Emma Swan, now officially closer to forty than to thirty, locked the door to her apartment with a weary sigh. There was only an hour and a half left of her birthday and she briefly considered running down to the 24 hour market across the street and picking up a cupcake, as she had done for the last few years, but she could see her bed through the half open door across the room and the allure of sleep overcame her. Kicking off her boots, she noticed that the soles were beginning to peel away from the uppers. She'd been busy recently; a mass jailbreak that had sent prisoners scattering over three states had earned her enough that she could probably take the rest of the year off, but had also meant she'd gone from contract to contract so fast that she'd been on the road for nearly two months. She headed for the bathroom, pulling her shirt over her head as she went and letting it drop to the ground. She unbuttoned her jeans as she reached the sink, and then kicked them off as she brushed her teeth, trying to avoid her reflection.

Turning 35 hadn't bothered her, but her body was currently showing the strain. Her eyes were sunken and bruised-looking, the result of spending the last three nights on stakeout, and her ribs were beginning to show through the pale skin on her chest. A barely-healed scar ran down her torso, the thin pink line running from her left hip to her belly button. She thought briefly of the mark who had given it to her, a desperate 23 year old running from a life sentence who had tried to shake her for three days before deciding to give murder another try. She'd taken him down with a taser before she'd felt the blood trickle down her leg, and had called 911 straight away. While she waited for the paramedics, she'd scrawled her name and the word MINE on his chest in permanent ink and passed out. She'd woken up to 37 stitches, a healthy paycheck and an offer from the impressed Sheriff to take her out for a drink. Instead of taking him up on it, she'd jumped headlong into two more contracts.

She finished her ablutions and slouched into the bedroom, glancing at the front door to double check the lock. Exhausted, she drew the heavy curtains and slumped bonelessly onto the mattress. She was just drifting off when her phone rang on the dresser, startling her awake. Swearing loudly, she reflexively lunged for it before remembering she was taking the week off.

"What?" She growled into the phone.

"Emma Swan?" The voice was male, with the faintest hint of desperation behind it.

"Yeah, what?!" Emma demanded, seriously considering throwing the phone across the room.

"Oh thank God, I've been looking for you for years, you have no idea-"

"Buddy, I'm not interested. Bug someone else," Emma said, and hung up. She turned the phone to silent and went back to bed.

The next morning she slept late, took an obscenely long bubble bath and indulged in a late lunch that probably fulfilled her calorie requirements for the whole week. Feeling slightly more human, she went through her mail. There were a few bills she had yet to set up automatic payment for, the usual swathe of junk mail and several postcards. Emma glanced at the postcards briefly. They were all addressed to places she'd lived previously and a few had obviously been forwarded several times. One had no less than four addresses crossed out and re-written, and she was momentarily impressed before realisation overcame her. The first address was for Boston, a place she hadn't lived in for six years. Another postcard was addressed to New York, where she'd moved after Boston and another to Seattle. Someone was following her, tracking her though her admittedly nomadic movements. She looked at the postcards and they all said the same thing: "Emma, please call me, it's important" and then a phone number. She picked up her phone, intending to find out what the hell was going on, and saw the same number on the screen.

"What the hell? Seventeen missed calls? Who is this guy?"

She dialled the number. It rang twice and the voice from the previous night picked up, now sounding outright panicked.

"Hello?"

"Who the hell are you, how did you get this number and why have you been sending me postcards for the last six years?" Emma demanded.

"Emma? Thank God, please don't hang up! My name's Pin- I mean August. I've been trying to find you!"

"Yeah, I can see that. Why?"

August spoke quickly, tripping over his words. "I sent the book to Henry, I thought he'd come find you. I went there to check, but they're gone! You never got it, and everyone's still cursed, they don't even-"

"Whoa, cursed?" Emma interjected. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I went to Boston, but you'd moved on. You kept moving, I could never find you in time! I sent the postcards so maybe they'd be forwarded and find you, and-"

"Hey! Stop talking for a minute. What do you want with me?"

"You're the Saviour! I mean - shit, I didn't mean-"

"Listen freak," Emma said, now thoroughly pissed off, "if this is a joke it isn't funny and if you're serious, you can fuck off. I don't have time for psychos. Don't call me again." She hung up.

"Time to change my number, I think," she murmured.

Shaking off the weird call, she sat down at her computer and pulled up her emails. She'd made a name for herself over the last few years as one of the best bounty hunters around, someone who could find anyone. A private investigator she knew had suggested setting up an agency together and she was seriously considering the idea. As she got older the aversion to staying in one place was fading, and the idea of having backup sounded a lot better after nearly being gutted. The private eye, a quiet guy named Mike who looked like a librarian but had 15 years in the Marines and four purple hearts under his belt, had emailed over a business plan for her to look over. The agency would combine both their talents, offering investigation and recovery services with a specialty in missing persons, runaways and of course, bail jumpers. Mike had assured her she'd still get to hunt down scumbags; she'd just occasionally have to drag people to rehab instead of the police. The plan looked solid, Mike had never once set off her bullshit detector and the few times they'd worked in parallel in the past they'd worked well together. She forwarded the plan to her lawyer and sent Mike a quick note to say she was on board in principle.

Her phone rang again. She checked the number and sure enough, it was psycho boy. She felt her temper fray.

"Listen, jackass-"

"Emma, please let me explain. I know I sounded crazy, I've just been looking for you for so long-"

"Well you found me, and I'm not interested. Got it?"

"You and I were in the same home together when we were kids," August said, and Emma's breath left her so fast it felt like shed been kicked.

"What?"

"I...found you, on the side of the road, when you were a baby. We were together for about a year."

"You...what?" Emma's heartbeat was thundering in her ears.

"I'm sorry, I know this is a shock, but it's important. Can we meet?"

"Why?" Emma tried to kick her brain back into gear.

"It's not really something I can explain without sounding crazy again. I'd really like to meet you. Where are you living now, what city?"

"No way, buddy. So you did some research, that doesn't prove anything."

"Okay, anywhere you want, Emma please, just let me talk to you face to face!"

"I'm done with this."

Her finger was just short of the End Call button when she heard his voice again.

"It's about your son!"

She froze, and then very carefully lifted the phone back to her ear.

"My what?"

"You had a son; you gave him up for adoption, right?"

"Yeah..."

"He's disappeared."

Her own voice sounded far off and she felt ice cold. As she began to shake, she distantly noted she was going into shock.

"Where are you?" She asked.

Fourteen hours later, she sat down in a diner in Waterville opposite a scruffy guy in a check shirt, feeling like her world was disintegrating.

"Emma," he said warmly, "thanks for coming." The years of tracking her had apparently taken a toll. He sat stiffly, as though in pain and his clothes were old and ragged. He was sporting a three-day beard and it appeared to have been at least that long since he'd showered. He fidgeted under her gaze.

"Talk fast," she snapped.

"Okay, listen. When you gave him up, I made sure your kid went to Storybrooke. It's a town about 50 miles from here, but you won't find it on the map. He was supposed to come get you seven years ago."

"That was a closed adoption, from prison. There's no way you could even know about it, never mind interfere!" Emma tried not to shout, mindful of the nosy waitress.

"Please, just listen! When you didn't show, I went myself and I found that he and his adoptive mom vanished a month after he was born. I think she took him back."

"Back where?" Emma said, picking a question at random from the maelstrom inside her.

"Back where we come from, Emma. You and me, we aren't from here."

"From Maine?"

"No, not from Maine. You were born in another world, Emma, and sent here to keep you safe from a powerful curse. I was supposed to look after you. I failed, and I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I am, this shouldn't be happening!"

Emma looked at the completely sincere expression on his face and took a deep breath.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I know how it sounds, believe me, but I don't have time to ease you into this. The stories you think are fairy tales, they're stories about another world. I'm one of them!"

"Yeah, which one?" Emma asked, more out of shock than anything else.

"Pinocchio. They're just stories here, Emma, but they're true for us, and getting truer. I'm turning back, Emma. You have to help me!"

Emma let out a short bark of laughter.

"Pinocchio? Fits, I suppose." She grabbed August's collar and yanked him over the table, coming nose to nose with him.

"You listen to me, you little creep. I don't know how you found this stuff about me, but if you come near me again, I don't care what you diagnosis is, I will shoot you. We clear?"

"But-"

She glared at him.

"We're clear," he murmured, slumping pathetically.

"Good." Emma strode out, leaving August staring at the grubby table.

"Blew it," he muttered angrily, staring in despair at the wood grain barely visible between his trouser leg and his shoe. "Blew it, blew it! Keep it together, gotta convince her, gotta make her see." He mumbled to himself for another 20 minutes before being asked to leave.

On the drive back, Emma called Mike and asked him to do some research on her stalker. She gave him a brief outline of what he'd said, leaving out the part about the adoption, and he promised to get back to her.

She hadn't thought about her son in fifteen years. When she'd discovered she was pregnant she'd been determined no child of hers would grow up in the system like she did. She'd co-operated with the prison and the adoption agency, jumped through every hoop, to make sure the kid went to a family that wanted him, not someone just looking for a government handout. She'd refused to even hold him after giving birth, not wanting to form any kind of bond with this new life she was sending into the world alone, and spent the rest of her sentence trying to convince herself she wasn't heartbroken. When she got out she ran as far as she could, taking any job that kept her busy enough to block out the memory of his tiny face, screwed up as he wailed his first breaths. Surprisingly, it had worked. She'd run from city to city, chasing the kind of people she could have so easily become, and with each new place the memories faded a little more. Now, here she was, finally willing to stop running, and he'd caught up to her in the form of background research that some wacko had turned into a delusion. Her knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as she fought the urge to turn around and beat the scruffy little weasel senseless for opening wounds long since scabbed over.

"C'mon, Emma, keep it together." She refused to let his crazy ideas gain any traction in her mind. The kid was fine, and he wasn't any of her business, anyway. She had no right to worry about him. She'd signed on the dotted line and let him be carried away from her before even the last contraction, and that was the end of her time as a mother. Period.

For the second time in three days she walked straight into bed, kicking off her clothes along the way, and dreamed of dragons and empty cradles.

Mike called her the next day.

"Hey Emma, I looked into that guy for you."

"That was fast, Mike," Emma observed, a decent night's sleep having allowed her to clear her mind.

"Yeah well, you're no use to me if you get yourself killed by a stalker, are you?" Mike's tone was warm.

"True," Emma allowed, smiling. "What did you find out?"

"Well, he wasn't lying. You two really were in a home together."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. He and a bunch of other kids ran away when you were about nine months old. He would have been about eight. He was in and out of the system till he turned eighteen, then he dropped off the grid. Resurfaced about 6 years ago in Maine. He was arrested for breaking into a state records office, looking through adoption papers."

Emma inhaled sharply.

"He's spent a lot of time in institutions since then. His records mention fairy-tale delusions repeatedly, that mean anything to you?"

"Yeah, Mike. I'm a fairy-tale princess, can't you tell?"

If he heard the slight tremor in her voice, Mike chose to ignore it.

"That explains it then," he chuckled. "Listen, this guy's a whack-job, but I don't think he's dangerous. Nothing you can't handle, right?"

"Right," Emma affirmed, still a little shaken.

"Okay then. Did your lawyer get back to you yet?"

Emma gratefully accepted the change of subject. They talked business for a few minutes more and agreed to meet for lunch the next day. Emma felt much better after the call and reflected, not for the first time, that Mike was a good friend. it had taken her a while to get used to the idea, never having stayed put long enough to put down those kind of roots before, but she was glad.

"You're growing up," she addressed her reflection in the computer screen. She debated whether to check for new contracts, but the twinge on her stomach as she stretched reminded her of her intention to take a break.

August paced his tiny apartment frantically, muttering under his breath. Various prescription bottles littered the countertops nearby and he wondered, not for the first time, if he really was crazy. The wooden thump of his feet as he paced drew his attention, however, and he let the thought go. It had started so gradually that he hadn't noticed at first. He'd been searching for Emma after going to Storybrooke and finding a town convinced that it's mayor and her new son had gone out of town for a week or so, a week that had lasted seventeen years without them realising. He'd gone to Boston and when he discovered she'd moved on his leg had cramped. He'd dismissed it at the time, but it happened again and again, and his legs had darkened as though he'd been tanning. He saw the first hint of wood grain in New York, when he'd followed Neal around for two days to make sure Emma wasn't with him, and he'd freaked out so badly he'd ended up a guest in a mental hospital for three months. When he got out, the trail had gone cold. Arthritic agony had shot up his fingers then, and he'd realised that his body was reacting to the gnawing of his conscience and redoubled his efforts. He'd abandoned Emma, had her thrown in prison and now he'd lost her son. He marvelled that it was taking this long to change back with that kind of guilt weighed him down.

And now he'd found her, and in his frantic desire to enlist her in her destiny, he'd driven her away completely. He had no hold on her attention the way Henry would have, and God knew where the kid was? One way or another, he had to get her to Storybrooke, to her family. They might not remember her, but maybe her parents would have an impact on her the way he never could. He'd have to get her there, but how?

Emma looked over her new office with pride. She and Mike were officially business partners, and they'd moved into the office at the start of the week. Mike had brought over his existing clients and Emma's stomach was healed enough to take on contracts again. She looked at the desk, empty except for a phone, a notepad and a brass plate engraved with her name and the words Recovery Services.

"Wow," she breathed.

"Yeah, it's something, ain't it?" Mike chuckled from his own desk opposite. They had hired a secretary who was stationed in the outer office, and long term they planned to take on more employees, but for the moment it was just her and Mike, surveying the business they'd built. Mike's desk matched hers and he had a similar nameplate, with the words Investigation Services proudly displayed.

"It's something," Emma agreed.

The moment was broken by Emma's phone ringing, and she jumped.

"Better get that," Mike grinned. "All that money we've invested's gonna go to waste otherwise."

Emma sat down at her desk and took a breath, then lifted the receiver.

"Emma Swan, recovery. How can I help?"

Her first case had gone smoothly. Some college kid had taken off from campus just before mid-term break and his over-protective mother wasn't getting anywhere with the police. Emma could see what had happened from a mile away, but a paycheck was a paycheck. His roommate tried to cover, but coughed up the address of a hotel in Brunswick. Emma scoffed at the kid's idea of a fun town to spend his vacation in, drove over and stuffed the kid in the pickup she'd bought for work, making sure his stoner friends heard how worried his mother had been. She'd dropped the kid and her invoice off with the mother and headed back to the office, smiling to herself.

She pulled into the parking structure and killed the engine, stretching gratefully as she slid out of the cab. She hadn't quite broken the truck in yet, and a day behind the wheel had left her aching, so she took the stairs up to the office rather than the elevator, climbing two at a time to stretch her stiff legs. She entered the outer office and smiled as the secretary, a young, painfully polite man called Jamie, handed her a stack of paperwork. That was one part of the new business she was slowly getting used to. Emma had a good memory and had kept very few paper records as a solo hunter, but Mike had insisted on writing everything up. The paperwork was scanned into the computer and the hard copies stored offsite, just in case.

Emma wrote up the case, which didn't take long, and glanced at the bottom sheet Jamie had given her. Emma had felt the urge to go chasing a bad guy, so she'd asked him to find her a juicy bounty. Judging from what he'd presented her with, pickings were slim.

"Huh, don't tell me every scumbag in Maine decided to make their court date?" She mused ruefully.

She scanned to the bottom of the sheet and a name jumped out at her.

August Booth: failed to appear to answer charges of breaking and entering, destruction of property, theft of city property and assault.

"Son of a bitch!" She hadn't heard from the fairy-tale freak since their meeting in the diner almost three weeks previously, but more postcards had caught up to her. She'd learned never to let an opportunity pass her by. Since innocent people didn't jump bail, if she could get him before a judge, the system would hopefully keep him out of her life for a good long while, especially if he started spouting his delusional nonsense.

"No parole in the psych ward, Pinocchio," she grinned, and picked up the phone to call her contact at the courthouse for information. As she dialled, she called through to the outer office.

"Jamie, tell Mike I'm taking a bounty. I think I know where the guy's headed."

"Where?" Jamie called back.

"Some place called Storybrooke."