Whoa, this took a long time. I really appreciate that you guys are willing to wait for so long, but I don't like making people wait, so I will try to improve my speed. Also, I'm planning to re-write some of Chapter 8 and add a little to it, and that'll be uploaded soon so watch this space.

Rakal : Thanks so much for all your insightful comments and support!

Disclaimer : The city of Metropolis, the Black Dogs and most of the Keepers belong to me. The other characters belong to their respective creators.

In the interminable silence, the surroundings of the room became progressively more claustrophobic; any light that braved the dingy conditions was promptly absorbed into the gloom as soon as it surfaced. The lifeless concrete walls appeared to move slightly nearer each time Mike looked at them, but she was unwilling to leave Mac unattended for much longer than a brief glance, in case she turned back to find his chair suddenly vacant. She watched him anxiously from across the room, but she could still hear the quiver in his voice as he drew breath and then released it. Jones had retreated a little into the shadows and safely stowed his flick-knife in his pocket, but the gesture alone did little to assuage either Mac's fears or her own. She feared Moore's ruthless unpredictability and the way his twisted logic made eerie sense, but she was particularly afraid for Mac; she couldn't imagine what was going through his mind at that moment, having been flung from relative normality straight into this nightmare scenario. Seeing his dishevelled form shift uncomfortably in its seat, she tried hurriedly to formulate a plan in her head so that at least Mac could get out of here, but the relentless worry for his safety constantly caused her mind to wander.

Moore made another circuit around them. "I'm going to give you another chance to choose," he said calmly, standing behind Mac. "And this time, I hope to get the answer I want to hear." Out of the corner of her eye, Mike noticed Jones make another movement into his pocket, searching for his weapon. "Our next operation commences shortly, and I'm eager to have you on board – I think you could be a valuable asset. But in order to do that, you must first renounce your cause and pledge your allegiance and loyalty to me. Can I trust you to do that?"

Deciding that she'd let him play his card for the time being, Mike inhaled deeply. "Yes."

"Good." He nodded to the two soldiers, who came over to her and untied the rope from around her wrists. But as soon as she was on her feet again, Jones laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and immediately began to lead her forcefully towards the door.

"Wait, what's going on?" she demanded. "This isn't what we agreed!"

A small grin spread across Moore's face. "You mustn't be so distrusting, Mike. I've already given you my word that your friend will not be harmed."

"But if I go with you now," Mike pressed him, "you'll let him go?"

"As I promised. He'll be transported back to the outskirts of town and then allowed to go free. His role in this is over. Yours, on the other hand, is just beginning."

It didn't take much for Mike to realise that despite the earnest tone in his voice, Moore was lying through his teeth. Mac had already seen too much, and once he was out of her sight, they'd take him to a deserted roadside or into a field somewhere and kill him. Mike knew that was what they would do, beyond the shadow of a doubt. If they were both going to escape unharmed, they had to stay together, and right now there was only one way to ensure that they did – she had to let herself be captured.

Elbowing Jones in the stomach, Mike grabbed his gun from its holster and levelled it at Moore. Moore took a split second to register before he instinctively seized Mac in a headlock and pointed his own gun to his head. "I should've considered this eventuality," he mused out loud as Jones' associate drew his weapon on her. "You still let your emotions influence your actions. You want to kill me, but you can't, because you care too much for your little friend to allow him to be put in danger." He laughed dismissively. "Pathetic."

Mike glanced at Mac; his eyes were transfixed on the cold steel barrel now resting against his temple. Her grip tightened involuntarily on the handle. "Shut up," she growled. "Hand him over."

"You can't hope to pull this off, Mike," he called. "You know I have my leverage."

"Yes," Mike replied, "and I have mine." With that, she cocked Jones' gun and raised it to her head.

"What are you doing, Mike?" Moore said. Even in spite of his blank expression, Mike could tell that he wasn't expecting this development.

"I'm no use to you dead," Mike said. "Let Mac go, or I pull this trigger."

"Mike, no! Don't! Please!" Mac begged, but Moore held him fast.

"You're playing with this child's life, Mike," Moore said. "If you want to make sure he survives, you'll drop the weapon now."

"If he dies, so do I." Mike laid her finger on the trigger. "I'll do whatever you need me to do. All I want is the boy."

Moore mulled this over for a minute, looking over to the clock. It read 7:07pm, and they had other matters to attend to, namely the Eurasians. Having ordered Jones and his colleague to back off, he released Mac from his stranglehold, and Mac ran across the room to Mike's side. Mike let the gun fall to the floor, hearing it strike the concrete with a clink. Weakened by the ordeal, she knelt down and hugged him, simply relieved that he was all right, then toppled over. When they sensed that the danger had subsided, Jones' colleague grabbed Mike's arm and hauled her to her feet while Jones himself did the same with Mac.

"How very disappointing," Moore mused to himself, and he turned to the two soldiers, who were waiting patiently for their orders. "Take them down to the cells. We have work to do."

The rusty hinges on the door let out a wistful groan as Jones swung it open and he muttered, "Welcome home, kid," before he roughly shoved Mac through the doorway. Half-limping, half-dragged through the corridor by Lewis, Mike yelled in surprise as he hurled her weakened body to the floor. The sound of the door slamming heavily behind them echoed freely around the chamber. For a minute or two, she closed her eyes and lay still on the floor, breathing steadily and quietly. How could she have allowed Mac to get into this situation? For God's sake, they almost killed him. He was only nine years old, and those bastards could have killed him. All she had to do was look after him, ensure he was safe, and they'd swiped him from right under her nose. What if they had killed him? She wouldn't have been able to live with herself.

Mac sat huddled up in the corner, hoping for a swift end to this ordeal, one way or another. For a brief moment, he thought of Bloo, Wilt, Ed, Coco…all the people he'd secretly promised that he would help. But here he was, trapped inside a labyrinth of concrete and steel, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, with no-one to help him but Mike… Warily he cast his eyes over to where she was still slumped on the floor facing away from him. He mustered enough strength to get to his feet and walk slowly over to her. Her smooth, auburn hair lay obscuring her face, and he delicately brushed it to the side with his hand. Mike opened her eyes at his touch and smiled at him reassuringly.

"Hey," she said.

Mac smiled back and said, "Hey. You all right?"

"Yeah. Just thinking about a few things."

"Me too." There was a mutual silence while Mike took a closer look at him. His worn face, his torn clothes, his tousled hair – the wears of an entire lifetime had been thrust upon him during the course of one afternoon. If there were any justice in the world, no other nine-year-old should have to share his experiences.

But then, Mike remembered, there is no justice in the world.

Beckoning to Mac to follow her, she got wearily to her feet and went over towards the wall before sitting back down against it. Mac took a seat next to her and she tenderly wrapped her arms around him. It was only a small gesture, but it gave Mac so much comfort to know that there was someone else who really cared about him, and that she was here in the room with him. All the pent-up emotions from the last four hours unfurled within him simultaneously and Mike noticed his eyes begin to shimmer with tears. Instinctively she brought him in close to her and soothingly stroked his hair while he sobbed quietly beside her, allowing him all the time he needed to let it all out.

She glanced to her left at the cell door; a small square of dull fluorescent light stood out from what was otherwise an indistinct expanse of shadow. The face of the soldier guarding them drifted ominously past the window as he took a few paces down the hallway. Mac sniffed and stirred a little, and she turned her head to face him. Drying his eyes on his sleeve, he looked up at her and she wiped away a few of his tears with her hand. For a few minutes they sat in silence, preferring to let their body language do the talking.

Eventually Mac spoke up, his voice still sounding harsh and dry in his throat. "I'm sorry, Mike. I don't know why this is all happening…but I didn't want you to get caught up in everything…"

"I didn't want you to get caught up in this," Mike answered, and it was true. This was the life that she'd hoped Mac would never have to learn about, the world that she'd hoped he'd never get drawn into. "But none of this is your fault, OK? That guy wanted me for a reason, he just took you for bait to, sort of…draw me in."

"But why?" Mac questioned quietly, "Why did he want you to come here? What did he mean by all that "valuable addition" stuff?"

"I can't tell you right now."

As he mulled briefly over what he knew, or rather didn't know about his friend, Mac asked, "Who are you?"

Mike grinned enigmatically; there was so much that Mac deserved to be informed of, but now was neither the time nor the place in case someone picked it up. "I can't tell you that either. Later," she offered, "when we get out of here. Right now, we'd better rest up, save some energy."

A small window in the right-hand wall shed a slim patch of dark blue light onto the floor. Outside the night was calm, but the air was unnaturally cold and the solid concrete that penned them in on all sides offered them no protection from it. Mike could perceive faint clouds of mist that escaped from Mac's mouth with every breath and the two of them huddled together for warmth. "It'll be OK, Mac," she whispered, "We'll find a way out of here, I promise." Mac responded with a smile to let her know that she had his undeniable faith and trust before he closed his eyes and rested his head on her shoulder. Mike held him tightly but chose instead to stare into the impenetrable void at the far end of the room. Truthfully she felt every bit as scared as Mac did, but she hadn't come this far to let that maniac Moore take both their lives, especially not Mac's. She noticed the guard patrol past the window again. Yeah, you keep that up, buddy, she warned him silently, because we're gonna slip right out from under you. Count on it.

It was unusually and eerily quiet as Skarr weaved his way through the Eurasian ranks, following the sergeant guiding him. An armistice had been agreed by both sides while the talks were taking place; as a result the air no longer pulsated with the sound of exploding bombs and sporadic bursts of gunfire. The Eurasian soldiers around him stayed silent, but each fixed him instead with a steely glare. He noticed that many of them still carried their guns and that their finger remained on the trigger, just itching to pull it and empty a round into him while his back was turned. However, the strong feelings of hostility came as no surprise to him; after all, here they weren't the enemy, he was. But he was also the peace envoy, he was the one offering them the olive branch – did that grant him diplomatic immunity? He sure as hell hoped that it did, otherwise he was in some serious trouble.

The makeshift Eurasian headquarters gradually came into view through the body of men, a reasonably unimposing building about five metres wide. The two guards on either side of the doorway noticed him approach and immediately raised their weapons. "At ease, men," the sergeant instructed. "He's come to discuss peace terms with Marshal Eisner." Lowering their guns, the guards acknowledged tacitly and allowed them to enter.

Inside the atmosphere was no more congenial, but rather heavy with uncertainty and foreboding. The sergeant led Skarr down a short series of corridors before they reached an antechamber and opened a door. They stepped inside and Skarr found himself looking across a broad desk, behind which sat Marshal Bernd Eisner, a tall, well-built man in his late fifties with a careworn expression and a gaze that was nothing less than piercing. Even as an enemy, Skarr utterly loathed him and on any other occasion would have spared no pleasure in telling him to jump into a ravine. But for the good of the civilians, he had to keep a civil tongue in his head.

The soldier saluted. "Sir," he announced, "General Skarr has arrived."

"Thank you, sergeant," Eisner said, and his eyes turned at once to Skarr. "It's an honour to finally meet my nemesis," he addressed him, cordially offering him his hand. Skarr grudgingly shook it. The sergeant took a step sideways and watched the proceedings with a level stare.

"So, General" – Skarr noticed that Eisner pronounced the last word with a certain degree of contempt – "what news do you bring us?"

Skarr took a seat. "I've come to make an offer of surrender," he said unflinchingly.

"On behalf of your government?" the marshal asked.

"No."

"Why, then, are you here?" he inquired. "Why did your government not send you?"

Skarr's expression didn't alter. "Strokov is adamant that he will not sacrifice his prestige through surrender. Neither he nor the Inner Circle will willingly admit or accept that the war is lost. When I tried to persuade him into entering talks with your High Command, and even when I warned him against the annexation of Vismund Cygnus, my words fell on deaf ears. So I came here of my own accord."

There was a short pause before Eisner asked, "General, how can I be expected to forge a peace deal with your government if they will refuse to cooperate with me?"

"Strokov has lost all touch with reality," Skarr stressed. "He's barely fit enough to walk, let alone lead. I am general and commander of the armed forces, the infantry, the tank divisions, everything. The only person you need to talk with is me." He leaned forward slightly in his seat and lowered his voice. "Imagine it, Marshal. At this point in time, Metropolis is surrounded. We have no lines of defence left, all the fighting is taking place on the outskirts of the city. The troops are completely cut off from ammunition and medical supplies, and still the Inner Circle has ordered them to stand their ground. The civilians have been besieged for days, their food and water supply has practically run out. They have little choice other than to shelter in their homes and soon, they will soon be caught in the conflict. Mothers, children, the sick and elderly, entire families, thousands of innocent people whose lives are being put needlessly at risk because the Inner Circle refuse to evacuate them." He paused. "Our situation is hopeless. Would you be willing to prolong it in my position?"

Eisner considered this in silence; the adjutant at his side barely moved a muscle. "No, General, I wouldn't." He looked up at Skarr again and his features resolved into their former stern expression. "However, regardless of whether or not your people were advocates of this war, they were still the aggressors in it. Therefore the only offer we can accept from you is one of unconditional surrender." The adjutant handed him a document which he promptly passed to Skarr. "Under the conditions of the agreement, hostilities will cease, your government will be arrested and tried under international law, and the city of Metropolis will be under the jurisdiction of the Eurasian Federation until the foundation of a democratically elected government. All that is required is your signature."

Skarr disconsolately read through the terms on the paper as Eisner announced them to him. The idea of the Eurasians moving in unhindered and effectively colonising Metropolis was one that he abhorred, but he was powerless to refuse. This was the only way to ensure that the civilians remained unharmed, and if he left it any later, the terms would surely be far harsher. He withdrew a fountain pen from his pocket and removed the lid, taking one final look at the document before inscribing his signature at the bottom. With no small feeling of relief he handed it back to Eisner, who viewed it swiftly and then said, "You must announce this to your troops that this has been agreed. I presume the helicopter that brought you here is still waiting?" Skarr nodded, although he wondered how being surrounded by the enemy was making the pilot feel, and indeed if a more fervent soldier hadn't shot him already. "Sergeant Honecker will escort you back. But for now, farewell." The two men shook hands again and Honecker led Skarr back through the building. Between the time he left the marshal's office and the time he got in the helicopter again, he was preoccupied with planning his next move. There was a strong chance that Strokov would learn of the deal, and as a result he'd be hunted as a traitor and shot on sight if caught. Also, although Eisner hadn't explicitly stated this, his involvement in the war, coerced or otherwise, was undeniable, and the Eurasians would arrest him along with all the others. He had to leave Metropolis tonight, but first he had to order the troops to throw down their weapons. The next step would come later.

Double-D stared at the clock and watched the second hand tick the time away as the final preparations were being made. Cicatriz lay approximately three miles, as the crow flies, from Division, and the geometric layout of the sewer provided a relatively straight route. Four other agents had already set out, effectively as minesweepers to check that the area ahead of them was clear, and would rendezvous with them at a halfway point just off Main. The EMP was currently being transported to the same location and once it arrived, there was a sizeable man-hole nearby through which they could unload their cargo and gently lower it down to the team waiting below. Lain had done her utmost to ensure that it was manually transportable, and the resulting device was about two feet long, faintly resembling the 'Little Boy' atomic bomb. But then with it came images of the carnage and horror it wrought, and he swiftly dismissed the thought from his mind. 'Little Boy' had been manufactured to deliberately inflict massive deaths and casualties, theirs to potentially prevent that outcome.

He wiped his brow on the back of his hand. To anyone else it sounded like another routine operation, but to him, this one was different. This time the stakes were higher, for one thing, but he also had to accompany Timmy on his first foray into the field. He knew that it was reckless of him to expose him to such danger; this was no coming-of-age thing, no sudden transition from childhood to maturity. Yet despite his doubts, there was the innate knowledge that his had been the correct decision, and this was something he could never communicate adequately enough. But even so, Double-D wished more than anything that he hadn't had to enlist Timmy's assistance, that he'd chosen someone else instead, but now it was too late to change anything…

He turned to look at Timmy over his shoulder just as he pulled a combat jacket across the bullet-proof vest that snugly covered his chest. In this imposing climate he seemed so small and out-of-place, an observation that triggered a fresh wave of uneasiness. His unabated conscience continued to rage fiercely at him and he closed his eyes to try and contain the yammering in his head. You're going to get him killed, it said to him. You're just dressing him up, aren't you? Sending him straight into the belly of the beast…

"No," he muttered out loud, "this is right…I'm right…"

"Double-D?" Someone lay a hand on his arm and startled him. His head whipped around to see Timmy standing at his side and gazing up at him with an anxious expression on his face. "Are you OK?" he asked.

Managing a thin smile, Double-D ruffled his hair. "Yeah," he answered, "I'm all right." He glanced at the clock again and added, "Are you?"

Timmy nodded hesitantly; the fear that had been manifested in his eyes said it all. "Still a little nervous, though."

You're not the only one. "Yeah, me too," he answered. "But you're in good company. We watch each other's backs all the time, and we'll do the same for you. OK?"

Encouraged a little by his assuring words, Timmy smiled bravely. "OK."

All of a sudden, there was a knock at the door and both turned to see who it was. Tootie Palmer stood meekly in the doorway, half inside, half outside. "Sorry, Double-D," she apologised softly, "sorry to interrupt…"

Knowing exactly why she'd come, but unwilling to embarrass either of them, Double-D said, "That's all right, Tootie. What is it?"

"Could I…I mean, if there's enough time," Tootie stammered, her head repeatedly tilting downwards, "could I just talk to Timmy? Just for a minute," she added hastily.

"Sure," he agreed, "I'll be outside." The next thing Timmy knew, he and Tootie were alone in the room.

"Hey, Tootie," Timmy said, surprised – he didn't expect that she'd be here, even less that she'd come specifically to find him. "What are you doing here?"

Tootie folded her arms and looked at him worriedly. "I heard that you were going out into the sewer…to help Double-D."

Timmy nodded uneasily. "Yeah, I am," he admitted, "I have to go and cut the wires." He trailed off, and for reasons unknown to him, his gaze began to subconsciously stray from hers. It wasn't that she made him feel uncomfortable, that wasn't the case at all; right now she just looked so afraid, as if she were regarding him for the last time, and he wanted to tell her that everything would run like clockwork and they'd be back before she knew it, but how could he when he was barely convinced himself?

Speech eluded them both for a while, but just as Timmy was about to break the silence, Tootie spoke up first. "Timmy, I'm scared for you," she said fearfully. "It's dangerous out there…people get killed…I just don't want anything to happen to you…"

Subconsciously Timmy broke out in a sweat. He had the odd feeling that there was some deeper meaning to Tootie's sentiments that either he couldn't figure out or she wasn't giving away. He reached out and his hand hovered in mid-air before coming to rest on her shoulder. "Tootie, don't worry," he reassured her, "I've got Double-D and the others taking care of me. I'll be fine."

Tootie tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Parting with him, although inevitable, seemed the hardest thing to do. All she could manage to say was, "Be careful, OK?"

"I will," Timmy promised.

"OK," she murmured, "'Bye." With that, she began to head back towards the door.

But just before she left the room, Timmy remembered something else. "Tootie!" he called and she turned around to face him. "Thanks."

Tootie smiled at him, and he returned the gesture. Just at that moment, his complexion seemed to her to turn a darker shade of pink, as did hers. Before he could notice, she swiftly turned around and walked out of the room.

As she returned to Intel, Double-D re-entered and asked, "You all set?" Timmy nodded firmly. "All right – let's go."

Allen stood at his post inside the Black Dogs' compound as an almost benign stillness began to set in. Considered a novice by many in the ranks, he was 21 years old, tall and thin with a shaved head. Two months ago, the Keepers murdered his girlfriend; grief-stricken, he knew he would be next, and in hope of finding some salvation, he had fled underground and joined the Black Dogs. Now he regarded all those who did not side with them as enemies; many were either cowards or conscientious objectors. If they weren't prepared to effect a change in their bleak, meaningless lives, they'd have to endure the consequences; it was of no concern to him.

However, in spite of his unwavering commitment to the cause, lethargy was beginning to steal over him. He'd been standing vigil for less than an hour, but the time had dragged itself out for long enough to feel like an eternity. The last time he'd checked on the two prisoners, the girl was asleep against the wall, and the boy was curled up next to her, using her shoulder for a pillow. He began to wonder how long it would be before the guard changed. Probably not for another couple of hours, at least. He sighed impatiently and stared at the wall. All of a sudden, the onset of ennui was broken by a faint voice seeping from inside the cell. It was the girl's, and it sounded scared.

"Mac?" it asked urgently, "Mac!" Allen paid it no mind and started to count the bricks in the wall again – who knew, maybe there'd be more bricks in it this time – but there came a wail and then a loud and desperate hammering from the other side of the door. Unwillingly he swiped his ID in the lock and opened it, and the girl's face instantly became visible. Her eyes were wide with fear and she was visibly shaking. "What?" he asked irritably.

"Please, I need a doctor or something, get someone down here!" she begged. He didn't respond and she yelled, "Please, he's not breathing! We need someone down here now!"