See Prologue for Disclaimer and Author's Notes.

Chapter 1 – Points of Departure

Morning came too fast. Morning always came too fast. John gave a disgruntled grunt in the general direction of his blaring alarm clock and pulled a pillow over his face.

And then it hit him.

Today was the day his new life began. A life, he thought, that maybe he would not suck so much at. A life that mattered. A life that would be a fresh start. A life where he could prove to himself that he could be more than a burned-out cop in a bedroom community – and have a role in something that really mattered.

Assuming he could break a few bad habits.

On this thought, he rubbed absently at his cheeks – "Damn," he mumbled, and wondered about the last time he'd shaved. Two… three days? Definitely needed to shave today. Didn't want to make a bad first impression on the Pretty Police La—Ivanova. "Ivanova," John said aloud as he hoisted himself out of bed. "The commander's name… is Ivanova." He shuffled to his kitchen, started a pot of coffee, and opened his refrigerator.

It contained exactly one half-gallon of milk, three apples, half of a six-inch meatball sub, two pieces of string cheese and three six-packs of beer.

He reached for a beer but stopped himself and made his hand grasp the meatball sub instead. "Carbs," he told himself. "That should help." A stifled yawn, another feel of his stubbly cheeks, and a glance down at himself – yeah. He'd need a shower. A long, hot shower, probably followed by a cold one to make sure he was completely awake and completely sober by the time he arrived in Babylon.

As he ate his breakfast and washed it down with two cups of coffee, he gave some consideration to what he was doing. He was giving up a position in which he made his own hours, held the reigns of command and – for the most part – stayed out of harm's way. It was comfortable. It allowed him to keep his (admittedly not too healthy) habits. It was a good job.

But it was boring.

It was boring, and deep down he knew he was better than this. He wanted so badly to prove that he was better than this.

It crossed his mind that he believed he'd had this same conversation with himself the night Chief Kosh had called, but he couldn't remember for sure. He finished off the sandwich with a swig of milk straight from the carton and then headed off for the shower.

Forty minutes later, clean and clean-shaven, he returned to the bedroom and laid his uniform out on the bed. He ran his hands over the dark blue fabric thoughtfully; when was the last time he'd put this on and felt like anything more than a rent-a-cop?

He knew exactly when. He could pin it down to a day.

He pulled the pants on slowly, one leg at a time, and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he zipped them up. His reflection, he noted, had a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

His white dress shirt came next, and on normal days in Agamemnon, this was where he stopped. He'd pin on the badge without much of a thought and walk out the door. Maybe he'd grab his sidearm; probably not, on most days. But today… today was a very different kind of day. And so he reached down to pick up the blue jacket and pulled it on slowly, almost reverently. Then from the top drawer of his dresser, he pulled the shiny gold shield, palming it, studying it for a long, pensive moment.

This was new. It had just arrived yesterday via courier, and he hadn't really taken the time to get a good look at it; he'd been busy packing, so he'd set it in this drawer and not given it much thought. Now he ran his thumb over the raised inscription – "Babylon PD" it said, and below the state seal – "Captain."

Captain.

He'd been a captain for four years. It had meant something, once upon a time.

In the city of Babylon, in the fight against the Shadows and the battle to stop a turf war that threatened the lives of so many innocents, maybe he could make it mean something again. Maybe he could make himself mean something. He felt in spite of himself a twinge of pride at being able to put on this shield, this uniform.

For as long as he wore it, that was. It wouldn't be long before grubby street clothes took their place, because he knew he would willing to lay aside his commission, his badge, his protection and descend into the Shadows for the good of Babylon and all its citizens… and for himself… and for Anna.

"I love you," he whispered, eyes locking on a framed photograph of the red-headed woman who had been his whole world. He affixed the badge to his left breast pocket and gave himself a final once-over before reaching for his hat and exiting the room.

It was an hour commute to Babylon. Time to hit the road.

Commander Susan Ivanova was not having a good day. She had already been running late this morning when somehow – somehow – she'd managed to spill coffee on the white shirt she wore beneath her dark blue uniform jacket. With a curse, she'd pulled off the shirt and gone back into the bedroom, where Marcus was just rousing from his slumber. He took one note of her in her bra and started giving her bedroom eyes – which on most days would have ended with a playful before-work bedroom tango, but today she was in no mood. She'd shooed him away when he'd wrapped his arms around her waist and started laying kisses along her perfectly cut abdomen.

"Marcus, knock it off." She had said, swatting at his long dark locks and pushing him back onto the bed. And he had pouted at her. Again, normally – well, normally, things would have happened that would have made her very late, and it wouldn't have been a big deal, but this morning – no.

She'd rolled her eyes at him, pulled on a clean white undershirt quickly followed by her uniform jacket and stormed out of the bedroom, leaving Marcus staring after her wistfully.

And then there had been traffic, because she had left home five minutes late, which by commuter time meant that by the time she was on the road, so was everyone else in the whole fucking universe, and by the time she pulled into the BPD parking lot, five minutes had turned into thirty-five minutes.

So she was already not having a good day, and then the dispatcher stopped her on her way in. "Commander."

"I'm late. What is it?" She was pulling her long chestnut hair back into a tight bun at the back of her head as she stood in the lobby, and she didn't care who was watching.

"Captain Sheridan, Ma'am – "

"I know - he starts today. I'm expecting him at 0900, and I hope for his sake he's not a punctual man, because I have a thing or two to get done –"

"He's in your office, Ma'am."

Ivanova closed her eyes. Counted very slowly to ten. Or she intended to count to ten – she got as far as three before her eyes popped back open and she exploded on the dispatcher. "What do you mean he's in my office? He can't be in my office. It's only – " She looked at her watch. "I have at least twenty minutes."

"No, Captain Sheridan was told to be here at 0800, Ma'am."

"By whom?"

"Kosh."

Again, eyes closed. Counting to ten. One… two… three… four… fi—fuck it. "Thank you." She nodded at the dispatcher, punched her security code into the keypad at the door and strode toward her office, muttering expletives under her breath as she went.

She was still muttering when she reached her office. She peeked in the window to get a glimpse of the captain, whom she'd heard a great deal about – and whose file she'd studied thoroughly last night – but whom she'd never actually met. He didn't look like much, she thought. A pretty boy. Clearly worked out, stayed away from the donut table, so that much was good. But he had a troubled past, and that made her wary of him from the get-go; as she understood it, he'd lost his wife two years ago when she'd been taken hostage by a drug cartel Sheridan had been trying to take down, and not only had the FBI refused to pay the ransom – they'd also lost tabs on the cartel. Anna Sheridan had been missing ever since, and was presumed dead. Sheridan blamed himself. And that made her nervous.

She didn't like revenge-seekers under her command. She didn't like officers with baggage. And she didn't like having someone transferred into her unit with very little notice ever, but she especially didn't like it when that person was being transferred in for a specific purpose because they had "a history" in something – which meant they were better at it than her. And this was what bothered her most of all about Sheridan. He was here because she had failed; because Sinclair had been killed; because she was in over her head when it came to gang warfare.

Sheridan was here to fight the Shadows.

And he was early.

And he was a pretty boy.

And he was reading an open file in her office at her desk, drinking from her "I don't like Mondays" coffee mug.

So, she would admit later, it was possible she was slightly less than friendly as she yanked open her office door and breezed into the room, with a final mutter under her breath, "And so it begins."

"Sorry I'm late. There was a mix-up about the time." She set her satchel down under her desk and extended a hand to Sheridan. "Commander Susan Ivanova. Welcome aboard."

"Well thank you." Sheridan set the file down and closed it, but not before Ivanova caught a glimpse of what was inside – the very brief dossier compiled on Mr. Morden, the Shadows' charismatic and fearless leader, and all the information they'd been able to gather before Sinclair's communications to them had stopped. He gave Ivanova a way-too-cheerful smile that reminded her of a Labrador Retriever puppy as he shook her extended hand. Firm handshake, she noted. At least he's got that going for him.

"I'll get right to it." She sat down behind her desk facing Sheridan and folded her hands on the desk in front of her as she locked eyes with him. "As I understand it, you are here for one purpose and one purpose only, and that is to secure a position undercover within the Shadows. I think we'll work well together if you remember that this is my operation, Captain, and I give the orders here. So you don't move without telling me, and you don't breathe without telling me, and you don't do jack shit without telling me, because that is exactly the kind of behavior that causes us to lose good officers."

"Like Jeffrey Sinclair."

"Yes. Like Sinclair."

"What happened with Sinclair was unfortunate." Now Sheridan had dropped the puppy-dog smile and his hazel eyes were meeting hers, unblinking, as he spoke. "I will respect your command, but you have to give me the flexibility to do my job, and sometimes that means improvising to keep my cover and to keep myself alive."

Ivanova considered this for a long moment. "Everything in your record says you're going to cause me trouble," she said finally, her voice dangerously level. "You're a hotshot, you don't like authority figures and you come with more baggage than the rest of this unit combined."

"My personal life and my work are two different things."

"Oh?" Ivanova raised her eyebrows now, and Sheridan had a fleeting thought that this was not the Pretty Police Lady he remembered from TV. Dragon Lady, more like. The kind that eats her young. "Last time, they got to your wife. It cost her her life, and as I understand it you drag that elephant everywhere you go."

"That's not fair!" Sheridan exploded and stood up. Ivanova's eyes followed him. He was taller than she'd thought, and with his brow creased like that he wasn't nearly as pretty. "I did what had to be done. You know as well as anyone here that we do not negotiate with terrorists, no matter the price. I asked my commanding officer for an exception to be made with regard to this particular hostage and he said no. Yes, I carry that around with me every day, but it doesn't affect the way I do my job."

"Bull!" Now Ivanova was on her feet, and though she didn't match his height, she knew what her glare did to anyone who dared to cross her. "Kosh pulled you from the field and benched you in Agamemnon because you couldn't keep your head in the game. There was no other reason for that transfer and I know you didn't ask for it the way you asked for this one. You were a good officer, once upon a time. Now I have every reason to doubt that you can pull off this sting without getting yourself – or anyone else - killed."

Sheridan took several deep breaths. He closed his eyes and Ivanova couldn't help reflecting that he was much better at counting to ten than she was. "I'm here to do a job," he said finally, and he was holding her stare as he spoke in a tense, emotionless tone. "And if you know Kosh, and you know why he pulled me out of Minbar and reassigned me in Agamemnon two years ago, then you must know he wouldn't have sent me here, now, for this, unless I was the right person for that job."

Not only was he pretty, he was smart, too. Damn it. "You're right." Ivanova hated saying those words, especially when she had to say them to a man or someone under her command. This was both, and it tasted like someone had forgotten to put sugar in the lemonade. "OK. Let's start over." Again she extended her hand. Again, Sheridan shook it. They remained standing, and Ivanova picked up the file Sheridan had been studying when she'd come in. "Sinclair was the best of the best, and they fingered him after six months. I don't know why and I don't know how, but they did, and he paid for it with his life. In his last communiqué with us, he gave us what information he could. Your target man is Mr. Morden." Sheridan flipped open the file. A black-and-white mugshot was paperclipped to the inside cover. "That's the only name we've got to go on. We ran him through the computer and came up with a few hits – small time, nothing major. He's done a little time for petty theft, concealed carry, and there are a couple of heavier charges that didn't stick – arson, sexual assault… kidnapping."

Sheridan raised his eyebrows. He'd been scanning the file as Ivanova spoke, but now he met her eyes over the edge of the open folder. "Kidnapping?"

"In Minbar, about five years ago. A young woman disappeared, and our man Mr. Morden was likely the last person to see her alive. They questioned him, searched his apartment, but they had to let him go; they found nothing. The case has been sealed, but she was never found."

A nod. "I remember that case." He hadn't been involved, not directly, but he'd read the reports. He turned to the second page in the very thin file. "Z'ha'dum," he muttered under his breath, then gave Ivanova a confused look. "That's the last you got from him?"

"Sinclair dropped off the face of the Earth about two days after we got that message. It's a bar in a less-than-desirable part of town. We staked it out but couldn't get anything good enough to go on, and the DA won't issue a search warrant unless we give him a good reason. That's where you come in." Now she took a step out from behind her desk and sighed, softening just a little. "It's not that I don't like you. It's not that I don't trust you. But Jeffrey Sinclair was the best officer I had, and they found him out, and they beat him so badly that it took his dental records to get a positive ID on his body."

"That won't happen to me."

"Don't be cocky."

"I'm not. But I am very, very good at my job."

"You used to be."

Sheridan paused then, mulled over her words. "I still am. It's all I have left." He closed the file. "We've got a name and a place. That's all I need to start. I'll go down there tonight and see what I can get."

"You don't –"

Sheridan held up a hand. "I don't move, and I don't breathe, and I don't do jack shit without talking to you first," he conceded. "But if they give me an opening, I'm taking it." He raised his eyebrows, waiting for a challenge. There was none. "So I suggest we set up some check-in times and message drop locations just in case I get in and I can't feasibly get back out."

Ivanova considered this. Sheridan was basically an unknown in Babylon – an advantage Sinclair hadn't had. He had undercover experience – again, a point in his favor. And he had just the dangerous edge about him, veiled thinly by loss and hopelessness, that the Shadows would look for in a new recruit. Sinclair had never had a good cover; he didn't look like he belonged in a seedy bar; as far as Ivanova knew, he'd never been accepted into the Shadows beyond a low-level runner position, and had gathered what he did simply by quiet observation. It hadn't worked. They needed someone deep on the inside. Sheridan could believably be that someone. "OK. Let's get started."

Morden rolled over in the darkness, slowly snaking his arm around the middle of the naked woman who lay beside him. She was peacefully asleep, her porcelain skin marked now and again by bruises. Bruises he'd put there. He smirked, leaned in and sucked hard on her neck, causing her to cry out softly in her sleep. When he got what he wanted – her grey eyes shining up at him in the darkness – he let go and licked the spot. It would leave a mark, just like the others. "Again?" She whispered, her voice heavy with sleep. "I'm tired." A beautiful pout. He almost felt bad.

"You belong to me," he whispered in her ear as he rolled her onto her back beneath him. "I can't get enough of you."

She let out a sigh as he filled her and began to move within her. His mouth descended on her left nipple and she cried out. He laughed, hot against her tender skin, and she raised her knees to take him deeper. He was always like this after a big score, regardless of the medium. Blood, drugs, money, weapons – it didn't matter. He rode that rush for hours.

It had been blood tonight. It had been blood a lot lately. He didn't really tell her what was going on, but she was not stupid. She always knew in the way that he took her. The way he was possessing her, claiming her, marking her body tonight said it was blood. "You know I love you," he panted.

"I love you too," she whispered. Whether she meant it or not was immaterial.

"Me and no one else," he said now, and his sly smile faded just for a moment as he grabbed the hair at the back of her head and forced her to look into his eyes. "Tell me. Me and no one else."

"I love you… no one else."

"No matter who's fucking you."

"No matter – who's – fucking me."

"You're my girl. That's why I do this. You know that. Tell me you know that – you're mine."

"I'm – yours."

"Mine," he growled. "You belong to me."

"I belong – to you."

He grunted in response, drilled deeper, and then he angled himself to bring her pleasure, too, and she was lost in the moment.

When it was over, he fell asleep, and the woman beside him curled into a ball and allowed herself to cry a few silent tears.

She usually cried afterward when she could get away with it – when he was asleep - even on the rare occasion that it was good. Sure, Morden took good care of her. She never wanted for anything – except, of course, the obvious. He possessed her like no one else, gave her a reason to be, a reason to live – important, in a place like this. Was it the right reason? No. It was a goddamn awful and shameful reason. But it was a reason, and that was all that mattered, until she could find a way out. On this thought, she allowed sleep to claim her again, knowing that morning would come soon enough.

In her dreams, she saw a man with gentle hazel eyes and a warm, comforting smile. He'd been in her dreams before. She swore she knew him, but she could not remember his name.