BLOODLINES

REILLY CARROLL
BERKELEY, CA

Reilly Carroll stood among a crowd of slightly less than fifty, clad in a thick black overcoat. He recognised most of the people, faculty, alumni and students of UC Berkeley, and the family of Mark Oakwood, all there to celebrate his life, and commiserate his death.

He'd been a brilliant geneticist, a standout on the world genetics stage, and a tenured professor at one of the most prestigious universities in the world. He'd lost it all when he'd decided to follow what many had considered a scientific wild goose chase. While working on the Human Genome Project, he'd begun mapping slight variations within human genetic coding, variations that may have produced what could be considered superhuman abilities. He had, of course, been right.

He'd met Grace Scott, his Patient Zero, and had compiled the list of twelve names, ordered by their proximity to his apartment in Brooklyn.

He'd been murdered before he'd had the opportunity to prove his hypothesis, of superpowered human beings, people on the cusp of the next step in the course of human evolution. Reilly, of course, knew he was right. Rapid cellular regeneration, empathic telepathy, flight, telekinesis, invisibility... Oakwood had postulated that people possessing these variations would be able to manifest all of these abilities.

Reilly longed, as he listened to the man's eulogy, given by his wife, to reveal that his friend, and one-time mentor, had been right.

It seemed as though the memorial service, undertaken in a shaded graveyard not far from the campus of the University of California, Berkeley, took forever.

Finally, the goodbyes were given, and the guests began to leave.

Reilly, in the line of invitees giving their condolences to the widow Oakwood, began to feel the emotion; he'd been numb to it throughout the service, but it finally dawned on him. People he knew had died; Nicholson, Greenland. But neither was his friend, not the way Mark had been.

Finally, he reached Oakwood's wife, and they shook hands.

"Reilly," she said. "I heard you've been in New York, following up on Mark's research. About the people with superpowers."

Reilly had been close to breaking his vow with Brendan to keep the powered individuals secret, but Mrs Oakwood's disdain shone through her even tone. "Yes, ma'am."

"Do me a favour," she said, "don't. It's a path to a lonely life, and an even lonelier death."

GRACE & LACHLAN
MALIBU, CA

The sounds of the waves crashing at the foot of the cliffs were a perfect counterpoint to the harsh caws of the seagulls. The sun hung high in the clear, flawless blue sky above them as they set across the grassy stretch of ground atop the high, twisted knoll of rock that jutted out into the Pacific, an ocean breeze rustling through the long ground.

Grace Scott and Lachlan Collins moved purposefully; Grace soaked in the beauty of the locale. The smell of salt on the air, the bird calls, the turquoise, lapping waves. In the distance was an oil rig, hidden by mists rising off the ocean.

Lachlan could barely move. It was as if his joints were stiff, and he kept his eyes forward, intent on his goal. He carried a small, gold-coloured urn; the remains of Louise Greenland, his mother.

Grace and Lachlan had spent the week together, training, seeing the sights of Los Angeles, talking. The night before, he'd surprised her by asking her to accompany him to the memorial service for his mother. That morning, he had left the apartment, and had come back a few hours later, asking her to come with him this time.

Now, here they were, at a beach in Malibu, about to say goodbye to the woman who had raised Lachlan, and the woman that had introduced Grace to her true potential.

They stood, now, at the edge of knoll, looking down into the water.

"Are you okay?" Grace asked, genuinely concerned.

He didn't answer; he merely stared into the ocean, the breeze ruffling his short hair. Finally, he nodded, and Grace placed a hand on his elbow. He swallowed, and he began to unscrew the lid of the tiny urn. He stopped.

"What's wrong?" Grace asked, taking a step closer.

"As much as I hated her," Lachlan said, choking up, "I loved her."

He unscrewed the lid, and flung out his hand; the contents of the urn, thick, grey dust, flew into the air. Caught by the breeze, the particles were lofted into the sky, and scattered across the waves. Louise Greenland's remains settled onto the water, and with another white-crested wave, were gone forever.

Lachlan's chin fell forward, his eyes closed.

Grace's hand slid from his elbow to his far shoulder. She pulled him close, and he buried his face in his hands. She heard no sobs, but she felt his sadness, reverberating through their rather-less-than tenuous link. A week of living together had strengthened their link, to the point where Grace could detect rather more than the usual flashes of emotion and trails of thought. It wasn't yet as strong as her link with Monica or Reilly, but it was growing.

He lifted his head, and patted Grace's arm. She let him go, and he took another step forward. For a second, Grace felt a rush of something coming through their link. He knelt, at the edge of the cliff, overlooking the ocean. For the first time, Grace noticed a piece of cloth that seemed to have draped over a rectangular object, its rear end slanting on an upward tilt. The cloth was secured by small pieces of duct tape.

Lachlan held out his hand, and tiny bolts of electricity burst forth, burning away the duct tape. He reached down, and pulled off the cloth.

A small, well polished plaque gleamed in the sunlight. The name Louise Greenland was engraved across the top. Beneath it, in smaller script, were the words 'She tried to Heal the World'. Under this were carved the dates of her life; 1951-2007.

Lachlan stood. He ran a hand through his hair, taking a step back. "We're done here."

BRENDAN & AMY
LAS VEGAS, NV

"This is not going to be a good day," Amy Lamotte said as the car she had ridden in with Brendan Wunderlich from the airport through Las Vegas to the Eternal Springtime Resting Home finally pulled up at the foot of the sweeping lawn that led up to the gravesite of Jake Nicholson.

"You think?" Brendan shot back sarcastically from beside her.

The two sat in the back seat, both appropriately dressed for mourning; all in black. Amy glanced out the tinted window, up the sweeping lawn.

At the top of the small hill, she could make out several dozen figures, all in black, all of them agents of the Greenland Corporation. Their driver opened a door, and in a flash was at Amy's door, opening it. The driver was Jacob Dwyer, a fairly new agent with the ability of enhanced speed; he could run faster than anybody on the planet. Almost faster than the eye could see. Amy stepped out into the sunshine of the Vegas morning, and Brendan followed.

Erin Eedy was already walking down from the gathering at the crest of the hill, clad in a long, ebony dress, her auburn hair pulled into a tight bun. She looked gorgeous, through her mascara was streaked by the tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Everyone's here," she said. "Everybody except for Lachlan Collins. I don't know where he is."

Brendan nodded, and offered a sympathetic smiled. He put an arm over Erin's shoulder, and pulled her into a hug.

Amy looked away, leaving them in their moment, and she looked at the gathering; she made out Lachlan Dickson and Jordan Turley, standing apart from the main crowd chatting with Kristen McQualter, the forcefield generator.

Luke Bovill was talking with Mitchell Schofield, easily the largest person there. A native of Ireland, he had the ability to absorb kinetic energy, and then use it to increase his muscle mass. Amy had seen him punch straight through a wall. Julian Neave stood silently nearby, staring at something Amy couldn't see. Elena Moskovski was nearby, talking to Sophie Freeman, who was flanked by Kyle Smith and Monica Wilkie.

There were others, at least thirty, but Amy couldn't identify them offhand.

"You ready?" Brendan asked, appearing beside her.

Amy nodded. She hadn't known Jake all that well, but he was a good man, who had sacrificed himself every bit as much as Greenland had to stop Chambers.

The four of them, Brendan, Amy, Jacob and Erin set off up the hill, arriving less than a minute later at the gathering. There were greetings, and welcomes, and condolences, and Amy finally saw what Julian was staring at. Jake's coffin sat atop an open grave, in front of a half dozen rows of chairs. That was not, however, what Julian was looking at. He was staring at a woman, tall, long-legged, not too skinny, with light brown, highlighted hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, standing over a grave, a bouquet in hand.

Amy didn't recognise her, and didn't have time to think about it before she was shown to her seat by Erin. She was in the middle of the first row, Erin on one side, Jordan Turley on the other. Brendan stood before the congregation, behind a black silk covered podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Brendan said, and the group fell silent. "Good morning. We all know why we're here. It's because, a week ago, Jake Nicholson put a bullet through his own skull."

The silence became more a shocked absence of sound.

Brendan ignored it, going on. "He did not, however, commit suicide. He committed the ultimate sacrifice. He tried to kill Cathy Chambers, the greatest threat to people like us. She had murdered people, stolen their abilities, and had been captured by a group of us, including Jake, Amy, Erin Eedy and myself, right here in Las Vegas. Jake served as the bait, the cheese that lured Chambers into the mouse trap. It was sprung perfectly; we caught her, took her back to Los Angeles."

Silence still hung over the assembly, as they absorbed the new information. Many of them had only heard hearsay about the death of Jake Nicholson and their leader, Louise Greenland.

"Jake did chose not to trust Greenland, however; chose not to trust her decisions regarding Chambers. Jake determined that Chambers needed to be killed; it was too dangerous to keep her alive, as Greenland had been planning. He went to her cell, to kill her. Unfortunately, the drugs we had used to suppress her powers had worn off. Using telekinesis, she pulled him through two inch thick bulletproof glass, and was about to kill him, stealing his ability. He killed himself to prevent her from gaining enhanced strength.

"He was a hero in life; we all know that. We all experienced his courage, his honour, his loyalty, his valour and his skill. In death, however, he was every bit as much a hero," Brendan looked away from the group for a moment, and brushed away tears. "He sacrificed his life to save me, to save Amy Lamotte, Erin Eedy, Taylor Benn... half a dozen others. He put destiny on its course, a course that would lead to Chambers' eventual death. So, today, we gather to remember his sacrifice, and we remember the vision he had. His vision cannot be expressed in my words; none I have are eloquent enough to communicate it. There is a poem, however, that can begin to do it justice. It was Jake's favourite, I believe."

Amy hadn't expected to feel emotion like this; she was near to tears. Many people around her, including Turley and Erin, were crying silently, remembering their friend.

Brendan glanced down at the podium, once again brushing away tears. "To see the world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wildflower. To hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in a hour. With these words, we say goodbye to our friend, Jake Nicholson. He was, and is, and always will be, a true hero, who was committed to saving this world, to making it better through the betterment of people."

He placed his hand against the coffin, and bowed his head.

Then he turned, and walked away.

The coffin was in the ground, the grave had been filled in. Jake Nicholson's body was committed to the ground, his soul sent to wherever souls went after death. The funeral was long over, the mourners all moved on.

Only one remained.

The strong, hulking form of Julian Neave stood over the grave, shrouded in a long black trenchcoat.

"Lord Neave?"

It was a woman's voice, with a high-class British accent, much like his own. And she was using his title; no one used his title anymore. "Julian, Lord Neave the Third?" the woman pressed, stepping closer behind him, her voice silky, with a dash of seduction thrown in.

"Yes," he answered. He turned, and beheld the woman he had spied before the service. She dressed in a knee-length crimson waist coat, lined with black fur, the same shade as her bright lipstick. He looked her up and down. "And who are you?"

"I'm Molly Willoughby," she said, her hands tucked into pockets. "And I have a job offer for you."

Julian's eyes narrowed. "What kind of job offer?"

Molly removed her hands from her pockets, and lifted one, flexing her fingers. The gun beneath Julian's coat drifted into the air, pulled free from the holster by an invisible, inexorable force. He could only watch as the long barrel was twisted like a piece of extra-thick spaghetti right in front of his eyes, and fell to the grass.

"Sorry about that," Molly said, with a shrug. "I needed to make sure I couldn't be harmed."

"How did you do that?" Julian asked, staring wide-eyed at the twisted, useless hunk of metal that had once been his gun.

"I have the ability to influence magnetic fields," Molly said, with a shrug, though Julian saw right through the facade; everything she had done so far had been to draw him in. "My boss is very interested in your ability, however; stimulate mental functions, erase memories."

"How do you know about that?"

"My employer has his sources," Molly said, with a shrug. "Are you interested?"

Julian considered for a moment, turning away, staring at Jake's headstone. A few seconds later, he glanced back at Molly, and nodded once.

SAN FRANCISCO, CA

Reilly's father kept an immaculate home in north San Francisco, not far from the Presidio and Golden Gate Park, with a view of the Bay on one side, and the Pacific Ocean on the other. On a clear, one could see the Marin Headlands and Oakland. That day, however, was not a clear one.

The fog hung thick over the bay like a funeral shroud. Fitting, considering the day Reilly had had. He pulled his rental up in front of the house, a sprawling two story Edwardian mansion worth at least twenty million dollars.

The amount of space in that house was the envy of every San Franciscan. In a city where living area was truly at a premium, the house was truly an extravagance.

Reilly hated it.

As soon as he got out of the car, he heard the front door slam, and saw a small, blonde teenage girl bolt down the flawless emerald green lawn, shouting his name.

Reilly couldn't help but smile as she jumped into his outstretched arms. He hugged her tight, and swung her through the air.

Reilly's sister landed on her feet before him, smiling broadly. "Good to see you, too." Reilly said with a chuckle. As much as he didn't like his father, or the extravagance of this house, or any of his half dozen across the world, he loved his little sister. Half-sister, actually. Born thirteen years earlier to Reilly's father and his second wife, Georgia had been nine years Reilly's junior, and the apple of his eye.

"How's middle school?" he asked.

"Crap," Georgia answered. "Come inside, Dad's just on the phone."

"I can't actually stay too long. I have a plane to catch." Reilly said as he was led by the hand towards the house.

"Oooh. Where to?"

"Believe it nor not, Alabama."

Georgia stopped, and swung back towards him. "Why the hell would you want to go there?"

Reilly shook his head, and placed his hand on her forehead. "None of your business, whelp, now get me out of the fog."

"Oh," Georgia said, knowingly. "A girl."

"Shut up," Reilly growled in mock-anger. "What would you know?"

"Hey, you're not the only one with a love interest stashed away, you know." Georgia said, with a teasing wink.

"Not you?" Reilly said, scepticism in his tone. "Surely, not my darling, pure little sister has a boyfriend somewhere at that hole of a middle school."

Georgia laughed. "Not me, no. Dad."

Reilly rolled his eyes. "God, Georgia, I don't want to know. I'm here more for you than for him. So tell me about you, or I'll get back in the car and drive to the airport early."

"But, seriously, there's this woman, this Molly, always hanging around." Georgia pushed, as they finally got in through the front door. "She's leggy, glamorous, and really good looking. She's, like, English or something. Rich-sounding, too. Dad says she works for him, but she looks more like a supermodel or a Bond girl to work in his office."

Reilly cocked an eyebrow. "Is that right? Well, it's about as much your business as it is mine." Pause. "That is, not our business at all."

Now it was Georgia's turn to roll her eyes. "Fine."

She led Reilly through the foyer, past the sweeping stairs that led to the upper level, and into the wide expanse of the sitting room. Through vast picture windows, Reilly got a perfect look at the bay. Well, it would have been a perfect look, had it not been for the pressing fog.

Their father was CEO of the global conglomerate Blue Horizon, International, a business competing with elements of the Greenland Corporation in everything from medical research and genetics to food production and oil interests. Patrick Carroll, Reilly's father, was every bit the billionaire Louise Greenland had been, and then some.

"Reilly!" boomed a voice from the doorway.

Reilly looked up, and saw his father standing in the doorframe, a broad-shouldered man dressed sharply in a suit, looking as though he'd been born in it. He was shorter than Reilly, his hair thinning and white, but he still projected a powerful presence.

Standing, Reilly crossed the room, and the two men clasped hands. Reilly smiled as his father clapped him on the back.

"I heard you took a year off from Berkeley," Patrick said, indicating that he and Reilly should sit together near Georgia. "And there's been some unusual spending on your account."

"There's a girl," Georgia said, sticking her tongue out at Reilly.

He ignored her. Patrick went on, "Flights to Florida, rental cars in New York, in Sarasota, not to mention all that accommodation."

Reilly couldn't help rolling his eyes. "It barely made a dent in the balance, Dad, so don't start on me."

"I was just wondering what you were doing with all that money."

"Are you kidding me?" Reilly said, his ire rising. "I'm an adult, Dad."

"It's my money." Patrick said, simply. "And what's this I hear about an around the world trip?"

"Don't worry, 'you're' not paying for it," Reilly said, sarcasm dripping in his tone.

Suddenly, the door bell rang, echoing through the house. "I'll get that," Patrick said, standing. He crossed to the door, and cast a glance back at Reilly. "Don't think we've stopped talking about this, Reilly."

He left, and Reilly turned on Georgia. "Next time he and I talk, stay out of it, okay?"

Georgia glowered, but nodded.

Reilly stood, to walk back to the couch on which Georgia was sitting. He bumped his knee on a coffee table, though, and stumbled, a small object falling from his pocket.

Georgia picked it up, saying "What's this?"

She gasped in pain, and dropped the object; the small testing device Reilly had been given by Brendan, that tested the blood of any suspected Carrier of the Gene, determining whether or not they actually were Carriers.

"Damn thing pricked me," she said.

Reilly glanced at the device, leaning down to pick it up, while Georgia sucked on the pricked finger. The screen glowed green.

"What is it?"

Reilly couldn't speak. He simply stared from the device up to Georgia, not believing his eyes. Finally he managed to choke out "Nothing. Just something a company I'm working for is trying to develop."

"Oh." Georgia said, checking the injured finger, "You should tell them it pricks people. I'm going to put a bandaid on it."

She turned and left. Reilly picked up the device, numb with disbelief.

His little sister was a Carrier.

He had to tell his father. Reilly stood, and walked towards the door through which his father had disappeared. He heard voices drifting down the hall. His father's, an unfamiliar woman's, with a distinctive British accent, and another man's, one Reilly recognised but couldn't quite place.

Reilly got to the doorway to the mansion's cavernous, spotless kitchen. His father was standing with his back to the door, talking with a thin, long-legged woman, and a hulking blonde man. Reilly's breath escaped him in a gasp; Julian Neave was in his father's kitchen, with a woman that must be this Molly Georgia had talked about. His father was talking.

"... You've had enough with the Greenlands?"

Julian nodded.

"He and I have spoken," the woman said. "He has a lot of information on their operations, both domestic and international. And, apparently, your son is working for them..."

"Dad?" Reilly said, interjecting himself. "What's going on here?"

Patrick spun, eyes wide. "Molly," he growled.

The woman threw out a hand, and Reilly spun to get out of the room. There was the unmistakable noise of something heavy made from metal being dragged across the ground.

The two-door refrigerator was suddenly blocking Reilly's path, dragged from its spot against the wall. He turned, eyes wide. The woman, this Molly, was responsible for this, she had to be.

"What is this?" Reilly said, voice panicky.

"Time to put your ability to the test, Mister Neave," Patrick said.

Reilly's eyes, as wide as saucers, shifted from Patrick to Julian and back again, absolutely horrified. Julian took a few steps towards Reilly, and reached out, his hands grasping either side of Reilly's face.

The world went dark.

LOS ANGELES, CA

"Don't move, bitch!" The shout was loud, harsh, as though the speaker was about to lose control. His hand lashed out, striking a cowering woman across the cheek. "I said stay down!"

He was one of five, Grace could see; three standing guard over the customers, most of whom were pressed up against the counter. A fourth was clearing out the cash register, while the fifth was in the backroom, with the convenience store's manager, going through the safe. She and Lachlan had been driving past, on their way back to his penthouse, when something had piqued her power; a spike of fear, apprehension... it was a robbery.

She and Lachlan were in the alley behind the store, peering in through a window. There were seventeen in all inside; five bad guys, twelve innocent bystanders.

"How are we going to play this?" Grace asked.

Lachlan shrugged. "I say we don't."

"What?" Grace hissed, as a gunshot rang out, followed by screams. She reached out with her power, and was comforted to find that no one was dead; one of the bad guys had just shot a hole in the ceiling. "We have to... these guys are psychopaths, those people are in danger."

"I can't just burst in there, willy-nilly, firing off bolts of electricity." Lachlan countered.

"And why the hell not?" Grace shot back. "Listen, I'm going in there, with or without you."

"Then you're going in with me, then." He flung out a hang, before Grace could stop him; a blast of energy tore from his fingertips, sizzling through the air, before shattering the window.

All three of the guards spun around, guns up.

Grace focused on them, forcing her thoughts into theirs, the way she had with Chambers in Las Vegas. They were stunned; their eyes widened, they couldn't move. "Go." She whispered to Lachlan.

He was through the window in an instant, twisting left and right, letting off bursts of electricity with every step.

One man was caught in the chest, and sent spiralling over the counter, into his compatriot cleaning out the register. Both men collapsed in unconscious heaps. The other two guards opened fire, but Lachlan dove across the room, firing off blasts as he went.

Entire shelves were toppled, products spilling across the ground, with the force of the bolts striking surfaces. The two remaining men collapsed, their clothes sizzling.

The patrons, on the ground, didn't dare move; all of them just stared at Lachlan. The door to the convenience store swung open, and Grace stepped inside. All eyes swung to her, but she lifted a hand. "It's okay," she said, insistently. Lachlan realised she was using her power, inserting thoughts into the minds of the shell-shocked robbery victims. "Nothing strange happened. All of you should get outside."

They moved as one; Grace had to nimbly sidestep them to avoid been crushed in a stampede, as they pushed towards the door.

It was then that she realised how hard it was affecting so many minds at once. The sudden tiredness hit her like a train, ripping the breath from her lungs; her vision blurred, but she straightened... in time to see the fifth member of the crew kick open the door to the back room, Uzi in hand.

" Lachlan!" she cried in warning.

He turned, hand up, a small blast erupting from his skin. The electricity struck the man, sizzling across his body, and he dropped the gun. He stumbled a few steps back, but maintained his footing.

His eyes swung from Lachlan to Grace. "What are you?"

It's okay, Grace thought, pushing into the man's mind. We're not here to hurt you. Go to sleep.

He looked to Grace, eyes wide. She could feel his terror; so strong it hurt.

Go to sleep. Grace repeated, and the man's eyes drooped, but he stayed conscious.

"What are you doing?" he asked, panting. "How are you doing this?" He sunk to his knees.

Just go to sleep, Grace pressed, just drift off and forget about the electricity.

The man shook his head, and Grace felt his panic spike through their telepathic connection. He moved faster than she would have expected, leaping for the Uzi, lying on the ground not a half a metre away from him.

"No!" Grace shouted, and sparks danced around Lachlan's fingers, in preparation for a bolt of power. Put the gun down, Grace thought as the man scooped it up.

"Get out of my head, freak!" he cried.

A burst of automatic gunfire tore through the air.

Half of the man's face was torn away, splattering blood and grey matter across the floor. The Uzi had been just centimetres from his temple when he pulled the trigger. He'd killed himself. Killed himself to get Grace's voice out of his head.

Grace fell to her knees, unable to tear her eyes away from his body. The reaction was visceral; she puked all over the floor, unable to control the reflex.

Lachlan could do nothing but stare at the dead man.

SOMEWHERE OVER NEVADA

Reilly jerked awake to the groaning of four jet engines humming somewhere on the periphery of his sense. It took him a second to realise he was sitting upright on an uncomfortable chair, with the back of another looming before him. He was on a plane.

The problem was he didn't know how he'd gotten there.

He vaguely remembered seeing Georgia, and dropped something. His mobile, it must have been. Then he remembered his father coming into the room. Coming back in, that was.

Then, a forced but cordial conversation, before a goodbye and a drive to SFO.

Everything was shrouded in mist; he couldn't clearly visualise anything happening, which was odd. He did have a near photographic memory, but he had just been woken from a deep sleep. The more he woke up, the more the memories crystallised into a cohesive series of events.

Reilly shrugged, realising the plane around him was mostly empty. He was in a window row on the left side, and only his seat of the three was occupied.

Reilly put him his against the bulkhead, and stared out over the window as the plane flew through the clouds.

LOS ANGELES, CA

"What have I done?" Grace said, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere over LA.

It was night; she and Lachlan were back in his apartment, had been for several hours, but Grace had yet to move from the window, fixated on something out there.

Lachlan had left her alone at first, figuring she needed some space, but he had grown concerned. He rested a hand on her shoulder. "It wasn't your fault. You had no way of knowing that he'd do that."

Grace hiccupped slightly before answering. "I did. I should have known. It's happened before; someone desperate for me to stop messing with their thoughts..."

"You're not at fault here. You saved twelve lives."

"I killed a man, Lachlan."

"You told me you shot Cathy Chambers." Lachlan said, earnestly.

"That was different. She was evil. This guy, this guy... he was just a normal guy, and he was desperate. Now he's dead. He's dead because I pushed myself on him... I did what Chambers would have done." Grace turned to Lachlan, tears gathering in her eyes. "Oh my God. I did what Chambers would have done."

"Maybe," Lachlan said, taking a step closer. "But you're not her."

"How do you know?" Grace said, the tears flowing freely. "How do you know? How do I know?"

"I know, because..." Lachlan looked away for a moment, searching for the words. "Because I'm falling in love with you, Grace. I'm falling in love with you, and you were willing to sacrifice yourself to help those people. Willing to die to keep them safe. Cathy Chambers never would have done that. Never. But you did. You did, and I love you for it."

Grace spoke, tentatively; "I think... I think I love you, too."

Their eyes met, and then their lips; their bodies entwined in a passionate embrace, an embrace for then, and forever...