Author's Note: Thank you, readers, for your continued reviews! I am considering changing my posting day to Sunday, as that is a bit easier for me than Monday when I babysit my grandkids all day.

I was saddened to read that an anonymous reviewer found this story getting too much into an uncomfortable realm to continue reading. When I started writing this tale, I knew that it could get uncomfortable for some readers. Cults are uncomfortable and destructive, and that's part of what I'm trying to portray. A cult like this one works to break down one's sense of identity and self-worth, and I've researched their methods to accomplish this (though I've put my own imaginative twist on it). As I tell of this terrible situation Johnny and Mike have been dragged into, I also want to make sure that hope is always a part of what I write. Sometimes, it may be hard to see, just as it can be hard to see in real life. If the story is triggering for you or if it makes you uncomfortable, I don't mind hearing that, and I can respect the need to move on to another story. Please feel free to message me with concerns — it's hard to answer an anonymous reviewer who is no longer reading, but dialogue might help clear up difficulties. I will continue this story with the goal of moving the characters toward hope, rescue, and restoration. Roy would never forgive me, after all, if I didn't bring Johnny home to Station 51.

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Friday, 24 November 1972

Number 27 blinked his eyes open at the sounding of a gong. He was lying on a cot but no longer in his cell. He didn't remember coming here, but he was glad to find that his arms and legs were free of their bindings. He raised his hands to his face and examined the bracelets he wore. The left one bore the number 27; the one on the right bore an imprint of the same bird Hera wore on her medallion. Another reminder of whose he was.

He was not the only man here. He counted eleven others. As they began to stir, 27 sat up. At first, the movement made him dizzy, but a woman handed him a canteen and instructed him to drink. When he did so, the dizziness left him. He bowed his head in gratitude.

The woman was beautiful. He wished he could let his eyes linger on her face, but it would be wrong. He could not tell her what she made him feel because silence was the rule. Men could speak only when spoken to.

"I am Cherise, your Prime Guardian," she said. "You must keep this canteen tied to your sash. Within is your Sustenance, the elixir of life. It is both food and drink for you. Drink from it often. When it is empty, come to me and I will fill it." She swept the hair out of his eyes. "Today you must be cleansed and shorn to present yourself at the temple. Come, I will guide you."

He took another drink, then followed her from the barracks. Outside, his bare feet squelched into cold mud. She led him past a stable and a barn to a low-slung building. Inside, she ordered him to undress. He felt no shame as he did so. The only shame came from disobedience. Soon, hot water flowed from a spout above him. Carefully avoiding his new mark, his Guardian washed him from head to foot with sweet-smelling soap. When she was done, she brushed and trimmed his hair. Then she dressed him in new clothes — again, baggy pants and a sheepskin tunic, but this time his sash was blue. She also gave him knee-high moccasins. His feet felt good as they slipped into the soft warmth.

At last, she pronounced 27 acceptable for presentation to Hera. "You will affirm your devotion and your intent to serve as her Acolyte," she instructed him. "And you will meet Marisol, your secondary Guardian. When you enter, you must kneel in front of the altar. Do not ascend to the platform. You will address Hera as my lady."

She led him through an apple orchard to a columned temple that rose up from the middle of a muddy field. A brick path allowed them to approach the temple without dirtying their moccasins. Up seven steps and then in the door, and his mouth opened in awe at what he saw. Along the walls had been painted row upon row of pomegranate trees. Hera sat on a golden throne on an elevated platform, but when he entered, she arose and stepped to an altar.

He knelt. Cherise stood to his right and another woman came to stand on his left. This woman giggled like a child and rubbed a hand through his hair, then pulled it away when Hera cleared her throat.

"Number 27," Hera began. He closed his eyes and let her words wash over him. "Do you willingly present yourself as my Acolyte to give your life to my service?"

"Yes, my lady." He kept his eyes respectfully lowered.

"Good. I accept your obedience. From this day forward, your name is Quinn Everett Lloyd. You will obey Marisol and Cherise in all things. In this way, you may earn your redemption. Do you understand?"

He swallowed hard. He couldn't remember having a name before. It felt like a gift he didn't deserve. The gravity of the moment was beginning to sink in. "Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady."

Now he watched as her feet descended the steps from the platform. She stopped in front of him. With a gentle hand, she lifted him up to stand before her. Her other hand offered him a chalice. "Drink, my son. Seal the covenant between us."

He took a long draught of the dark sweet liquid. It warmed him as it went down his throat and filled him with a sense of well-being like nothing he could remember.

"Set him to work in the stables," Hera directed. "Do not touch him again until the ceremony in seven days' time."

"Yes, my lady," Marisol and Cherise said in unison. They bowed, and Quinn imitated them. It seemed right. Hera turned and ascended to the platform again.

Cherise clipped a strap to his right bracelet, then tugged on it to lead him from the temple without touching him. As soon as they were outside, Marisol tried to slip her hand into his. He pulled away at first, but then relented, the order to obey in all things still ringing in his ears. But Cherise cleared her throat and Marisol let go.

That afternoon, Quinn was set to work in the stable, which adjoined the barracks. It was a comfortable place. The scent of horses tickled his nose and filled him with a sense of warmth and well-being. It was different from the warmth of Hera's drink, though he wasn't quite sure how he would explain that. He just liked it better. It felt more real somehow, like an anchor that he could cling to instead of some otherworldly dream. Cherise instructed him to obey the stable Guardian, a teenaged girl who kept a whip at the ready, then left him to his work.

The other Acolytes from his barracks were here as well. Not one introduced himself, but he learned their names over the course of the day, simply by listening to the Guardian. Marcus and Quentin were assigned to tend the hounds, huge, snarling creatures Quinn hoped he would never have to work with. Finnbar, Jason, and Achilles were busy polishing equipment in the tack room. Castor and Pollux were cleaning out stalls, and Orion and Angus were filling the horse's troughs with fresh feed and water.

Hector and Leander were under discipline, and that meant hard labor. They had the job of moving heavy cement blocks from one end of the stable to the other. Quinn could see that they were struggling with the grueling task, but no one was allowed to offer assistance. Jason soon joined them for speaking out of turn. Quinn kept his head down and his mouth shut and did the work he was assigned.

He didn't need words while grooming horses anyway. They could communicate with a glance and Quinn understood them. Arion was a friendly fellow, and Quinn liked the way the big creature tossed its head and the way its hot breath felt against his palm when he fed it apple slices. Bucephalus could be cantankerous but seemed to take to Quinn well. When Quinn was done grooming the pair, he walked across the yard with Castor and Pollux to the barn, where they were to do the afternoon milking.

Quinn didn't remember ever working with cows before, but his hands had the knack of milking so maybe he had. The Guardian praised his quick work, then turned to scold Castor for squirting milk into his mouth instead of the bucket. Again, Quinn kept his head down. The Sustenance in his canteen was sufficient.

Still, he carefully observed everything going on around him, and as they returned from the barn, he didn't miss the ragged man out in the frosty pasture, shoveling manure. The man did not look like an Acolyte. He was rail thin and his skin was almost as gray as his clothing. He had a scraggly beard. His long hair was tangled and falling out in patches. His tunic was threadbare, and he worked barefoot even in the cold. His eyes darted around wildly, and Quinn thought he must be half-crazed.

The Guardian walking them back to the barracks cuffed Quinn on the side of the head. "Ignore the Bone Man lest you become like him."

At that, Quinn lowered his eyes. He would not spare the Bone Man another glance.

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Saturday, 25 November 1972

Ariadne had never seen Hera so angry, not at one of her maidens. Her glare pierced Ariadne through. The nurse was certain the goddess saw straight into her soul.

"You brought a married man into my sanctum," Hera fumed. "You stole his ring to further your deceit. All because I denied you the man you desired."

Ariadne kept her eyes lowered and her mouth shut. To look at Hera now would probably bring down lightning on her head. She had thought Hera would be pleased with her offering of a new Acolyte. Instead, the goddess had made her turn out her pockets and had seized on the wedding ring. I should've left it with his wallet, she told herself. But no… somehow Hera had known even before she saw the ring.

The rant continued. "After all I poured into you! Your education, a car, a house — the trust I placed in you, making you a recruiter!"

By now, Ariadne had memorized every scuff mark on Hera's soft white leather boots.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

There it was. The moment to speak. Ariadne summoned every ounce of remorse she could muster, hopeful that Hera would hear it in her voice. "I-I'm sorry, my lady. I was wrong, I know. I-I'll do better."

"Yes." The voice, usually so calm and soothing, thundered. "You will do better. Because I will give you work better suited to your limited capabilities."

Ariadne ducked her chin. She dared not argue. "Yes, my lady."

Hera took two steps forward so she stood right in front of Ariadne. Her claw-like fingers tangled themselves in the young woman's long red hair. The hair that Johnny had so often complimented. "We'll get rid of this. It will only get in the way." The claws worked their way down to her face and squeezed her cheeks. "No more cosmetics. You won't be hunting men any longer. You will be my personal maid. Obedience is your only hope of redemption."

Her stomach flipped. A maid? It was a devastating demotion. Ariadne hated cleaning. Back in Los Angeles, she had always used some of her pay for a housekeeper to deal with cleaning her apartment. But now she had no choice. The goddess had decreed it. "Y-yes, my lady. I will obey." She bent her knee in a submissive curtsy. "May… may I ask, my lady… what will happen to Mike?"

The goddess's hand flashed in the corner of Ariadne's eye a split second before it connected with her face in a stinging slap. "Men are no longer your concern," she barked. "You're lucky I'm not turning you into a toad." Ariadne gasped at the thinly veiled threat. She fully believed Hera was capable of it. Hera just laughed. "That's what we'll call you from now on. Toad. You are no longer worthy of a real name."

With a snap of her fingers, the goddess summoned an attendant. "Take this ridiculous creature away," she ordered, waving a hand at Ariadne. Ariadne shrank inside. "Shave its head. Clean it up. Get it a uniform and a collar. Then set it to work. If it complains, let Nyx cut out its tongue."

"Yes, my lady." The attendant bent her knee, then wrapped a hand around Ariadne's arm and led her away.

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Sunday, 26 November 1972

The room was so bright, it pierced through to Mike's closed eyes. He was just starting to wake up. Somewhere above him, a voice droned on and on. At first, he wasn't sure what it was saying, but as he listened, the words became clear. Number 28, you are a man. You are evil. There is no redemption for you. Your wife despises you. Hera has rejected you. You will live out the rest of your pitiful life in service here. Then came the rules. He must never look a woman in the eyes. He must never speak. He must never seek to elevate himself above his station. He was filth. Open your eyes. Do it now.

He refused. He wasn't about to give the voice the satisfaction. Beth didn't hate him. She couldn't. She wouldn't do this to him. Gradually, he became aware that his mouth was bone dry. He was desperate for a drink. A drop of cool liquid dripped onto his left cheek. He turned his head toward it and opened his mouth. Another drop. It was coming from just above him. He closed his lips around a cool metal tube. When he sucked from it, liquid filled his mouth. Refreshing, soothing, sweet. He drank his fill and drifted back to sleep.

The process repeated until 28 had forgotten his name and everything else about himself except for one thing, the name Beth. He had no conception of how long it lasted. He would awaken and drink from the tube and listen to the words. They soaked into him and gradually he memorized them. He didn't want to believe the voice, but it seemed to know him better than he knew himself.

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Thursday, 30 November 1972

Quinn closed his eyes against the pain. Today was the second marking. Nyx's needles sank again and again beneath his skin, depositing their ink. She was carefully weaving a name around the base of each of his ring fingers in elegant calligraphy.

As she worked, Nyx spoke calmly and soothingly. "Quinn Everett Lloyd, consider yourself richly blessed. Your training is complete. The pain you suffer now is nothing compared to the joy of the redemption you will find in Hera's service."

He hoped she was right. The pain was severe, but he kept his expression blank, unwilling to react. His sins were heavy enough without adding complaining to the list. When the job was done, Nyx rubbed a salve over the tattoos, then sent him away. He would not work any more today, nor would the other five who had been chosen for second marking. Instead, they would take their rest early. Tomorrow would be a long and exhausting day.

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Friday, 1 December 1972

Quinn and his bunkmates had arisen before the sun. While the others did the morning chores, the six chosen ones began their day with an ice-cold shower. With their newly marked hands protected by waterproof bags, they were slathered in warm oil until they gleamed from head to toe, and then they were dressed in pure white vestments and led to Hera's temple. The Guardians paraded them through a throng of women and girls to stand on a raised platform in front of the altar.

Beaming children carried baskets of flowers fresh cut from the greenhouses. About twenty older men, dressed in work clothes, shuffled in to fill the front two rows of seats. It was the first time Quinn had seen men other than the Acolytes here. None of them made a sound. The rule for silence held fast even on a festive occasion such as this. Quinn didn't like the silence, and he was relieved when some of the little girls giggled.

As one of the Guardians began to sing in a lilting soprano, Quinn watched twelve women begin their procession toward the platform. They wore white gowns with long trains, their faces hidden under veils. Each carried an identical bouquet of lilies. One drew up beside Quinn on his left and another on his right. Though they looked no different from the others behind their heavy veils, he knew that they were Marisol and Cherise. Theirs were the names tattooed on his fingers. From this moment forward, he belonged to them.

When his brides were in place, Quinn turned to face the altar. Hera stood before them. "Acolytes," she purred, her voice as always reaching into Quinn's heart, compelling him to listen, though he angled his eyes downward. "Today you have come into your purpose. You have made great progress toward your redemption and now you are to be entrusted with wives. From this day forward, you are no longer Acolytes. You have been welcomed into the fellowship of the Marked. Others among you have not been so blessed, but you have proven yourselves worthy of this honor. Let me warn you, though — do not be over proud. You are still vile creatures, every one of you. It is only through obedience that you will find redemption. Obedience to me above all, obedience to the wives I have bestowed on you, and obedience to your Guardians. You may now speak your vows."

Together, in perfect unison, they raised their right hands and placed them over their hearts, so that their bracelets rested directly above Hera's name on their chests. Quinn felt a pleasant buzz course through him. Standing at attention, they recited the lines they had been taught. "I give my service willingly. My lifelong devotion is to Hera and to my brides. Through obedience, I am redeemed." Each man raised hands in supplication, then lowered them to his sides and stood silent once again.

"Now you will drink the nectar of the gods," Hera decreed.

Quinn turned to face Cherise and she held a chalice to his lips. He expected the same drink that Hera had given him the last time he stood before the altar, but this was different. The rich liquid burned as it went down his throat. Though he could mask the pain, he couldn't help coughing. Cherise frowned, but she kept silent as the solemnity of the occasion demanded. Quinn turned to Marisol and repeated the process. Again, the nectar burned his throat, causing him to gag and cough.

He managed to regain control quickly, but the damage had been done. He had disrupted the ceremony. Dreading the discipline to come, he listened somberly as the women sang their hymns to Hera.

The other men were allowed to serve their brides at the wedding feast, but Cherise led Quinn to a windowless cellar under the men's barracks. "Three days," she growled as she fastened one of his silver bracelets to a chain, securing him to the wall. "By Hera's decree." When the cellar door closed, he was plunged into darkness.

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Roy moaned and scrunched his eyes shut when JoAnne threw open the shades. She'd been pestering him to get out of bed for more than an hour, but now she was playing dirty.

"Roy, you have speech therapy in half an hour, and we have to get you to your appointment with Dr. Fielding right after that." Damn, but she was using her Mom-voice on him again. Next she would be promising him ice cream if he was a good boy. "You need to get up and get dressed and eat your breakfast before your therapist gets here."

She dropped a kiss on his forehead. He rolled away and hid his face in the pillow. "Come on, honey." Yeah, there it was, the cajoling. "Listen, Roy. If you cooperate, I'll make chicken pot pie for dinner tonight. I got all the ingredients yesterday."

She didn't understand. The luster of Thanksgiving had faded. His speech hadn't improved since then, and he was back in the doldrums. Even Jo's chicken pot pie didn't sound good to him right now. He didn't want to eat, didn't want to get up, didn't want to spend another useless hour in speech therapy. He couldn't explain, so he pulled the pillow over his head and tried to block out her voice.

She yanked the pillow away. Then she stretched out on the bed next to him and stroked the back of his neck. Her touch was so light, so gentle, and yet it left him almost breathless. At least she was done with the Mom act. When she spoke, he felt her warm breath in his ear. "I'm sorry, Roy. I won't pretend to know what you're feeling right now, but I'm scared that you're giving up. I won't let you do that."

Not your choice, he thought. He knew what was going to happen at Dr. Fielding's. At his last appointment, the psychologist had broached the topic of preparing himself for the worst in case Johnny never came back. Because Roy still refused to speak, his appointments with Fielding had turned into a long lecture with a little bit of writing or drawing on his part. He had picked up the big, thick Sharpie marker from the table and written in large capital letters, "NO" on his writing tablet. He'd underlined it three times, then pushed the pad of paper away, grabbed his walker, and left. He wasn't going back.

Jo rubbed at his neck for another minute and then her hand moved down his bare back in firm circles. The massage felt good. Roy couldn't hold back a moan of pleasure. And when her lips touched his neck, the effect was electrifying. He rolled over in bed and let his gaze meet hers. He wondered what she saw when she looked in his eyes. Could she see how sorry he was that he couldn't be what she needed right now, that he couldn't always muster the strength to fight the way she wanted him to? He brushed a hand along her cheekbone, then grabbed her hand and let his fingers trace letters on it. LOVE YOU. She watched his fingers move and when she didn't seem to catch on, he did it a second and then a third time. When she smiled, he knew she understood.

"I love you too, Roy." She kissed his lips and then got off the bed. "Get up. Get dressed. I'll be downstairs getting your breakfast on the table."

She stepped into the hallway. Roy lingered in bed instead of getting up right away. He knew she'd be back to get after him again. But then he heard a voice in the hall. Chris was up, and he was fussing at his mother. "I want Daddy!"

"Hey, Buddy," Jo soothed. "Daddy's not feeling so good right now, but he'll come downstairs in a little bit. You'll see him then."

Chris burst out crying. "But Mommy, doesn't Daddy love me anymore?"

Guilt exploded in Roy's chest. His little boy loved to start his day by sitting with his daddy on the bed and telling him stories and asking the sort of questions Jo always responded to with, "Go ask your father."

Roy didn't waste another minute. He got to his feet, lumbered to the door and opened it. Then he beckoned to Chris and pointed him to the bed.

The little boy's face brightened, and his sobs stopped as quick as they'd started. He bounced into the bedroom and onto the bed, then patted on it for Roy to sit next to him.

Roy touched a hand to Jo's cheek in a silent apology. Then he returned to the bed and sat down beside his son. Chris wouldn't care if his Daddy didn't talk. He talked enough for them both, anyway.

He was talking a blue streak already. "I had a scary dream last night, Daddy, but I was brave, an' I didn't cry! There was a mean witch and I amembered you said once I should turn scary things in my dreams into nice things, so I turned her into a puppy and then she was all wiggly an' kissy an' it was a good dream 'stead of a scary one." He rested his head in Roy's lap and looked up at him. "You give th' best avice, Daddy. Least you used to when you talked. I miss you talkin' an' tellin' me stories at bedtime. Mommy's not as good at the voices as you. But it's OK if you don't wanna talk 'cause you're still my Daddy and I love you no matter what." Then he got up and rested his forehead against Roy's. "'Sides, your eyes say good as your mouth that you love me too." Then he wrapped his little arms around Roy's neck and gave a squeeze. "I'm real hungry, Daddy. Do you hear my tummy growlin'? It sounds like Uncle Johnny's tummy, don't it?" Then he suddenly got quiet. "Uncle Johnny was in my dream too. He's comin' back soon, isn't he, Daddy? He wouldn't leave us always an' ever, would he?"

I wish I knew, Son. I wish I knew. Roy wrapped his arms around the little boy and held him tight. He knew in the back of his mind that he should be willing to get better for himself. He wasn't there yet. But he would do what he had to do to get better for Chris and his little sister. For JoAnne, too. Silently thanking his boy for the reminder, he gave Chris a kiss on one cheek, then on the other, then set him on the floor and nodded toward the door. The little fellow scampered away. Time for Daddy to get dressed and ready to tackle the day.

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After the engine returned from its third run since lunch, Hank took advantage of a quiet moment to retreat to his office. He was thankful they hadn't had any serious runs today. A couple of trash fires and a set of twins playing with a cigarette lighter who should consider themselves very lucky that the worst they'd done was destroy their mother's favorite drapes.

More than half his men today were substitutes. He knew paramedics Al Greenwich and Lenny Flores fairly well and could work with them, no problem. They'd subbed for Roy and John in the past. As far as the substitute engineer went, well… Hank had no complaints about the guy. It wasn't anything like that. Greg Pinchuk was solid, dependable, good at his job. It's just… well… he wasn't Mike. Mike was the whole reason Hank had jumped at the chance to come to Station 51 in the first place. They'd worked together at 36's before Hank made Captain, and they made a good team. Besides that, they were best friends. Coming into this tight-knit bunch of guys as a new captain after Hammer moved up was hard enough. Having his best friend there made it a lot easier. And now he was gone.

And Johnny. Well, they needed him too. Chet had been mooning around without his pigeon to torment. Of course, for Chet, that meant he was on his best behavior, which left the rest of them feeling even more out of kilter. Marco was trying to keep everyone's hopes up, but the worry was wearing on him too. At least they knew where Roy was, but Hank wasn't sure his senior paramedic would ever make it back to the Squad at this rate. He'd been doing well, but when day after day went by with no news of his partner, he'd started losing ground. JoAnne said she could barely get him out the door for his mandated meetings with the department psychologist, and she hadn't heard more than a few words cross his lips in the last few weeks.

Dr. Fielding was concerned about Roy's dependence on his partner. In fact, he'd suggested that even if Johnny did make it back, it might be better to split the pair up. It was right there in the report to Chief Houts. When Hank saw his copy, he had called the chief up then and there and told him that breaking up the best paramedic team in the business was a bad idea. Houts agreed… mostly. But he also said that Roy needed to be prepared to work with someone else permanently if for some reason — please, God, may it not be so — John Gage couldn't come back to Station 51.

Hank wasn't about to voice his hope for a quiet shift. He did send up a silent prayer for one, though. Thankfully, Someone seemed to be listening. The only calls they had the rest of the shift were for the Squad. The next morning, before heading home, Hank stopped by Stoker's house to see if there was anything he could do for Beth. Her in-laws were there, so he didn't stay long. He needed to get home and wrap his arms around his own wife and kids.