He'll be making his move soon, the damned fool.


She ran her clawed fingertips absently around the edge of the recording crystal as it projected its information in front of her eyes. The Gaurnim Assembly had access to many sources of intelligence. This particular member had more sources than most, and they had proved most valuable in the recent troubles. She deactivated her crystal and wiped it with an almost negligent exercise of will. Laying the now blank recording medium on her desk, she leaned back and stared at the mists as they continued their stately dance. This was her public "office" as it were. Not the hidden sanctum where she had held and tortured a human. That place was hidden, at least for now.


Tirad will make his move. Those short-sighted dull-scales in the Assembly will react and we'll go charging blindly down the path of the First Cataclysm like a herd of magakte. If only Sker would listen to reason. Realize how he's being played. She shook her head in frustration. Futile of me, contemplating might-have-beens. What is must be dealt with...which I have to the best of my ability. Her hair crest slicked down against her skull and neck, the Gaurnim expression of anxiety. I can only wait. Something I have never liked. But if something doesn't happen soon, I may have to prod Sker. I may have been too subtle.


Approaching presences caught her attention. Not so much the presences themselves; their thoughts were tightly controlled to minimize projection. It was the stir they created in other minds as they passed that alerted her. But they were definitely headed toward her sanctum.


Then again, perhaps I wasn't too subtle.


She schooled her expression to one of careful neutrality, consciously forcing her crest into a relaxed position. Two male-alphas wearing the insignia of Assembly Guards marched in and flanked the entrance. A moment later, an aged male-beta followed them. The extensive scarring along his left flank prevented him from moving with a beta's usual graceful undulations. His left arm was twisted and withered, hanging limp at his side, all marks earned during the Great War. His eyes glittered with anger. The female rose from her desk and bowed to her fellow Assembly member.


"Honorable Sker, to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?"


Sker's lip curled in scorn. "Honorable Ba'aque," he sneered, turning the title into an epithet with his tone. "You are hereby under arrest for crimes against the laws of the Gaurnim."


Ba'aque felt a strange mix of gratification and despair at his words but was careful not to betray this and gave him a puzzled look instead. "Crimes, Honorable Sker? What are these crimes that you speak of?"


Sker jerked his way closer to her desk. "You are a formidable opponent on the debate floor, Ba'aque," he said. "But did you really think you could cover this up forever? Urging the Assembly to bow down to those filthy Y'larat in the name of preventing pain and destruction while, at the same time, you engaged in perverse experiments on sentient beings from the Forbidden World!" The beta drew himself up proudly. "Perhaps now your supporters will see the folly of your position. You are hereby under arrest for the capture and unlawful holding of a sentient being, premeditated assault upon a sentient being and endangering the Pact! Will you come quietly and be judged before the Gaurnim?"


Ba'aque forced her features into an expression of cold pride. So he had taken the bait. The subtle clues she had left had led Sker, who hoped to find information to discredit his rival, to "hidden" journals; carefully composed journals which painted her as a sociopath, carrying out cruel and pointless experiments which could easily seen as poor excuses for sadism.


"I am ever at the Assembly's service," she said as she walked around her desk. The guards flanked her as they headed out into the passage. As they walked, she bleakly contemplated her future.


"Once you decide on a path, face the consequences of that path without flinching." The passage from her favorite philosophy book failed to comfort her. Time to face my consequences. Two can play plausible deniablity, Tirad. And I believe I can beat you at this game.


***


Oh, God, Egon thought, his heart sinking into his toes. Peter wasn't on the second level, but Egon hadn't really expected to find him there. However, as he had made his way to the spiral staircase, something in the kitchen caught his eye. One of the cabinets was hanging open. The cabinet where they kept the liquor.


Come on, Peter. I know you're stronger than that.


Egon hurried up the stairs. They all knew that alcohol deadened psychic awareness, but that was one route Peter had steadfastly refused to take. Had this latest shock finally pushed him over the edge? Egon had to get to him quickly. He didn't even bother to check the third level. Peter wouldn't be there, not in the state he was currently in. Egon headed straight for the stairs to the roof.


He let himself out into the breezy afternoon. The air was cooling as fall advanced, but the roof had been baking in the sun all day and radiated warmth. A few wispy clouds sailed overhead. All in all a beautiful day, but Egon had no eyes for it. Peter wasn't in sight of the door, but before Egon could even turn around to look for him, a voice called out.


"Over here, Spengs. I'm on the other side."


Peter's voice, dull and flat, but not slurred as it would be with intoxication. Marginally reassured, Egon walked around to the other side of the roof. Peter was sitting propped against the back of the shed which sheltered the stairs. His knees were pulled up almost to his chest with his crossed arms resting on top of them. He stared into the distance, sunlight glinting off the glitter that clung to his hair and clothes. Peter seemed fairly calm now, but it was the numb calm of someone who had been hurt so deeply that he simply couldn't register any more pain.


"Before you ask, yes, I felt you coming, and, no, I haven't got my shields back together yet. Can't get my mind focused enough." He listlessly turned his head to look at Egon. "I didn't hurt anyone down there, did I?"


Egon slowly walked over and dropped down to sit crosslegged in front of Peter. "No, we're uninjured."


Peter nodded and let out a slow breath. "Thank God for small favors. Does dad know?"


"Meaning did you your father discern that you're a telepath?" Egon shook his head. "No. He simply thought you were shouting. We didn't enlighten him before we threw him out."


"Good, I didn't really want to deal with his plans to get rich off of this little development," Peter said with a hint of anger. "Don't you guys have a bust this afternoon?"


"Janine's rescheduling it for tomorrow," Egon replied.


"Hey, don't call it off on my account."


"Peter," Egon said, his tone a mild rebuke.


"Okay, okay," Peter capitulated with a resigned shrug. "You probably would have had to postpone it anyway, as late as we got back."


They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the breeze whistling past the roof and the faint sound of cars from the street below. Finally, Egon nodded toward the full bottle of bourbon, obviously unopened, which sat beside Peter. "May I ask what you plan to do with that?"


"Just reviewing my options," Peter said with a grimace. "Trying to figure out if that little performance down there moves me into the 'danger to myself and others' category." He picked up the bottle and looked at it contemplatively. "I'm a little scared that, if I dive in here, I won't be coming back up for air."


"Well, I would seriously take issue with classifying you as dangerous," Egon said sternly. "I hope you will trust my judgement where that is concerned."


Peter gave Egon a long, penetrating look, then a ghost of a smile crept across his face. "I do," he said. He leaned forward and placed the bottle on the roof in front of Egon. "How about I let you decide when I need that?" Peter stared at the bottle bleakly for a second, then buried his head in his arms. "'Cause I really don't trust my own judgement at this point, Spengs. You know, I never could understand people who turn to drugs and stuff to deal with their problems. I think I'm starting to now."


Egon was shocked, even more than he was when he'd seen the open liquor cabinet. What could Peter have possibly read in his father's thoughts to bring him to this point? "Peter?" he asked hesitantly. "What happened? What did you see?"


The only answer was a slight tremble in Peter's lanky frame. Egon grit his teeth together and persisted. "I know you don't feel comfortable talking about this, but, if it hurt you this badly, you need to get it out. I promise not to tell anyone what you saw in your father's mind..."


"Doctor-patient confidentiality, Egon?" Peter's voice was brittle with irony. "I guess you'd qualify. You've probably picked up enough from yours truly over the years to start your own counseling service." Peter looked up, his eyes glinting with unshed tears as words kept tumbling out, faster and faster. "I wonder what kind of ethical code would apply to a psychic psychologist. Would save a lot of time finding out what people's hang-ups really are. That is, if I could do it and face myself in the mirror each morning."


"Peter." Egon put enough steel in his voice to derail his friend's growing hysteria. Peter jumped, then slumped against the shed. Egon had to fight the urge to reach out and clasp the psychologist's hand. It was impossible while his shields were in this condition. Being overloaded by another's thoughts would certainly do Peter no good at this delicate moment. "Please, Peter," Egon continued gently. "What happened?"


A wave of despair and grief surged through Egon, carried by three words that echoed in his mind. No, I can't.


"Yes, you can, Dr. Venkman," Egon said, forcing the invading emotions to one side. For once, his tendency to suppress his feelings came in handy. Peter looked up, surprised, then sighed in shame.


"I'm sorry, Egon," he said wearily. "It's just..." He dropped his eyes to stare at a point on the roof just in front of his feet. "You know, every time my dad tries to pull one of his stunts, I ask myself the same questions. What kind of idiot does he think I am? How can he do this to me? Does he really...love me?" The threatening tears started to spill over. "Well...I guess I finally got my answer."


Egon stared at Peter, stricken and disbelieving. "Peter, your father does love you," he said automatically as he had dozens of times before when Peter had been hurt by his father's thoughtlessness. "He just..."


"Damn it, Spengs!" Peter snapped. "I think I'm in a better position to know this than you!" The brief energy the anger gave him flowed away in the next second, and Peter closed his eyes, tears shining on his lashes. "I guess in order to love anyone you've got to have a certain attitude about people to start with," he continued in a dull voice. "Dad lumps everyone into one category. 'Things to be used'. I kinda knew he felt that way about most people." Peter's eyes opened. Such pain and loss shone from their green depths that Egon felt his own heart breaking. "But I really hoped he saw me differently." Peter sighed and rested his head on his arms once more. "He does see me a little differently, I guess. He's feels some affection, but it's the fondness a hunter would have for a good hound dog, or like you have for your favorite meter. But, in the end, they're just tools, things to be used and forgotten when you don't need them. That's not what I'd call love."


Egon didn't know what to say. Sometimes, he had suspected this about Charlie Venkman, but he had never wanted to believe it was true. The idea was so heinous that he'd forcibly turned away from it, urging Peter not to cut ties with his father even when he had every justification to do so. But now, to know that Peter's father not only did not truly love his son, but also that he was incapable of ever doing this without a radical and, at his age, highly unlikely change of worldview was devastating. He could only imagine how painful it was for Peter to have that last smoldering ember of hope for a normal relationship with his father finally snuffed out.


"Peter...I'm sorry."


"'Sokay, Egon," Peter replied bitterly. "I guess I should have expected it. Like father, like son."


Later that night, as he thought over the day's events, Egon was surprised that his brain didn't have whiplash from all the shocks. "How can you say that?" he demanded, outrage creeping into his voice. "You're nothing like Charlie!"


"Well part of me is!" Peter shot back. Despair and hopelessness were plain in his expression. "Why else can't I control this thing? I know I shouldn't be reaching into people's minds, but it happens before I can stop it!"


"What are you talking about?" Egon demanded, leaning forward.


Guilt overwhelmed the other emotions on Peter's face. He let his arms fall to his sides as he leaned back. "I...didn't tell you everything this morning, Spengs," Peter finally said. "This so-called gift. It's got an active mode as well as a passive one. I wonder what people are thinking and, next thing I know, I'm in their minds reaching out to just what I was wondering about. That's what happened down there with Dad." He swallowed nervously and closed his eyes with shame. "And that's what happened with Winston the other night when I saw his dream."


Egon looked at Peter quietly for a long moment. Ray was right. Peter had been suppressing his telepathy, but he didn't believe for a moment that this new problem was due to a defect in Peter's character. It had to be the nature of the "gift" itself. However, he would have to break through Peter's hurt and self-hate before his friend would listen to him. And he could think of only one way to do that.


"Peter, you said earlier that you trusted my judgement. I'm about to put that to the test."


Peter looked up, startled. "What?"


Egon held out his hand to his friend. "There's something you need to see."


Peter's eyes widened with fear. "Oh, no, Spengs. You don't want me to..."


"I thought you said you trusted my judgement," Egon chided gently. "Do you?"


***


Peter stared at the offered hand. He wanted to take it. He wanted to bat it aside and run like fury. He wanted to look into his best friend's heart, but he was afraid. Afraid of what he'd find there. Afraid of what he might do. He looked up at Egon. The physicist's gaze did not waver and neither did his hand. He appeared to be ready to sit there patiently for as long as necessary. The remnants of Peter's shields kept Egon's surface thoughts away, but he knew what his friend was saying silently to him. He knew the way he'd known what his friends were thinking before events a week ago turned his world upside down. Egon was saying you may not trust yourself, but will you at least trust me?


The gentle pressure of that trust forced Peter to choke back his fear. Slowly, he reached out a trembling hand and placed it in Egon's. Physical contact opened a flood-gate of sensation, but Egon grasped Peter's hand firmly before he could pull it away. A brief moment of disorientation, then Peter got his bearings. He felt his friend pulling him toward a particular place in his thoughts. Peter let himself be guided, forcibly keeping his attention away from the myriad of images surrounding him.


Here, Peter heard in his mind. He looked and saw...himself. In stark contrast to the image he'd found in his father's mind, this person wasn't a "thing", a tool bound by familial obligation to be used when convenient and then forgotten. This was a person with character and intelligence. A comrade-in-arms, a voice of comfort, a sly grin with a witty comment. He had vision that pierced through facades, but compassion that kept him from exploiting what he saw out of selfishness. It wasn't perfection that he saw. There was also pride, impatience, vanity and a streak of avarice, but the flaws were far outweighed by the rest. This was a brother, worthy of love and love was given to him freely.


This was how Egon saw him.


Peter felt tears running freely down his face as knowledge of Egon's love soothed the aching wound that his father had left in his soul. And, along with the pain, some of his self-doubt began to recede. He smiled gratefully at his friend, and, before he could react, Peter pulled Egon into his mind and showed the physicist how much he loved him in return.


Turnabout's fair play, Spengs, he thought impishly as Egon gasped in surprise. As they finally released their grip, both of them were weeping openly.


"Thank you, Peter," Egon finally said, clearing his throat.


Peter shook his head. "No, thank you, Egon. You know, that was almost worth all the rest," he said wistfully.


"Indeed it was," Egon said with a wistful smile of his own. "Now, regarding 'all the rest', are you willing to trust my judgement there as well?"


Peter sighed and quirked a corner of his mouth. "Well, it's obvious my way's not working," he said, his voice thick with emotion and fatigue. "What ya got in mind?"


Egon leaned back, quickly reaching a hand under his glasses to wipe away tears. "I do not think your inability to control the active mode of your telepathy is the result of subconscious flaw on your part. The urge to know what other people are thinking is a very human one. You are unique in that you have the ability to actually do something about it." Egon quirked an eyebrow at his friend. "I believe you would have figured this out for yourself if not for the stress you've been under."


Peter winced. Logically, he knew Egon was right. He also knew that it was hardest to apply psychological principles when you yourself were the 'patient'. He nodded in agreement, and Egon continued.


"You have also been attempting, consciously or subconsciously, to suppress your telepathic ability. However, it is likely impossible for you to do this effectively. Remember the 'gate' Tabitha told us about. In a sense, you're trying to hold back a flood with your bare hands. You're pushing your ability away. As a result, it is controlled largely by your subconscious which would explain why you find yourself involuntarily reaching for other minds in response to your very human instinct to know what others are thinking."


Peter thought it over and couldn't find any flaw in Egon's explanation. "I've got the picture, Egon. So what do I do about it?"


Egon leaned forward with a rueful smile. "You let us help you. Instead of working only on shielding out other people's thoughts, you need to learn to control all aspects of this talent. Take the control away from instinct and give it to your conscious mind."


A chill ran down Peter's spine as he thought about this. "So...you want me to go poking around in your head, Spengs? Now I know you're crazy."


"I trust you, Peter. We all trust you."


Peter turned his head and stared at the clouds floating by as he tried to make sense of the chaos in his thoughts. He didn't like it, but he was out of options. "I trust you, too. Do we get started now?"


Even if he hadn't felt the surge of relief through his fragile shields, Egon's smile would have given it away. "I didn't think you were such a glutton for punishment, Dr. Venkman," he said lightly. "At the moment, you're so exhausted you can barely think straight." Egon pushed himself to his feet, snagging the bottle of bourbon on his way. "First, you're going to have a much delayed lunch, along with a shot or two of this," he said indicating the bottle.


"Whoa! Hold the phone, big guy!" Peter started to protest, but Egon overrode him.


"You said you would let me decide when you need this, Peter, and right now you do. Just enough to let you get some rest." He grabbed Peter by the elbow and hauled him to his feet. "You're going to have lunch, take a shower and go to bed. If you wake up this evening with enough energy to shield yourself and work, we'll get started tonight. If not, we'll begin in the morning." Egon looked intently into Peter's eyes. "Let us help you, Peter. Don't close us out."


Peter smiled tiredly. "Okay, Spengs. I won't. What's for lunch?"


***


The mist forming the walls of the Gaurnim prison was thicker, shaded muddy green and grey. A stone bench was the sole piece of furniture. Ba'aque sat quietly in her gloomy cell, listening impassively to her friend's tirade. At least, she was impassive on the surface. Her soul twisted in pain behind the toughest shields she could build.


"Tell me it isn't true," the younger female pleaded. "Tell me Sker is planting evidence. I know you couldn't have done this!"


Oh, how she longed to tell her friend the truth, to repair her shattered image. But, if she did, her delicate plan would come crashing down, destroying their only hope of averting war.


"I assure you that Sker is far too honorable to plant evidence, Adorfa," Ba'aque answered coolly.


"Then are you saying it's true?" Adorfa demanded, her crest slicked down in distress. Ba'aque didn't answer. She simply gave her young friend an icy glance. Adorfa read in it what Ba'aque intended, and her distress was quickly supplanted by anger and betrayal.


"You've destroyed us," she growled. "Sker's faction has acknowledged that Tirad is rogue, but if he brings only one other Y'larat to Earth, they will demand that Assembly declare war. You have destroyed any hope we had of countering them! And for what? For some perverse curiosity as to the break-point of the human mind?!"


"There are too many veterans with bitter memories of the last war in the Assembly," Ba'aque remarked. "We had no hope of countering Sker in any case."


"You have certainly seen to that!" Adorfa's lips curled away from her teeth in fury. "And to think I trusted you. That I actually admired you, you sherkeka-born filth." The Gaurnim spun on her heel and barked out an order. The barrier at the portal to the cell dissolved and she stepped through. "May your soul rot in the darkness!" she snarled over her shoulder just before the barrier returned.


Ba'aque sighed inwardly. She had known this sacrifice would be necessary for her plan, the sacrifice of her friends' trust and respect. But that did not make it any less painful.


There is no turning back. I've burned my last bridge.


***


Winston measured out some insulated wires and cut them to fit Ray's specifications. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the engineer and physicist crouched over the table next to him. Egon had rejoined them in the lab a little while ago with a report of his talk with Peter. Their friend had given Egon permission to tell them everything and he had in his usual dry manner. Well, maybe not quite his usual manner. Egon's voice was just a trifle too clinical, the tell-tale sign of great stress, and he had more than enough reason for stress given what he'd related. Ray almost had to be physically restrained from running down to the kitchen when he heard the news about Peter's father, but they'd managed to convince him that Pete needed some time to rest. But, when Winston heard about the active aspect of Peter's telepathy, he realized that he needed to have his own private chat with the younger man sometime soon. Preferably after Peter had a chance to get some food in him. In the meantime, he busied himself with helping with powerfeed design and going over the information they'd gathered today in his head.


Okay, I think we can safely assume the Gaurnim meant for Peter to become telepathic, he thought as he picked up a soldering iron. No other explanation makes sense. If what Schlitt and Ray say about their control of power flows is right, she should have known what she was doing. The question is why. Winston quickly soldered the connections in place, letting Ray and Egon's conversation wash over him. Unless we're dealing with a total psycho here (and we can't rule that out) the Gaurnim isn't out to hurt us. From what Pete said she didn't want to be doing this to him at all and seemed to be hurting just as much as he was, but she kept saying it was necessary. It's not like they need telepaths over in her world. They've got their own. Winston frowned as a new thought occurred to him. Wait a minute, they've got telepaths over there, but they aren't allowed over here. Maybe she wants to use Pete as some sort of psychic listening post if the Y'larat make a move.


"Ray, Egon," he said aloud, catching his friends' attention. "Tell me, can telepaths read each other across dimensions?"


Ray looked up, his hazel eyes narrowing in thought. "I'm not sure. I don't think so. I mean, it takes a lot of power to breach dimensional barriers. Egon?"


"It does seem highly unlikely," Egon agreed, adjusting his glasses. "It would take a great deal of energy to reach across the dimensions telepathicly even to a minor degree. And a powerful telepath on the other end would barely pick it up. Why do you ask?"


Winston cursed silently. "That shoots my idea out of the water," he said and gave Egon an overview of their news from the kobald and his own theory. Ray smiled sympathetically and shook his head.


"Sorry, Winston. It was a good idea, but they've probably got much better ways of keeping tabs on our dimension. Scrying spells and stuff like that."


"Oh, well," Winston said with a shrug. "It was worth a shot."


They all bent back to their work, and, presently, Winston glanced up at the clock on the lab wall.


Twenty minutes. Guess that's long enough for the 'medicine' to take effect, he thought as he excused himself. Egon and Ray barely looked up from their circuit boards and print-outs, absorbed in their work as usual. Winston's part of the job was largely done, and they could work without him for a while.


Time for my own session of True Confessions.


The former soldier made his way down the stairs, shoving his reservations firmly aside. He had a job to do here. His friend was hurting, and his own anxieties may be contributing to it. Time to drag it out into the light of day and deal with it.


"Hey, Pete. Not hit the shower yet? You look like Tinkerbell's been after you."


Peter looked up from the remains of his lunch with half-lidded eyes and a tired smile. "Heading there next, Zed," he said, brushing at his hair with one hand. "That is, if I can make it up the stairs. Egon poured the booze freehand when he made me this bourbon-and-Coke. I told him we needed to blunt my senses, not put me under the table."


Winston chuckled as he pulled out a chair and sat down next to Peter. "Given your tolerance, I guess he's not taking any chances."


"Well, if I wake up with a hangover, it's all his fault." Peter stretched and finished off the dregs of his drink. "So what's up, Winston? The Wonder Twins got the lab wired to blow yet, or did you come down to take a break from the rarified airs of science?"


Winston took a deep breath and grasped the bull by the horns. "Actually, Pete. I need to talk to you."


"That was my third guess."


"First," Winston plowed ahead, "I want to make something clear. I do not blame you for what happened the other night. That wasn't your fault, and if I catch you pulling a guilt trip over it, I'm going to kick your ass all the way around the garage."


"Yeah, right." Peter gave a slightly tipsy snicker. "And risk denting Ecto-1?"


"Okay, I'll beat you around the bunkroom and sic Slimer on you," Winston countered with a grin. He quickly sobered, however. "The second thing. I don't know how much you've been picking up from me, Pete, but I'm pretty sure you've noticed how gun-shy I've been around you the past couple of days." Winston looked up at his friend who sat there patiently, his face revealing nothing. Winston sighed and continued. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. To tell the truth, it scared me when you read my dream. Not because I'm scared of you, if you know what I mean. I just..." He shrugged helplessly. "Well, it's the situation that's scary, I guess. But you needed me, and I started pulling back. I'm sorry, m'man."


Peter smiled. "Damn it, Winston. That's the first normal reaction I've seen out of you three since this whole thing started. You think I'd blame you for being scared? I've been freaking terrified. Any sane person would be scared in this situation."


"I don't think Egon's scared, though," Winston argued. "And I know Ray isn't."


Peter laughed quietly. "I rest my case. You know how it is. `There's no one sane but me and thee...'"


"'...and I'm not too sure about thee,'" Winston finished the quotation. "Well, maybe I can't be blamed for the fear, but I can be blamed for pulling back. Forgive me, buddy?"


"Did you have to ask?" Peter leaned forward and gripped Winston's arm where the sleeve covered it. "You guys have cut me all kinds of slack with this. I guess I should cut you some, too."


Winston smiled in relief. "Thanks, Pete. I guess it was past time for me to face my fear."


"And let it pass over and through you?" Peter grinned, letting go of Winston's arm and leaning back. "Has Ray finally got you to start reading Dune? The great mystery afficionado is finally stooping to sci-fi?"


Winston groaned silently. Trust Peter, dead on his feet and half-drunk to pick up on an obscure reference and put two and two together. "I sincerely hope Egon gave you enough to drink that you won't remember that when you wake up, Mr. Lisan al-Gaib."


"Sorry, Zed," Peter said, more of his usual cockiness surfacing. "I'm nowhere near plastered enough for that."


Winston shook his head in amused exasperation, but he couldn't help but notice the lingering shadows in his friend's eyes. Peter had taken a severe blow today, and no matter how he tried to act normal, Winston knew he couldn't bounce back quickly from something like that. "Pete," he said tentatively. "About your dad...I'm sorry about that, too."


Peter's grin faded like snow in the rain. "I know, Zed. I'm not gonna lie to you and say I'm okay with it but..." He sighed wearily. "Maybe it was what I needed to make the final break. God knows, I didn't have a healthy relationship with him to start with."


"Peter," Winston started to protest. "Don't burn your bridges here. People can change."


"Yeah, they can change," Peter agreed. "But I wouldn't hold my breath where my dad's concerned." Peter rubbed his eyes and slowly stood up. "One advantage is, if he does, I'll probably know, but until then." Peter shook his head. "I'm sick of being used, Zed. If that's all he wants me for, he can go find another damn tool." Peter swayed slightly and Winston quickly stood up to steady him. Peter managed to dredge up a smile for his friend. "Besides, you guys have been my family more than he ever was. I haven't lost much. Just a dream."


Winston slid one arm around Peter's shoulders and hugged him. "Yeah, but losing dreams sometimes hurts even more."


Peter nodded wearily. "Yeah, but it won't kill me." He took a deep breath and straightened up. "That shower's long overdue. Mind following me up the stairs and giving me a shove if I need it?"


***


The hidden room was dark and dank. Unavoidable conditions given that it was far underground. Uncomfortable but endurable, and he had much experience with enduring discomforts. Strong fingers leafed through reports from his operatives and allies. The Counsel was in a fine state of chaos thanks to his friends. The Gaurnim Assembly was also in a ferment over some misdeed by one of its members. Politically, the time was right.


The only thing lacking was power, and his followers were secretly hoarding the necessary energy for their task. Hoarding energy, weapons, secrets to use as leverage. All the pieces were falling into place. In a matter of days he would strike.


Tirad leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his well-groomed, russet mane. Soon he would open the gate to the Forbidden World and begin his vengeance for thousands of years of humiliation. He would fulfill the purpose for which his father and grandfather trained him, the ascension of the Y'larat to their rightful place as lords and masters. No one, not the short-sighted fools on the Counsel, not the prancing, scale-skinned Gaurnim would stand in his way.


Tirad pushed aside his reports and pulled out a worn paper, a map of a city on the Forbidden World. The city he would open his portal to. Delicately, he traced a circle around a particular marking.


"Very soon now," he crooned to himself. "Very soon.