Disclaimer: It's Jonathan Larson's sandbox. I continue to play here because it's fun. I also borrow shovels, buckets and seashells from other copyrighted items.

Author's Note: If all gorks are lorks, and no lorks are morks… who cares? It was Miss Scarlet in the Hall with the rope. When Batman is in trouble, he turns on the Jack Bauer signal. Jack Bauer laughs at Superman for having a weakness. Chuck Norris found out what color Smurfs turn when you choke them. I sold my soul for rock 'n' roll.

That actually makes a modicum of sense… I must need more Absolut.

--------------------

NIGHT FALLS

By Etcetera Kit

Chapter One: A Proposal

Ten Years Later

The night was hot. Roger Davis shifted, hoping that might relieve the oppressive heat. They were, for all intents and purposes, sleeping on a mattress with a sheet. Even a top sheet was too much. Sweat rolled down his neck and back. He felt sticky and was close to stripping down and taking a cold shower. The fan did little more than blow hot air over them, and the open window failed in tempting even the slightest of breezes.

Shit.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He scrubbed his hands over his face and raked them through his hair. He rarely bothered to cut it, so his hair curled around his ears, most of the time falling to his shoulders. It was falling out of the rubber band. Great. Mimi didn't wake up.

Silver moonlight filled the room. They had been working with the Patriots for ten years. Ten, long, grueling years. The group took their name from the Revolutionary War, a time before, they contested, this country started on the shit-hole path it walked today. He and Mimi had gotten married shortly after joining the Patriots. Neither of them took much stock in traditional conventions, but Trent had explained that it would lower their risks. So they had married.

"Is it wrong to hope?"

"Hope for what?"

"Hope that they're still alive."

"No, because I hope for that every day."

Why did he even continue to harbor that faint glimmer of hope? Collins and Angel were dead. No one lasted ten years in the prisons. Maureen and Joanne were dead. They were all dead. And their deaths were completely in vain. Nothing had changed.

"Still haven't left the house?"

"I was waiting for you, don'cha know?"

Maybe he was still waiting for people that weren't ever going to come back. God, why didn't he want to accept that they were dead? Hadn't they promised each other on that New Year's almost eleven years ago to always be friends? Didn't being friends mean never giving up on each other? If he thought that he could breech security at the prisons, if he thought he could hack into the records and find out where they were being held, where they had been held… Even if all there was were empty cells, he wanted to see where they had died.

Sighing, he stood up and padded down the hall to the bathroom. This complex was like four others all over the country, designed more after a dorm than an apartment building. He flipped the light in the bathroom on, the effect being that of a supernova on his eyeballs. He shut the door and leaned over the sink. He and Mimi shared this bathroom with Mark. Four or five rooms were clustered together and each shared a living area and a kitchen. He didn't know the names of the people that shared their kitchen—they came and went so quickly there seemed little point.

Roger turned the facet on, watching the water gush for a moment. He then splashed some on his face, scrubbing the cool water over his cheeks, letting it wash away the sweat. He glanced into the mirror, the face staring at him not one he recognized. Several days' stubble was on his chin, and his hair looked wild and untamed. He looked closer to a wild animal than a person.

This place and the others like it were safe houses. Some of the Patriot fighters lived at each one. The rest of the people were fugitives. Sometimes the Patriots got to them first, sometimes the government. If the people got to their complexes, they were then smuggled to Canada or England, never staying more than a few days. Oh, the government knew they existed, but they also knew that no one would know what became of these people, and they could create a cover story.

They were in upstate New York. By far, the busiest and most dangerous complex was just outside of Arlington, Virginia. They had no hope of being assigned there. He and Mark had some technical expertise. For him, it was limited to sound equipment. Mark could handle lights, film, and things that screamed arts and not practical. Mimi was a dancer, and had virtually no skills that the Patriots would find useful. They had all learned to fight and picked up the basics of the technology, but their jobs were not to fight. They all held jobs within government buildings and picked up information that could be useful. Mark was at the conglomerate television's branch in NYC. Mimi was an agent with the NYPD. He was secretary to the mayor.

"We're living a lie."

"I know."

Collins, Angel, Maureen, Joanne…

--------------------

It's like floating on the edge just between sanity and madness. You know that they spin lies. You know that there's a world beyond these four walls. You know that you once had dear friends, a lover, people that would die for you. You know the truth. You know why you're here, and yet, you wonder if they might be telling the truth. You wonder if you truly are degenerate, evil.

You wonder if everything was a dream. If she was a dream, if you were a dream, if they were a dream… a dream within a dream. She has the cell next door. You don't know how she managed to, but she got a hold of a pencil stub and hid the toilet paper before that was outlawed as well.

To face the fear and not feel scared.

You truly have nothing left to lose. Life was once precious and you lived by the motto 'no day but today'. Now, death seems like a retreat, a balm, but it is the one thing that they will not grant you. They know that you hope for death—that the torture will be just too much, that the vaccine for the latest virus won't work, that you'll stave to death…

You've tried to stop eating. They force-fed you. You've tried to drown yourself in the dank toilet. A guard prevented it. You've tried any means to do yourself in. They only tied you down, until you no longer had a will of your own. Resistance has become a foreign concept. Death is the one reprieve that they will not grant you. You've been kept alive for years, a mere shell of your former self.

You scream her name in your dreams. She screams his. You spend long nights listening to her cries, vowing over and over to never forget him. You wish you knew where the others were. You wish you knew anything beyond these walls and the cries of a friend half-mad. You saw her once, when the doctors lined you up for injections. If you hadn't seen the spirit sparking under those dark eyes, you wouldn't have recognized her. She looked like everyone else, but was standing with the men. They hadn't broken her. She wasn't a ghost.

As fast as she showed you that spark, her eyes were back to being dull, lifeless. She's a better actor than you, and you admit that their words are cracking your defenses.

That was the last time you saw her fully. But you know she is the one next door to you. The mouse-hole between your cells connects you.

"Maureen." Her voice is hoarse, dry, as if she hadn't used it for anything other than screams in a long time. You crawl across the cell, hope flaming. Your body is sore and protests, but you drag yourself to that little hole of salvation.

"Angel." Your voice is full of emotion, desperation. Things you had forgotten you could feel were back, dry sobs heaved your wasted body.

You don't remember the conversation. You just remember the two mottoes: no day but today, and la vie boheme. They become your mantra. Nothing is too bad to bear. You've got Angel with you. If you reach through that mouse hole, you can barely brush her fingers.

"I miss Tom."

"I know. I miss Joanne. It hurts—"

"Like a piece of you was torn out."

What can't we face if we're together?

You and Angel, unlikely companions and odd warriors. Together, you know that the madness can never truly claim you. Angel has the paper, writing down your story, her story… the story that all of you are a part of. If someone, anyone, reads it, then you will have lived on. You both know that you will die in this prison. You cannot get beyond the walls, but you know that there is an entire world out there. There is no hope.

But you have each other.

That is all that matters anymore.

--------------------

Roger pushed himself up from the sink. Almost in a trance, he turned the water off and grabbed a hand towel, blotting the moisture from his face. The water hadn't done much to relieve the heat, but it made him less groggy, less dreamy. His watch read 0437—too early for anything important to be happening. The nights seemed to drag on. Shutting off the light, he left the bathroom and padded into the living room. A single lamp was on.

Mark was hunched over the computer. One fan blew on him, while another was aimed at the computer. The machine was the best that money could buy. But the air didn't stop the beads of sweat that ran down the bridge of his nose. His glasses kept slipping and he pushed them up, ignoring the annoyance and discomfort.

"You and Mimi need to have children. It will—"

"—lower our risks. I know."

They had two children, children that weren't even a possibility ten years ago. Infected with AIDS, neither of them wanted to bring children into the world with the disease. He loved his children, remembering the awe and joy that surrounded each birth. He would have liked to have them without the urging of the Patriots, but if they wanted to help others like their friends… One boy and one girl. Thomas Angel had just turned seven, while Joanne Maureen would soon be five. They were educated in the complex, playing with other children of the Patriots. Mark was their godfather.

"What are you doing?"

Roger crossed the small room and pulled a chair from the table. He angled it next to Mark, so he could see the screen of the computer. "Pam wrote a program," the former filmmaker said. Pam also lived in the complex, but was younger than them, having received an advanced degree in computer science. She was their tech genius.

"A program?" Pam was always writing programs. That wasn't unusual.

"This is supposed to let me into any powered on computer system."

"Mark, it's five in the morning. Most people don't have their computer systems on."

"Prisons do."

"Right."

They fell silent. Roger knew exactly what Mark was doing—searching the prison records for names, four specific names. The glare of the screen reflected off Mark's glasses, making his eyes appear otherworldly. They both needed to be in bed. Mark had to leave for work in another hour. Roger had a staff meeting at seven.

"Any luck?"

"No. It's like they never existed."

They were dead. Both of them knew that. They had all been part of the first purge of anyone different. Perhaps, if they had all stayed together, things would have panned out differently. The four could have paired off, put on a façade, pretended… and been untrue to themselves and their love. Why? He would never understand. Things had been slowly getting better, only to have it all cut out from underneath them.

"Wherever they were is hidden and off the records."

Mark nodded. "I just want to know what happened to them."

"We probably don't want to know."

"Ignorance is bliss," Mark intoned with a sad smile. "Call me crazy, but I want to know."

Roger sighed. They had been through this again and again. They all wanted to know where the others had been taken, see where they had been. But no record of them appeared after their abduction dates ten years ago. Mark had been through the prison records again and again. The prisons they could access were public knowledge. People who had actually done something wrong went there. But for their friends… the place had to be hidden.

He might say that they didn't want to know, but he wanted the knowledge as badly as Mark. "Too bad we don't know anyone who works for the IRS," he muttered dryly. "Nothing escapes them."

Mark snorted. "That's unlikely to happen." He closed the browser windows on the screen.

Until they learned what really happened to Collins, Angel, Maureen and Joanne, Roger knew that none of them would truly rest. There was no sense of closure. Collins might have given up resistance before he was taken, but none of them had been dead. Death might have spelt closure, but that was gone. Everyone knew there were hidden facilities, but no one knew where they were or what went on there. Roger had pictures of Holocaust camps. Mimi once told him she thought the facilities must be like the old insane asylums from the movies—dark, damp and filled with terrifying rooms of torture devices.

Mark clapped him on the shoulder as he stood up. "I will find them," he said softly, urgently. "They need to see their niece and nephew."

--------------------

I don't know what time it is. I never know what time it is. Day and night, it's all the same. I thought this prison was underground the first time I was in my cell. I thought that was how they kept the constant darkness. I knew either the dim cell, lit only by the lights from the halls, and harsh fluorescent bulbs. Now, I've had too much time to think and concoct wild stories about how they keep it dark in here. It's rather like living in a broken refrigerator, cool, but not cold enough to keep the lunch meat and yogurt from spoiling.

The cells are completely bare. The only thing worth noting is the toilet, never cleaned, but also never backs up or does any of the things the toilets in my apartments did. I wonder how they managed to build failsafe plumbing. That's a good plumber.

I picked the pencil stub from a table during one of the many injections. A long time ago I had injections to cure me. Now, the injections are to infect me, and then repel whatever was injected. No one noticed the broken bit of wood and lead. I managed to hold it as they injected me and threw me back into my cell.

The paper was harder, but I knew that, despite the barbarity of our situation, none of the guards or doctors wanted someone shitting on the floor. Just more to clean up. Two guards took me to a bathroom that was obviously for the doctors. It was clean and light. That's where I got the toilet paper. So my life—our life—is about to be recorded on toilet paper. It's better than nothing.

I stretch out across the floor. I hid the paper and pencil stub in the mouse hole. A mouse hole. This prison is state-of-the-art, yet there are mouse holes. I'm not sure that anyone actually checks these cells. The last inmate must have died, and I got the cell. It reminds me of the Chateau d'Ife from the Count of Monte Cristo. Tom had a copy of that book. I read it at work, once. It was all about a prison break. You think it'd be more useful now.

"Angel."

It's her voice—raw, destroyed, not the beautiful soprano that it once was. Mouse holes. We're not supposed to be able to communicate with anyone else while in our cells. I'd be worried about it, if I thought that someone in charge actually cared. Most of the doctors thought we are too insane to know what is happening. They think we're slobbering in our cells. Sometimes I feel a great swell of pity for them, so narrow-minded.

"I'm here, Maureen." I crawl to the mouse hole, just able to make out her hand and part of her face. The doctors are testing a new drug on her. It's bad. She hasn't been able to keep food down for three days, just a little water. One of Tom's spy novels had said that a human could go three minutes without air, three days without water, and three weeks without food.

"Have you written more?"

I've tried to write about my life. But it seems to pale in comparison to my current situation. I had an accepting, loving family that supported my decision to move to New York. I won a full scholarship to a fashion school. I worked as an underling designer at a major design company. I had a comfortable apartment, friends that loved me, an amazing lover… my life was something straight off prime time television in 1955. Sure, I had a boyfriend that I got AIDS from, but I met Tom and he had AIDS too…

The interesting part came with the cure. Two months, well, one really, we were cured. Then difference became a bad thing. Just under a year I had Tom, I had unconditional love, I had someone that truly understood me, and it was all gone.

"Yes."

"Angel?"

"What?"

"Is it bad that I hope this drug will kill me?"

"No, because I wish for that with each new injection."

"Is it sad that our lives have come to this?" She paused. She was so beaten down, unable to understand why anyone would do this to a fellow human being. This conversation is one that we have often. I know the words, the responses. They never change, but they are always true. "Do you ever think about Collins?" she asks.

"All the time." I don't add that he gets me through each minute. I remember his kisses, his tears, his laughter, the way he hated mornings, the way he could get through an entire bottle of Stoli if someone let him… His eyes would light up with mischief. I love him. And I know that he still loves me. Love… that is the one thing no one has taken from us.

We grow silent. Maureen will sleep before she retches the food they forced her to eat. Hope is gone. We're both going to die here.

I think about the others sometimes. Maureen told me that Collins was taken shortly after me. I knew he'd do something like that, wanting to share the same fate. She and Joanne were taken at the same time. Mark, Roger and Mimi had stayed at Joanne's townhouse in the city. I hope that they got away, that they're living a life somewhere. I hope that Roger and Mimi get to have a huge family. I hope that Mark finds a nice girl to settle down with. I don't keep hope for myself, because there is none. But there is hope for others.

Hope for Mark, for Roger, and for Mimi.

I used to wonder why they hated so much, what I had done. I realize that people don't need a reason to hate. Fear is a good enough reason.

If I could just have one more day…

It was ridiculous. It was pointless to hope for. But I did. I guess I could call it my guilty pleasure, the only thing I didn't tell Maureen. I desperately want one more day with Tom. Just once more, I want to be his Angel, his love… his guardian Angel… God…

Maureen once asked me how I could continue to believe in God. I know why. God doesn't do most of this shit—people do. In junior high, my parents told me the kids would be better in high school. In high school, it was college kids would be better. The hierarchy moved on. I learned that people don't get better with age, they just learn more ways to be cruel. They'll all get what's coming to them. I might be dead before it does…

Fucking hell.

Love and vengeance.

Now I know I'm going crazy.

A whisper, a caress… "Tom…"

-------------------

The cool spray of the shower pummeled him into full awareness. Mark had already left for work. Mimi tended to report in at about nine. Since her promotion, she was able to be lax with her schedule. Roger rested one hand on the tiles, raising his face to the water. He needed to get the kids up after he was done in here. Their school started at seven-thirty. Mimi would make sure they got there. Besides, he ran the risk of getting fired if he was late.

He shut off the water and grabbed a towel. Shave, make his hair look presentable, put on the goddamned suit and tie… the motions were commonplace and he did them without thinking. There was once a time when he would have been horrified. Hadn't he wanted to be a musician to escape the bounds of society?

He was just pulling his shirt on when someone knocked on the bathroom door.

"Roger?" Mimi called. "You need to come see this!"

Frowning, he opened the door. Mimi was already gone. The television in the living room was on. Mimi stood before it, her arms wrapped around her middle. No one else was awake. He stood next to her, taking in the screen.

The reporter was pudgy, sweating, like he knew the story was false. "This facility was uncovered at Alkali Lake. It appeared to have been abandoned for some time. There were no bodies that we could find. The government will make a full investigation into the terrorists that were responsible for this death camp."

Roger snorted. "They're going to go after themselves?"

"Is it possible that they were there?" Mimi asked softly, her brown eyes full of worry.

He sighed. "That's way the hell out in Michigan. I don't know why anyone would move them so far." He paused. "But you heard the man, there were no bodies. They were probably moved."

"Some civilian probably stumbled across them and ran before they could kill him."

They were silent. He found it almost sad that they knew exactly how the government wove their webs of lies. His hands went to Mimi's waist, pulling her towards him. With a contented sigh, she settled against his chest, one hand over his heart. "Think you can pull a permit to look at their investigative report?" he asked softly.

Mimi glanced up at him, a smile on her face. "That is easy." She stood on her tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "You need to get the kids up. And Mark wants you to meet him at the deli for lunch."

"Why didn't Mark tell me this himself?"

"He was late and you were in the shower."

"That hasn't stopped him before."

Mimi smiled. "He also got an emergency page for this broadcast."

Roger shook his head. He had known Mark for close to fifteen years. They had met in jail after a bar raid. Mark had been freaking out, as that was his first time in jail. Roger had told him to relax. He knew Collins from his failed attempt at college. The then grad student had bailed them both out and bought them dinner at the Life Café. God, the Life… he had actually walked past where their favorite hang-out had been. Nothing was there now.

His songs and Mark's films were gone now. They had left everything behind when Trent came to the townhouse. Most of that stuff had been in Joanne's floor safe, in the closet of the master bedroom. By now, someone had to have gotten into that safe and destroyed everything. The Patriots already had them, so there wasn't much that the government could do.

He gently rubbed Mimi's arm and went down the hall to his children's room. That particular room was the largest in their cluster, but was divided with screens and furniture to make two spaces. Tommy was lying face down on his bed, snoring softly. Jo was on her side, clutching a rag doll to her chest. Their room was as hot as his and Mimi's. God, he wanted to know what weird government restriction made it impossible to get air conditioning.

"Tommy!"

The boy jolted awake, glanced at his father and groaned. "S' time to get up?"

"Yes," Roger replied simply. Tommy sat up, rubbing his eyes. He'd need to get into his school uniform, brush his teeth and hair. He moved around the dividers to Jo's half of the room. He gently shook her shoulder. She opened her eyes. "Jo, get up," he said softly. She stretched and reached for her uniform, folded at the end of her bed.

Satisfied that they were moving, Roger left their room. Mimi was just outside the door, her arms wrapped around her middle again. "What's wrong?" he asked. She tended to want to be near to him when she was upset. All those years of fights when they first met, the withdrawal… and they had a comfortable intimacy now.

"I'll get that report from Alkali Lake," she whispered. "But I'm not sure I want to know what's in it." Her large brown eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

"I don't either," he replied. "But we'll have to. None of us will rest until we know."

Empty cells, names, numbers… what had the government done to these people that they didn't want anyone else to know about? Maybe if the people knew the real truth, there would be a massive uprising. Roger suspected that there were things his sick imagination couldn't conjure. Things that were so horrible no one would repeat them, because there was no one else in the world that could possibly believe them.

And it wasn't fair. He, Mimi and Mark got to have the life that the other four were denied. He and Mimi got to have children, live a relatively normal married life. Mark had never married, but, even without the 'godly' government, he couldn't picture Mark settling down, so to speak. He preferred the ability to roam, do what he wanted on his own terms.

Who the hell decided to stop treating people like people?

He followed Mimi into their bedroom. Angel's skirt was over a chair—it was the white one, with the flowers, the one that he wore to the Life Café after Maureen's protest. Collins' jacket was on that same chair. Both items had seen that night at the Life. God, Collins never went anywhere without that jacket. It was why Roger nearly fell over when Collins sent it to him. Opening up that FedEx box and finding… Christ! It wasn't fucking fair.

Sighing, he buttoned up his shirt and tucked it in.

Actual reality! Act up! Fight AIDS!

Fuck.

He grabbed his tie off the dresser. They were supposedly fighting, gathering what information they could. But this wasn't how Collins' would have done it. Collins would have rallied as many people as he could have, and had them march on some building. He would have blown something up, gone on the television station… done something dramatic.

But he didn't know what he was supposed to do.

--------------------

The deli was on the corner of Forty-Sixth Street. He and Mark, literally, worked just blocks from there. So much had changed. What used to be hotels, large storefronts, novelty souvenir shops, restaurants, had become utilitarian government buildings. This deli probably only existed to feed the government workers that didn't want to eat in their building's cafeteria.

The place was teeming with people. Roger entered, glad that this establishment had air conditioning, unlike anywhere else. Mark waved at him. The former filmmaker had gotten a small table in the back, near a window. The former rocker pushed his way through the people, sinking into the chair across from Mark.

"Roast beef on wheat," Mark said without preamble, handing him a foil-wrapped sandwich.

"Thanks."

Mark shrugged. "There was apparently a clerical error. I've got about five times as many stim-credits as I should."

Roger unwrapped the sandwich. "Did you report it?"

"What for?"

He smiled. There was a crumpled up ball of foil on the table, meaning Mark must have already eaten. At least he wasn't having stress problems and throwing up all over the place. That happened less and less frequently as the years went on. Now it only happened around 'elections.' There weren't really elections, since the same people won by a landslide and had no competition, but the television stations were expected to have round-the-clock coverage.

"I think you had a good idea this morning."

Roger blinked and swallowed his current mouthful of sandwich. "Excuse me?"

"The IRS." Mark gave him and expectant look, then groaned when he remained confused. "You said that it was too bad we didn't know anyone who worked for the IRS. Everything is documented with the IRS. If there's one thing this country doesn't fuck around with, it's the taxes."

"But we don't have anyone that can get that information, or, at least not the kind of information that we'd be looking for."

"All in due time." Mark was enjoying having the upper hand. Roger rolled his eyes. "Now it would be safe to assume that any electronic records have been, shall we say, accidentally deleted." Roger grunted in agreement. "So we have to get to the hard copies."

"How?"

"Mimi."

That was expected. "She can't get records outside the reports unless they pertain to her case."

"Then we just have to get the Alkali Lake case assigned to her."

"It's not in her jurisdiction."

Mark steepled his fingers. "Not yet. I know a guy that writes the cover stories that we broadcast. He said there was a records room there that held the back-up records for other facilities like Alkali Lake. The room had been burned. The government doesn't want us to know that."

"It's still not in her jurisdiction."

"Even when a New York man was found murdered at the scene?"

Roger leaned back in his chair, a smile spreading over his face. That was more than enough reason for the NYPD to get involved. For their purposes, it would be under the pretense of investigating the murder, but they could also get the IRS to release tax information. "Very nice," Roger commented. "Did you tell Mimi all this?"

"I stopped by the station before I came here."

Hope. There it was again, that little, foreign word that held so much power. They all hoped for things that would most likely never be. Alkali Lake meant something—it meant that they might begin to get definitive answers. Certainty… there was a concept that he had almost forgotten about. Trent had offered them no certainty ten years ago. But they came here with him, surviving, and wondering what had happened to Collins and Angel, to Maureen and Joanne. Their names were almost a mantra now. He, Mark and Collins had been the Three Musketeers before they met Benny, before Mark started dating Maureen. Mimi and Angel had met at some fashion show, becoming best friends shortly after that. Joanne found Maureen at one of her many protests. Maybe it was fate, maybe it was coincidence… fuck, he didn't believe in coincidences anymore.

This was their battle. It didn't belong to Trent. It didn't belong to the Patriots. It belonged solely to them. Others surely had the same agenda, but lacked the resources to do it. Just to see any of them again, hear their voices, hug them…

We've cried together. We've laughed together. We've loved together.

What binds the fabric together when the raging, shifting winds of change keep ripping away?

Call their bluff…

Hope was the one thing that people desperately needed. But there was no one to deliver. God, he wished he could make himself care about liberty, fear, security, the things that kept people in their place, but he just wanted their family back together. God, Angel and Collins would have loved being a part of the Patriots. Angel took kickboxing lessons for years, and could turn just about any item into a weapon. Collins was good at computer viruses, and blowing things up—and that had been ten years ago. Roger couldn't imagine what he'd accomplish now.

"Want to go hijack some chocolate chips?"

Roger shook his head, focusing on Mark. The blonde was grinning. Some food items had been in short supply. Some… more like anything that isn't necessary for basic nutrition. Roger knew where the supplies for the city council buildings were delivered—chocolate, butter, sugar, wine… The process was easy. Most of the delivery boys assumed he was inspecting, making sure that everything was perfect for the mayor. And Mark, as a part of the television crew that came to the building to film the mayor's speeches, had clear access too. All that stuff went to good use at the complex. They had scraped enough stuff together to make chocolate chip cookies last week.

He finished his sandwich, crumpling the wrapper. "Sure. There should be a delivery truck just about now."

"I know. I saw it dropping off stuff further uptown."

"Chocolate chips, here we come!"

Sometimes, for fleeting moments, it was like the past ten years hadn't happened, and they were living in that industrial loft again, arguing about cereal and coffee, having paper fights just because they could… Mimi had actually been horrified to see him, Mark, and Collins break down and have a full-out pillow fight. He supposed it had something to do with the fact that three grown men weren't supposed to pelt each other with pillows… It hadn't helped matters that Angel jumped into the fray and won.

Then reality set in, and he remembered how precautious his life was. He didn't want to lose anyone else close to him. Mimi… Tommy and Jo… Mark… they were all he had left.

They threw their trash out and moved outside the deli. He wished that he still had a guitar. Musical instruments were in short supply. He hadn't been able to bring his guitar when they left, and he doubted that the townhouse had remained untouched.

One song glory…

He turned to Mark as they walked down the sidewalk. "Can we, just, run away?"

The former filmmaker gave him a sidelong glance. "I hear Tahiti is nice this time of year."

--------------------

"I don't think you're complying with the recommendations the Home Office issued."

The guard looks at me without blinking. Yeah, he doesn't know what the Home Office is, or what they have to do with prisons that don't exist. There is one doctor here, Paul, that lets me read the paper. That's the only reason I know that the newly created Home Office wanted to improve life for prisoners, in hopes of rehabilitating them. The real prisoners were getting blankets and beds and choices of clothing… My cell had a toilet, and I've been wearing the same orange burlap sack since arriving. I've got to be pretty stinky by now.

"They don't apply to us," the guard grunted.

"Then what's the point of them?"

"Shut-up!"

He backhands me across the face. I'm not startled by it. He's the guard that likes to slap people to feel powerful. However, none of that relieves the sting. I straighten, rubbing my cheek. He just doesn't know what to make of a prisoner that knows more than him. I fall silent. The last thing I really want is a random beating from a random guard.

I think this guard is taking me to Paul. He's a psychiatrist or something, trying to analyze me and figure out how to 'cure' me. I don't mind all the ridiculous questions. I've explained to him time and time again that I don't believe in sexuality, just love. So what if the person I fell in love with happened to also be a man? If I'm nice, Paul might let me do the Sunday crossword. Yeah, I think I will be nice. I'm constantly bored out of my mind here. The crossword will at least relieve that monotony for an hour or so. Maybe he'll let me have the whole newspaper.

Ah well. This prison isn't what I expected. I thought of old horror movies, with bizarre experiments, little to eat… Well, the little to eat thing, and the fact that our cells had only toilets were accurate, but the bizarre experiments weren't there. I think there's a whole team of psychiatrists here that are supposed to be playing mind games with us. The only reason I guess that is because I've heard people, half out of their minds, screaming. I never fell prey to mind games before this regime, because I was the master at playing them.

I used to buy those puzzle magazines with crosswords and number games and such in them. Angel always did the logic problems. I never understood how she got through one of those things so quickly—she actually timed herself once, and did the large one in less than ten minutes. Something about how her mind is wired. Is. I feel like I should say 'was', since I don't know what happened to her. But…

I sigh. Angel.

I wish I knew where she was, what had happened to her. The constant ache for her had dulled, becoming a void that only she could fill. I hope she's not in pain. And I really hope that she's not in a psych prison like mine. God, she was a fighter and didn't want anyone to judge her on anything except her own merits, but after months and months? She would resort to tears, eventually shutting down completely.

"Good afternoon, Thomas."

Christ, are we in the office already? Office. I snort. This place is a stone room with a table and two chairs. "Collins," I correct automatically. Angel was the only one that called me by my first name, simply because screaming 'Collins' during sex was awkward. At least for her. Roger might have pulled out the first name once or twice to piss me off… but I was just Collins. I wish that this smarmy little doctor would figure that out.

"Collins," Paul concedes. "Now, I'd like very much to hear about your theories on love."

"It happens." Not anymore, but still…

"Your lover, Angel, what did he think about love?"

"She."

Paul looks pained, but gives me the concession yet again. "She… what did she think of love?"

"She loved it." I resist the urge to laugh at my own exceedingly lame joke. Ah, Angel, she would have a field day with this guy. To think, the guy that led our Life Support meetings had been named Paul. Such irony…

Paul asks me something else. I ignore it. The morning's newspaper is still sitting on his desk and I crane my neck to see the headline. Secret Terrorist Facility at Alkali Lake. Huh. That looks like it might be interesting. The newspapers are the only way I know that I've been here for ten years. It's my home now, no hope of ever getting out. I suppose they'll either brainwash me or starve me to death. Maybe I'll get lucky and someone will take me out back and shoot me.

If I get lucky.

Yeah right.

I turn on the charm and the BS for the good doctor. I really want that newspaper. I don't know why this continues to work. Maybe good ol' Paul really is that dim. It wouldn't surprise me overmuch. A little while later, I'm back with the sunshine and bubbles guard, the newspaper clutched to my chest.

Back in my cell, I spread out the paper, horror clutching my heart. Secret facility, like ours, abandoned, burned… Fuck! What if Angel was there? What if…

"Mother fucker."

To be continued…

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Author's Note v. 2.0: Okay, time for a gooey show of emotion down here and a few serious notes. Thanks to everyone who has dropped a review—I appreciate all the honesty in first impressions of this piece. Continue to be brutally honest, I beg of you! Now, a quick note on the POVs: second person will always be Maureen, while first person is either Angel or Collins. The first person should be apparent from what is happening. That is not to say that those three will always exclusively be in those POVs, but, for now, they are. To the groundhog!