Friday 9:00am
The lab door slides open to allow The Official's and Eberts' entry. The assistant looks particularly put out as the Boss demands, "What's going on with Fawkes?"
Claire and MacKenna look up from some printouts they're poring over, and the doctor responds. "I'm sorry?"
Eberts fills them in. "We just passed him in the hallway, a few moments ago. He seemed rather... unsettled."
The Official nods, with an utterance of "Hm," in agreement.
Claire's face firms in concern, and she carefully hands the file she's holding over to MacKenna, who continues reading where she left off.
Eberts notices that MacKenna's wearing soft cotton gloves on both hands.
And that she's blushing furiously.
The doctor stands and motions for the men to follow her out of earshot from the other woman. "His recent blood work has me a bit concerned..."
"How so?" He utters.
"His estrogen levels are rising again, and it seems that the blocker is losing its efficacy."
"Which is why he's getting moody again," He queries.
"Yes."
"And your solution for this is..."
"That's the problem," she sighs. "I have no solution... for now."
"So we're back at square one," Eberts interjects.
"I'm afraid so."
"Have you told him?" He asks.
She shakes her head and glances askance at the seated woman. "I don't think he's in the state of mind right now to deal with this with a level head."
Eberts glances over at MacKenna, who seems to be completely engrossed with whatever file she's reading. He takes a few tentative steps towards her, just enough to scan the top of the pages for the name of the file. His back stiffens, and he wordlessly begins to sputter as he slowly turns his head back towards his Boss.
The Official notices his reaction out of the corner of His eye, and grunts, "What is it, Eberts?"
"It... It's the..." the assistant falters.
"What?" He barks with increasing impatience.
MacKenna glances up at the tableau behind her, and tilts her head towards Claire in wordless query.
The doctor shakes her head at the other woman as she anticipates the obviously upcoming dispute. Since Eberts is still looking like a fish gulping for water, she answers for him. "It's my notes on the QS9300 project."
The words come like a slap to The Official's face. "What!"
She raises her hands defensively. "Before you jump to any conclusions, let me explain..."
He brushes past her (having obviously jumped to a conclusion or two) and bears down on MacKenna. Her expression is the picture of innocence and caution, until he snatches the file from her fingers and roughly shoves it at His assistant's chest. She winces at the pain He causes to her burnt hands, but He's too incensed to notice.
"What did you do to her?" He demands furiously. His hands twitch as if to grab her by the shirt and haul her bodily out of the chair, but He manages to restrain Himself. "Did you..."
Her eyes narrow: she's considering which response would be the most effective with Him. She chooses to be calm and reasonable. "No, sir, I did not," she replies quietly.
"You expect me to believe..."
Her face hardens. "Y'know, I really don't care what you believe; but for the record, I do not just 'push' people for the hell of it. This's something I neither like or want to do. But the doctor felt that my knowledge and experience in neuropsychiatry could be helpful with Agent Fawkes' current..." she hesitates briefly, and a disconcerted look washes across her face and disappears. "Condition."
He visibly calms down, but His eyes betray that His anger has crystallized into cold fury. They turn to Claire. "Doctor," He growls menacingly. "You'd better have a damned good explanation for this."
Her expression is inexorable. "Yes. I need help."
He's not mollified. "And this justifies a breach of security? Of this magnitude? With... with..."
MacKenna softly interjects. "A person of questionable loyalties and no clearance?"
His eyes narrow into slits. "Yes," He hisses. His gaze hasn't wavered from the doctor's.
"Then let me justify her actions." Her chin rises in challenge, and He turns back to her. Again, The Official's eyes are the only evidence of how dangerous He is when He's provoked.
"Amanda..." Claire begins.
"No," is the quiet reply to the unspoken protest. "He obviously won't believe it coming from you. Please, let me try."
She shrugs and lets it go.
"Take a good look at me, sir," the auburn-haired woman begins. "I'm in no shape to go out there on my own for at least another day or so. The doctor's made that point painfully clear. Meanwhile, one of your men is increasingly losing his grip on reality. I'm talking about Agent Fawkes," she states in an aside as she notices Eberts' questioning look and opening mouth. "I don't know if our, 'confrontation', last week is to blame or if it just aggravated an already existing problem; but it's pretty obvious that his and my abilities act like oil and water. I couldn't live with myself, knowing that I might've permanently screwed up his wiring."
The Official looks perplexed. "I don't follow."
Claire pipes up. "I ran a thorough battery of tests on both Amanda and Darien; my findings suggest that his earlier problem with the gland has been aggravated with his exposure to her... gift."
"How so?"
"We're not sure, yet. But one thing is certain: the gland has increased hormonal production again, and it's getting worse by the day," she replies. "So far, the blocking agent I've manufactured is keeping the levels in check... but just barely."
"That still doesn't justify a breach of this enormity," He retorts.
"It does when I have, at hand, someone intimately versed with the scientific processes that were used to make Amanda what she is now," is the rebuttal as she refers to the still-seated woman.
"Meaning me," MacKenna clarifies quietly.
"If we want to help Darien before things get really out of hand," Claire continues with a weighted sidewise glance at the other woman, "then we're going to have to place a certain level of trust in Amanda's expertise."
"That's not what I have difficulty trusting," is the grim rebuttal.
"But it's not really your call anymore, is it?" MacKenna snaps, and His head jerks around at the tone in her voice. She meets His gaze, her eyes flashing with barely restrained irritation. "Look, a decision's been made; and your time now would be better spent in figuring out what to do next rather than browbeating your employees over minutia."
His face begins to redden, and a vein in His forehead bulges as His blood pressure rises in tandem with His wrath. Eberts gulps as he and Claire automatically take a step back from Him.
MacKenna just sits there, exchanging glares with Him. One of her legs begins to hyperactively twitch.
A tense moment passes, and surprisingly, The Official is the first to break eye contact. He turns His head to a thoroughly astonished Claire. "What are your plans, Doctor?"
She scratches absently behind her ear as she tries to gather her thoughts. "W-well... We..." she shakes her head, "we'll need to run some more tests, and Amanda's given me a few suggestions worth a closer analysis."
He nods. "Eberts, go fetch Fawkes. And have him report to the Lab immediately."
The assistant nods and hastens to the door.
"Oh, and Eberts..." Claire pipes in. He pauses in the open doorway, and she continues. "You might want to have Jerry keep an eye on him, too. I'm concerned that Darien might try something rash in his current frame of mind."
"Understood," the assistant affirms, and hurries down the hall to the stairs.
Fifteen minutes later, a completely unnerved Eberts enters the Lab. His cheeks are flushed, and he's slightly winded. Immediately behind him are Hobbes and Monroe, also with concerned looks on their faces.
Claire, MacKenna and The Official look up from their respective copies of Darien's latest test results, including the films from the P.E.T. scans Claire took the night before.
"What is it?" He asks gruffly.
Eberts has halted a few steps inside the room, and Hobbes and Monroe nudge around him, leaving Jerry standing at attention in the doorway. "He's gone," is the alarmed reply.
"Gone?" Claire asks.
"Gone: vamoose: AWOL: flown the coop," Hobbes verifies. "Jerry saw him leave about twenty minutes ago. Said that Fawkes looked like he had a bug up his butt about something."
MacKenna blushes just as Claire shoots her a knowing look.
"What?" Hobbes glances back and forth between the two women, and Monroe pipes in.
"Whatever's going on between those two, it's making him worse." Claire frowns at her as she continues.
"He made a pass at me in the hall on his way upstairs. He wouldn't back off until I slapped him." She shakes her head at his behavior. "Who knows who else he'll try to get fresh with out there."
"What color were his eyes?" Claire blurts out.
"Normal; no trace of red in them," is the concerned reply. "But it doesn't seem to matter; he's acting almost as bad as if he were QSM."
"So what do we do now? Go after him?" MacKenna asks.
The Official rounds on her. "You're staying put, young lady," He orders firmly before turning back to His agents. "Monroe, did he say anything to you to give you an idea on where he'd go?"
She stills as she considers, and then shakes her head. "He was mumbling something about the difference between being lonely and alone."
"Him and those stupid quotes," Hobbes shakes his head in irritated bemusement.
"Not now," He barks. "We need to get Fawkes back in here now, before he does something really stupid to get himself killed... or worse."
"Um," MacKenna begins hesitantly.
"What," The Official rounds on her again imposingly.
Her eyes are cast downwards, her entire posture betraying her uncertainty. She looks up at Him briefly before diverting her gaze to Claire. The doctor nods at the unspoken query, and the woman straightens up in her chair before slowly rising to face Him. "I think I know where he's gone," she replies in a soft tone.
He blinks. A few moments pass in silence before he impatiently demands "So? Out with it, girl! Where's Fawkes?"
She hesitates, and Claire intervenes. "I believe he's gone to confront The Director."
He stills. "Barnes?" His voice quavers ever so slightly.
"If they catch him, they'll torture him," MacKenna murmurs. She once again raises her eyes to meet His.
"You know how They are," she finishes, her voice heavy with emotion.
He nods and speaks over His shoulder at Jerry without disengaging His steely gaze from the diminutive woman. "Jerry, find out where Barnes and his men are. Now."
The agent nods and exits the lab without a sound.
"Eberts," He orders. "Assemble the troops. Hobbes, you're leading the recovery team..."
"On it, Boss," is the calm response.
"Monroe, you make sure that she," he brusquely indicates MacKenna, "doesn't leave this room. Under any circumstance, capiche? We don't need any more loose cannons running amok here."
She nods and limps over to the door as she loosens her gun in its holster.
"Doctor, have you found a remedy yet for Fawkes' condition?" He addresses Claire.
"Not quite," she replies. "We need some more time..."
"You have two hours," He cuts in. "Is this imbalance still interfering with the counteragent?"
Feeling a little flustered at the strict time constraint placed upon her, the doctor stammers "W-well..."
"Yes," MacKenna interjects. "The excess estrogen is inhibiting re-uptake of this counteragent, which by our calculations means he could go 'pop' pretty soon."
He nods once as He runs His own mental guesstimates. "You'd better get on it then."
Her knees begin to shake, and she sits back down in the rolling chair. She swivels around to the computer and begins typing industriously as Claire shoots a weighted glare at The Official before joining her.
He doesn't notice, since He's already turned His back on them and is striding towards the lab door. As it slides open, Eberts flips his cell phone closed, nods pleasantly at Monroe as he passes her, and trails Him out of the lab en route to His office.
Friday morning, 9:45am
Darien parks his car about a block away from a sleazy dive of a motel, ironically dubbed The Roaches' Nest in spray paint over the actual name (The Rest Inn) on the partially burnt out neon sign at the parking lot entrance. He grunts in pain as a mild seizure momentarily overwhelms him. He smacks the back of his head until the pain subsides, and then turns the rear-view mirror so he can check what colors his eyes are.
No signs of abnormal red yet, but he can feel the 'demon' striving to escape its cage.
'Oh, well, it's now or never,' he thinks acidly. 'Right now, turning into a bloodthirsty psychopath might actually come in handy with these folks.' He shrugs at the thought, and cautiously surveys his surroundings before exiting the vehicle. He pulls a pair of sunglasses from the inside pocket of his jacket and put them on as he leisurely strolls across the street to the motel office.
Inside, his nose is greeted with the reek of stale cheap cigars, hashish and B.O. A small clock radio on the counter whispers the dulcet strains of Barry Manilow, and he grimaces more at the choice of music than at the offensive odors.
He walks over to the front desk and looks for the clerk. "Hello? Helloooo, is anyone home?" he calls out.
There's no answer but for a faint rustling from the back room. Darien leans far over the counter to try to get a glimpse of who might be back there, but can only see the wrinkled hindquarters of a mutt way past its prime. He spies the registry book on the clerk's side of the counter and snags it as he lowers himself back down. He opens it to the most recent entries, and is a little surprised to find that Barnes actually signed his own name when he and his crew checked in.
"Guess they like their privacy," he murmurs, as he's noticed that The Director has rented all of the rooms for the next week.
He freezes as he hears a soft scuffing noise behind him, and furtively checks to see who's behind him from the large mirror facing him on the wall to his right. Seeing nothing, he whirls around...
To an empty room.
Unless you count the ancient hound plopping his rear down beside the front door. His milky eyes regard Darien with bemusement for a moment before his head whips around to industriously bite the fleas attacking his butt.
But Darien senses movement from the corner of his eye, and instinctively knows that someone has noticed his presence; someone who is now trying to conceal themself from him. He quickly glances around to see if there are any security cameras or passers-by. Satisfied that there aren't any relevant witnesses, he Quicksilvers and silently glides over to where he noticed the activity.
Unnoticed on his arm, the snake tattoo acquires another two notches of red. Whispering voices intrude on the corners of his mind, and he absently recognizes that he's going to need yet another shot of counteragent soon.
Seeing no one on the other side of the window, he eases around the counter and into the motel manager's office. His nose is assaulted by the sickening sweet smell of cloves and rotting meat, and he spies a pair of feet sticking out from the mostly closed bathroom door on his right.
The manager... it must be.
Darien pinches his nostrils shut and pushes the door open just enough to look inside the bathroom. Yup, it's either the manager or his assistant; dead for probably a day, since there weren't many maggots crawling around the bullet-hole in the young man's forehead. Darien stares at the dead man in horrified fascination before the bile begins to rise from his stomach. He hastily backpedals out of the doorway and makes his way to the back door of the office. He opens it as the Quicksilver falls away from him, and opens his mouth to take a deep breath of fresh air...
As he's hit with the next onslaught of QSM seizures.
Simultaneously, the butt of a gun cracks into the back of his skull, and he slumps to the ground.
'Y'know, people really need to stop whacking me in the head,' Darien muses grumpily as consciousness swims back into focus. 'Doesn't anyone care that I have a gland back there?'
He realizes that he's sitting propped up in an armchair in one of the motel rooms. All of the shades are drawn in the completely black room, and he can sense that there are several others in there with him.
He unintentionally lets out a soft moan as he shifts in the chair. His head's really starting to pound now.
A light snickts on a few feet to his left, and Barnes' face leans into the circle of light. He smiles, and Darien shivers a little at the cold malice in the other man's eyes.
"Ah, Agent Fawkes I presume."
"I'm sorry," Darien speaks huskily. "Don't you mean Dr. Livingston."
Barnes chuckles at the weak attempt at humor, and Darien immediately wishes that he'd stop. It wasn't a very nice laugh, and it grated on his already aching head. He shifts again in the chair, and realizes that his hands and feet aren't bound as he expected them to be. He raises a slightly shaking hand to scrub at his face before massaging the back of his neck. 'I wonder how long I've been out,' he ponders absently.
Suddenly he grunts as he's gripped with another seizure… always worse than the last one.
Barnes motions to his men, and the main room lights are switched on to reveal Darien desperately clawing at the back of his skull in an effort to quell the seizures. One of the men steps toward the quivering man in reaction to his suffering, but halts when the Director shakes his head.
Barnes watches Darien in detached amusement as the convulsions ease off.
"What's the matter Agent Fawkes: got a little headache?"
He smiles crookedly. "Something like that." Calm now, he glances over the rims of his now bent and twisted sunglasses, and the other man catches a glimpse of scarlet and brown eyes.
"Interesting side effect."
"Thanks. Wait a coupla more hours and you'll really get to see some fireworks," is the caustic reply.
Barnes chuckles. "I don't think you'll have to worry about that, Agent Fawkes. In a few hours you'll most likely be dead." He nods almost imperceptibly, and the three Shop agents converge on Darien in his chair.
They align themselves in a semi-circle behind him as the Director rises and approaches him.
"Oh my, are you trying to intimidate me, Mister Director?" Darien grins.
"No, not really. Just making sure you don't make a break for the door."
Now it's Darien's turn to chuckle. "Now why would I want to do that, and ruin this perfectly fun little playdate we have going?"
Barnes steps closer as the other men grab Darien by the arms and head to restrain him. His smirk widens at the rough handling...
Until he notices that Barnes is pulling a taser out of his pocket. It sparks menacingly as he taps his prisoner between the eyes with the index finger on his other hand.
"Now then, Agent Fawkes; we're going to have a little Q and A session. With every unsatisfactory answer, well, I think you know what I'll be doing with this."
Darien's smile is wiped away as a few hundred volts of electricity rip through his rib cage.