CHAPTER 2: CLUES

What the hell's wrong with me?

The boy-teep was dead, Zack had informed him. The rogue had taken him out, and would probably take out the girl-teep too, if she didn't stick close to Bester. Marching into the lion's den, strange that the only safe place those kids had was by the snake's side.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

And Bester was their enemy's enemy. Not that they had much choice, that much was painfully obvious. Once Corps, always Corps.

Didn't that include him, though?

Garibaldi rolled over on his back, staring up blankly into the darkened ceiling. No hope of sleep now. Bester and the girl were busy with the rogue; Zack had helped him track him down. There would probably be a firefight.....

His eyes closed, trying to picture the scene. Yes, Bester would talk to the rogue. Tell him that it would be all right. That the Corps wouldn't hurt him. The rogue would lash out --

His eyes screwed up tight. The rogue would lash out and Bester --

Bester --

Bester would probably allow himself to be hit. He'd let himself be hit so that they could take down the rogue with the minimum of damage. Amazing how these double standards were. The psi cop would allow himself to be nearly killed before striking out at another telepath, but he wouldn't hesitate to gun down a 'mundane' in cold blood.

The thought was ice seeping through Garibaldi's veins. Why the hell am I still alive, then?

Punishment? Maybe a experiment, like Procrustes. Tie down the unwary traveller to your bed and chop him to fit. Stretch him to fit. Change him and mould him until he's in your image just for the hell of it. What the hell has that bastard been doing to me? How would he know, anyway? If you were sleeping on Procrustes' bed and woke up changed, how would you know that you didn't dream your life before? That the 'you' you thought you were was just imagined? That you weren't always like this --

The ceiling laughed down at him scornfully, twisting the light refracted through the windows into a kaleidoscope of silence. Kaleidoscope of silence? What the hell does that mean, Michael? Are you on something?

He was on something. Yep. He was--

Not thinking this. Hello?

Hi. Can I come in?

What the -- Bester?! His head snapped around and he glared at the closed door as if it hid unimaginable horrors.

Amusement peppered a twisting yellow path. Trust Bester to come up with a yellow brick road. Who else would be waiting outside your door in the middle of the night?

True.

Then - danger blasted through in the form of a tornado, destroying the road, leaving gaping holes in the buildings around. Ready to see the Wizard, Michael?

What the -- Why are you here? His hands itched again. The nausea returned with a vengeance, making the world spin dangerously. Garibaldi grabbed onto the only steady thing within reach - himself. His fingernails bit into the soft skin at his waist, reaching just behind that to the junction between waist the small of his back. Small crescents of pain spiralled their way into him, serving as a focal point for his disorientation. And what the hell are you doing to me -- he choked on the word, again?

The amusement faded, replaced by something he couldn't quite understand. The yellow brick road was suddenly overgrown with weeds, turning into a deserted path from neglect. Brambles and tall nettles barred his way and the shadows laughed at his confusion. I'm not. Let me in.

I -- The nettles stung his legs and feet, and suddenly he was barefoot on the road, staring at the impossibility of the task. I can't --

Now.

A brief battle ensued, over before it had even begun. "Enter," Garibaldi's voice box instructed, without any input from its owner. The door slid open and harsh light shafted through the skewed opening. A solitary figure stood in the doorway, bathed by the light. His face was hidden by shadow, but Michael could still see the smile there.

He tried to reach for his PPG.

You can't hurt me. I told you. You can try --

And Garibaldi did, desperately trying to convince unwilling fingers to uncurl from their hold on his sides to grab his weapon, to kill the personification of his nightmares. The world chose that moment to drop out from under him and take his stomach along for the ride. Michael hit the ground hard and pressed his fist against his mouth, trying not to retch. He didn't even notice the psi cop draw nearer, didn't even notice his presence just behind him. Splayed out on his belly on the floor, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, the skin on his back prickling with cold and anticipation.

Better?

A gloved hand dropped hesitantly on his shoulder, hardly even touching him. Bester was kneeling beside him, the analytical part of Garibaldi's mind deduced, his hand on his shoulder. His hand his shoulder, stroking away the urge to throw up, to bury his head under the pillow and scream out loud, to --

Get away!

He yanked away from the dreaded touch, startled that it didn't follow him. His back pressed against the edge of the bed and he drew his knees up against his chest in as effective a defence as he was able to muster. Which, he had to be frank, wasn't much. His PPG was nowhere in sight.

Bester remained half-kneeling on the floor in front of him, one eyebrow raised. I'll leave if you like.

Yes! He half-gasped, hating himself for the desperation there, hating himself for the weakness it showed. Broken, worthless, scared --

No. Bester inclined his head to one side. No. Not your fault. Not this time - and not before. I said that, didn't I? There was a slight hesitation there, as if the psi cop was trying to remember whether he had said it... or whether Garibaldi just wasn't inclined to believe him.

I let you! It was an anguished howl, and he felt the urge to lash out, to hit something, to make the world understand how much it hurt --

Bester's face was curiously blank as he studied his erstwhile victim. Just who's mind were they in, now, anyway?

I let you do that to me! And that was what hurt the most, wasn't it? The utter helplessness. Garibaldi fought the urge to reach out a hand and just squeeze. Why are you here?!

Bester licked his lips. Any other time, it would have been a derisive gesture, perhaps even a frightening one, coming as it did from a snake with eyes so curiously guileless. But not now. You didn't have any choice in the matter. And this was a mistake on our part. Not your fault, but it'll have to be fixed before.... He trailed off, his mindvoice sounding almost angry. Not with Garibaldi. Bester had never been angry with him - always controlled, dark, frightening, but never angry. I brought you something.

And then the snake was uncoiling, standing up and turning away, leaving him sitting half-naked on the floor, his knees drawn up against his chest in the manner of a frightened child while darkness enveloped the room once again. Garibaldi heard one last thought before Bester left -

I'm giving you a choice, now. Not much of one, but a choice nonetheless.

Then there was silence.

It took Michael almost an hour to pluck up the courage to turn the lights on and stare, amazed, at the bottle of whiskey Bester had left for him in the middle of the bedroom floor.

End Chapter II