Disclaimer: I still own nothing. Nothing at all.

AN: Two chapters left after this one, plus an epilogue. And yes. Voldemort. Because... well, because we don't know for sure what time period this takes place in, and he's the first person I associate with flashes of green light. Remember, when you take away her gun she's just a college student with a kid sister. She's read the books.

August 24

Peter was snoozing in the airlock when Sam arrived. Judging by the puddle of drool on his clothes he'd been there a while. She nudged him awake and sent him on his way before pushing her way through the heavy door into the bunker.

She was met by a bright flash of light.

For a brief instant, her mind ran through every possible scenario, real and imagined.

--it was the machines and their poisoned gas

--something was on fire

--a time traveler had arrived

--a new invention was doing something peculiar

--he'd requested a piece of a film projector or strobe light or something

--she was having a seizure

--Voldemort

She tore herself from her panic and lunged at the scientist, guns blazing, ready to protect him from whatever it was.

Whatever it was.

Which happened to be the quartz-dream-catcher-mask-thing. The horrible green light stopped suddenly and the Scientist reeled. She was behind him in an instant, catching him in her arms and searching for any sign of an attacker. Besides the mask thing, anyway.

"It's all right," Geppetto rasped, patting her arm away with withered hands. His face was ashen, his eyes sunken.

"No you're not," she said. "We need to get you a doctor. We—"

"Shhh." Weak as he was, there was strength in his command. He reached forward at the device that had panicked her a moment before: connected to the mask was a cable. Connected to the cable was the Talisman. And behind that, dangling from a bit of string, was one of his little dolls, its skin made of burlap, its back labeled 5. Slowly Geppetto untied the string and caught the little doll in his weathered hand.

And then it blinked. The doll—the inanimate object—blinked. And looked around. And cocked its head, waiting patiently for the Scientist to set it carefully on the ground. It stood there for a while, looking up at the Scientist and Sam and then around the room, before it meandered out of sight.

Finally Sam remembered how to speak:

"What… what was that thing?" she asked.

"That was Five,"

"There are... five of those—" He nodded. "What the hell are they?"

"Pieces," the Scientist said slowly. His strength was starting to fail him. Sam walked him back to his cot and he slumped down, utterly exhausted. Unsure of what else to do, she went to the cooler and pulled out a bottle of water and an energy bar of some kind. He looked like he could use something to eat.

"Pieces of what?" she asked, handing them over. He drained half the bottle in one gulp, almost choking on the water that poured down his throat, but when he spoke again his voice sounded more steady:

"Pieces of myself," he explained. "I had to give them a conscience. I couldn't let them turn out like the other…" Another gulp finished the bottle; she quickly procured another. This one he sipped more carefully, taking a moment to breathe and collect himself.

"I apologize for not telling you," he said. "That little figurine I gave you—"

"You're not telling me that was one, too?" she squeaked. If that thing was alive—if it did something to Lizzy—

"No, no. But one of them made it. Two."

It took her a moment to puzzle that out. Either one of those things made the lion and his name was Two, or two of the things made it and Geppetto had just forgotten for a moment, or one of them had made two lions. But that didn't matter.

"He thought she might enjoy the company," he said gently.

"Hold on. So there's five of these things running around this bunker?" she asked, glancing at the ground, hoping she hadn't stepped on one by mistake.

"I've released all but Five into the outside world." He'd released all but five-- there were more than five of them? Or they were all gone except the one named Five? And whose idea had it been to name them after numbers?

"Then they're dead," she said, forcing herself past her own frazzled thoughts. This whole situation was frustrating enough without confusing herself. "They wouldn't last a second in the gas—"

"They are automatons, Samantha. They are alive, but they do not need to breathe. The gas won't harm them."

"Then they'll get stepped on, or shot, or blown up, or—why did you even make these things?" she demanded, her voice rising dangerously. She heard a squeak and a rattle across the room. The little doll thing was huddled in a corner, covering its head with the shredded remnants of a sandal. She couldn't be sure, but it looked like it was covering its ears—or the place where its ears were supposed to be.

"So they can do what we cannot," he said wearily. "Maybe they can make a difference in the course of this world. And if…" He stopped himself. He'd said too much.

"If?" She stared daggers at him, demanding an explanation. They had at least eight more hours before her shift ended. Plenty of time for her to pry it out of him. He considered that fact—she could see it in his eyes—and gave up before she had a chance to make him miserable.

"If all else fails, they will ensure that life will go on." Those words held hope. That all else wouldn't fail. That survival was possible. That she would accept and understand.

No such luck.

"So this is… this is what, a contingency plan?" she demanded, her voice rising to something just below a scream. The doll thing cowered deeper under the shredded sandal. "All this time you've been sitting here coming up with plan B? In case you haven't noticed, we're still alive!" She jumped to her feet, furious. "We've still got a fighting chance, and we'd have even more if you hadn't given up on us already!"

Without another word she left. There was nothing else to do. Not when she had a gun at her hip and so much temptation to use it. No. Better to leave. Better to run than to lose it. She stormed away and into the airlock that divided the cold, awful bunker from the outside world.

The world that, for all its gas and violence and mortar shells exploding in the distance, wasn't nearly as awful to think about. Because there was still a chance.

Somehow. Somewhere.

She just had to find it.