Disclaimer: MutantX and its associated characters, locales, etc. belong to Tribune Entertainment et al and I claim no ownership of them and intend no copyright infringement. Original characters and locales such as Father Awa, Detective Lewis, and St. John of the Cross church are my own and I would appreciate being consulted if someone wishes to use them.

Author's Note: I laughed and laughed when I realized how my question at the bottom of chapter 6 was interpreted (at my own fault). I hadn't intended to ask what one calls the # symbol (pound, number sign, crosshatch, sharp sign, word boundary, whatever). Since QuickEdit keeps eating all my asterisks (which is really really annoying) I've been substituting #, and so the # at the bottom of the page was intended to refer back to one I'd placed in the narrative to refer to the comment, just like you would with an asterisk. Sorry for the confusion! I think I'll go back to numbered footnotes for that purpose. (NB: 06/28/06 - I changed the # to + as I've been going through the chapters trying to make it consistent.)

This one's a short chapter – but more will come soon, promise.

Crisis of Faith – Chapter 7

By Deichtine

When Lewis returned to the interview room, he came armed with three cups of coffee and one partner, who was introduced as the prosecuting attorney for the case. For what seemed like hours – and probably was – they questioned Brennan about the details of the crime. How had they been contacted by Carter? Where was his portion of the payoff? Brennan answered straightforwardly as much as he could, being bluntly truthful as he ignored the coffee and idly played with the cup. But soon the questions became too sensitive, and it was harder to be straightforward.

"What exactly did you do to the security systems?"

Brennan shifted slightly in his seat. "I shorted them out."

"The forensics report shows that the wires were actually fused. How could you have done that?"

"I have some pretty useful tools."

Lewis leaned forward onto the table. "Come on, Mulwray, standard procedure is not to directly apply high-voltage electricity where wire cutters will do."

"Well, we all have our little idiosyncrasies. I like to work with high voltage. It gives me a real charge."

Lewis declined to acknowledge the pun, though the attorney behind him grimaced. "Fine. Moving on. Eyewitness statements show that there were three of you, working as a team, that day. And though we have some leads on your partners, we lack sufficient evidence for an arrest."

"And if I roll on them, you'll have it. Sorry, but I can't help you."

"Can't, or won't?"

Brennan sat back in the chair. "You choose. They have to make that decision for themselves."

"Like you did?"

Brennan nodded.

Lewis looked unimpressed. "I seem to recall several armed men being there when we brought you in."

Brennan snapped back, "I seem to recall several armed men at the bank that day."

"Gentlemen," The attorney broke in. "I think we're getting off topic. Mr. Mulwray, I can offer you a much reduced sentence in exchange for your cooperation in this matter."

Brennan sighed. "Sorry. But putting them in prison right now would only hurt them to no purpose and prevent any chance of them changing. I'm not going to turn them in. Contrary to popular belief, detective," he said, turning back to Lewis, "there is sometimes honour among thieves."

Lewis leaned in towards him. "It was one of them who turned you in, Brennan. Did you know that? He called in a telling us exactly where to find you. Doesn't that make you want to get even at all?"

Brennan's lips pressed together in a thin line. It had to be Mike. Tony had already betrayed him once and wouldn't have cared enough to do it again, not after all this time, and he wouldn't know Brennan well enough to trust him not to roll on him. But Mike – it had to have been Mike. The hurt welled up in him, flooding his heart, and he took a deep breath in through his nose. He would deal with that later – right now he had to concentrate.

"No."

Lewis pushed himself back from the table. "I can't believe I'm actually wishing a criminal would be more despicable," he said, to no one in particular.

Brennan raisedhis eyebrows. "I think I'll take that as a compliment."

Suddenly they were interrupted as the door opened and a young woman, her face troubled, motioned urgently for the two interviewers to join her outside the room. Even through the door and the thick one-way glass, Brennan could hear the murmur of the voices, full of agitation. He strained to hear more, but could not make out their words. At one point, he heard Lewis's voice, raised in anger and disbelief. "They're doing what?"

When Lewis and the attorney returned, Lewis looked furious, but the attorney looked troubled. He sat down across from Brennan, where Lewis had sat before, and looked Brennan directly in the eye.

"Mr. Mulwray, I normally don't get involved in a defendant's choice of counsel, but in this case, I want to speak not as the prosecuting attorney – well, I'm not anymore anyway – but as a man. Get yourself a defense lawyer, the best you can find. You're going to need one."

Brennan stared at him. "What's going on?" he demanded.

In answer, the attorney passed him a set of documents, forms covered in signatures and stamps. Brennan took them, glanced at them, and looked back up at the prosecutor. "What are these?" he asked.

The man folded his hands together on the table in front of him. "Basically, what they say is that a federal government Agency is taking over custody of you, claiming a prior offense."

"What offense?" Brennan demanded.

"They won't tell us the original offense, but they do say that you escaped federal custody."

A horrible suspicion began to form in Brennan's mind. "What Agency?"

"I've never even heard of them before. Does the Genetic Security Agency mean anything to you?" He paused, looking at Brennan's face, and nodded. "I see it does. Now, I and everyone here has looked through these forms for any flaw that could allow us to fight it – Lewis here has been working on this case for months, and we're not willing to give up seeing it through without a fight. But if you look at the signatures on these forms, this GSA has cut straight through the red tape all the way up. Frankly, it's frightening how fast they've managed to bypass all of the regular paperwork and go straight to the top, but they have, and there's absolutely nothing we can do."

Brennan was staring at the forms in front of him, at the one signature marked "Executive Director for petitioning Agency". In bold, clear letters the name was written: Mason Eckhart. The white-haired head of the GSA saw no reason to ornament his signature with superfluous swirls or scribbles, but the name was underlined twice, the pen pressed with such force that it had almost gone through the paper.

And the scar on the back of his neck began to burn.

-----

Mike Azarello left the bar, a little unsteadily, and started towards home. He had not gone far, however, before an unfamiliar young man began walking straight towards him. Mike took one look at the expression on the blond's face and bolted.

Implacably, the man pursued him, gaining slowly, but surely. Mike desperately ran towards a brick building, then dodged to the side to go around it, hoping that his pursuer, still a ways behind, would not see which way he had gone. As he ran along the wall, he looked back and there was no sign of him. Cautiously, Mike slowed, then stopped, straining to hear footsteps, but all was silent. With a sigh of frightened relief, he began walking again, determined to get home as fast as he could. He reached the corner of the building, turned –

-- And was astonished to see the very substance of the wall seem to waver as the man walked straight through it to block his path. With a rock-hard grip he took hold of Mike's coat and pushed him roughly up against the wall.

"Mike Azarello?" he asked.

Mike looked down at him. "Who wants to know?"

Jesse's response was to slam him back again into the wall. "Right now that's not your biggest concern."

Mike licked his lips. "Yeah, I'm him. What do you want from me?"

"Who are you working for?"

"No one."

Jesse's eyes, if it were possible, grew harder, and he lifted the man a little ways off the ground. "Try again."

"I'm telling you the truth. I haven't had a client in months."

"Then I guess you won't mind telling me what you and Brennan Mulwray have been planning these past few weeks."

At Brennan's name, Azarello's eyes narrowed in anger and disgust. "Mulwray?" He almost spat the word. "I don't know where you're getting your information, but I'm not planning anything with that...that...there isn't even a word for what he is."

"Explain."

"Look, a few months back, Mulwray, me, and another guy did a job at a bank, right? Opened a safety deposit box for a client. I don't know how the police knew to go after Brennan for it, but they caught him. Then early this month I see him out walking on the street – he says he got away from the cops right after they got him and he's been hiding out. I had a lead on a job at the time, and, well, Brennan was like my brother, you know? So I talked to my client, bent over backwards convincing him to let me bring Brennan on. And when I asked Mulwray, the bastard had the gall to refuse me. I totally stuck my neck out for him and he betrayed me. So not only has he abandoned me for months after the bank, but then he gets religion and goes all soft."

Jesse's grip slackened in surprise, and Mike's feet touched the ground. "He got what?"

With an offended shove, Mike pushed Jesse back and straightened his coat. "Religion. He 'found the Lord' or whatever you call it. I had to meet him outside a church, for God's sake. He said he's gotten out of the life, started over. Even asked me to go with him, said he'd help me start over, clean slate. As if I want to spend my days saying 'yes sir' to some boss at a desk. Out here, I'm my own boss, and I like it that way, and not Brennan and not God are gonna get me to change."

Jesse's eyes were wide. Sunday mornings – St. John of the Cross Church – it suddenly made sense. "Are you sure?" he demanded. He grabbed Mike's lapels again and shook him, hard. "Are you sure?"

Mike shoved him away again. "Yeah, I'm sure. Sure enough to tell the police to find him at the church. And they did, too, just like I said."

Jesse's eyes grew frosty again. "You turned him in?"

Mike was now really starting to get pissed off. "Look, he betrayed me. He was just getting what he deserved."

Jesse couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had been so wrong – and it was all the fault of this petty criminal. Without even thinking, he reared back and punched the other man full in the jaw, knocking him to the ground. "That's for making me doubt my friend," he said, then picked him up again only to punch him again, in the stomach. "And that's just because you deserved it."

Leaving Mike groaning on the pavement, he turned and strode off, speaking into his com ring as he went. "Adam, I've made a big mistake."

End of Chapter 7.