Hours had passed, but to Hobbes it felt more like decades. The paramedics had shown up soon after Claire and her nurse started working on Darien. The Official and Thompson were declared DOA, and Harris and Evans were rushed to the ER. Last Hobbes had heard, Harris had barely made it through surgery and was in critical condition, and Evans had a severe concussion and would have to stay for observation.
But none of that really registered. Nothing else mattered to him except what was transpiring inside the main lab, where Claire and Jacob were frenetically attempting to stabilize Darien.
Zimmer, recognizing that Hobbes was also in no condition for duty, took over the search for Arnaud. He made sure the shorter agent was situated in a comfortable chair outside of the Keep, since Hobbes had flat out refused to be relocated. No way was anyone gonna enter the Keep unless it was to help save Fawkes, he'd snarled.
All agents were on full emergency alert, and Zimmer pulled a few strings with his buddies in the CIA for extra manpower. The local police were also brought into the hunt: there was no way that Arnaud was going anywhere without Zimmer immediately finding out.
Eberts, the real Eberts, had been nowhere to be found, so Zimmer spared two agents to search for the MIA assistant. It wasn't until the next morning that they'd reported back to him - an unconscious Eberts was found bound and gagged in a supply closet on the top floor of the Harding Building. He'd been severely beaten, and was immediately rushed to the hospital for treatment. It was obvious who had done this to the unfortunate man.
Hobbes remained in his chair with his gun at the ready until the Keep door swooshed open at 2:30 am. Claire staggered through the entrance in complete exhaustion, and Hobbes immediately leapt to his feet to assist her. He guided her into the chair and knelt by her side as Jacob Miller and an Agency guard wheeled Darien and a slew of monitors, IV stands and life support equipment towards Lab 3. Hobbes' bloodshot eyes entreated her for some good news.
"He's stable, for now," she murmured. "But…"
"What? Claire, tell me," Hobbes grabbed her hand in his distress.
"I don't think he'll last another day," she replied as she closed her eyes, too drained to cry any more.
Suddenly his vision became tinged with black around the edges. "The gland?"
She nodded minutely, confirming the worst. "Harvested, and that fucking bastard didn't even use anesthesia." Her voice deepened with aimless fury. "The shock was too much for Darien's system: he's barely holding on even with full life support."
"Wh-what about the… the poison from the mall?" Hobbes had thought he was beyond shock at this point, but he was finding it impossible to breathe.
Claire reopened her eyes and looked at him. "He had to have been invisible through the worst of it, because I only found trace amounts of the neurotoxins in his system. The Quicksilver must have filtered out most of the gas. He had breathed in enough to cause the symptoms, but the levels weren't lethal."
"Shit." He closed his eyes and bowed his head in silent thanks to a god he hadn't spoken to since he'd enlisted.
He felt Claire run her fingers gently over the top of his head, and he looked up into her eyes. Her hand continued slowly caressing his pate as he asked, "What now? What can I do?"
She smiled wearily. "Get some rest. You look like hell."
"Pot, meet kettle," he weakly grinned back.
"Can't. Need to keep an eye on Darien," she said with a cavernous yawn. Her eyes fluttered as her body vociferously reasserted its demands for rest.
"That's what Nurse Miller's for, right?" he argued as he rose and helped the doctor to stand. She swayed a little, and without a word he swept her into his arms and strode down the hall to Lab 2, the lab Eberts… Arnaud had had the cot placed in.
"I can walk, Bobby," she chided, but didn't fight him. She was just so bloody tired…
She was fast asleep before Hobbes could even open the door to the lab. He went in, placed her tenderly on the cot, and covered her with a warm blanket. He watched her slumbering face for a moment, and found he couldn't resist placing a feather kiss on her forehead before leaving and returning to his new post at Lab 3.
Even deeply asleep, Claire smiled at the kiss, and then nestled deeper under the warmth of the woolen blanket as the lab door softly clicked shut behind him.
"Damned little bastard. How dare he shoot me!" Arnaud finished bandaging his injured hand with a wince before turning to look at his prize. The Quicksilver gland floated in a stabilizing solution on a lab table, the ends still coated with a thin layer of Darien's blood. "Don't worry, my pet. Soon enough you will be in your rightful place," he cooed.
Off in a corner of the basement lab, a man in a white lab coat shuddered at the mercenary's words. The assistant continued to mix and assemble the various chemicals arrayed in front of him so that he wouldn't be reprimanded again for working too slowly.
The lab door slid open, and Hobbes came instantly alert. His gun fixed on the chest of the person entering, and he growled, "Freeze."
"Robert…" Eberts did exactly as ordered, even though he looked as if he were so not in the mood to be doing it. He had bandages on his forehead, jaw, and neck, as well as stitches above his left eye and cheekbone. His left wrist was wrapped securely in an Ace bandage and rested in a sling.
Hobbes didn't flinch. "Identify yourself."
Eberts sighed ever so slightly, and straightened as much as his aching back allowed. "I'm Eberts, Robert."
"I don't know that."
Eberts looked searchingly at Hobbes' face. "Did you remember to take your medication?"
"That's not the issue here. Your identity is."
A light dawned in Eberts' mind, and he nodded a little. "I think I understand." He frowned. "So he still has that… mask," he winced a little at the thought. "Of my face." His expression firmed. "Agent Zimmer gave me a status report at the hospital…" he began, but Hobbes interrupted him.
"Speaking of that, I seriously doubt the ER docs'd let you go so early. You were in pretty bad shape when they took you to the hospital." The barrel of his gun never wavered from Eberts' heart.
Eberts nodded. "Once I was apprised of the current situation, I felt it was necessary to return to coordinate the efforts. So I checked myself out against the doctor's wishes and had Agent Zimmer bring me back."
"Nice try, pal. Zimmer's out with the SDPD coordinating the search," Hobbes snarled.
Eberts sighed again, looking exhausted. "Robert, why would he come back here?" he inquired quietly with a sorrowful glance at Darien's too-still figure. "He has what he came for."
Hobbes shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe he's come back to finish the job," he alluded.
"I was looking for the Doctor," Eberts replied. "I was hoping she could update me on Darien's full condition." He glanced around the room, but remained perfectly still. He remembered all too well what Hobbes was like in full unmedicated den-mother mode, and wasn't about to get himself shot on top of everything else.
"He's dying. That good enough for ya?"
Eberts' eyes closed involuntarily as his grief rose to grip him. He slowly raised his uninjured hand and pinched the bridge of his nose as he murmured, "When will this end? When will it be enough?"
Hobbes tilted his head to the side inquiringly. His knee-jerk reaction to Eberts' appearance was giving way to the gut feeling that this man really was the mild-mannered assistant. "What did you do when the SWRB invaded the Agency?" he barked.
Eberts dropped his hand back down to his side and drearily met Hobbes' gaze. "I managed to hide in the air ducts until after they left," he replied softly. "You found me in Lab 101 when you returned."
Hobbes blinked, and after a moments' hesitation, lowered his weapon. "Claire's resting," he replied to the earlier inquiry. "Her assistant's supposed to check in any minute now."
"So Agent Miller was called in. Good," Eberts nodded his approval as he carefully finished entering the room. He stood as straight as his wrenched and bruised back would allow, and rubbed his hand along his bandaged arm as he thought. "Agent Zimmer has informed me that they are close to locating Monsieur de Fœhn's location. He requested that you lead the recovery team, if you are willing."
Hobbes shook his head as he gazed mournfully at Darien. "No. The last time I left him, that motherfucker ripped the gland outta his skull."
Eberts looked as if he wished to go to the older man to comfort him, but he remained where he was. "Robert, the doctor and Nurse Miller will be with Darien non-stop from now on. As you should know, there is one agent positioned outside this room, as well as two in the hallway. They have orders to stop everyone who approaches and ensure their identity before allowing entry," he spoke soothingly.
Hobbes' jaw set, and he shook his head more fiercely. "I won't leave him again," he growled through clenched teeth.
The door to the room opened, and Hobbes again raised his gun at the new arrival. He lowered it immediately when he recognized Claire's assisting nurse. "Miller, it's about time."
Eberts stepped aside to allow Jacob room to go to the bed and check Darien's statistics. "Agent Miller, what is Darien's current status?"
Jacob replied without removing his gaze from the various monitors. "He is stable for now, but in critical condition. No anesthetic was used during the harvesting; so, combined with the effects of the neurotoxins, he sustained an extremely dangerous shock to his system." His tone was carefully kept neutral in deference to the others' feelings. "The gland had grown since implantation, and de Fœhn was unable to extract all of the tendrils. There was some leakage of Quicksilver directly into the surrounding brain tissues, and there's no telling right now if there was any significant or permanent damage as a result."
"What're we lookin' at here?" Hobbes queried softly, as if he were afraid of hearing the answer, but knowing it was a need-to-know issue.
Jacob turned to look directly at the worn down older man once he was finished checking the machines. "Best case scenario: we get the gland back and successfully reattach it to Agent Fawkes' cerebral cortex. Unfortunately, there's no information that can ready us for what kind of permanent damage has been done. Depending on what areas of surrounding tissue were irreparably damaged, he could suffer anywhere from dysdiadokokinesia, ataxia, dysarthria, tremors, vertigo, muscle weakness, to loss of postural tone…"
Hobbes' eyes glazed over as medical terminology was thrown at him willy-nilly. "English, please?" he pleaded in a gruff tone.
"Those are symptoms most commonly known to people who suffer from multiple sclerosis. Mainly have to do with muscle coordination and speech impediments," the nurse explained apologetically. "And that's only if the damage is contained to the cerebellum. Worst case scenario: he dies within the next twenty-four hours."
Eberts' already pale complexion had grayed. "I seem to remember from the research files something about a 'permanent vegetative state'," he murmured.
Jacob nodded. "A definite possibility with successful re-implantation, but we have no way of predetermining that. I'm afraid there are just too many variables right now, and no room for leeway. Until we get the gland back, Agent Fawkes' chances of survival are zero."
Tense silence fell in the room as the men contemplated the ramifications of the information.
Suddenly, the speaker beside the door crackled to life. "Agent Eberts?"
Eberts turned with a wince and depressed the 'speak' button. "Yes, Agent Zimmer."
"We've found him. Have you gotten an answer from Hobbes yet?" The normally stolid agent sounded hopeful.
Eberts looked over his shoulder at Hobbes, who for all appearances was napping with his chin propped on his chest. But Eberts knew better - the slightly older man was deep in thought. He turned back to the speaker and prepared to answer, but was interrupted by a low voice from behind him.
"I'm going."
Eberts allowed himself a small sad smile of relief as he pushed the button once more. "He shall be joining you in a few minutes."
"Good, we'll meet him outside at his van," Zimmer's voice sounded relieved as well. "I'll get him up to speed on the way."
Hobbes rose slowly and holstered his gun as he strode past Jacob over to the hospital bed. He leaned over and murmured in his best friend's ear as he took and held Darien's chilled hand gingerly in his own. "Buddy, I'm gonna go out for a bit and get that motherfucker. Hang on for a while longer, okay? I promise I'll be back, and we'll find a way to make you all better." He patted Darien's hand and laid it back on the barely moving chest before spinning around on his heel and stalking out of the room.
His head popped around the doorjamb, and he blithely commented, "And by the way, yes, I've been taking my meds, Eee-berts," he snarked before disappearing once again.
Eberts heaved a huge sigh filled with desolation, and sank down onto the chair that the older man had just vacated.
TBC...