Determinant: a gene or other factor that determines the character and development of a cell or group of cells in an organism.

Chapter 37: Diaspora - Can't Go Home Again

Mitch is rescued by an unlikely source with an ulterior motive.

He heard her shift, a soft sound against the sheets as she sat up. His eyes opened sluggishly and his entire body ached as though he'd been swimming for hours. He was cold without her, though he made no move to reach for her and keep her in bed. He remembered her teasing, him, asking him to recite the presidents in order - a long-forgotten skill from his sixth grade talent show. He didn't remember falling asleep mid-recitation, but now that he was awake he couldn't help continue from where he'd left off.

"...uh, James Buchanan, Lincoln, Grant, Garfield…"

If she was surprised by his odd topic choice, she didn't comment. He caught a glimpse of the pale expanse of her back, marred only by the small tattoo on her left shoulder. She covered quickly with an old flannel he recognized as his, though she'd long ago appropriated it into her own wardrobe. She stood as she closed it around her.

"What on earth possessed you to think that memorizing the order of presidents was a talent show worthy skill?"

He cut his eyes over to her, unable to turn his head for the stiffness there, and smirked. "Well, it was either that or show them my bug collection." She wrinkled her nose and he laughed. "Anyway, I thought it would be a way to get people to at least talk to me. Mom said I needed to make more friends."

"How many friends did you have?"

"Zero."

That drew an amused snort from her, and she moved over to the small island bar that separated the living space from the kitchen. Mitch had been to this cabin enough with his mother that he could likely navigate it in the dark, and he was pleased to see Jamie so comfortable here.

She folded her elbows and tucked her arms underneath her as she leaned against the surface. "Did it work?"

"Not really," he moved his shoulder a fraction in an imitation of a shrug. "But after that, I was the kid that knew things."

"And now you're the man who knows things," she finished for him. "Is that why you're…" her voice trailed off suddenly, and his heart began hammering in his chest.

"Jamie?" He tried to lift his head, to look at her and make sure she was okay, but his body wouldn't obey. "I can't move."

"It's gonna be okay," she told him, though now he could barely make out her voice through the rush of his own blood in his ears. "I'm gonna find you."

Find me? I'm right here!

Panic rose in him, and she repeated her promise as the world slowly grew dark.

There was no way to mark the passage of time in the bleak nothingness. Mitch was aware of the darkness, and of his own body, but he could not move no matter how hard he tried. He tried screaming, but he couldn't even take a breath. He was going to die, he thought briefly, then replaced that thought with another. I'm already dead.

There was a thud in the darkness, and in that instant the oppressive blackness became so empty. There had been, not a noise, but a feeling, a small vibration that he hadn't even notice except that it was gone now. Something had happened.

He tried to take a breath again, and this time he felt his lungs actually expand. Pain lanced in his chest, and his eyes snapped open (when did I close them) from the force of it. Distorted figures stood just inches away, though he couldn't focus on them. His mind registered bubbles around him, and he realized with a jolt of fear that he was underwater. No, he corrected, I'm in a tank.

The figures scrambled to get him out, but Mitch knew they wouldn't be successful. There wasn't time. He could faintly hear the buzz of a drill, feel the vibration of it through the water, but it was so far away. His lungs burned, ached for a breath and he fought against the urge to gulp until he couldn't any more. Still, he tried to clench his teeth together. His vision began to blur, then fade as his brain demanded oxygen and didn't receive it. His muscles went slack and he took a breath instinctively. His chest filled with water, and his panic ramped up into full blown hysteria. He fought, but without air his body was weak. He thrashed once, twice, and then…

He exploded upward, his abdomen heaving with the effort of expelling the water from his lungs. He felt hands on him, and a sharp, burning pain in his chest. He coughed violently, retching over and over again until his lungs were clear of fluid.

"Morgan," a voice called, and though his mind was still sluggish he knew someone wanted his attention. "Look at me." He did, his body shivering from adrenaline and cold. The man's face was worried but relieved, and he offered Mitch a small smile as he patted his shoulder. "We're here to help you," he said. "You're gonna be okay."

It took a few tries, but with a few extra hands they managed to get Mitch to his feet. He was still unsteady, so the same man who had spoke earlier kept a firm hold of his arm as they led him to a smaller room off to the side. Someone had left a blue jumpsuit similar to the ones Mitch had seen everyone wearing, and he fingered the familiar IADG patch on the sleeve.

"I'll leave you to get dressed, if you think you can manage by yourself." His tone rose slightly at the end, and Mitch nodded in answer. "Alright. I'll be just outside." He grabbed the door to pull it closed behind him. "Come on out when you're ready."

Mitch felt another shiver rattle through him from the inside out, and he scrambled out of the soggy shorts he was in and slipped the dry clothes on. There was a small towel underneath them, and Mitch used it to dry his hair. The motions were automatic but he knew there was something wrong, something different, but his brain wouldn't work fast enough to figure it out. When he was relatively dry, he shuffled back to the door and opened it.

"Doctor Morgan," the man didn't offer his hand again, but he stayed close to Mitch as they walked slowly to a pair of chairs framing a small fold out table. "Please have a seat." Mitch did with some difficulty, his muscles protesting all the way. "My name is Lieutenant Myers," he said, "of the International Animal Defense Group. IADG. We know what a traumatic experience this has been for you, and we know that you're eager to get back to your friends and family."

Family. Mitch's eyes shot up at the word. Once again, there was something very important he was supposed to be remembering, but his mind wouldn't cooperate. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His throat burned, and he winced sharply as he tried again. "We're running a few tests to make sure you're stable enough to travel," Myers explained. "How does that sound?" Mitch was still trying to process what was happening, and Myers seemed to take his silence as acquiescence. "Great." He nodded to a pair of men standing off on the side, but at the signal they came forward and began hooking Mitch up to a variety of machines. Almost automatically, his mind supplied the names of each one and its function, but he couldn't really figure out why it was needed.

Where am I? He stared hard at Myers, willing the man to answer the unspoken question. Myers either didn't notice or ignored it in favor of opening a folder. "Let's begin," he prompted. "Do you know what year it is?" Year? How long have I been here? Mitch just stared back, unable to even shake his head. "Do you know where you are?" A sharp pain at his elbow made Mitch startle, and he looked down to see an IV being inserted. "That's just warm saline," Myers reassured him. "We need to raise your body temperature." After a few seconds Mitch relaxed and Myers continued his interrogation. "Do you remember how you got here?" Again, Mitch's brain wasn't processing anything fast enough, and he couldn't seem to remember how to even shrug. "Are you not answering because you don't know the answer, or because you don't understand what I'm saying?"

Myers seemed genuinely concerned now, and Mitch worried for a moment that he would never be able to answer. He remembered the tank and the oppressive chill of the water. Had his brain been deprived of oxygen too long? What if never recovered?

His panic was beginning to raise his heart rate, and the machine to his left began beeping rapidly. Myers held out a hand in a placating gesture and tried to calm him. "Alright, it's okay. Hey, look, we'll try something else." His eyes glanced down to the Mitch's hands resting on the table and smiled. "Tap your left hand," he touched Mitch's free hand," for 'yes' and you're right hand," he tapped the other, "for 'no.' Alright? Let's try again. Do you know what year it is?"

Mitch concentrated fiercely on his right hand, and after a few brief seconds it lifted weakly and fell back to the table. The move seemed to kickstart something in his brain, and he felt the muscles of his arms loosening and responding to his conscious thought again.

"Do you know what year it is?" Right hand. "Do you know your name?" Left hand. "Okay good. Do you know where you are?" Right hand. "Do you remember who put you in the tank?" Mitch slammed his right hand down a little harder than before, and Myers sat back. "Okay, okay. No more questions for now. How about some answers." Left hand.

Mitch listened as Myers explained that he'd been missing for almost nine years. Something about that made him panic again, but he couldn't quite recall why that would be so upsetting beyond the normal shock of losing almost a decade of his life. He found out where he was (Siberia) and who they believed had put him here (The Shepherds) but beyond that Myers didn't offer anything substantial.

"The IADG has been looking for you for a long time," Myers said. "You were last seen in Los Angeles. Do you remember that?" Mitch closed his eyes and tried to grasp the wisps of memory that were floating about his mind, but none of the solidified into anything he recognized. Right hand. "That's okay. We're here to help you but you have to trust us, okay?"

Frustration mounted again, and Mitch curled his fingers inward in an approximation of a fist. He should be able to speak - he could remember that much at least - but it was like there was a road block between his brain and his mouth. Something was rattling around in there, trying to escape, but it had no outlet. It needed out, urgently. It pounded against his skull and he clenched his jaw from the pain as he tried to figure out a way to get it out. His eyes fell on the pen in Myers' breast pocket, and he reached for it eagerly.

"The pen? You want the pen?" Myers plucked it from the pocket and offered it to him. There were papers on the table, so Mitch slid them over and gripped the pen in his right hand. It felt odd, like his muscles weren't used to the position. Mitch forced himself to concentrate, his hand shaky as he drew the pen across the paper. "That's good, take your time," Myers coaxed. Mitch wasn't entirely sure what he was writing, just that it had to get out. He was trembling so much that Myers had to steady the paper, and whatever he was writing fell from the pen onto the paper. "Okay," Myers waited patiently, though Mitch could tell the other man was as confused by the scribbles as he was. "What is that? What does that say?"

It was gibberish. Mitch glanced down at the hastily scrawled message and realized he hadn't even managed a single word. It was more like a doodle from a kindergartner, all squiggly lines and large loops. But it was important. He slammed his hand down on the paper repeatedly, as though that would make the nonsense any easier to understand.

"What does that mean?" Myers tried again. This time Mitch ripped the paper off the table, holding it up for Myers to see. He pointed at the scribble, willing the man to make sense of what had come out of his brain. He needed someone to make sense of it all, needed someone to understand. But Myers just shook his head. "What does that mean?"

But Mitch wasn't paying attention any longer. Because on the other side of the paper, staring at him from a small square dossier photograph, was her. He flipped the paper over and tapped her face quickly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Myers straighten up, and Mitch looked up furiously.

Where is she?

Myers stood up and grabbed the paper before Mitch could protest. "I'm going to see run this through a database," he showed Mitch the scribble on the back as though he hadn't noticed the behavior shift. "We'll sort it out, Doctor Morgan."

Mitch tried to stand up and follow, tried to reach out and grab Myers and shake him until he gave him more answers. Because he had so many more questions. Is she okay? Where are my friends? When can I go home? But Myers wasn't interested in any of those questions, and Mitch was helpless to push the issue.

Myers returned some time later with more men in tow. One of them looked like the leader, a gruff man with cropped hair and a salt and pepper scruff on his cheeks. His eyes were hard, and where Myers had shown Mitch sympathy and compassion, this man was on a mission. The other was a younger man, like Myers. He held a tablet in one hand and a stack of cards in the other. He took the seat across from Mitch as Myers took up position near his left shoulder. Their leader stood back a few paces, his arms crossed and his eyes unreadable.

"This is Captain Gaines," Myers introduced the gruff man first, "and Lieutenant McClure. We've been trying to make sense of your message and we think we've got a few possibilities."

Lieutenant McClure cleared his throat and tapped the screen of his tablet before turning it around to show Mitch. "I uploaded your message into a program, then searched every image database for possible matches. I printed out cards with the closest matches. Let me know if any of these spark something, okay?"

He held up the first one. "This one is the alchemical symbol for 'silicon.'" It was a triangle inside a circle. "It was a 65 percent match. There was also a 60 percent match for this one," he held up another, this one a small equilateral triangle attached by one side to a vertical line. "The alchemical symbol for 'gateway.'"

He went through a few more, but none of them looked familiar to Mitch. He glared at Myers, hoping to catch his eye and find out what happened to the paper, but the other man steadfastly refused to look at him.

"This one is a 90 percent match to the alchemical symbol that represents 24 hours," McClure dropped another card to the table hopefully. This one had two connecting but not overlapping circles. There was an arrow coming off each one on directly opposing sides. It was close, but Mitch had no idea what it meant. "And this one," he dropped the last card, "is a 72 percent match to the Indian rupee. We're trying to find the rest."

"Maybe it's a code," Myers leaned over the table to peer at the tablet.

"It's gibberish," Gaines barked. "He can't help us."

Mitch gazed down at the cards hoping something would jump out at him. He was good at puzzles, he remembered, and all he had to was piece this one together. His hands reached out and started shuffling cards around, maneuvering them around each other until it finally came together. Four cards, four completely separate symbols, but the word their shapes spelled was unmistakable.

"Proof," McClure guessed, then looked up at Mitch for confirmation. "Proof?"

Yes. That was it. He needed proof. He needed to know these men were who they said they were, that they were here to help him. His brain was still fuzzy but he knew enough. He needed proof.

"He's not ready," Myers protested.

"He's ready," Gaines countered brusquely. Myers nodded reluctantly, then sank down in the chair that McClure had vacated.

"Doctor Morgan, I'm afraid this is going to come as a shock to you," he began softly. "There's someone here who's been waiting to see you."

A door opened on the far side of the room, and Mitch looked up as the others left. McClure was leading someone in, someone much more petite than the military men Mitch had been dealing with. This was a woman, a young woman, and though Mitch couldn't see her very well for the distance and the darkness, the way the others reacted to her was enough to spark Mitch's curiosity.

"Hi," she greeted him in a gentle tone, her steps slow and exaggerated as though she was afraid she'd startle him if she moved too quickly. "Are-are you sure you don't need anything?" She was nervous, he could tell by the way her voice quivered, and something in him wanted to reach out and comfort her. "Food? Or...or water? No," she let out a humorless laugh, " I guess not. You've probably had enough water for a lifetime." She waited for a response, but Mitch had none to give. He felt like he should know her - Myers had certainly implied that she knew him - but he couldn't seem to supply a name to go along with her voice. She was still a few feet from him, but he couldn't make out her face too well in the low light.

"I'm sure you have a lot of questions," she continued a bit more confidently, though she sniffled occasionally as though she was holding back a larger surge of emotion. "I had a lot, too. When they first told me they'd found you, I couldn't believe it." She was right next to him now, and he turned his head slightly to catch a glimpse of long blondish hair and bright eyes.

"Part of me still doesn't," she continued. Her arm reached out and settled on his shoulder, then slid down lower as she crouched next to him. "But here you are." She was on the verge of crying now, though Mitch could tell her tears were happy ones. "We're together again. It's going to be okay, Dad."

Dad? No, his mind rebelled. My daughter is twelve years old!

"You recognize me now, don't you?" she urged, her tone pleading with him. "It's me. It's Clem."

He wanted it so desperately to be true. Even if he had missed the last nine years, he could trust Clem not to keep things from him. He managed to turn his head slightly and really look at her. He searched for any sign of his little girl in her eyes, but she looked so different. It's been nine years, his brain reminded him. She was bound to have changed. The emotion in her eyes was unmistakable, and as he looked back at her she began to cry.

"It's gonna be okay, Dad." She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, burying her face in his neck as she spoke. "We're gonna figure this out and get you home, okay?"

Home. That word sparked something, and finally he managed to reach his free hand up and pat her awkwardly on the shoulder as she hugged him. Clem sniffed loudly and pulled back almost embarrassed as she wiped her eyes and nose.

"Sorry, it's just...it's been so long. I had almost given up on finding you, but here you are." She pulled the second chair over so she could sit knee to knee with him. "Are you feeling any better?" He glanced down at the machines still attached to him by several wires. "Oh," Clem sighed. "It's okay, Dad. You don't have to talk. Lieutenant Myers said that it might take some time."

With the challenge issued, Mitch could do nothing but defy it. "Where am I?" Myers had told him, but he wanted to hear it from her.

"Siberia," she confirmed. "We're in an abandoned - well, I guess it isn't really abandoned, is it? I got a call from Lieutenant Myers. He told me an IADG survey team found a man in a stasis tank in an abandoned compound. A man they believed to be my father. I thought it was cruel joke until they showed me this picture." She reached into her pocket and produced a small photo that looked like it had been printed from old security camera footage. It was grainy, but there was no mistaking it. It was clearly him inside the tank.

"I thought you were dead," Clem went on, her voice breaking on the last word. Her hand shot out to cover his, a seemingly unconscious gesture to reassure her that he was really there. Without thinking, he turned his hand over and gripped hers fiercely, wanting to offer her a measure of comfort for the decade-long hurt his absence had caused her. He wanted to apologize, to let her know that he'd never have left her on purpose, but he couldn't get the words out.

The nearest door opened and Myers walked in with a hopeful expression. "Has your dad started talking yet, Clementine?"

"A little but - "

Gaines was right behind Myers, all business. "Did you ask him?" Mitch glanced up sharply at his daughter, accusation and curiosity warring inside. So she had been sent in for a purpose.

Clem shook her head. "Not yet."

Myers leaned over to check the EEG. "We'll get there. His brain's gamma frequency readings are still low."

"How long?" Gaines demanded.

"Hours," Myers answered. "Days, maybe. Look, we're in uncharted territory here. No one's been in stasis this long."

"Maybe we should just let him rest," Clem begged.

Gaines didn't look happy, but apparently he was unwilling to fight both of them. "Fine," he barked. "But there's a storm moving in, and I don't plan on being here when it hits." He left as abruptly as he'd come, Myers hot on his heels. Clem moved to follow, but Mitch's hand shot out to grab her arm in a desperate grip.

"Stay," he whispered. Even if the IADG had brought her in, she was still his daughter and he couldn't let her leave. Not until he was sure she would always come back.

"Okay," Clem patted his arm comfortingly and moved back to the seat, shifting her fingers from his arm to hold his hand. "I'm here, Dad."

For a while they didn't say anything. He could hear the bustle of people behind the door as they tore down equipment and packed up to leave. He wondered if, in all the chaos, that he would be forgotten again, but then he shook that thought away. Clem wouldn't let that happen. She was still next to him, her thumb massaging small circles into the back of his hand. Finally, she seemed unable to maintain the tense silence and took a breath.

"You must feel like Rip Van Winkle," she joked. "Waking up a new world. Humanity sterilized. The West Coast fallen. Packs of monsters roaming the streets." How bad had things gotten? And where were his friends? His -

"Jamie," he croaked. "Where's Jamie?" He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He'd forgotten. He'd left her there, out in the cold. Alone. No, he corrected. They'd rescued Jamie from the wilderness. They'd gotten her out. She'd come back to him, and they were together. They'd gotten married. "Where is she?" he asked again when Clem didn't answer.

"She's...back in the States," Clem said reluctantly. "On a book tour, I think. She's a best-selling author now. Your story was worth a fortune, but she's the only one who saw a dime." There was a callousness in her voice that set off alarm bells in Mitch's head. Something wasn't right, but Clem kept going before he could ask another question. "The IADG thinks you know how to stop the hybrids. Do you remember anything about how you ended up in that tank? Who put you there or why?" He shook his head sharply, and Clem held up her hands. "Hey, it's okay. Just might take some time."

"Seventy nine, sixty." The words spilled from his lips before he could even think about them, like they'd been sitting on his tongue and could wait no longer.

"Seventy nine, sixty?" Clem repeated.

"Seeing your face again," he explained slowly, "the only thing that I can remember is seventy nine, sixty." He waited for anything, for a spark of recognition, but Clem just stared back blankly. "You don't remember." It was eleven years ago, dummy. Of course she doesn't remember. "The parking ticket I got the day your were born. Seventy nine dollars and sixty cents. Money well spent. Almost missed your birth." He was starting to tear up now as the realization that he'd missed another decade of her life hit him full force. "I missed your childhood. And now the last nine years. I swear," he leaned forward and gripped her hand fiercely, "I am not missing another second. Ever."

Moments of heavy emotion usually made Mitch uncomfortable, but it seemed like his brain wasn't completely back online yet so he let it slide. Clem just smiled back and reached for his head again. "It's great that you're remembering," she said finally. "They need you to remember something, too."

Mitch could feel eyes on them, and he wondered what they had told her to get her to pressure him so much. Had they threatened to keep him away from her? He wanted to ask, to promise her that he wouldn't let that happen no matter what, but it wasn't a conversation to have under watchful gazes. So, for now, he would play along and wait until he knew they were alone.

"What do they want to know?"

"They're looking for answers about some kind of program," Clem explained. "Blue Diaspora?" Individually, Mitch understood what those words meant, but together they meant nothing. He shook his head. "I don't know what it means," she continued, "but whatever it is, it's really important. It's the reason they came for you."

A door opened somewhere behind them, and Mitch leaned forward quickly. "What have they got? Have they got Jamie? Your grandmother? Whatever it is, I will get us out of here, okay?"

"How are we doing, Doctor Morgan?" It was Myers, sounding hopeful and upbeat. Mitch disliked him.

Clem pulled away from his grasp and stood. "His core temperature is coming up," she said quickly. He could see she'd been unnerved by his promise, almost scared, and Mitch felt his irritation at the IADG goons blossoming into hate.

"That's great," Myers leaned over to check the machines. "Heart rate stabilized, blood flow improving. Well," he straightened up and crossed his arms. "How about your memory? Anything coming back?"

"Yeah," he snapped, happy to hear he sounded almost like his old self. "I remember everything. Just waiting for you to upgrade me to a better room." It was a white lie - there were still pockets of his memory that seemed fuzzy and out of reach, but they didn't need to know. The more they thought him an asset, the easier it would be to get them to relax and let down their guard. Then he and Clem could make their escape.

"Well you got your sense of humor back," Myers chuckled. "So then, tell me, what do you remember about Blue Diaspora?"

"I'm sorry," Mitch kept his gaze steady, "I don't know what that is."

"I understand," Myers looked almost sympathetic. "But my team tells me otherwise. What's inside your head, it could help save a lot of people."

"How?" Warning bells were starting to go off in his head, and he glanced around briefly, hoping to spot anything that might help him if it came down to a fight. He had to protect Clem at all costs.

Myers just sighed. "I'm afraid that's classified. But you get back to your old self, we get your IADG clearance, you can help us."

Something clicked then, and Mitch scoffed. "Help the IADG? Last I checked, you tried to murder every animal on the planet. Then, when we savedeveryone, you took the credit like that had been your plan all along. So no thanks."

"I know your history with our organization - with General Davies - but that was ten years ago. I assure you, right now our priority is protecting people from the hybrid threat. And that's why we're here, but we need your help. We need you to remember."

"I don't know what to tell you," Mitch did his best to keep his tone level. "I've tried. There's nothing."

"That's alright." Mitch saw Myers' perfect mask slip only a little before he turned to check the readings. "It looks like your gamma frequencies are still lagging behind. I got some meds that should be able to help with that. Be right back."

The moment the door shut behind him, Clem was crouching next to him. "Whatever he gives you, don't take it." She sounded fearful now, and Mitch knew his instincts had been correct. Something was wrong.

"Clem, what are you not telling me?"

"We need to get out of here." She stood then and started disconnecting him from the EEG and IV. "These are not good people, and they're not with IADG."

"Who are they?"

"They're Shepherds."

Mitch reeled. "You're working with the Shepherds now?"

"Teaming up with them was the only chance I had at getting you back. I did what I had to do." She pulled the last plug as Mitch removed the needle from his own arm.

"Why would they bring you along?" He knew the answer already, but panic was starting to set in and he needed to focus.

"They knew that you would never trust them," she said. "They needed a familiar face. You know something about Blue Diaspora and they will do whatever it takes to get it out of you." She reached for him just as a speaker on the wall came to life with piercing scream.

That was the only motivator Mitch needed. "I don't know what that is, but it seems like a good time to get out here." He rose to his feet and took a step, then crashed to the floor when his legs wouldn't hold his weight. Clem was there in an instant helping him and slinging his arm around her shoulders. She took some of his weight and they managed to hobble their way to a door at the back of the room, away from where Myers and the others had been going.

They made it down a long corridor as the klaxon continue to blare overhead. He hoped Clem knew where she was going because right now Mitch's only thought was away. Away from Myers and Gaines and anyone who would try to hurt them. His muscles were screaming at him, and with each step he could feel himself relying on Clem more and more.

"This isn't going to work," she told him finally. "You can barely stand."

But he refused to give up. "We have to try."

"Oh is that right?" A cold voice stopped them both in their tracks. It was Gaines, and he looked murderous. He was holding a large handgun to bear, and Mitch tried to at least angle his body so that he was slightly in front of his daughter.

Clem, for her part, tried to play it off. "Please, we were just -"

"Shut up!" Gaines stepped closer and glared at Mitch. "You, sit down."

"No." He wouldn't leave his daughter's side, his flagging strength be damned.

But Gaines just sneered and repeated his order. When Mitch once again refused, Gaines grabbed his shoulder and shoved him sideways. Clem screamed as he crashed into a cabinet against the wall, and Mitch fought to regain his feet. But he couldn't do more than lean against the bent metal frame and when he looked back up Gaines had Clem by her hair.

"He doesn't know anything!" Clem cried, fighting against the man's hold.

"Maybe he just needs a little motivation," Gaines crooned, turning the gun to Clem's head.

"No, no, no, no!" Mitch struggled against the pain but couldn't get his feet under him to get to Clem.

Gaines was livid now, his face contorted in anger. He looked crazed and desperate, and Mitch felt a cold stab of dread deep in the pit of his stomach. "You give me Blue Diaspora, I give you your daughter. Easy. But if you keep playing dumb, you are gonna wish you never woke up." He pressed the muzzle of the gun into Clem's side and she sobbed.

"Dad!" she cried. "Please tell him! Dad, please!"

Mitch felt helpless, and he held out his hands imploringly. "Look, I...I told you. I don't know what that is!"

"You're a liar!" Gaines shouted.

"Dad tell him!"

Mitch pushed up a little straighter. "I'm not lying." He stared Gaines in the eye, hoping that if he kept his attention he might loosen his grip enough for Clem to get away. "I don't know what that is. I don't know how to help you. Look, I will do anything you want," he pleaded, hating the way his voice broke but unable to keep the emotion out with his daughter in pain just feet away, "but just d-don't hurt her."

But Gaines wasn't listening. He was hellbent on his mission and he was quickly reaching a breaking point. "Do you love your daughter?"

"Don't hurt her!" Mitch was the desperate one now, every fiber of his body screaming to get to Clem, to protect her, but unable to answer the call.

"Do you want to see your daughter alive?"

"Don't hurt her," Mitch repeated, hoping that if he said it enough Gaines would finally listen.

"Three!"

"I can't help you!"

"Two!"

"Don't! Don't!" This was it. He was going to watch his daughter die in front of him and he was useless to stop it. White hot hatred erupted and he pushed away from the locker, stumbling a bit but keeping his feet. He couldn't let Gaines get to one.

The man opened his mouth to finish his countdown, but Clem had managed to worm her way free. She twisted Gaines' arm around behind him, sending the gun flying and dropping the man to his knees. She thrust her knee upward, connecting solidly with Gaines' jaw, and the man gave a loud grunt before falling to the floor.

Mitch had no weapon, but he'd always been good at improvising. The hatred that had sprung up before was still coursing through his veins, and as his eyes fell on the large wires and circuit box on the wall he didn't hesitate. It took surprisingly little effort to wrench a wire from its housing, the end sparking and buzzing from the still-live current. Mitch didn't know how many volts he was about to put into Gaines' body, but he didn't care. The man had threatened his daughter - nearly killed her - and he couldn't be left behind just to come after them again. He stabbed the live end of the wire down into Gaines, who was already pushing himself up to his hands and knees. His body convulsed violently the moment the current hit him, and he fell down unmoving after only a few seconds.

Mitch tossed the wire far away and reached for Clem. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." She was breathing heavily but appeared otherwise unharmed. She reached down and picked up the discarded gun. "I'm fine, I think."

"You know how to use that?" It was yet another reminder of how much he'd missed, but the way Clem handled the weapon it clearly wasn't her first time.

Clem just reached across Gaines and unholstered his spare handgun. "Do you?" She offered it to him, and he held it loosely in his left hand as Clem moved under his right arm to take some of his weight again.

They made their way a little more quickly down the hall into a storage room. They were halfway to the far door when a shadow appeared from behind the pallet ahead of them.

"Stop!" The voice was female, but Mitch didn't recognize it. Clem must have, because she shoved him down behind a crate and leveled her gun at the newcomer.

She was a bit shorter than Clem, and her hair a lighter shade of blonde, but the two woman looked strikingly similar. Mitch's head swam as the woman stepped closer.

"Dad?" She said cautiously. "Dad, is that really you?"

Confusion slammed into him as he looked from the new girl to Clem and back again. Why was she calling him Dad?

"Who the hell are you?" Clem demanded, her voice shaking.

"It's okay," the woman's voice was still steady and calm as she spoke, though she, too, had her gun the ready. "I'm his daughter. Clementine."

Oh God. Mitch's brain was already pounding from the exertion and his body's acclimation to being out of stasis. This...this was too much.

"You're not Clementine, I am," Clem was saying, and Mitch could see the way her hands shook. "Don't listen to her," she told him sharply. "Let's shoot her and let's get out of here."

"What?" The new Clem took another step forward. "Dad, I came here to rescue you."

"Don't call me that!" Mitch snapped, lifting his free hand to clutch at his head. The pounding was getting worse, and this parent trap nightmare wasn't helping matters.

The woman next to him reached out for him. "Dad, we need to get out of here."

"You either!" He didn't know who to trust any more. Everyone was lying to him. Everyone was lying. He needed space. He needed to think. He shoved himself away from the crates and stumbled away.

"Dad!" Both women cried out, but he ignored them. He needed to get away.

"No, just...just stay back. Both of you!" He waved the gun in his left hand drunkenly, though his fingers was still off the trigger. "Stay back."

"It's gonna be okay," The new Clem promised. "Someone's coming to help."

"I don't need help! I don't need...I need…" His chest hurt as he took a breath and he recognized the beginnings of a panic attack. He tried to clear his head, to slow his breathing, but his thoughts were spiraling out of control and his heart hammered so loudly he could feel it reverberating off of his skull.

He tripped over his own feet and the world tumbled as he fell. He braced for impact, but it didn't come. Hands came from seemingly nowhere to keep him upright, the grip firm but not painful. He glanced up into deep blue eyes, and almost instantly his panic disappeared.

"Jamie," he breathed. She was here. She'd come for him.

"Yeah," she shifted her hands from under his arms to better support him as he stood up. "Yeah, it's - it's me." She was on the verge of tears, and he let himself fall against her in a hug that was both necessity and relief.

Gunshots rang out behind them, and Mitch gripped Jamie tight as he pressed her against the nearest wall to shield her.

"It's okay," her hands ran over his hair and around his shoulders soothingly, "I'm okay. We're okay."

Mitch turned to see his daughter lying on the floor. He cried out and started toward her, but Jamie held him back. "Mitch, it isn't her. That isn't Clem," she pointed to the woman now lying bleeding on the floor, then to the one standing a few feet away, "that is. That's your daughter, Mitch. She was lying to you."

Another figure appeared from behind Clem. This one he recognized, and the anger he'd felt at Gaines returned tenfold. If Jamie wasn't still holding him, he'd probably have punched Mansdale in the face. Again. It was clear from his still ready posture that it had been him who had shot the imposter Clem, and as he took in Mitch's murderous expression he holstered his weapon and held up his hands.

"She was going to shoot," Mansdale drawled. "You're welcome."

"Come on," Jamie tugged at his arm. "We need to get back to the plane. The Shepherds are scrambling right now but it won't take them long to figure out where we are." Mitch resisted, and Jamie slid her hand down his arm to interlace their fingers. "I promise I will explain everything, but we need to go. Now."

Clem came up on his other side and gripped his arm. His strength was returning and he didn't have to lean quite so heavily on Jamie, but he didn't mind the additional support. Mitch let them lead him through the maze of corridors until they came to an outer door.

"It's gonna be a little windy," Clem warned him. He nodded and braced himself as Mansdale opened the door and took point. Clem brought up the rear, leaving Jamie to help Mitch cover the distance from the door to the plane. It was maybe fifty yards, but it seemed to take forever to cross the open tarmac. Mitch could feel his heart pounding with each step, fear of being caught by the Shepherds warring with the relief at being so close to getting away from this hellish nightmare.

Twenty steps. Ten. Five. And suddenly the hard concrete beneath his feet gave way to the familiar metallic thud of the plane's ramp. Jamie left him against the rail to man the console, closing the ramp behind them and sealing them away from the harsh winds.

"Clem, take him to the lab. I need to get us airborne."

Mitch felt that he should have had a bigger reaction to seeing his lab again, but all he could focus on was the feel of his daughter's hand on his arm and the feel of the floor beneath him lurching as the plane began to move. It was then that Jamie's words finally hit him.

"Is Jamie flying the plane?" he asked his daughter incredulously.

"No," Clem shook her head and pushed him toward the exam table. "At least, not the way you're thinking. The plane pretty much flies itself, really. She just tells it what to do."

Nine years, he reminded himself. He'd been gone nine years and apparently technology had outpaced even his best estimates. Auto-flying planes. Stasis tanks. It was almost too much to comprehend.

"Dad?" Clem's soft voice pulled him out of his own head. "You okay?"

"I'm…" He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "I'm still trying to figure out what the hell happened back there."

"The Shepherds found you before we did," she answered. "But it's okay now. You're back and -" She stopped abruptly, tears in her eyes, and Mitch reached for her. She sobbed against his chest as her hands banded around his waist.

"Shh," he soothed. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I'm sorry I wasn't there."

Clem sniffed wetly and pulled away, defiance in her eyes. "No, it wasn't your fault. You were...you were taken from us. Do you remember that?"

Mitch's memory of his time just before the darkness was spotty, and despite how hard he tried he couldn't recall anything significant. "I can't…"

"It's alright," Clem interrupted. "It might take some time. Let's get you cleaned up and into some real clothes."

Mitch stood up and stumbled, his overworked muscles finally rebelling as the last of the adrenaline drained from his system.

"I feel like a newborn giraffe," he grumbled as Clem righted him. "Those are still around, right? Humans didn't do anything stupid while I was gone, like hunt animals to extinction?"

"They're too busy worried about hybrids to remember real animals exist," Jamie said from the doorway. "Everything alright?"

"Dad wants to get cleaned up," Clem said as she let him attempt to take his own weight, "but I'm afraid he might fall over if he takes a shower."

"I'll take him," Jamie offered, slipping easily under his arm. Her warmth suffused his chilled body and he clutched her a little tighter than was necessary. He'd missed her. It didn't matter that he didn't remember anything; he knew in his soul that he'd missed her. And if her own vice-like grip around his waist was any indication, she'd missed him, too.

Things were different, he noticed as she helped him up the stairs toward the living quarters. The lounge, for one, was no longer a place for a social gathering. The couches and chairs had been replaced with a long, dark table with screens inlaid in the surface and stool-like seats bolted into the floor at even intervals. Screens lined the walls as well, and though the room was dark when they passed it, it was clear that it was more a war room than an lounge now.

The master suite was bare, the wrinkled bedding the only indication that someone was sleeping there. Jamie helped him to the bathroom and sat him down on the closed toilet seat, and as she started the shower, he took the time to study her.

She'd cut her hair shorter and straightened it, though it was starting to wave again from the sweat and dirt that had accumulated during his rescue. Her cheeks were full and flushed and she looked healthy despite the slightly darker circles that were beginning to show under her eyes. He felt a mixture of relief and hurt at that; he never wanted her to suffer another ounce of pain, but it was odd to see her so adjusted and - well - okay in his absence. He could remember those cruel months when he'd thought her dead, how he'd become almost like the dead himself, drowning his anguish in a bottle and trying to figure out how to live without a heartbeat. But, he reminded himself, he'd been gone for a lot longer than a few months. He supposed he should be grateful that she wasn't still in pain nine years later, that she'd apparently found a way to deal with his loss and move on with her life.

Their trek upstairs had been a silent one, and Mitch had been content with her presence on the short walk, but now he needed something more. Now that she was closer he could tell she was hurting, hiding her pain in the menial tasks, and as she passed him to grab towels from the cabinet he snagged her wrist.

"Jamie."

She was still refusing to look at him, her eyes remaining steadfastly ahead of her. Her jaw was clenched tight, and he recognized her attempt to keep from breaking down. He'd always been a selfish son of a bitch, and just the small indication that she might not be as well-adjusted as he'd thought made him feel better. He grunted softly as he stood up, using his free hand on the counter to help him. He shifted his grip on her wrist, sliding his fingers up her arm to her shoulder, then around to cup her jaw. He whispered her name again, and that was all it took to destroy the dam.

She sobbed harshly as she fell against him, and he leaned back against the counter to be able to take her weight without toppling to the floor. She wept loudly into his chest, her fingers scrabbling against his back as she tried to get closer to him. He cried with her, comforting her with hands and soft words until they had no more tears. They stayed there a few more seconds as the heat from the shower began to fog the mirror behind them. Only when he felt steady enough to support himself did Mitch moved his hands from her back down to the hem of her shirt, stopping only ask permission with a glance. She stepped back from him and stripped her shirt in one upward motion before going to work on his jumpsuit. Her movements were slow and caring, and while Mitch felt like doing nothing more than relearning every inch of her, he knew there was no way his body was ready for anything other than a long shower with his wife and maybe a nap.

With their clothes in a pile on the floor, they stepped into the hot spray together. Mitch forced himself to stay on his feet as Jamie lathered up a rag and wiped off the grimy residue of the tank water from his skin. He returned the favor when she offered it to him, and Mitch didn't waste the opportunity to map the skin he used to know so well. There were a few new scars, as well as the large one on her thigh from where she'd been impaled from a chunk of their crashed airplane. It was lighter now, and less jarring against her pale skin - another reminder of how much time he'd lost. His hair was next and he grimaced as she worked the shampoo through the overgrowth on his head and face.

"Not a fan of the mountain man look?" It was the first time either of them had spoken since their mutual breakdown, and he smiled.

"Not really."

"We'll fix it when we're done," she promised, tilting his head back beneath the water to rinse the soap from his hair. She must have seen the exhaustion he was trying to hide because she washed her own hair quickly after his was clean and shut off the water. He reached for the towels before she could get to them, holding one open for her before taking the second for himself. She wrapped hers around her body and disappeared into the bedroom for a moment before returning in flannel pants and a spirit shirt from a high school he'd never heard of.

Clem's, probably. He'd missed his daughter's high school graduation. He'd missed Jamie's debut as an author. He'd missed so much.

"Hey," her voice was soft as she cupped his cheek. "Where's your head at?"

"No place good," he told her truthfully. "I'll be okay."

She brandished a small pair of scissors and a pair of electric clippers. She shrugged dismissively when he asked her where she'd gotten them, twirling her finger to indicate he should turn around. He faced the mirror as she went to work, trimming the growth down to the soft shaggy style he'd sported early in their relationship. She didn't speak during her task, her eyes focused and unreadable. When she was satisfied with her work, she offered him the clippers.

"I let you deal with that," she indicated his beard with a nod of her head. "I'll be just outside." He took the device from her gently, hating the slight awkward tension that had sprung up suddenly between them. She left him alone for the first time since he'd come out of the tank, and he was surprised at how bereft he felt. He'd never been one of those people who needed to have someone around all the time. In fact, he loved having time to himself so he didn't have to pretend to be friendly just to make other people feel better. With Jamie it had been different; she had understood his moods almost from the very beginning and knew when to give him space and when he was just being grumpy. But now, as she closed the door behind her, he was hit with the sudden pang of loneliness that made him reel.

He attacked his beard haphazardly, dropping clumps of dark hair into the sink with each pass. He left a bit on his cheeks and jaw, unwilling to take the time to remove it all. If Jamie wanted him clean-shaven, he would deal with it later. Right now he wanted to lie down and sleep for ages, preferably with Jamie in his arms.

She was already under the covers when he turned off the bathroom light and stepped out. She'd left the light on so he could see and there were shorts and a robe lying at the foot of the bed for him. He tossed the robe away and tugged the shorts on under the towel before dropping that, too.

"How are you feeling?" Jamie sat up in bed and turned back the opposite corner for him.

"Better," he told her as he sat down on the edge, facing away from her. He heard her shift and her legs slipped down to the floor next to his as she came to rest against his side. "I'm still trying to process everything."

"We're heading to Montenegro," she told him. "I promised Mansdale I'd take him if he helped me."

"How in the hell did you two end up working together?"

"It's a long story," she shrugged. "The last few days have been…"

"Yeah," he huffed in wry amusement.

There was a beat of silence, then Jamie took a breath. "What happened?"

He knew what she wanted. If he had been in her place and it had been Jamie who had disappeared without warning, he'd want answers too. He just didn't have any to give her. "I'm not sure," he answered honestly. "I remember talking to Dan, then leaving the hotel, and then...nothing. Whoever put me in that tank, they -"

"They didn't want anybody to find you," she cut him off abruptly. "You were in Siberia, at the edge of the world. They kept you away from everything - away from me - for nine years. I'm going to find out who did this. I'm gonna find out why, and I'm gonna make them pay."

The darkness in her tone was one he was familiar with. He'd encountered it in those harrowing months after her rescue in Canada. He had been afraid then that she would be consumed by it, that she'd never be able to get past it and that it would drive them apart. But it hadn't. They'd overcome it together and come out on the other side even stronger. Hearing it again made him ache for her, for the pain she must have felt at his disappearance, and he reached over to lace their fingers together.

"Honestly, I just want to go home," he told her. "I don't care about hybrids or stasis tanks or shadowy government agencies. I just want to go home with my wife and my daughter and try to make up for so much lost time." She sniffed wetly next to him and when he turned her toward him she was crying again. "Hey," he slid an arm over her shoulders and brought her solidly against his body. "It's okay. I'm here." It took a moment to adjust, but soon they were both lying on the bed under the covers. The lights were still on but Mitch didn't care. He held onto her and finally let himself relax.

"Mitch?"

"Hmm?" He was almost asleep, and he found that his eyelids were too heavy to open any more.

"I love you."

He smiled at that and mumbled what he hoped was an intelligible response in kind. The maelstrom in his mind seemed to finally abate, leaving only a pleasantly warm feeling as he finally drifted off.

...Arthur, Cleveland, Harrison, Cleveland again, McKinley, Roosevelt...