Disclaimer: It's Jonathan Larson's sandbox. The toys belong to some other copyrighted kids. I will remain here until the sandcastle competition ends.

Author's Note: The Care Bears are on LSD. The Fraggles are on speed. Gonzo is a masochist and Miss Piggy is manic. Kermit's got to be popping Valium from dealing with those crazies. That is all.

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

NIGHT FALLS

By Etcetera Kit

Chapter Six: A Plan

Sweat rolled off the end of his nose. He pushed his glasses back up, but the gesture was futile. Even with one fan aimed directly on him and another on the computer, the temperature in the room remained close to tropical. All he needed was some palm trees and colorful birds to complete the look. The warm breeze of a few days ago had faded. He'd lived in around New York his entire life and had learned one thing—New York in summer was like the inside of a pizza box, hot and aromatic.

Mark stopped typing for a moment and rolled his shoulders. The piece of paper sitting on the desk gave them police permission to snoop around in government files. Another clerical error. How long before the FBI realized their error and withdrew that little piece of paper that protected them if they got caught hacking? Mimi claimed a long time, since the FBI liked brutalizing people, not doing paperwork. But assumption was bad. He'd rather assume that this was a race against the clock with the powers-that-be.

So much programming to be written…

Pam had said she could write a program that would allow them in a back door of the facility firewalls, and decrypt most of the pertinent information that they would need. But she wouldn't be able to write the program on her own—that would take too long. She'd need at least one more set of hands, and Mark had a feeling that Roger would be recruited before too much longer. Over the years, he had at least learned to type quickly and accurately.

Sighing, Mark stood up. Pam had disappeared somewhere, so he didn't feel bad taking a break and getting more coffee.

The halls were silent, the fluorescent lights flickering madly as he made his way to their living quarters. Like an office from those old movies in the 80s about office life and oppression. He smiled at that. Most films had been banned. The only sanctioned films were those that were "educational" or public service announcements about curfews or new restrictions. A part of him was glad he worked at a television station and away from the lifeless movie industry.

A fresh pot of coffee had already been made. That took away part of the work right there. What did Roger think he was doing tonight, because Roger was the only one that made coffee late at night? Mimi only drank coffee at work, preferring tea around here. There had been a point in Mark's life when he drank tea exclusively, but the need for more caffeine and the ability to pull all-nighters had resulted in the switch to coffee.

He pulled a large mug from a cabinet. Too hot for hot coffee… so… He filled the mug two-thirds of the way with coffee and headed for the freezer. He opened the door, grateful that someone had fixed their ice-maker.

"You are not about to—"

Mark dumped a handful of ice cubes in the hot coffee.

"And you did it."

Mark shut the freezer and turned to face Roger. The former rocker was wearing a pair of worn sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt. His hair was haphazardly tied back with a rubber band. Mark squinted at his hair—there was something else holding it back.

"Is that Mimi's hair clip?"

"It's Jo's, for your information." Roger crossed the small tiled area that delineated the kitchen from the rest of the area and poured himself a mug of coffee. He leaned against the counter, looking pointedly at Mark's iced coffee. "I don't understand why you do that to good coffee."

Mark shrugged. "It's too hot to drink as it is."

"Weirdo," Roger muttered under his breath.

"Weirdo? I'm not the one drinking hot coffee in the middle of summer!" Roger didn't reply, just blew on the hot coffee to cool it. "So what are you doing up?"

Roger nodded to the paperwork that had been spread on the kitchen table. "New zone restrictions, meaning I have to memorize them, write a statement from the mayor, and write a dozen different people speeches about it."

"That sounds… thrilling."

The sarcastic grin was enough for Mark to know how displeased Roger was with the repetitive busy work. Write the same speech a dozen times, and vary it enough that people won't feel like they're listening to the same spiel? The television station might have been boring and repetitive, but not the kind of stagnation that Roger faced each day.

"Did you get out of the speeches this time?"

"One of those dozen is for me." Roger pushed himself off the counter and sat down at the table. He stared at the papers for a moment, before looking up at Mark. "Pam still has you writing programming?"

"Yeah." He sighed, sipping the cold coffee. "She swears that we'll have the program done by tonight if we work through the night."

"That's Pam." Roger paused. "At least she doesn't have you highlighting e-mails."

"True."

They fell silent for a moment. Friends ever since being in jail together and Collins bailing them out. Ten years of fruitless endeavors and searches, only to be so close. But the programming couldn't be rushed. He didn't want to make a mistake that would set them back. Their family would be together again, soon.

As many books as films had been banned, but, somehow, Roger had found an old copy of 1984. He had been reading it earlier that night, just before he put Tommy and Jo to bed. Mark remembered, just before the cure, when Collins had referenced that novel, talking about how Orwell had called the situation so many years ago. Now, the nightmare of dystopia had come to pass. Life had been downright shitty before the acts and the revolutions, but he'd rather be living in that industrial loft with no heat any day over this half-life of hoping, only to be disappointed.

Mark glanced back to Roger and studied the hair clip. Now that he looked at it more closely, it definitely belonged to Jo, not Mimi. It had faux silk pink roses on it. Mark grinned. There was certainly one thing to be told from that hair clip and the fact that Roger was wearing it.

"You know, Angel would be proud that you're wearing that clip around—it shows you're comfortable with your sexuality and your identity."

"It was the only thing I could find," Roger shot back. Then he sighed, "But you're right." He shook his head. "Jo needs to find a new favorite color. I'm tired of pink."

So much was unspoken in that statement. Angel had loved bright colors, mostly riotous and brought together in a semblance of order. It had always been easy to spot Angel and Collins. Angel was the brightest spot of color in a crowd, and Collins would be slouching behind him, usually searching for a light. Collins never could find a lighter when he needed one.

"I'm sure she'll move onto something equally as revolting next."

"What? Boyfriends? I don't have a problem going back to prison."

Mark laughed. "You've never been in prison for more than a few hours."

"All those potential boyfriends don't know that." Roger sighed, suddenly looking older than he really was. "Jesus, Mark, she's five already. I mean, soon enough, she is going to be getting boyfriends and going out with her friends, and I'll just be—"

"Her old man?"

"Exactly." Roger sighed again. "My old man split when I was her age. I always promised myself that I'd never abandon my children, if I lived long enough to have any." He paused, looking at a spot in the distance. "And now, it's not that I'm going anywhere, but with the missions and the field work and the changing zones," he gestured to the paperwork. "Christ, I want her and Tommy to be away from all of this."

"We'll get them out," Mark replied softly.

"When? We've been saying that for years—since Tommy was born."

"Soon." His voice was low and determined. "We've always stayed because we didn't know what had happened to the others, but we'll know soon. Then we can get out, go to England." Mark paused, a wry smile going over his face. "Then you can worry about Jo running into some boy at the boarding school next door, because you'll send her to an all-girls' school."

"Why worry about boys next door, when there'll probably be a fair number of lesbians right in the school she could hook up with?" Roger wrinkled his nose. "You know. I don't even want to think about her getting a boyfriend, much less a girlfriend."

"Tommy could always get a boyfriend."

Roger rolled his eyes. "They are my children—I love them and will support whatever lifestyle they choose, but I don't want to think about them in relationships yet. They're too young!"

Mark shook his head. Roger didn't often open up about his fears and worries concerning his children. Those worries were there, deeply hidden. Like the rest of them, he told himself that everything would be all right. They'd get out eventually. Mark stretched his arms over his head.

"Well, I'd better get back to programming."

"Yeah, I need to do these speeches."

"Try to get some sleep," Mark said over his shoulder as him and his iced coffee headed back for the tech room.

"Hey, pot," Roger called back. "Don't call the kettle black."

Mark laughed and walked away, back to where Pam had set up camp. Hopefully, soon, they would know and the obsession would end. Even if it ended with memorial services and grave markers, they would know and there would be some closure. Then, in good conscious, they could leave and get to England, to make a better future for Tommy and Jo.

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

Gerald Ford… Jimmy Carter… Ronald Reagan…

You aren't sure what's happening anymore. Surgery… surgery isn't odd. Patients are often taken to surgery when infections or side effects become too much. But this… this is odd. Someone bathes you—not the sterilizing showers once a week that burn, and are mostly to kill insects and prevent gangrene, but gentle, soothing, like they actually are trying to clean you.

Your mind and your body won't cooperate. You are too weak to do much of anything other than allow yourself to be manhandled. That is not unusual. Are they actually trying to make you comfortable after all this pain and heartache? Clean sheets, a clean hospital gown… you want to ask what is going on, what the occasion is, but your tongue feels like cotton and you can't articulate the words. Somewhere, just beyond the reach of consciousness, you know that something is not right, but you can't remember what.

Does this have to do with you and Collins?

Remembering hurts. You can't recall snippets of conversation, something that might lead you to what the doctors want or are talking about. Hushed voices come from behind a screen. Distantly, you realize that this room is nice, almost like a hotel room—miles and miles above anything that you've been allowed to have.

"—natural mother is ill. She won't last much longer."

"What of the father?"

"He won't be a problem."

You wonder what these people are talking about. You wish that you had the energy—the strength—to care or ask questions. You can't. A memory from an old case comes back to you, because you had to visit a client in the hospital. You remember the heart scans, but can't remember what they were called. The doctors did those on you. After all this time and infection and disease, has your heart finally given out?

A blessing, if that happens.

The door opens.

George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison

A doctor gives you an injection. Immediately, you begin to feel more disconnected and woozier than before. Why keep you under more? It's not like you can make yourself articulate words anyways. Slowly, blackness closes in on your vision. A tranquilizer? Again?

Darkness… sleep…

When you awake, it's back in the normal med center. The beds are only covered with a top sheet. You feel vaguely sore and an IV is in your arm. What vital part did they decide to hack away now? People have died from less.

James Monroe, John Quincy Adams…

Sleep, then feverish waking. What is going on? A doctor flocks near your bed, scribbling something on a clipboard. You feel too warm, but also light-headed and dizzy, unable to keep the room from spinning around you. The doctor adjusts the IV and injects another fluid into it. What… what…

Andrew Jackson… Martin van Buren…

A tear leaks out of the corner of you eye, wet, real, the first thing that you've been sure of in a long time. What have they done to you? Even if you could make your voice cooperate, you're not sure that anyone would tell you anything. The less you know, the better—that's probably their motto. If you can tell the tale, then they won't be at risk.

"I need—"

The treatment sounds distant, from an out-of-tune radio. Why would they need to give you adrenaline? Another doctor comes into the room, followed by someone else—an orderly? Their faces swim above you in a haze.

William Henry Harrison… John Tyler… James K. Polk…

You tune them, concentrating on the litany of presidents that goes through your mind. Is this insanity? Relying on dead white men from an extinct position of power and authority? Insanity… what does that word even mean? If it means being out of touch with reality, you want someone to sign you up, because anything would be better than the here and now.

Taylor, Fillmore, Pierce, Buchanan.

"We might lose her. Tonight is most critical."

Lincoln, Johnson, Grant, Hayes, Garfield.

Sleep again.

You awake and want to scream, if only your throat would comply.

Why can't they let you die?

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

"And we're… done."

Mark stretched his arms over his head, feeling a sense of completion at the program. The clock read two in the morning. At least the programming was over and they could now get down to the actual purpose of writing this program. Pam was typing furiously at the keyboard of the main console.

"And if I've done this correctly," she continued, "We should have the results in about half an hour or so."

"That long?"

Pam gave him a scathing look over the top of her glasses. "There are a lot of prisoners to go through and you want this to be accurate, right?"

He sighed. "Yes."

"Go get more coffee."

"Yes, m'am."

Pam gave him one last scathing look as he stood up and left the tech room. He'd have to make a fresh pot of coffee, since he was fairly certain that Roger had gone to be a long time ago. His longtime friend was good at writing speeches with slight variations, so that part of the project probably hadn't taken him all that long.

At least that assumption was correct. The light in the living room area of their quarters was still on—that was almost always on, because somebody was up way too late. Common courtesy for one another, he supposed. They hadn't even had that problem ten years ago in the industrial loft—the large windows let in the moonlight.

Someone—probably Roger—had washed the coffee carafe and filter. Mark took them out of the drainer and opened a cupboard, looking for another filter and the actual coffee. The task was done quickly enough and Mark watched as the machine went to work. The hiss and burble of the coffee maker was the only sound in the living room.

Life always stopped at night now. With curfews and restrictions, no one ventured out after dark. The world was silenced, eerie and devoid of life. Besides, creatures that lurked in the dark… those stories were true. Patrol men, ready to shoot at shadows, even if the shadow did belong to a living being. Nothing was sacred…

Mark let his gaze wander to the fridge. Drawing that Tommy and Jo made in school were posted proudly. He smiled sadly. They had grown up in a microcosm, here in the complex. They were sheltered from the horrors of the outside world, from the conformist school system that was going back several centuries, from mindless worship of government officials. Bribes, blind spots, just so they could carry on business. Roger had been reading 1984, where the resistance turned out to be a fabrication by the government. What if the Patriots were allowed to continue for that same principal? What if their leaders were bribed by the government… what if…

He shook his head. Now was not the time to being concocting ridiculous theories, using a book written decades ago as proof.

The coffee was done. He poured himself a cup and went through the ritual of putting ice in it. A hot mug for Pam and he was walking back towards the tech room.

The screen of the computer reflected off Pam's glasses, making her look like a bug with over-large eyes. He might have been amused for a moment if that didn't happen every time Pam sat in front of a computer. The forensics computer expert… she'd come a long way from the timid young woman she'd been in the Life Support meetings.

"Program's running," she said, taking the coffee.

"And?"

Without looking at him, she peeled a post-it from the desktop and pushed it in his hands. "Since we already knew that Joanne Jefferson was being transferred to Sing-Sing, I made a confirmation of her first. She's there." Pam paused, still watching numbers flash across the screen. The decoding probably made sense to her. "The pertinent data that you'll need to get her is heavily encrypted. I have it isolated and I'll have to decode it later, but that post-it has her cell number and current location—those aren't encrypted."

Mark looked at the slanted, scrawled handwriting on the blue sticky note. He could barely make out Joanne's name, and squinted to decipher the number. However, he could read the current location clearly. Medical center. His heart jumped.

"What's wrong with her?" he asked shakily.

Pam shrugged, not because she didn't care, but because she had too many other things to worry about, besides this project that he, Mimi and Roger wanted her to work on. "I don't know—like I said, all that sort of stuff is encrypted."

He sank into a chair next to Pam, still staring at the post-it. Medical center… what did that mean? He couldn't know until Pam decoded the files. For all he knew, something like that could be routine… or as much as medieval torture could be routine. Joanne… they had known where she was for a while, but had been hampered on progress.

He watched as Pam pushed the rolling desk chair between two systems, each running the program—he assumed on different facilities. Mark had given Pam all the information he could on each of the others—race, birthdates, current ages, former occupations, orientations, creeds… so she could make as accurate a match as possible.

She moved back to a monitor and tapped a few keys. She pulled a clean sticky note from the top of the pad and scribbled something on it. "Got another at Sing-Sing," she said, pushing the note at Mark and herself towards the second monitor.

He looked at the new post-it. Sing-Sing… Thomas Collins… cell 3145… in cell…

His mind froze as his hand shook. Collins… he was in the same place as Joanne. And in his cell, not the medical center, meaning… Mark didn't know what it meant, but he was afraid to be happy, afraid that this might all be a dream he would wake from.

Pam was suddenly scribbling on another note.

Mark took the new note.

Portsmouth. Maureen Johnson. Cell 1732. In cell.

Maureen… she was in the facility in Maine, the one near the ocean, the one that Roger had speculated might make the easiest jail break. He let out a shaky breath. Maureen had broken up with him, gone to Joanne, that much was true, but, in his own way, he had always loved her. He would probably always love her in some way. She was… God, what would life have been like without Maureen all those years ago? Boring, that's what.

Another sticky note.

Portsmouth. Angel Schunard. Cell 1733. Medical center.

Angel and Maureen had cells next to each other?

Mark looked from the notes in his hand to Pam. "They're really alive?" he whispered, throat clogged and unshed tears stinging his eyes.

"They really are," Pam replied. She glanced at the screens. "I've isolated their personal files and I'll get that information to you by tomorrow. Let me know about anymore hacking or forging I'll need to do to get them out."

"Thank you."

Pam shrugged. "Hell, I remember Collins and Angel. I liked them. Good guys."

Mark's gaze locked with Pam's for a split second before he did the only thing that made sense—he bolted from his chair and ran down the hall and up the stairs to their quarters. Roger and Mimi had to know all this—now. Urgency pushed him, even though the information would still be there in the morning.

He didn't bother to knock on their door, just ran in, bounced onto the side of the bed and violently shook Roger. "Roger!" he cried, voice raised in pitch. "Mimi!" he added, with one or two cursory shakes for Mimi.

"What?" Roger grumbled. "I have a speech at—"

"We found them!"

That got their attention. Mimi turned on a lamp on her side of the bed and Roger sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Where?" Mimi asked, crawling over Roger.

Mark handed her the sticky notes. She studied each one, Roger looking over her shoulder. A smile spread over her face. They were all alive—and wasn't that what they'd been hoping for all these years? Hope… and all of them were there.

"Yes," Mimi breathed softly. "Yes!"

Laughter bubbled up. Mimi wrapped her arms around Mark and Roger, pulling them into a group hug. "I can't believe it," Roger said, shaking his head and blinking. "All this time… and we didn't know. We didn't know."

"We know now," Mark replied, "And we're getting them back."

They were laughing and crying at once, trying to make sense of the tumult of emotions. More than ever, Mark wished he had his camera. This was the moment that all filmmakers tried to capture—the true dichotomy of human emotions. They were holding each other.

Mimi studied the post-its again. "Angel and Maureen were next to each other?" she murmured. "What were the chances of that happening?"

"None."

For a long moment, they stared at each other.

Roger cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "We'll need a jail break at Sing-Sing, and an undercover smuggle job at Portsmouth."

"Sleep?" Mark asked with an innocent smile.

"You're touched in the head." Roger stood up. "We plan now."

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

I stare at the letter in my hands—the one I never had a chance to send, because I saw Joanne and… Life has gone back to normal around here. Well, whatever normal is. I am taken to Paul several times a week to have my head shrunk. Sometimes I cooperate and he gives me a newspaper. Sometimes I don't and take a beating from the guards. At least that unpredictability adds some zest to the dull, monotony of life around here.

Joanne… no one tells me anything about her. I've asked. Paul pretended that he had temporarily gone deaf and couldn't hear me. There's different classifications of prisoners here—no one talks about it, but everyone knows. I am a psych prisoner, one whose mind they want to pick apart. Joanne is… I can't even describe what she might be. I know what they've done to her and other prisoners like her. But I can't find the words…

In undergrad school, I had to read a novel by a Holocaust survivor. He wrote that the Nazis were purposefully unspeakably cruel, just so that no one would be able to narrate the atrocities that were inflicted upon them. That principle remains the same. Most of what was done to me—said to me—why would I want anyone else to hear or read? For them, it would just be a brand of pornography, something to gape at and forget in a moment, just like a splatter film. Nothing to remember other than the gratuitous gore.

Angel…

For ten long years, the thought of her has kept me alive. Her spirit, her willingness to fight, her generosity, her kindness… She never hurt anyone, and someone was now hurting her for being different, for being herself.

Orwell and Huxley… Gilliam and Jewison… dystopia visionaries. Did any of them suspect that their dark visions would come true? Paper pushers, mindless controlled masses, surveillance in all aspects of life, test tube babies… and no one heeded their warnings.

It's time. I've been sitting here, slowly spiraling into insanity in my own mind. I need to do something visible. It never was in my nature to sit back and allow things to happen. I always spoke up and fought, wrote letters, marched and petitioned. People always thought I was being clever or smart-assed, but I meant every word I said. I believe in freedom—nothing more. Anarchy was one way to absolute freedom…

I remember coming into the apartment. Angel would be sitting at the table, drawing, sometimes with charcoal, so her fingers would be black. Our schedules had always been unpredictable, but we still found time to be together. First day of classes at NYU… Angel forced me to wear a shirt and tie because I had to make a good first impression. The cool, sleek, artist style that Angel wore to work… tank tops with open dress shirts and always, always, a beret or English driver's cap. Angel was the master of personas, but never lost herself in them.

Time… time to save myself…

The door to my cell opens. I don't bother to hide the letter. I'll get the damn thing in mailbox if it kills me in the process. And it might. It just might.

"On your feet," the guard barks.

Slowly, I stand up.

"Let's go," he adds, grabbing my upper arm and pulling me out of the cell.

I've been reduced to something I never wanted to be—complicit. I hate complicity—it is what causes dictatorships to rise, it is what allows corruption to happen. Fucking complicity. I had some noble heroic notion about sharing the same fate as Angel, but… Christ, Angel is probably dead. And if Angel is dead, then there's nothing left to live for.

I think they meant it when they you can't buy love, now I know you can rent it, a new lease, you are my love…

Rent love? Shit, that lease wasn't up yet.

Without thinking about it, I yank my arm from the guard's. He looks startled, because the most resistance I've ever shown before was smart-ass remarks. Mailbox is near. The guard calls for back-up and I hear the sound of heavy boots running down the hall. I don't care. With shaking hands, I open the mail slot and shove in my letter.

Almost as soon as that happens, I feel a heavy blow to my shoulder. The force is so great that I don't feel the pain. I'll feel it later, when the adrenaline wears off. For now…

"What is he doing?"

Another guard yanks my arm and pulls me to my feet. "Don't know, sir. Seemed obsessed with the mailbox here."

"Whatever for? He has no way to send mail."

"Don't know."

"Take him back to his cell. He's a lost cause now anyways."

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

"Sue's done a lot of work in government hospitals. She's the logical choice for a plant—we can manufacture transfer papers."

Mark looked at the faces around the table. Pam had a sheaf of papers in front of her, pushing her glasses up her nose. Roger had his chin propped on his hand, elbow on the table. He looked skeptical at their choice of a plant. Mimi appeared thoughtful, mulling over the various possibilities in her mind. Roger's initial assessment had been correct. The prisoners at Portsmouth could be smuggled out—and the planning wouldn't take as long. Sing-Sing, however, required a full out jail break because of it's proximity to the city and reinforcements. With Portsmouth, if someone escaped, the staff just assumed the person starved or drowned in the nearby sea. Sing-Sing… those prisoners had to be tracked down before they spilled the beans.

"How would we get her up there?" Mark asked.

Pam glanced to Roger. The former rocker cleared his throat. "I have a vehicle pass—I use it when I have to drive around the mayor or someone important. It won't be too hard to find a free vehicle and use that as the transport for Sue."

"Records?"

"Always doctored at the end of the month because people forget to fill out the logs. No one will look twice at that."

He nodded. "You won't be able to stay up there. You'll have to get back."

Roger gave him a bored look. "I know that."

"How's Sue going to get them out?" Mimi asked.

Pam sat up straighter. "Remember how I told you that I rescued an endangered penguin?" Roger groaned, indicating he had been the one to hear the story. "It's the same principle," she continued. "Sue would be working in the med center. If she says she needs to see Maureen for testing, and Angel is already there—"

"Why's Angel there?" Mimi asked.

"Broken leg," Pam replied. "Records don't say how, but that's the injury."

"Jesus," Mimi breathed.

"Anyways," Pam continued, clearing her throat. "She can get both of them in the med center. From there, she can get them civilian clothes and these." She set two visitor badges on the table. "She'll just claim that they're two interns from a med school, there to observe."

"And no one will question that?" The story sounded flimsy to Mark—something that would never hold water and backfire in their faces.

"Timing, Cohen," Roger said. Mark turned to his friend, frowning. "She's going to do this late at night when the majority of the staff is asleep and the guards are on a minimal rotation." He paused. "Mimi and I will plant a car in the woods up there before Sue goes. If all this goes well, she'll get them out of the facility, into the truck and to the safe house in Augusta before dawn. Once they get to the safe house, Sue can communicate with Pam to manufacture papers for them. None of the regular police bands will be looking for them, since they don't exist. From there, they'll be able to get here without a problem."

"So much can go wrong," Mimi murmured.

"Isn't that how prison breaks normally are?" Pam asked.

Mimi was silent, but the fear was evident in her dark eyes. They all knew how fragile the situation was—would they be able to go on, knowing that the prison break had been tried and failed, ending in…

He didn't want to articulate the words, not even to himself.

Pam gathered her documents. "I'll get Sue up here in a few minutes. For now, I suggest that you get some coffee and get ready for work. We can brief Sue before you guys go to work." She paused, a wry smile coming over her face. "I'm sure she's ready to get out of here and get her hands dirty."

They were silent as Pam left the room.

After a few moments, Roger let out a long, audible breath.

Mimi shoved his arm.

"What?" he asked. "I'm the one that has to deliver Sue, but I can't stay around to make sure that they get out all right."

He had a point. Mark closed his eyes briefly, thinking of Maureen. What would it be like to see them after so long? What if they were just a shell of their former selves? What if the people they had known and loved were gone? Would it be better to assume them dead? So many questions and no answers.

Well, it was impossible to assume they were dead now. Not when they knew that they were alive. Alive… hope… Hopefully, within a few weeks, Angel and Maureen would be with them at the Patriots' complex—home, with their family, where they belonged. Sue would have to assess their health and that would determine how long they stayed at the safe house in Maine. And all their breaks had to be done under the radar of Trent and the other leaders of the Patriots… Pam would help them and so would Sue… the old Life Support bunch.

All three of them had wondered, hoped… Angel and Collins, Joanne and Maureen… some answers. Some… and the information they did have. Angel was in the medical center of the facility with a broken leg. How or why, just more questions. Maureen, according to Pam and her files, was coming off a new virus injection, recovering slowly. And Joanne… in the medical center with a myriad of conditions that didn't look good, mostly involving her heart. Collins… solitary confinement for the time being.

Thinking about their situations—the why behind the words—just caused more questions and more heartache. Concentrate on the here and now.

Forget regret or life is yours to miss.

No other road, no other way.

No day but today.

This evening, Roger would drive Sue to the facility in Maine. Tomorrow evening, Sue would begin the process of getting Angel and Maureen to the safe house. Hopefully. If all went according to plan. But, as Mimi had said, so much could go wrong.

"I hear you have an assignment for me."

They all looked up as Sue entered the room. None of them had gotten coffee or started getting ready for work, like Pam had suggested. And since Pam, herself, worked for the precinct, she had to get downtown by nine. Sue appeared as if she had been up all night—a little more careworn. She sat down at the table.

Roger gave her the brief version of their plan.

Sue nodding, thumbing through the notes she had. "Pam gave me the parts of their files she had decrypted," she said. "I'll have to make a more detailed medical assessment once I get there. Schunard doesn't appear to have had recent viral injections, but that broken leg concerns me. I'll have to see how badly injured the limb actually is." She paused. "Johnson might be too weak—again, I'll have to assess her there, see the severity of the infections."

"We know you'll do your best," Mark said quietly.

"I'll get them to the safe house, but it could be days—weeks—before either of them are strong enough to make the trip here."

Nods all around the table.

"The ideal situation would be that Schunard's leg has healed enough for a walking cast, and that Johnson has come off the virus enough to move on her own." She paused. "But being locked up for so long will have atrophied their muscles to a degree. They'll need time to build up strength."

"Just do what you can," Mark said.

Sue nodded and stood up. "In that case, I'll get my things together and get my documents from Pam." She turned to Roger. "What time are we leaving?"

"I've booked a truck from 1600 until 2000," he replied.

"I'll be ready then." She left the room.

Mimi looked at Roger. "Is that enough time to get up there and back?"

Roger shrugged. "With the way I drive? Sure."

Mimi looked torn between amusement and horror. "Right," she said slowly. "When are we planting a Patriots truck up there?"

Mark listened idly as Roger gave her the details for that operation. His mind wasn't on the logistics about planting cars or doctors. What would it be like to see them again after so long? Maureen had always been active, the center of attention, but she never dealt well with pain or suffering or lose. She always acted out, pretended like everything was all right. But if she had been with Angel for all these years… maybe, just maybe…

Angel had been almost the opposite of Maureen. Perhaps, more than any of them, Angel had been the one to understand lose and pain, and was able to deal with the situations more clearly. He had always been calm and sagacious, a comforting presence, a balm… He had been the one to calm everyone down, expressing his own emotions in a safe, controlled way. Never out of control and confident about himself and his life… unlike Maureen, who always teetered out of control and walked a fine line between acceptable and insane.

"Mark."

He turned to Roger, taking in his long-time friend.

"It's happening."

"I know."

"Are we ready for this?"

"I think we've been ready for this for ten years."

"I know." Roger paused. "I know."

To be continued…

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The Real Author's Note: Well, again, thanks for the support and kind words. I appreciate all feedback concerning this piece—it lets me know that this dystopia RENT thing isn't completely from left field and garners some interest. Since my summer job is starting soon, I won't have as much time to work on this piece, so please continue to be patient. Thanks!