Setting the Board

"Such men as he be never at heart's ease
Whiles they behold a greater than themselves,
And therefore are they very dangerous."
~William Shakespeare.

December 2012. New York City, New York.

Let it never be said that John Curtis wasn't a man of absolute cunning and calculation. Of course, Maura Morrow had already been fully aware of that long before she saw that familiar face at her latest book-signing, but his presence only exemplified it.

Of course he'd shown up in New York—the breeding ground of vengeance, the place where it all began. And of course he'd shown up around the holidays, when emotions were at their most vulnerable and coping with life in general was the hardest.

She'd also had two whole months to think about John's latest scheme—the secret he'd entrusted to her in the back of a dimly-lit bar, when he'd reminded her of just how much the Bureau had taken from her (not that she'd needed reminding, she never forgot, not even in her sleep).

At first, she felt a prickle of fear, struck with the thought that perhaps John had decided that she was no longer trustworthy, that perhaps he regretted telling her of his master plan and was now coming to tie up the loose end. However, she realized if that had been his plan, she never would have seen him at all, and here he was, standing at the back of the bookstore with his hands in his pockets, listening to her read and looking like the most ordinary man on the planet.

Then she felt a stirring of another emotion, one much harder to name, because it danced through stages like an uncertain moth, unsure of which flame to throw itself upon.

He wasn't here just to see how she was doing—neither of them lived in this city and he wasn't the type to "check in" on a friend. Hell, he wasn't even the type to have a friend.

Which meant there was only one reason for his presence that evening. The man had known exactly how to play his cards, and he did so beautifully. He'd given her time to mull it over, had even let the emotional sucker-punch of the holidays work their hellish magic, and then he'd appeared, like a beacon on a foggy night at sea. And despite knowing that all of this was just a cleverly crafted move on John's part, Maura also knew that once the evening was over, once the chapter was read, and the questions asked and answered, and the hands shook and books signed, she would accept his invitation to go for a walk or a drink or whatever else he might use to lure her off.

She was smart enough to realize that whatever happened next, it was inevitable. And it had been, from the moment he'd shaken her hand at the book signing in D.C. two months ago. She now understood that it hadn't been an ordinary handshake—it had been the sealing of her fate.

February 2015. The District Times Editorial Suite. Washington, D.C.

It was late by the time that Jack Dawson and Jessalyn Keller arrived, but the suite dedicated to the staff of The District Times was just as active as if it were mid-afternoon. Phone rang, keyboards clicked, printers groaned and spit out sheets of paper, coffee permeated the air and several different news channels competed for attention on a bank of TV screens hoisted overhead.

"We're all night-owls," John Adams explained with a slight gesture towards the bullpen and an even slighter smile. "Capitol politics never sleeps, and neither do we."

Dawson merely nodded. He'd actually seen that quote, on a bulletin board on their way in. The paper's receptionist had given them directions to John Adams' office, but she must have buzzed him, because he'd met them halfway, anxious and eager to help (the latter being much appreciated).

"Jeez, how does anyone actually write anything around here?" Jess took in all the noise and distraction.

"There's always a work-from-home option, for those who prefer something a little more zen," Adams offered another smile. "Lucky for you, the security office is much quieter."

He led them out of the bullpen, back towards the front desk. They left the section of the building dedicated to the newspaper, taking an elevator to another floor, where Adams led them to the dark and quiet room reserved for the security team.

The night watchman was equally helpful—he already had the footage queued up and ready to go. He walked them through Linnea Charles' footsteps, showed them the section where the camera had been deliberately blacked out, and then finished with the footage of Linnea's car leaving the garage.

"But that's not Lin, I can guarantee you," John Adams spoke up for the first time since they'd arrived in the security office.

Jack Dawson gave a hum of agreement—the footage wasn't the best, but the general features didn't really match Linnea's.

The guard held up a disc, encased in a hard plastic sleeve, "I've got every angle in the garage, starting with Miss Charles' arrival—the blackout doesn't occur til after that—and ending an hour after her car leaves. And I've got every shot of security footage from the building that has her coming and going. It ain't too clear looking on this monitor, but last year, the DCPD had to take some footage for a case and they were able to clean it up with an image enhancement program—it cleans up nicely, I promise ya. Maybe you can get a better look at who took the car."

"Thank you," Dawson gratefully took the disc.

"Just hope you find the girl—alive and well," the guard stipulated. John Adams' face went white at the thought that it could end any other way.

Dawson's phone rang, and he glanced down to see that it was Jude. He excused himself, giving a quick nod towards Keller, silently instructing her to continue with follow-up questions.

He stepped out into the hall before he answered, "What's up, Jude?"

"Absolute mayhem," came the reply. Despite her dramatic words, her tone was flat and precise, "Mason Charles called me back a few minutes ago. I specifically instructed him not to try and contact his wife or do anything out of the ordinary to alert whoever has her that we're onto them."

Dawson felt his stomach sinking, "Lemme guess: he didn't follow the rules."

"No. He set them on fire and then tossed them into the sea. Apparently, he began sending her texts—one after the other, begging her to respond. Then he called a few times, all culminating with him confessing to her that the FBI was looking for her and that she needed to call him back right away."

"Jesus H. Christ."

"We've lost whatever time we'd hoped to buy by not tipping our hand," she surmised dryly. Dawson heard a light shuffling in the background, then Jude switched gears. "However, our local boy scout over here just cracked the code that Dr. Reid was sending out."

"What's it say?"

"Curtis. Apprentice. Strauss too soon. Other plans."

"You think that's possible?" Dawson asked, although he was fairly certain of the answer—after all, he and Jude had thoroughly reviewed every aspect of the Replicator case, whenever they'd been on the post-action panel. But the hour was growing late and his certainty was beginning to wear thin.

"Absolutely. There was that case, the one in…oh, I can't remember where. But there is precedence," Jude reiterated, her tone filled with surety. "Which is why I think we shouldn't ignore this theory."

"Why didn't Reid just say so—why didn't he tell Jess?"

Judith Eden gave an amused hum. "We locked him up and kept him away from his team. Not exactly the prime foundation for trust and solidarity, Jackie boy."

"What a tangled web we weave," he sighed.

"Don't wax poetic on me, Dawson. It doesn't fit the mental image I try to keep of you."

"You don't think I'm poetic?"

"Sura's tried tracking Linnea Charles' phone again, but still no luck." Jude's deflection answered his previous question, and he grinned at her obvious attempt to switch the subject. "Not that we really expected anything less."

"Well, Keller and I are bringing back the security footage ASAP. Tell Sura that we'll need her to work her wonders with image enhancement."

"Will do, Guv."

He hung up and returned to the security office, where Jess was already saying her goodbyes and expressing her thanks to Adams and the night watchman. He noted the dark circles under her eyes and the barely-perceptible slump of her shoulders, and the way that her smile didn't quite light up her face like it usually did. She was wrung out, but valiantly trying to hide it.

Jack waited until they were alone in the elevator, on their way back to the parking garage, before he spoke. "As soon as we get back to Quantico, I want you to take one of the cars back to the hotel and get some sleep."

She nodded, not even arguing with his decree—a sure sign that she truly was exhausted.

"How ya feeling?" He asked quietly.

"Flat," was her response, and her tone matched the word.

"It's been a long day for all of us," he conceded. "I think I'll send Jude and Joe back, too. Sura and I can handle a few hours of watching video feed on our own, I think."

Again, Keller merely nodded. A thoughtful silence ensued as they made their way to the SUV and returned to the streets of D.C.

"What did Jude call about?" Keller finally broke the silence, her face and tone meticulously devoid of any kind of emotion.

"You were right. It was Morse Code that Dr. Reid was using—Joe was able to translate." Dawson took a deep breath before relaying the message.

"An apprentice," Keller murmured. "Well, that explains why it seems like a copycat with inside information on the Replicator case. We're thinking Fuller's the apprentice, right?"

"Perhaps. But there's still Dr. Morrow, who very well may be the doctor and the she referred to in Fuller's journals, plus Reid."

"Plus Reid," she agreed quietly.

December 2012. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

John Curtis had to admit, he was slightly surprised that Maura had chosen to live in the same house, after everything that had happened. However, it only furthered his realization that he'd chosen well, whenever he'd decided to bring her into his plans. People who live constantly in the past are always the most likely to become bent on revenge.

He was currently installed at her kitchen table, quietly watching as she prepared tea—as long as he'd known her, she'd spoken in meticulously unaccented Standard American, but her English childhood still showed through in her personal habits, daily teatime being the main one. Even when they'd worked on the Amerithrax case, Dr. Morrow had always taken a break for tea.

"Now," she announced, curtly moving around the kitchen island to set two cups of tea on the table, installing herself in the chair adjacent to Curtis'. "I have one stipulation. Whatever we do, it has to involve Agent Kaleb Dorset."

"I can't guarantee that."

"Then I can't guarantee my assistance."

John Curtis fought down a wave of irritation as he simply stared at the woman seated in front of him. Maura's face was impassive, a clear testament that this was a deal-breaker. How quickly she'd forgotten that he was the one in charge, that she was the one who was replaceable! He stamped down his anger and simply made a tally in his mental accounts book—he'd make her pay for the slight, later, after her usefulness had run its course.

"What do you have in mind?" He asked, his eyes observing her with clinical scrutiny.

Maura shrugged elegantly. "I haven't a clue. But you're a smart man; I'm sure you'll find a way to make it work."

She'd redeemed herself, though only slightly. At least she was still acknowledging that he was the brains behind the operation—she wasn't charting off-course, but still letting him decide the hows and whys and whens and wheres of it all.

"We're going to need an inside man, at Quantico," Curtis informed her.

Maura's blonde brows quirked downward in concern. "Why can't you handle it yourself?"

"Because I'm in D.C. We need someone who can physically be inside Quantico, without arousing suspicion. Someone who's supposed to be there."

"The more people involved, the greater likelihood of a screw-up," she reminded him.

Curtis took a moment to sip his tea. "Which is why we have to choose carefully—someone who'd rather die than fail, and who'd never betray us."

The doctor's ice-blue eyes were wide. "That's a pretty tall order, Mr. Curtis."

He merely smiled, "It's easier than you'd think, Dr. Morrow."

April 2013. Alexandria, Virginia. (5 Miles South of D.C.)

John Curtis was right, as usual—although Maura Morrow wouldn't admit so aloud, not even under pain of death. Instead, she buried that little annoying realization and glanced over at the young man seated at the opposite end of her metal patio table. The early spring air was warm, already seeping with humidity, but she kept her scarf securely wrapped around her neck.

Not that it was entirely necessary anymore. It had been a week since Benjamin Fuller had seen her scars, accidentally.

And by accidentally, of course, she meant in an entirely deliberate move meant to seem accidental, which also applied to every single aspect of their relationship.

Shortly after her decision to fully join Curtis' scheme, Maura had returned to D.C. for another event—this time, instead of lecturing, she was merely giving a book-signing. Benjamin Fuller had been there again, and it was then that Curtis had noticed the boy's obvious devotion to her. Maura had balked at the idea of seduction, and she wouldn't have even let Curtis finish telling her of his plan until he'd thoroughly assured her that she wouldn't have to take such a path.

And again, he'd been right. Benjamin was so infatuated that merely being in her presence was enough. He acted as if thoughts of anything more simply didn't exist within his mind—and while she found it puzzling at times, she was also tremendously relieved. She'd never really cared for sex in general, but the idea of sex with someone so young and so adoring was even more unpleasant.

It had been a little harder, setting up a third meeting between her and Benjamin Fuller—at the time, she'd only known his first name and that he was a fan of her work, and everything had to look completely uncalculated on her part.

However, less than two weeks later, she'd been offered a chance to speak at another university in the District. She'd gladly accepted, and had made sure that her press agent had put notices in every possible source—her insistence paid off, because Benjamin found it, and subsequently found her again.

He'd come up to shake her hand again, after the lecture. She'd smiled widely in recognition, then had quickly drawn him in closer, whispering in his ear the lie that she'd rehearsed with Curtis—someone at the lecture was making her feel uncomfortable, would Benjamin mind waiting around and seeing her safely to her car?

Of course, he'd accepted, nodding and gravely casting a trained eye around the room. She'd forced the slightest wobble into her smile, making it seem as if she were quite afraid but bravely trying to mask it.

The sweet, gallant boy had swallowed hook, line, and sinker.

As they'd walked to her car, she'd asked questions—where was he from, what did he do? When he informed her that he worked for the FBI, she'd nearly jumped out of her skin. When Curtis had chosen Benjamin, neither one had known anything about him, other than he seemed a prime candidate for becoming a devoted and loyal assistant. Curtis had mentioned finding a way to get him into the Bureau, perhaps in an entry-level civilian position, in order to carry out their plans…but this was so much better than that! Could they really be that lucky?

The answer was yes. Oh, yes.

By the time they'd reached Maura's car, he was already grinning like a madcap, over the moon at the thought that no only had he engaged in such an in-depth conversation with his heroine, but that he'd also been able to step up as her hero of the hour!

In a moment of sheer brilliance (at least in her opinion), she'd thanked him for his help, and then sheepishly asked he would mind just one more favor, which he'd granted instantaneously, before she even voiced it.

She'd asked him if he knew any good handymen in the area. She'd recently rented a house just outside the city and it was proving to need much more fixing up than she'd imagined—the first part wasn't a lie, but the second part was pure fabrication. She could find things to tamper with later on, to keep up her cover story.

Unsurprisingly, he'd offered to help. She'd feigned ecstatic surprise and gushing gratefulness, in turn, and the business of exchanging phone numbers had been a direct and natural result.

That had been a little over two months ago. He made trips to her house almost every weekend, and she kept inventing reasons to have him back again. After he'd finished whatever repairs that had magically sprung up over the week, she'd invite him to a cup of tea or a glass of lemonade, and they'd talk. He was rather intelligent, if wildly naïve, and although he certainly was a raging fanboy, he actually did like the science of her work and understood it well enough to hold a decent conversation on the subject (something her husband never attempted to do, though she never really faulted him for it).

Once she'd built up his trust, and was fully certain of his devotion, she'd let her scarf slip—the scars weren't the kind that didn't go unnoticed if they were out in the open, and Benjamin's eyes had widened with shock at their sudden appearance. She'd pretended to be flustered and embarrassed, and he'd kindly looked away, as if sensing that she didn't want them to be seen.

He might have averted his eyes, but his mind still played over the images, she knew. She could see the questions dancing at the corners of those inquisitive orbs, noticed the way he'd glance in her direction whenever he thought she wasn't looking.

He'd come back again this week to help with some lawn work, and they were currently taking a break to sip lemonade, both slouched into the unforgiving metal chairs on her back patio, each gazing ahead blankly into the hazy afternoon.

She didn't want to do this part. She had to, she knew that she did—it was the whole purpose of showing him the scars in the first place, and the final tie that could bind him to her, once it was shared. But the simple telling of her history brought scars, too, and there were few beings who rushed willingly into such pain.

"You can ask, you know," she said quietly, keeping her face turned ninety-degrees from his. She knew her ice-blue eyes often infused an intensity into her expressions that she didn't always intend, and she didn't want to spook him. Gently, she prompted, "The question that's on your mind, the one that's been rumbling around your brain since last week. You can ask, if you want to."

"I don't think it's my place to ask," he admitted, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, hands clasping together. He looked at them, as if ashamed that she'd read his thoughts so easily.

"And I'm telling you that it is your place to ask." Now she turned to him, letting her eyes fully meet his. "You have the right to ask."

He didn't, not really. But granting him such a right was another step, another strand to weave the web around him, another pull to bring him further into the fantasy world that he'd undoubtedly concocted over the past few weeks, the fantasy world that she'd encouraged and collaborated in constructing.

"Ok," he leaned back again, as if preparing himself for the worst. Slowly, he drew out the words. "The scars…on your neck. Where did they come from?"

She told him the story of her scars. How they came to be, all the things that happened after, and who was responsible for every single twisted piece of it. The threats, the betrayals, the cover-up, all of it.

A heavy silence reigned afterwards. She sipped her lemonade; Benjamin stared at the ground in disbelief. She waited, knowing that his next words would be the final determining factor in whether or not he became a part of their plan.

"It's not right," he finally spoke, his voice still and low, yet still infused with a shaking sense of heartbroken rage. "What they did to you, it isn't right."

"It's how the world works," she said philosophically, portraying a sense of helpless acceptance that she certainly didn't feel. Her feline eyes were watching him intently now, dissecting every nuance of his body language. Each signal he gave was a tremor through the tightrope upon which she currently walked, and she couldn't afford to miss a single step.

"No, they should—someone has to be held accountable. People can't—you can't just play with people's lives like that and not face some kind of consequences." He was shaking his head vehemently now. She saw his hands tremble, too, and she knew that Curtis had chosen her mark well—this boy, this young man, this child, so invested in every aspect of her world and her life, so distraught over an event he never witnessed nor could have prevented in a million years. He was so ardent and so true in his grief for her, it was both touching and disturbing.

"Benjamin, please," she was lowering her head, playing the card of demureness—the same woe-betided maiden routine that had gotten him to walk her to her car so many weeks ago.

"It's not right," he hissed again, becoming almost unrecognizable in his emotional distress. Over the past few weeks, Benjamin had shown himself to be quiet, at times even shy, retiring and unobtrusive. The man currently seated at her table was his polar opposite.

"But what can you do?" Now she looked up at him again, face lined with distress. Her words settled his anger slightly—she let a small pause further smooth over the upset edges before laying down the final piece of her so-carefully constructed net, repeating plaintively, "What can you do to make it right?"

He was quiet for a moment. Thoughtful, but not defeated.

And that's when she knew.

Benjamin Fuller was truly in. He would be with her, until the very end.

"But what can be done, the one who loves must share the fate of the one he loves."
~Mikhail Bulgakov.

*Author's Note: A huge THANK YOU to everyone who has added, reviewed, etc so far-thanks for sharing the journey, and for sticking with me for this long.*