it was for me to have daydreamed the situation 24 hours before it happened. I didn't usually default to paranormal explanations, but it was the first one that came to mind. There really isn't a procedural explanation for the precognitive workings of the human mind.

          There was a soft knock at the door and I pulled off my headphones, George Winston's 'Variations on the Canon by Pachelbel' still playing out of them, and glanced up as Detective Smith opened the door and glanced over at me. "Shouldn't you be in bed by eleven?" he asked me, and I nodded, stopping with the typing. "Maybe. But there's no class tomorrow and after today, I don't know if it's safe for me on campus or if anyone else wants me there. Unless you want to chaperone me, and you have better things to do."

          "At least clue me in to what you're doing."

          "Research on some mental acuities." As he came in and sat on the edge of my bed so he could see over my shoulder, I spun in my chair. "Did your partner tell you how I knew when to duck that bullet?"

          "Yeah, he said you had good instincts."

          "Right." I nodded. "I was driving in to work Monday morning and I had a daydream about the whole situation. Except for you rescuing me, of course. That defies explanation, so I thought I'd try to explain it."

          "What explanation is there?"

          "None right now." I turned back to the computer. "But if this is in my head I want to know."

          "What if it's not in your head?"

          "We'll deal with that if and when we get to it."

Starbucks

Across the Street from the LAPD Building

Los Angeles

            A second meeting had now become absolutely necessary. Given my status on campus, not to mention that it also hadn't been vetted for my safe return by the CTU Internal Investigations Division, I requested that it be held somewhere in L.A. As it turns out there is one of the five billion Starbucks installations across the street from the LAPD's building, and that was where I met Derek for the second time.

          "What did you find?" I said as he slid into the seat across from me.

          "Just some notes, nothing much. I'm sorry I couldn't be of further help but our types of encounters are usually much more homicidal and probably fatal." He snickered at this a moment, but paused. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

          "The indications are … that I'm experiencing some kind of psychic reaction."

          "What? Are you serious?"

          "Yeah. You know I was shot at yesterday afternoon?"

          "Yeah, it was all over the news."

          "Well, Monday morning, driving in to work, I had a brief daydream that nearly duplicated the situation. That was how I knew when to duck to avoid the shot. Like a second sight, second instinct. And it gets worse."

          "How?"

          "I've had another."

          "What … what happened?"

          "You want to know about Code Fives? You're gonna get a chance." I felt the blood running in my veins already, a sure sign that I would have a temperature spike, which was my signal that I was nervous. "Because in my vision I fought at least one. That means they're still here, or back here, or … God, I don't know what it means, but it means a violent fight."

          "Isn't there somebody that can handle this?"

          "Two people," I said, putting up two fingers for emphasis. "Michael and myself."

          "You're so kidding, right?" He studied my face. "You're not kidding."

          "The others … Jack, Lex, Leticia, Weiss, Tony, Vaughn, Chris, Steve, et al … helped out in L.A. to smoke out two dozen of them. But we got pounded. This is hardball. It's different." I pounded the table with my fist, feeling more pissed off about this the more I thought about it. "The only thing I can do is get ready."

          "We."

          "Excuse me?"

          "I'm not leaving you to get your ass kicked."

          "You don't know me. You aren't ready."

          "Make me ready."

Homicide Division Los Angeles Police Department Los Angeles

          I pushed through the doors with Detective Smith on my heels, feeling roused. Derek's words had gotten under my skin: I'd have to raise a veritable army of people to fight any incursion, and I'd either need Michael's help or I'd have to start standing on my own. But that was personal, or at least more personal than this. It was time to catch a killer, than we'd deal with a swarm of them. I spotted Sergeant Friday and asked if anything was new.

          "Nothing. Did you eliminate any names?"

          "Yeah, most of them. Either we're getting close to a suspect or a dead end."

          "What about the campus shooting?" Detective Smith chimed in.

          "CSU didn't have much conclusive from there. It was definitely a professional."

          "Well, I've had three years and two months to make enemies," I said. "Four months to make myself a target. That's a lot of time."

          "You ever consider another line of work?" the sergeant asked.

          "Many, many times in my head." I nodded. "But it's too late for me now."

          Holding the list in my hands I looked at the remaining couple of names: old friends who I had lost touch with after graduation. Chris, Alli, and their families. None seemed culpable suspects. My brain went back to what Lex had said about loyalty tests. If this was the work of my higher-ups in the main Agency, they'd have used a deniable operator or a salaried handler and we would never find a trace, which was the way it was heading. But to prove that, I'd need a link back to the Agency.

          "Okay, the final six names," I finally said, throwing the list back down. "I'll need to make some calls."

          Sergeant Friday looked over at me. "What are you thinking?"

          "That somebody inside my Agency set up a test match." When they didn't get this, I looked primarily to Detective Smith. "That message last night from my partner was giving me information that the higher-ups may be arranging loyalty tests on certain members of CTU. That could include me, and he believes that could include this murder."

          "They'd kill someone to test your loyalty?" Detective Smith seemed stunned.

          "I didn't think so either … but there are factions in the CIA I don't understand." I reached for my cell phone. "That's why I work for CTU. Outside of those walls, you never know what's going on for sure." I left a message for Lex to call me with updated info; he was probably briefing Jack, being my stand-in for these few days. Then I called Michael since I felt he needed to be told about the Code Five situation. That was a big mistake. Yelling at your probably-soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend in the middle of a homicide squadroom … I've seen much better days.

          I don't know when I stopped loving him; I don't know if I did. I knew when I fell in love with him that our jobs were difficult and demanding, and we were complex, emotionally raw people, and that it would be a fight to stay together. Except when that fight came it was hard to bear. He seemed to try to keep me out of his fight, and couldn't get in touch with the people that made up mine. It was like living two lives, as if I wasn't doing that already. Maybe it was three lives by now. I just remember feeling blind anger, maybe at him, maybe at me, maybe at everything, and letting him bear the brunt.

          "Shut up, Michael! Just shut the hell up for a second!" I yelled into the phone. "I am telling you what I think, not what I know. If there's a problem here, we will handle it … I can handle this! No, we've handled this before … Why is this different now? Why is it different? I know you're scared. I'm scared … Don't try to protect me. It's too late to protect me, Michael. No, it's too late for that." I clapped the phone shut without even saying goodbye. I knew I was being cold and distant, but the pressure of holding on to him, holding on to my sanity, and doing my job was just too much. Something had to go.

          "What was that about?" Detective Smith asked me after a moment.

          "The end of the world, more or less." I wasn't kidding.