Entrada, Part 2

Summary: Lincoln Lee enters Fringe World. OneShot.

Warning: I'm late with this, as always. But maybe some of you don't mind re-living Lincoln's first visit to our Fringe Division.

Set: post-0401 – Neither here nor there

Disclaimer: No copyright inFringement intended.

Lincoln Lee is not a scientist.

Even so, he can see the instruments and machines in the laboratory enfolding in front of his eyes are old – perhaps ten years, perhaps older. The vast room lacks the shiny-blinky air of TV- and for-show-scenery. There is no blinking chrome, no white walls, spot-clean fume-hoods and no carefully-organized racks of test tubes. The light is dim at best: no neon tubes, no spotlights, not even softly-blinking machines. The only sound – rattly-hummy, like a machine sporting a serious cough – emanates from the ventilation system which surely is older than he himself, not from an array of blinking and buzzing machines. The air smells musty and feels… used, somehow, and thick and sad and there is not one shining, empty surface as far as he can see. And is that really what he thinks it is, boiling away merrily on a Bunsen burner over there?

Entering the stale, old cellar rooms feels like entering a new world. Had he known beforehand what he was getting himself into – perhaps he wouldn't have. But then, Lincoln always had courage. Hidden behind his glasses, as nerdy as they might seem, is a bright intellect with a pointed gift for observation and a flippant humor not everyone appreciates. He might seem like an average business man, he knows that. But it's a cover too good to give up, a mask too well-practiced to fail him now. And he is determined. Very much so. It is not like he is used to getting what he wants – but he knows what he wants and he knows when to back off. Which he won't do now. Because right now, he knows something strange is going on. Because right now, Lincoln is determined to find out where this strange, nameless woman came from, who she works with, whom she answers to and what she has planned with Robert's body. Robert's going home with him, as far as Lincoln is concerned, and he won't take a no as an answer.

(Weeks later he will wonder how on earth it was possible: the existence of this place, so detached from the life that surrounds it and every law of nature. Weeks later he will notice he does not want to leave and whether it is because of the things he learns or because of her, he won't be able to say.)

This, he supposes, is the way real labs look like.

The ones in which people develop cures for cancer and HIV. The ones where professors and assistants mill over spluttering, coughing machines, cursing at disruptions and broken parts, fighting for fundings and publications, with teaching assistants and students. The ones were the real work is done. He is familiar with the concept: the nicest, most organized unit in FBI surely isn't the one responsible for catching the bad guys, for plunging through mud and rain, for being shot at and for shooting back. But this is the place horrors emanate from to manifest in human nightmares, too. A shiver runs down his spine. The machines look old and worn but well-used and –kept. The place is crowded with cables, machines, glass ware, stacks of papers and old, worn-looking books. In between the heaps, the one or two odd sweet wrappers peek out at Lincoln. Strips of Scotch tape secure sheets of paper to walls, doors, even to the back of chairs. The white board is covered in messy, scrawled equations and symbols he does not recognize. Hands off, a sign warns, a simple piece of paper wrapped around a strange, pump-looking post growing from underneath a pipe-construction. In a far corner, he can see a cabinet for hazardous materials. Too bad the door's wide open, hanging from its hinges. At least it's empty.

(Days later he will wonder how there ever could be such an empty, lost look in a human being's eyes. Empty, so empty it makes his heart ache. It is mirrored in every surface of the lab, in every window and interface, and he thinks that perhaps it is the reason Dr. Bishop covered them all up.)

Come to think of, the lab seems pretty empty itself right now.

At least that's what Lincoln thinks until he hears someone muttering to himself. Seconds later, he finds himself eye to eye with a rather small, worn-looking old man clad in a white lab coat bearing dark stains (and he does not want to know what kind of stains those are) who is clutching a dead dove in his wrinkled hands.

"Hold this," the man orders, and Lincoln obeys without question. Every lab has its crazy professor. So this one belongs here? He can just hope the man didn't lay a finger on Robert's body.

The man injects a clear liquid into the – obviously dead – dove and the bird takes flight.

Lincoln's eyes follow her and her staggering path across the lab. He is so shell-shocked he almost misses the little pen in the southernmost corner but when he sees it it is pretty hard to overlook the perfectly-battered, black-and-white cow contentedly chewing her breakfast. Really? A cow? Come to see, there are a few other odd things in this lab, not only the cow and the strange concoction that now is slowly turning brightly blue, or the strange man who watches the bird with obvious fascination.

"Walter! You brought it back to life!"

A woman exclaims behind them and both Lincoln and the man turn to see a young, dark-haired woman enter the room. This must be the real scientist, Lincoln supposes, since it is impossible this man was allowed to do research on his own. But she looks so young. And her voice when she questions him is one of an agent, and then he has no time left for wondering because the blonde woman he met earlier that day barges in and What the hell are you doing here?

So he makes his explanations.

Agent Dunham's eyes burn into his and he can feel the other woman's and the scientist's eyes watch his back as he does. The temperature, almost too warm before, has somehow dropped and he feels a chill creep up his back. Dark, grey eyes don't ever leave his face.

Lincoln demands Robert's body and explains and asks and even goes as far as to threaten her. He can see it does not impress her much but there is something in her eyes when he talks about the hole and the purpose and suddenly, unexpectedly, he feels a strange kind of kinship with this woman. He does not know her and she's cool and detached and… And yet. Something… Something's familiar.

He forgets the thought when she takes him to the next crime scene and he sees the rows of bodies in the morgue and doesn't remember until the second time he enters the lab.

The mad scientist – Walter Bishop, and he actually is the one doing the work even if Agent Farnsworth assists him – looks like he's seeing ghosts, shouts like he's losing his mind, jumps from topic to topic and hides in water tanks and Agent Farnsworth looks competent and capable and kind and like nothing the man does can shock her anymore. But she also looks at the bodies and sees the human being it once was and it is a relief to know her near Robert. And Olivia Dunham calms the scientist and analyzes situations and deals with suspects and witnesses and isn't too arrogant to not take up his offer of reconciliation that comes in form of a tip-off and his observations. The ventilation system hums and in a corner, Gene the cow munches on her food and he finds himself there again early the next day, looking at old case files. And suddenly, it is there. Just there, from nowhere, and Lincoln swallows.

He is waiting.

Waiting for a kind assistant and a crazy scientist and a proud, quiet woman to come and enter the room again. Enter his life again. He does not care whether they come barging in like Olivia Dunham did on the first occasion they met (and if God helps him he does not want them to come because he loses another person dear to him) or whether they move in slowly and quietly like Astrid did when she found him and Dr. Bishop with the dead dove. Lincoln Lee is looking forward to seeing them again, each one of them, even though what he sees in their eyes scares him a tiny little bit. But he has seen it as well, now, the other side and the other people. Perhaps they are the reason for the darkness in each one of these three people whose lives he has just entered – or have they entered his? Maybe it is the other way round. Maybe he has barged into their lives. But intrigued as he is, he does not want to leave. Not so soon, not now, not before he doesn't know far, far more about each one of them. So he reads.

(Hours later, he will put down the folders with a feeling of overwhelming helplessness because who is he, compared to all the huge, significant things in the world – the worlds? Hours later, he will watch Olivia Dunham return from Over There with a gaze so distant he feels like she is slipping away, and a tiny, tiny voice in his head screams at him to hold on to her because otherwise, she will become translucent and fade, like the after-image of a dream.)

Gene the cow mows softly.

Lincoln snaps back to reality. This is not his world.

(Weeks later he will wonder how it happened, how he became a member of the team so effortlessly it feels like it always has been like this. Weeks later he will wonder if he was supposed to regret what had happened.

He finds he cannot.)