Fan fiction authors just absorb the do-it-yourself mentality; it's inevitable. So when I started ruminating over how a favorite TV show should have ended – yet didn't – I just started having this itch, ya know?

And yes, I know that I own no rights to the characters referenced in this story, all copyrights rest with their creators or assignees, and nobody makes money off this in any way.

-o-o-

She awoke. Heart pounding, muscles flexed against the restraints (?), with a dry mouth, slight vertigo, generalized weakness … ah, adrenalin injection. Her eyes opened to the barest slits, and she saw a bare room, about three meters by three meters, industrial fluorescent lighting, dingy white cinder-block walls. Her chair was solid, 1950's style industrial surplus, with better padding than she would have guessed – and zip ties keeping her from escaping it.

An interrogation room.

Really?

Do they not realize just who I am?

She suppressed a snort. Matching wits with a dumb military intelligence brute, for the umpteenth time in her career, promised to be as boring as all the other times that she was in this position. While winning her freedom was the overriding goal, she couldn't help but wish for a real match of wits – something worthy of her wits and cunning.

It was therefore quite a letdown when the plain brown wooden door opened to admit the dumbest individual that she met in the last decade. Sheriff Jack Carter. The kind of guy that thinks, "What a maroon" is an actual example of humor.

"Hello, Beverly. I really admire your restraint in not rolling your eyes at me. Thank you." Jack Carter, in his khaki law-enforcement uniform, flashed his dumb-ass smile and casually sat in the interrogator's chair before her.

"Do they really think that you can soften me up for when the real interrogators arrive?" Her snark was almost out of her control, the disappointment was so great. Having to endure the routine inane babbling of this idiot …

Carter's smile vanished immediately. He leaned forward, then tilted his head and studied her intently. "Did I really overestimate you?" He seemed sincere, and Beverly's brain stuttered. This was not any of the paths that she had calculated.

He sat back with a faint expression of concern. "Well, this may be a bit less routine than I had imagined. Let me tell you just what is going to happen here." With a smooth motion, he pulled his weapon from his side holster.

Beverly Barlow swallowed. NOT how this was supposed to go!

Jack read her reaction, amused and disappointed. "Oh, relax." He continued to show his exquisite familiarity with his sidearm by thumbing the magazine release, catching it with his left hand, and placing it on the table to his side. He then racked the slide and caught the ejected cartridge, placing the safed weapon next to the magazine. He held up the cartridge between them for inspection.

"This is a nine-millimeter jacketed hollow point round." She could easily focus on it, but instead looked beyond it to see the Sheriff, who was still sporting a dopy smile with no focus on anything in particular. "While not the most powerful cartridge, it will kill you." He placed the cartridge on the table, pointing to the ceiling.

He sat in his chair, blue eyes meeting hers and his smile faded a bit. "You see, I have people to appease. They believe that you have information that we need about The Consortium. Where I disagree with them is the idea that you will actually give up that information. You are a psychologist, after all." He shrugged. "So, I will sit with you here in this room for two hours," he glanced at the cheap Timex on his wrist, "sorry, one hour and fifty-seven minutes, and the hidden cameras embedded in the ceiling will show that you are a credit to your cause, that you can withstand any pressure I can bring to bear. So, at the end of that two hours, I will have done my duty to the people that I work for, and then I will kill you." He nodded to the table. "With that cartridge."

He leaned forward, not breaking eye contact for a moment. "Do you have any questions?"

She scoffed. "Of course not."

Jack's ever-present goofy grin widened a little. "Then let's pass the time. Remember, all I know about you is what I've observed and what you've said; my office doesn't collect dossiers of anyone that isn't arrested."

She gave him a very short doubtful look. This goon isn't smart enough to be untrained labor; this is going to be laughably mistaken.

Jack settled back into his chair, looking for all the world as if government surplus seating were comfortable. "In both time-lines that I'm aware of, you were born as the daughter of Trevor Barlow, the man that lobbied the government to found and fund Eureka. His stated aims for the settlement were to promote scientific inquiry in ways that would lead to peace. Since that time, the funding and direction of Eureka have changed to be primarily the product of the Defense Department of the Federal government."

He was looking steadily at her, maintaining eye contact throughout his recitation. Beverly began feeling the first stirrings of unease, and she clamped down hard on her visceral reactions. At some point, he will make a mistake, and I will be able to spin his world around like Vincent's whisk.

"You have taken that change as some kind of permission to steal the work of Eureka's citizens. You have used your father's name to expand your therapy practice to politically powerful individuals, and used that therapy to manipulate those clients in ways that support your own illegal goals, and work to the detriment of those clients." Jack wagged his finger at her, only somewhat playfully. "You tell yourself that you are continuing your father's great work, that what you do is in the best interests of everyone, but I have been unable to find a single client that you've counselled in their best interests – if you can't follow the really limited ethical constraints of your actual profession concerning one person, you clearly cannot be trusted with control over more than that."

Beverly eyed him carefully; there was no hesitation in his manner, no uncharacteristic behavior other than the terrifying clarity of his understanding. His eyes were clear and he clearly knew too much – she was going to have to eliminate him once she talked him into releasing her.

Jack went on, "But that's beside the point, as I've found a minimum of four murders directly caused by your hand."

She strove to conceal her sudden alertness. How could he possibly have discovered any of them? No – this was Jack Carter. He was just guessing.

"You have used technological means to invade another person's brain and deprive them of their own will – and you have briefly kidnapped the crew of the first faster-than-light craft to leave Earth. Your Consortium is not doing well financially, and you desperately need to monetize the knowledge that you've already stolen, but because Eureka's advances are synergistic, you are having trouble finding ways to build their advanced items using the less advanced technology of the outside world."

Beverly couldn't help herself – she pressed back a little harder in her chair. At the same time, she cursed inwardly – any visible reaction was a weakness, and she couldn't afford that, even if her opponent was Jack 'Dumbass' Carter.

"You clearly do not believe that the residents of Eureka deserve to make their own decisions about who they work for and how they choose to release their knowledge … even though your father's vision was for each person to have that right. Your actions show that instead of fighting for the realization of your father's vision, you are instead acting out a tantrum at not getting your own way."

Jack's smile, which had momentarily disappeared during his analysis, was back in full force, and made Beverly want to inject him with a fatal drug cocktail. And not the painless combination, either.

"But that's just the understanding that comes to you in the dead of night, what you are willing to understand about yourself. The real truth is …" Jack inched closer and leaned in, "that you are painfully aware that each and every one of those scientists are more capable than you are, they are smarter than you, that they have more ability with their subjects than you have with yours, and you cannot forgive them for that. For being more worthy of being Trevor Barlow's child than you are."

He paused until she had to look away.

"And for that, you feel that they deserve to die. But you know that they aren't the ones to blame, and they aren't the monsters that you want to fight. You are. But you don't have the courage or determination or clarity of thought to either change your life … or end your life."

Jack's eyes, when she met them again, were full of pity.

"So you continue to enact these silly plots, hoping that someday you will prove that you are the real heir of Trevor Barlow."

No one should know that much! This is not how it is supposed to go!

Beverly forced herself to roll her eyes and adopted a faintly bored expression, mixed with exasperation. "Do you really think that you are a match for a trained psychologist, much less an espionage agent?" Step one: rattle him, pull him off his game.

"Well, no," he admitted, with a momentary widening of his infernal smile, "but then, I consistently kept you from succeeding when I was in public, playing the part of a small-town sheriff. In here, where I don't have to play any parts?" Jack expansively stretched his shoulders. "I figure that in the two hours we have together, you'll give me about five, maybe ten minutes of actual interest."

Beverly was amazed at the incredible, unjustified confidence of the man. He clearly didn't have any understanding of what was going on – he was even dumber than she thought! Aside from knowing entirely too much about someone he barely met …

"Okay," Jack continued, "Let's bring you up to speed. I know that you have an eidetic memory, so let's go through what you believe about me. I am absolutely certain that you know that my IQ is 111, one standard deviation above what is defined as 'average', and right in line with the actual average as measured in the last two decades of public testing. So my first question for you, is this," and he leaned in to just out of her reach (if her hands had been free, that is.) "How many times did my IQ tests report a score of 111?"

Her face momentarily went blank as she mentally reviewed her files on him. Seven … Twelve …

"And what would you expect in repeated IQ tests?"

Beverly was numb – repeated shocks will do that. "The results should vary around the true score."

"So if the exact same result comes up every time?" he prompted.

"… the tests are invalid."

"Great, Beverly!" To all appearances, Jack Carter was genuinely cheering her new understanding – which made Beverly quite uneasy. She was used to outthinking her patients and opponents, living at a level of meta-understanding … and Jack Carter was acting in ways that were completely irrational. As long as you held to the assumption that the Sheriff was average …

"How intelligent are you, then?" she ventured. Again, keep him talking, find a way to use his desires and motivations against himself …

"You can answer that yourself, Beverly." He drawled her name in a way that he absolutely knew that she hated, but she forced herself to ignore it.

He went on, "How many times did I outthink the scientists in Eureka? How many times was it my insight that allowed the disaster they caused to be avoided or fixed?" She began to think about it with new understanding, and her shock showed on her face.

Watching her, Jack murmured, "Yeah." She blinked a few times. "And think back to my record as a Marshall. What was my closing percentage?" She blinked at him again, not following. "What percentage of cases assigned to me ended in conviction?"

Oh, that … "Ninety-three percent."

"Yes," he agreed. "And what is the typical closing percentage, do you know?"

She shook her head in the negative. She never thought to find another record for comparison. Now, she realized, it would be a good thing to know.

"Sixty-four," he said softly. Beverly quickly tried to understand what that meant. Working faster, out-thinking criminals, using new methods to find them, capture them … she suddenly understood why her escape plan resulted in her ending up here, wherever this was.

"And for your final clue, perhaps you should tell me if there's a genetic component to IQ – to what degree is it inheritable?"

"It's about fifty percent heritable …" Understanding bloomed in her mind. Zoe – the daughter of this man – went from a Los Angeles public school to the Eureka high school, and had a recorded IQ of 157. There was no way that the daughter of an ordinary doctor, educated in the Los Angeles public schools, could enter the school system of the world's elite minds, and proceed to succeed, unless her father and mother gifted her with an extraordinary mind. She began to look at Jack with a bit of fear – concealed, of course.

Well, not from him. "Afraid, Beverly? That's not like you." Jack's smile had never wavered. His expression was open, even charming, and Beverly could see why Alison had fallen for this man; several times, if the records of other time lines were correct.

Her eyes fixated on the 9 mm round on the table.

He reached over and picked up the 9mm cartridge. "This costs the government all of ten cents. Well, nine cents and a hefty fraction. I have to account for every single one of these. And it is my bosses decided opinion that I should not waste even ten cents on you."

More quickly than she could follow, Jack Carter snatched the magazine from the table, rammed it into his weapon, and racked the slide. Somehow, the barrel became pointed at her, and was now the size of a civil war cannon.

"All the rest of the bullets in this weapon were a personal purchase," he whispered. She could hear him very clearly.

Desperate to derail her imminent death, she asked, "But what about your bosses?" He jerked her chin up toward the corner of the room.

Jack leaned back, aim never wavering. Softly, he asked, "Who are my bosses, Beverly?"

"You are on detached duty from the US Marshalls service under the D.O.D," she recited.

"Which means that the Marshalls pay me, and the D.O.D. appointed me. Who do I report to?"

Beverly showed an uncomfortable expression of uncertainty.

"I don't report to anyone, kiddo. The most that the D.O.D. can do is fire me, whereupon I go back to being a Marshall – which pays more, incidentally. Of course," he added after a beat, "I don't get room and board included outside of Eureka, much less the services of a smothering artificial intelligence."

She gaped at him. Jack pursed his lips, and bobbed his head from side to side.

"So while I do have you on video, I don't have to justify my treatment of you to anyone. And if they do get annoyed, I get a raise and a promotion."

Dr. Beverly Barlow, super-spy in the service of profit and political order, was speechless. She had absolutely no idea how to respond to a situation where she was so completely, manifestly, obviously not the one in charge.

"I don't know if they'll let me keep my gun, though." At his prisoner's continued incomprehension, he elaborated, "I had SARAH run the equations for a sonic dispersal modification, so that I can fire it in an indoor environment without endangering my hearing. She machined the replacement barrel for me in her spare parts facility. So when I kill you, I won't have my ears bleeding – which is nice."

His dopey grin was steadily ramping up as Beverly frantically thought of possible distractions or levers. Got it!

"Jo Lupo can't possibly condone this unauthorized use of force, Sheriff. Everything involving offenses on GD property is under GD jurisdiction, and she will not stand for your actions." Beverly had finally found a lever she could use to change his plans.

"Lupo? She is the one who bought the ammo for me. It is true that she doesn't know exactly what's going on here," He waved his left hand to indicate the room, "But that's because she doesn't want to know."

"And you?" Jack went on. "You have been free for the last eight months simply to make sure that I do know."

Dr. Beverly Barlow, inscrutable master spy, chess master, and manipulator par excellence, couldn't help herself; she whimpered a bit.

"Yes," continued Jack, "I know who you've contacted, who you've talked to, who you've been manipulating, who you've slept with, who you've blackmailed … and I'm quite confident that I've got the true and complete list of all your fellow conspirators. By the way," he added, "none of them are in a position to help you."

She was starting to lose control of her breathing, she noticed absently – hyperventilation wouldn't be doing her thought processes any favors.

Jack moved the barrel of his gun to point away from her face, looking at her with concern. "Are you still with me Beverly?" He peered closely at her face. "You seem to be disassociating. Perhaps we should give you a little focus, um?"

The gun fluidly moved to another position. Pfft. It twitched. Pfft.

Bev couldn't complete her scream; the pain was too great. Her breath would not come, her gut would not unclench, her fists would not release.

"Your shoulders have a nice range of nerves, and a through-and-through in those locations won't cause you to bleed out before our final interaction is scheduled." Jack looked again at the Timex on his left wrist. "One hour and twenty-two minutes."

After a great time, the pain receded. Her upper arms were sticky with the thin film of her own blood, and her hands were shaking – and pale. She gathered the tattered remains of her wits, and gasped, "Why are you doing this? I tried to help you!"

"Now, now," said Jack as he waggled his finger in front of her face, "you were helping yourself. When Senator Wei had ceased to be of value to you, you let her go at the best time to reduce any pursuit from Eureka. It wasn't a change of heart – it was an operational, and manipulative, decision. I can't possibly reward you for being the total bitch you've always been, Beverly. Surely you know that?" He reached out and tapped the barrel of his weapon against her left shoulder, causing her vision to white out in a haze of sparkles.

Again, there was a wait until the great wave of pain receded, and she was once again able to control herself. Or, was it until Jack Carter was able to control her again? She mentally dismissed the thought; he couldn't possibly be that much of a Svengali.

"Why are you doing this? Why now?"

He cocked his head to the side, and frowned minutely. "Beverly, you know what your plans were. You can answer that question yourself."

"But I didn't do anything!" She was whining, probably more due to pain than from emotional overload, but she couldn't quite control her voice.

"Now, Beverly," Jack chided. "You know that is a lie, and you know that I know that's a lie. You set in motion yet another plan to control the scientists at General Dynamics, this time by kidnapping their relatives and using those people as hostages. It is true that you haven't actually finished your preparations, but why do I have to wait for you to complete your crime before I stop you?" Jack's voice was amused.

Their feeble repartee was interrupted by a slightly scratchy voice from Jack's radio. It was familiar … that imbecil Fargo! "I've completed the scanning, and we have isolated the emissions from her three implants. Donovan has nailed the algorithms for the frequency-hopping spread spectrum transmissions, and decoded the encryption. No transmissions have escaped her cell since capture, and all surveillance shows that The Consortium has no information about her disappearance."

The voice changed to one that wasn't as familiar; Donovan, presumably. "Jack, all three of her implants are locator beacons only. Repeat, locator beacons only. The one that seems to have the earliest technology also used to have an audio re-transmission feature, but it seems that she disabled that herself. The last transmitter shows a suspicious correlation with transmissions received at the Subatomic Reconstructive Transport. We have powered down that particular nightmare until the entire device can be scrubbed and purged of any … malware."

Jack absently reached to his belt and keyed the mic. "Thanks. I think we're done here." He reached over and picked up the items on the table.

"You're going to let me go?"

Jack looked annoyed – and overwhelmingly amused. "How did you get that? We've made sure that you are alone, and that you are cut off from any devices or organizations that would rescue you. When you found that in a previous timeline you had gone through that primitive rescue transporter, you subverted it to change anyone using it into you – and we've shut that down. You are finished … and we don't need you alive any more."

Her eyes had never been so big, and she knew it – and cursed herself for being so very, visibly afraid.

Carter leaned closer to her. "You targeted Zoe. I cannot allow you to live and try again, so you will now die." He raised his gun – and once again, the barrel was a hole that swallowed the world. "It is a little early, but … why wait?"

"You lied to me?" She couldn't help it.

He shook his head in irritation. "You're a bad guy, Bev. And you were planning to attack my daughter. Why do you think I would have told you the truth?"

"Wait!" she almost shouted. Um, um, "You're going to shoot me with a weapon designed in the early nineteen-hundreds? In Eureka, the pinnacle of high technology?"

Jack shrugged, then looked a little embarrassed. "Actually, the magazine Lupo gave me replicates the ammunition, so I never run out. Killing you isn't going to cost me a cent. I just didn't want you to think that your life was that worthless."

And they could both hear what he didn't say. "Because it is."

Pfft.