A/N: Again, thank you everyone for loving this story! It was so much fun to write, and I'm so glad you guys are finding it fun to read.

Tacodestroyeravenger – Eliot is injured and not quite right in the head. (Head injuries affect everyone differently.) He's noticing things but adopting that wonderfully treacherous ability human beings have of dismissing things he doesn't understand, doesn't want to deal with, or doesn't know how to deal with.

His hair is long but it can't be. His muscles are more seasoned and he has old scars in places he never got injured. You or I would think we're in the Twilight Zone, but you or I would probably be in a nice, safe hospital bed with trained staff and a loving family to fill in the gaps in our memories.

But this is Eliot.

He ran, he's alone, he's injured and he is focusing on the last thing he remembers – his mission – to the exclusion of everything else…

Chapter Five

Eliot stood in line at the currency exchange in San Lorenzo. It was a sleepy little place and beautiful. He'd never been there before but he felt an affinity for it. A connection. Like it was part of him. It must remind him of somewhere he'd been, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He'd been having trouble with his memory lately. The world seemed different somehow, unfamiliar, and the dreams were driving him nuts. Snippets of weird jobs he'd never been on yet they felt so real. That's how dreams went, he supposed. Maybe he'd been running too long. No place to put up his boots. He didn't trust his co-workers or his boss. He was definitely running on empty.

He walked up to the counter and exchanged his money. He walked outside and counted it, something he really shouldn't do, but just let someone try something. He hadn't hit anyone in a week and he was so frustrated and had that pent up rage. He couldn't stand people who preyed on others. They should live in a world where anyone could count their money in plain sight.

Then he saw it. In his hand. Staring up at him. He pocketed the money except for the 20 royal note. He brought it close to his face and studied it. The woman from the pier smiled back at him. "Oh my God," he breathed. Someone was walking by and Eliot grabbed his arm. "Hey."

"Yes, mister?" The man had a heavily-accented voice.

Eliot shoved the money in the guy's face. "Who is that?"

The man's face softened and hardened at the same time. "That is our first lady."

"Where is she?"

"Dead."

Eliot stumbled back as though the guy had hit him. "She's dead?"

"It happened right as President Vittori was elected. She was beautiful and she was loved and she was killed by Damien Moreau's men."

Eliot bumped into the building and sagged against it.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Eliot had grabbed this man, shoved something in his face and demanded information—and his response was to be nice? Why'd he have to be nice? If someone had done that to him…. "Yeah, fine. It's just sad."

"It is sad. What a world we live in when a woman speaks about freedom and is gunned down, right in front of everyone."

"Yeah."

"Goodnight, mister."

"Yeah, goodnight. Thanks. Wait." Eliot tried to press the note into the man's hands but he refused it and walked on. After a moment, Eliot pushed himself off the building and went to his hotel, making sure he wasn't followed. No one should know he was there but old habits die hard. Besides, you could never be too careful. One slip and…he fell into his bed and shut his eyes.

He saw her, the first lady. She was talking to reporters, to her people. A shot rang out and she fell into the arms of her future husband. The bullet was meant for him. She'd stepped in front of him, trading her life for his.

And then Eliot smiled. He lowered the smoking gun and ripped off his mask. He had a buddy next to him, who also took off his mask. They grinned at one another. It was General Flores—the man he was sent there to kill.

Eliot woke with a start. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and tripped over himself getting to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, soaking his hair as he still wasn't used to the length. What a dream! What a horrific dream. But what did it mean? He couldn't have actually killed that lady so why dream it? And how was it possible that the woman at the pier was the same as the woman on the money and the woman in his dream?

Eliot splashed more water on his face, planning his next move. He was exhausted but it was the middle of the day. The library should be open. He pulled on his jeans and a t-shirt and took the stairs to the lobby and exited the hotel via the back. He was able to walk to the library but he couldn't enjoy it. Something was nagging at him, in the back of his mind. He entered the stately building and was surprised to find a bank of computers for patrons to use. Technology was creeping in at a faster rate than he'd noticed. He found a librarian and asked her where he could read about their first lady. She didn't eye him strangely or ask why or what he wanted to know. Instead, her face darkened and she led him to a computer and pulled up a program. He thanked her and started reading. Rebecca Ibanez, engaged to Michael Vittori.

Eliot looked up. Engaged? Rebecca Ibanez, not Rebecca Vittori? His whole body trembled. It wasn't a dream…Inside the dream, he'd known she was his fiancé. The stranger outside the currency exchange told him she was their first lady. Eliot should have assumed that meant they were married. Anyone would assume that meant they were married, but Eliot dreamt they were engaged and that only meant one thing—it wasn't a dream but a memory.

A memory?

He staggered back to the hotel, not on his guard. He realized it about two blocks away, someone could easily have followed him. Eliot swung his head in every direction, wincing at the intensity of his newest headache. A little boy broke from his mother's grasp and ran up to him.

Eliot loosened into an attack stance, bending at the knees and holding his arms out. He stopped himself before making fists. The boy was maybe eight years old, staring up at him with soft brown eyes and unruly black hair. Eliot relaxed into a more normal standing position. The child frowned and kicked Eliot's shin.

"What the—" Eliot grabbed his knee to stop himself from attacking the little boy.

"You better stay away from my dog!"

"Your dog? I've never been near your dog. I didn't even know you had a dog. What's your problem, kid?"

"My daddy told me about dog fighting when I saw you on TV." The boy pulled up his leg and kicked Eliot in the other shin.

Eliot sucked in a breath and steeled himself from taking out the kid.

"With a puppy!"

"I was never on TV with a puppy, kid."

"Yes you were!" He raised his leg to kick again and Eliot backed up.

He made his way past the boy, purposeful but unhurried. He would not be running away from an eight-year-old attacker.

This was ridiculous. Dog fighting? Why was an eight-year-old accusing him of dog fighting? The world was bad enough with people fighting people, and the only experience he had with dog fights was stopping that vet in Croatia, who never saw that water dish coming. Eliot's world was shattering into crazy shards that were sinking deep into his mind.

How could he forget that woman? He remembered every single kill. The color of their eyes. The quality of their voices. The scent of their skin. He'd never seen this woman before the docks when he woke up injured. He woke up injured…maybe that was the key.

But…he had killed her, he was sure of it. He murdered her right in front of everyone and smiled after he'd done it. It must've turned into a dream when the man next to him revealed himself to be General Flores. Of course. He was supposed to be researching Flores. Moreau hired Eliot to take him out.

Why didn't he remember her? How could he have blocked it? He would never do that. When he killed, it was in self-defense or as a soldier. He never smiled. He never forgot, not one single detail.

He let himself back in his room. It was a small space, cozy but clean with a comfortable bed, end table, TV, desk and chair. There were pictures on the wall depicting ships and water and lighthouses and piers, as if taunting him. He stripped to his boxers and fell into bed again. What was happening to him? Every time he closed his eyes, he took the shot and she went down. Rebecca Ibanez. Strange. She didn't look like a Rebecca. And how could she be there when he woke up on the dock? Unless it was guilt, eating away at him for forgetting. He was injured, maybe his mind played tricks on him.

Was there even a woman at the docks? Had he been alone, stumbling around, talking to himself?

She'd pleaded with him to let her help him. She said he'd saved her life, over and over, she said that. He'd saved her life at the risk of his own and been hurt in doing so.

He'd been hurt many times saving someone's life.

Why did he give her a British accent?

He was afraid to fall asleep again but he couldn't get up. He was trapped in his own mind by his exhausted body.