Chapter Two.

Olivia had been having the same dream, for three years, now. Something that was not a nightmare, but still unnerving enough to cause her to wake with a start every night. She thought that she would even be bored, with something that had played out in her mind so many times, but each and every time, she was left confused and hollow.

She started her journey in a bathtub. There was no water in it, as she looked up from her contorted position lying on cold porcelain, noting the empty shower rings that sported no curtain, and the peeling whitewash on the walls. She would rise, naked and wet, and climb out of the tub, her feet stumbling against chipped tile as she supported herself against a rusted and cracked sink.

There was a towel out for her, on the back of the toilet, and clothes. But they appeared to have been sitting out for a very long time, faded with age and dust. Still, not knowing why it was important to dress, Olivia dried herself, combed out her hair at the dirty mirror, and pulled on the faded grey sundress.

Her hand found a rusted deadbolt, and she jammed it back, letting the door to the bathroom swing open. Most of what happened next was infuriatingly fuzzy, and she suddenly found herself outside, the sunlight hot on her cheeks and shoulders. Distantly she could hear the sound of wind chimes. And a pain would strike her- debilitating hunger. It drove her footsteps, across a long dirt lot, to a house that stood behind a half-fallen fence. Everything around her looked fairly new, but rusted nearly beyond recognition.

The door was open, she found after she mounted the steps, and she didn't even have to push it wider to enter. A hot breeze shifted her dress, the sound of wind grazing on the overgrown trees outside the wide bay windows to her side.

Her stomach ached insatiably. But somehow, she knew that there was someone there, and she followed her thoughts past the tattered wallpaper and dust-blown rugs, the bowed floorboards creaking silently under her bare feet. She reached a place where a man sat in a crippled-looking kitchen chair, his back to her as he gazed at the breeze shifting the tattered lace curtains in the sun. He held in his hand a dark, ripe-looking apple, and he would turn with a smile, tossing it to her, "There's no one left but us, you know."

Again, Olivia woke with a violent jerk. And again she lie in bed, her hands over her eyes as she tried desperately to be sure of his face, but every time, when she would nearly snatch it out of her memories, it would change. Her stepfather? Her partner back in New York, Charlie Francis? Her sources expert, Philip Broyles? Was it any of the countless criminals she had seen locked away?

But tonight… tonight, was it Walter Bishop?

Olivia Dunham, PI out of New York proper, shifted in the starchy hotel sheets, at last sitting up as hot hair fell over her grim expression. She glared at the ugly green wallpaper and awful seashell-theme decor across the room as a car passed outside, the headlights flashing between the thin, white blinds. The car was a fairly new make- it didn't have blackout covers.

…Why was she thinking of cars?

Olivia switched on the lamp at her bedside, sighing as she ran her fingers back through her tangles. She frowned- as easy as they made it seem in the pictures, curls did not come without their price. Ignoring her agitation at her own shortcomings, Olivia reached for her case file, which was never far. She pulled the manila envelope into her lap, tugging at the wax string that held it shut.

The job was not to catch a criminal. She was unused to this. Her task was simple- find Walter Bishop, and bring him back to New York. The job had been commissioned by a financial tycoon by the name of William Bell, famous for any number of boring, business-like reasons. But Bell had not come in person- the job had arrived in the form of a woman by the name of Nina Sharp. Sharp herself was something of a celebrity- a top New York fashion designer that had quietly slipped away from the limelight, possibly on purpose. There was a substantial amount of elements in this case that were fishy… but Olivia had agreed to take it anyway.

Business had been slow, and she hadn't realized how hard it would be to find the bastard. The only picture she had of Walter Bishop was a photograph from the War… useless, now that so much time had passed. The only break she'd caught was from a newspaper, ironically… some half-pager about a hole-in-the-wall jazz club. But what had synched it was the photograph--

Where was that photograph…?

Olivia paused from shuffling through her paperwork as she stumbled over a folded restaurant napkin, with a map drawn on in. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and she shook her head, rubbing her eyes with her fingertips.

Peter. He'd been cute. But there was something about him that she couldn't quite place. Familiarity? Perhaps.

Olivia crammed the napkin in with the rest of the pages, sweeping them aside as she shifted the covers away from her legs, deciding it was time to start the morning. Whatever time it was, anyways.

xXx

"Go, Banana, go!"

Banana Split, filling the gap between Whiskey King and Tiger Feathers…

"Go, Banana, you oat-eating sunnovabitch! Go!"

Banana Split, passing up Tiger Feathers, looking to place… No- it's Banana Split, neck-and-neck with Root Beer Float! I can't believe it!

"Go! Go, baby, go!"

What's this? Banana Split appears to be falling behind…

"No… no, what…?"

It looks like he's thrown a shoe, folks…

"No, Banana, no!"

It appears that Banana Split won't be able to place- Tiger Feathers and Whiskey King, charging up from the rear- it looks like it's all over for Banana Split…

"GOD DAMMIT!" Walter Bishop, shameless gambler extraordinaire, proceeded to repeatedly strike the hand rail with his ballot, before savagely twisting it in two, flinging the tatters of paper about, "Never bet on a bay! Useless creatures, the lot of them!" Banana Split and his brightly clad jockey tottered past distantly, and Walter leaned over the rail, bawling, "You're useless, y'know that?!"

He slumped against the rail, blowing air through his cheeks loudly with agitation. He lifted his fedora from his head, scratching back his slightly mussed curls in an attempt to calm himself. The scores were already being placed up in the board for display, and he glared up at the painted numbers bitterly, before suddenly brightening. He turned and stooped, scrambling to scoop up the scraps of his rage, stuffing them into the front of his grey tweed blazer. He darted off, giggling madly.

"I would like very much to cash in!" Walter said breathlessly, stumbling to spill paper bits all over the counter of the ballot box.

The clerk looked taken aback, "Sir-"

"The odds, the odds! Banana Spilt- he didn't place, gimpy bastard, or heaven forbid win- but he finished! I get money!"

The clerk stared at him, then at the mass of rubbish on the desk before him, "Ah!" Walter exclaimed, and began to piece together the unrecognizable ballot, "See, here? I mean, a bit is missing, but that's me, Walter Bishop. It. Me." Walter pointed back and fourth from himself to the incomplete page, nodding until the clerk had no choice but to agree.

Walter felt fairly pleased with himself as he emerged from the betting hall, fingering a neat fold of seventeen dollars in the low pocket of his slacks. It felt grainy and out-of-place, as his pockets had not seen money- at least money won, not borrowed- in a great while. He breathed in the smell of the grass, stale peanuts, and straw with a contented smile. Whoever said money earned was better that money won was a jackass.

He should celebrate with a banana split. Or a root beer float. Or a sundae! He was feeling up to it- he might just have them all! Victory!

"Bishop."

Walter felt his heart fall to somehow punch him in the lower intestines.

"Bishop- It's your buddy, Davy. Don'tcha got somethin' ta say, pal?" Walter felt a large hand on his shoulder, squeezing menacingly.

Repeatedly punch him in the lower intestines.

Walter swallowed, turning with a wry grin, "Davy! …Mi Amigo. How are you? Listen, I've got-"

"You've got some money to give me, buddy. You're a good guy- I didn't even have to ask," Davy, a large, rather surly man with a head that had always seemed far too small for the mass of his bulky, refirgerator-esk physique, gave Walter a smile full of gaped, nearly pointed teeth. "I'm sure you avoiding me for three months was a misunderstanding, huh?"

"It-it was! We don't meet up nearly enough, Davy-"

"Give me my money, Bishop," Davy growled.

"Heh. Yeah." Walter reached into his pocket, flicking a few bills free of the clip before drawing it out, "Listen, Davy- this is all I've got, but I swear I'll get around to giving you the rest…" Davy snatched the billfold from Walter's fingers, doing a quick count over, "Oh! That's good… I wasn't sure you knew how to count, hah hah…"

Davy glanced up at him, and Walter swallowed, his face washing of color. He gave a squeak of fear as Davy reached forward, "be gentle!" his hand diving into Walter's pocket to tear out the money he had hidden, "Now, where did that come from…?" Walter mused casually.

"Don't play games with me Bishop. You get me the rest of my money, and we'll see that you don't loose another finger. Get it." and he shuffled off, flipping through the notes.

Walter glared after him, his face red with anger and shame and his thumb played over the empty space of his missing ring finger, on his right hand, "As if you would have the guts, you prick," Walter murmured under his breath bitterly, "I killed the man who took this one, and I'd kill you, too, you gorilla-brained sunnova…" his hand tightened into an incomplete fist, and he bit the inside of his cheek.

Walter shrugged his coat strait on his shoulders with a quick sigh, and his stomach grumbled in protest, adding insult to injury. Well, there was nothing to it, now. Maybe he would get that lovely young woman he lived with to make him a sandwich… and perhaps lend him a bit of cash.

xXx