A/N: Hello once again, here is chapter sixteen for your viewing pleasure. Thank you to everyone who has read/reviewed/favourited/alerted so far, please keep with this story!

Anyways, Enjoy :)

Thanks goes to my wonderful beta, Uroboros75.

Chapter Sixteen: Revival

The first thing Peter noticed was a distinct weight pressing against his chest, thick and heavy; there was also the sensation of what he was sure to be a head cupped against his shoulder.

Great, he thought. Walter landed right on top of me.

He blinked his eyes a few times, taking in the whirl of the sky and trees above him.

"What is that snake doing here?"

He recognized the voice as Walter's, and the meaning of his words slowly dawned on him, creeping over him like slimy caterpillar. He looked to his shoulder and he felt his eyes grow wide.

Blonde hair came into view; with a slow turn of the head, her eyes then met his. For a moment, all he could do was stare, the shock paralyzing him and the disgust welling in a thick pool in his stomach.

"You," he hissed.

"Nice to see you too," she said, deadpan.

Peter shoved Bolivia off of him and rose quickly, moving to stand next to Walter and Astrid. Agent Simons had his weapon out, casually resting at his side like a baited dog; Astrid's hand was at her side, her dark fingers also curled over the edge of a revolver.

"How did you find us?" Astrid asked, a bitter edge meshing with her voice.

Bolivia smiled, her cockiness bubbling over the brim of her facade.

"You know, it's amazing," she said, "the things that happen when no one's watching."

She had somehow managed to overcome the guards and get past Broyles; she was deadly, a cougar in wolf's clothing. Now she stood before them all, wearing the mask of a tiger and the lithe demeanour of an antelope. Peter's eyes scanned for his gun, and he found it resting at Bolivia's feet.

He flicked his eyes back to her, and she made no move to pick it up. She stepped over it instead, not even casting her eyes at it. Simons raised his gun, a long and narrow weapon reminiscent of a black eel. Bolivia held up her hands, her eyebrows drooping slightly.

"Look," she said. "I don't want to cause any more trouble than necessary. I just want to go home."

"Yeah, to tell my father what you've learned about our side," Peter snapped.

"Hey, I'm not just some sort of messenger. I've wanted to get back home for a while; I was in unfamiliar territory out there."

"Then why haven't you left already?"

She nibbled at her lower lip for an instant, eyes drifting to some dark bush at the edge of the lake.

"Because I was given a mission, and I never back down from one until it's complete."

"You mean you never back down from a chance at a little self-glorification," Astrid added.

"Hey, I'm nobody special; I'm just like the rest of you. I do my job."

"Except our job doesn't involve posing as someone from another universe," Peter retorted.

She shook her head, and Peter saw a glint of something – possibly disappointment – glimmer in her eye. Peter eased himself a little, the tension in his shoulders unwinding like a compressed spring.

Then Simons raised his gun.

"What do you want me to do with her?" he asked. "Agent Farnsworth? Mister Bishop?"

"You should really take the time to consider your next move," Bolivia interrupted.

"Whatever happens to me could very well affect your Olivia. The universes need balance. Kill me and someone of the same form has to die from Over Here. Who do you think would be the most likely possibility?"

Peter didn't say the word; it stuck to his tongue, thick and sticky but with a sharp sourness to it. The tang was harsh like bile and made him nauseous.

Astrid's hand was still perched on her gun as she looked to Simons, then to Peter; her eyes were questioning, brown dark and flecked with gold. He nodded in response.

"Bind her wrists," Astrid said as she turned back to Bolivia. "Use wire ties."

Simons drew a few from his pocket (whatever reason he kept them there Peter couldn't be sure; if they had suddenly become mandatory he certainly missed the memo) as he walked towards Bolivia, his weapon still raised. There was a furious scowl on her face, the corners of her mouth curled into plump and pink vines of discontent.

Keeping an eye on her, Peter took the opportunity to retrieve his pistol and journeyed to the front of the cottage. His feet crunched on wrinkly leaves that lay beneath him as he did; the sound was sharp and quick, like a crack of lightning.

He rounded a thicket of trees and stopped. Before him was a massive black behemoth of a car, with a smooth, lustrous coat. As he walked around the car his eyes scanned the surface, watching his reflection ripple over the tinted windows.

On the windshield, tucked beneath the arch of an onyx wiper blade, was a singular piece of paper. The sheet was the colour of raw ivory, the edges rough and grainy against Peter's hands. He opened the note and quickly read the three lines that were scrawled on the paper in black, curly writing:

Peter,

Use it well.

N. Sharp

Peter tried the door, and it swung open without a noise. He seated himself in the front seat and searched for the keys. The dash was empty, as was the passenger seat. He knew it would be pure stupidity to leave them out in the open in an unlocked car, and that was certainly not in Nina Sharp's bag of tricks. Still, it would be more than unreasonable to hide them in someplace that would take hours to figure out.

With a sigh, Peter flipped down the sun visor above the driver's seat and the keys fell into his lap with a slight jingle. He held them up with a small smirk of amusement and stepped out of the lone vehicle, where he found Astrid rounding the corner of the cottage.

He held them up in her view, dangling them next to his face.

"Looks like we're in business."

Everything was red.

The world pulsed and throbbed with red, bleeding over the grey and black of the Manhatan skyscrapers. The beats came at regular intervals, a thick staccato thrumming through the city with the fervor a mighty heart. A few wailing horns sounded like a cavalry march, and she cringed away from the streets, the red washing over the taxis and casting them in an eerie veil.

She knew that the world shouldn't be red, and her eyes constantly searched for some spec of colour, a splash of white or a dash of blue, a momentary breather from that violent crimson barrage.

She knew that she stood out on that stage of crimson, and it wouldn't be long before the Fringe Division from that side came looking for her. She had the startling notion that she would add some crimson of her own to that canvas when they did.

Her eyes kept searching, her sweeps over the buildings becoming faster as desperation welled in her gut. Chance had already dealt its hand to her, and she had no intention of playing another round. In an instant of distraction, her shoulder bumped into another person and she mumbled a quick "sorry" before continuing down the sidewalk.

As she felt her distance grow between her and the other person – a man, as she recalled – she felt the collar of her jacket creep up beneath the curve of her cheekbones, covering the swell of her lips.

She continued her stroll, taking deep breaths to try and relax the tensed coils of her shoulders. She gagged when a ripe scent assaulted her nostrils, heavy and pungent with the acrid sting of smoke and laden with the bitter taste of fuel. She felt a spasm in her lungs, a sharp contraction as she pressed her face to her elbow and coughed sharply, but the sensation didn't stop after one cough. The fit continued; her lungs kept throbbing as a sharp pressure built in her chest. Her knees bent and she pressed her torso against her thighs, tumbling against the wall of the adjacent building. The grind of the bricks against her jacket was loud, harsh and sporadic like gunshots.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and though she knew that the voice was meant to be gentle it rang loud like twin cymbals in her ears.

"Excuse me Miss... are you alright?"

She looked up cautiously, the throbbing red replaced by a bright, glowing whiteness. She blinked against the harsh glow, her eyes squinting against the shining sky as a form stepped into view. For a moment all she could discern was shadow, blurred along the edges like charcoal.

"Oh!" the voice said, distinctly male in its slight baritone. "Agent Dunham! Forgive me, I didn't realize."

She shook her head. "No, it's alright."

She blinked a few times and could make out his face, small eyes and a round visage.

"Are you sure you're okay, Agent Dunham?"

She nodded, the coughing having ceased moments ago and the ache in her lungs now faded. But there was a rushing roar in her ears, suddenly punctured by a metallic ring in the air. Her head whipped around and her eyes found it, a sterling silver coin shining in the blazing sunlight. She reached out for it, picking it up and twirling it between her fingers. She tried to flip it over the backs of her fingers, a trick that she had seen done once or twice before but couldn't determine when she did. Olivia tried to remember, the curtain in her mind struggling to part, but it was fastened to the stage.

"Are you sure?" he repeated, and she turned her head sharply to face him. "You seem kind of pale."

Before she could respond, however, she noticed a sign blinking in the sunlight that was lined in candy white and coloured in a minty green. The white letters formed two words that she hadn't seen in what she supposed was months, but it could've been more.

It read Central Park, with a blazing white arrow pointing in the direction opposite that of her previous path.

"Yes," she said to the man. "I'm sure."

And she then walked away, pocketing the coin.

She crossed the street quickly, hoping not to draw too much attention in a world that still seemed to be blasting its orchestral shouts and cries in her ears. Once she was past a few more of the buildings (the ones that were noticeably cleaner and constructed of materials only a certain amount of money could buy), she saw it, peeking just beyond the edge of a tall skyscraper; an explosion of green. It might not have been a solution, but at the very least she could buy herself some time to sort her thoughts. But the park was immense, and navigation could potentially catch her in a bind if she wasn't careful.

She walked through the entrance under a canopy of emerald, the colour nearly overwhelming her. She knew that she needed to find somewhere to use as a starting point, somewhere to serve as her marker to get out of the park. Upon selecting a random tree as a marker, she approached the first person who walked by, a man in casual slacks and a button up shirt walking his golden retriever.

"Excuse me," she said. "Could you point me in the direction of Strawberry Gardens?"

The man paused and quirked his head at her, his eyes shrinking quickly around his dark pupils.

"Come again?" he said with more than an ounce of suspicion.

Olivia looked to the cobblestone path, the contrast between her black shoes and the pattern of the stones had suddenly become incredibly fascinating.

"Never mind," she said before walking away into the shadows of the trees. She didn't look back at the man, imagining that he must have shrugged and kept shepherding his dog along.

She cursed herself for her stupidity and she had more than a vague notion why, a sickening knowing that made a specific point on her arm burn. If she rolled up her sleeve she was sure that she would find the spots burning like bright orange eyes. She had no idea what had been in that powerful little drug cocktail they pumped into her, but apparently it was enough to manipulate her perceptive faculties and wrangle her common sense. She clenched her teeth together. By now there would be fugitive alerts out on her and agents scouring the city for her.

She knew that she had to hide, and suddenly the park seemed far more inadequate than she'd previously conceived. The tree lines were too thin and there was too much space for light to peer through.

Even so, she figured it would have to do; she couldn't risk revealing herself in the public. The man who had seen her would hear about any fugitive reports as soon as he was out of the park, and surely a woman asking directions to a place that didn't exist would qualify as suspicious behaviour. The man wasn't the only one; any other person on the street wouldn't hesitate to turn her over to the Secretary if they could, because they knew better than to question authority.

He must have expected her to make such a mistake.

He must also have anticipated that her alternate would make similar mistakes as well.

As she listened to the approaching sirens, screaming like hyenas in the streets, she curled herself beneath an old oak tree in the cover of several thick bushes, and hoped that her mistake wasn't severe enough to awaken the monstrous lion waiting for her in the middle of New York Harbor.

And as the minutes clicked away, the sirens only got louder.

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